I Wanna Believe! Really!

My paramour -- the lovely Rita -- was out of town so I decided to exercise my freedom to do something out of character and a little wild. So I went to a movie.

And not only did I go to a movie, I traversed back into time a few years and went to the X Files Movie -- I Want To Believe. I wanted to believe also, but what I did get was a couple of entertaining hours of watching Mulder and Scully scurry around on the trail of bad guys. With a pretty bad storyline.

Don't get me wrong, I had a great time and felt like I found a comfortable old sweater again (uh...bad metaphor. It's 90 degrees outside.) But, it you weren't an "X-Phile" yourself, you might have disliked the movie on its own merits. Or lack thereof. At the conclusion of the movie, I left the theater with the following questions.

When has it ever snowed so much in Richmond? What happened to the baby William that Scully and Mulder created?? Did Scully/Mulder live together in Richmond or was Mulder in West Virgina secluded away alone? What was the evil Russian scientist really building from body parts? And why weren't they getting body parts in Russia where they spoke the language and wouldn't have been so obvious? And what was the dog tranquillizer all about?

And where were the aliens? How was the government conspiracy coming along? What happened to the Lone Gunmen? Did Scully and Mulder go their separate ways at the end? WTF? I have the feeling that many of the answers to my questions ended up on the cutting room floor.

This was a TV series that raised more questions than it answered. And the same with this particular film. I had expected the storyline to follow the conspiracy thing once again, but this movie was like one of those X File episodes that stood alone as a one-off story. Some of those individual one-off episodes were very good, some not so. The movie would have ranked right in the middle of that scale.

Still, I repeat I enjoyed watching the film 'cause it took me back to younger days and some memories. I recall videotaping and mailing X Files episodes for Kris, who was stationed in Korea for a year. I also recall that it was during an episode of X Files that my faithful pooch Abby at age 18 passed away, laying next to me on the couch that Sunday evening. And the show also ran through the time Rita and I were dating. And it was warm and fuzzy feeling to think of those times in my life in the context of the series.

More Random Thoughts
X Files ran for 9 years -- and probably a year or two too long. And I fear it damaged the careers of the actors --Duchovney and Andersen. Neither seem have done anything memorable in the 6 or 7 years since the show closed. How could these actors really be anything other than Scully and Mulder?

And a final word about the endless previews that precede the film: You really gotta plan to arrive 15 minutes late to any movie. Don't the studios know that 7 or 8 previews in a row fails to titillate or tantalize? Instead, they numb the senses or causes seizures. And what is the thing with large cars crashing through walls coming straight at us? There must have been 4 previews that featured that well-worn chestnut. Now if they were to use a Smart Car in that scene, that would be something!

The String of Life is Just a Thread

I wrote the following 6 months ago upon the passing of our family dog, Wolfgang. 

I publish it today on the half-year anniversary.

January 23, 2008

Woke up this morning at 5:45 am. It’s a New Jersey winter out there and I don’t relish the idea of going outside to walk the dog.

Nonetheless, after breakfast, I walked the dog -- our beloved Wolfgang ---on this cold winter’s day. It’s now 6:30 AM.

Wolfie trotted outside with me and made short work of all his duty, and in less than 5 minutes we were thankfully headed back home. We were only a few hundred feet from the house -- this walk than normal. But it is cold and I think both of us want to get back indoors.

Before we got back into the warmth, Wolfgang abruptly stopped and tugged on the leash. I thought he was had to poop again and turned around in time to notice he actually was throwing up. This, in itself, was not unusual. Schnauzers have notoriously sensitive stomachs and occasionally Wolfie will snarf something up of the ground he shouldn’t have. So I didn’t think anything of it.  He was a perfectly healthy young dog of only 6 years.

When we got back into the house and he threw up again after moving just 10 feet into the house and standing in the hall stock-still -- and I saw a disturbing yellow bile come out. I cleaned it up but Wolfie was no longer moving. He was just standing there, looking sickly.

I yelled upstairs for Rita -- who leaves for work about an hour after I do to alert her of the situation. There was something about this particular bout of sickness that disturbed me. I asked her to watch him carefully and to advise daughter Meredith to do the same a little later in the morning.  This remembrance is not meant to be overly melodramatic and it is not my intention to drag you through the next few unbelievable hours, which they were. 

However, fourteen hours later, as my wife and I wept unashamedly,  Wolfgang was put to sleep at the Animal Hospital in Jackson, NJ. His internal systems had shut down one after the next during the day and his blood pressure was undeectable. His kidneys were not functioning at this point and he was inoperable. The vet said there was no hope for recovery. We do not know what killed him but the best guess was that a level of toxicity in his body was more than his organs could bear.

This was one a devastating blow for our family. Of course this was just a dog.  Yes, but this was just a dog that brought a newly blended family together. 

When Rita and I first married, 7 years ago, we combined a family with 2 children on each side. Anyone who has done such knows how difficult that really is.  Just a few months after we married, we went out and bought a dog -- a 6 month mini-schnauzer. We named him Wolfgang. The breeder told us that Wolfie (as we nicknamed him) would be a “low key” terrier and was bred as such.

Upon arrival in his new home, we put him down on the floor to allow him to explore his new surroundings. He just stood there. He certainly was low key. We picked him up after 15 minutes or so and put him down again in a different spot. He just stood there again-- not moving a muscle.

In fact, he just stood there wherever he was placed down at first and I wondered if something was wrong with him. I had never seen a young dog so, uh, immobile. A couple of days later still with little movement progress, we took him to the Vet. She examined him and declared he was a bit immobile -- but was healthy. He was just a dog that needed some adjustment time. Just a dog that cost $1600 that acted like a pet rock, I thought.

As time passed though, Wolfgang finally came out of his torpor. And for the next six years, Wolfie became a central figure in the new family. Unlike George Bush, he really was a "uniter." Wherever there were family, there was Wolfie. He helped our blended family to grow together, even though he was just a dog, he was always the center of attention in a positive way.

Maybe he wasn’t the smartest dog anyone ever had. He really didn’t know how to play fetch, no matter how much we tried to convince him that was a necessary dog skill. Oh, he would go after toys that were thrown -- he loved to chase them down. But he rarely brought them back. He would stand there with the toy in his mouth and just look at you -- as if you should fetch instead of him.

Not that he was without a few cute dog tricks, Phil did teach Wolfie to “attack the bear”. Phil would hold his favorite stuffed bear at ankle level, then Wolfie would fly across the room and “attack” the bear. He would do this over and over, retreating back a few feet before the attack the bear command was given again.

Then there was a ‘leap over my leg’ trick. This involved Wolfgang going to the top of the stairs, then the “attack the bear” command. Instead of holding onto the bear, Phil,would toss it a few of feet away and as the dog charged down the stairs, Phil, in a sitting position, would extend his leg as a barrier between the charging pooch and bear. Wolfie would leap over the leg like a championship hurdler to get the the bear. Phil would retrieve the bear from Wolfie after a little tug of war and then make Wolfgang retreat back to the tops of the stairs for another go at it, Once in a while, Wolfgang would duck under the leg (cheater!) if he saw that Phil had raised his leg too high.

Then there was the dancing. Lord, how this dog could dance. Rita and Phil trained him to rear up on the hind legs, paw the air and “dance” in little circles for a treat. It was always good for a smile from everyone who witnessed this phenomena, no matter how many times you saw it. Wolfie mostly only danced for treats, but once it a while he would humor us by busting a move without the promise of a treat.

Rita taught Wolfie most of his manners. He would mind very well when treats were in the area.  They had a little routine of tricks they would go through. He also learned to go to his “crate” in the kitchen when we were eating a meal in the dining room. Even though there was no crate any longer -- actually it was just his dog bed -- that he “recognized” as his crate.

“Go to your crate” was a like a “time out” command when he was being a underfoot. I am not so sure Wolfgang thought it was punishment though. He did so love to rest and relax. And after scanning the floor carefully for human food, he would oblige us and retreat to his crate.

Wolfie was a great dog companion for the years we had him.  He performed above and beyond in helping to center and unite our blended family and we will not forget him. 

Wolfgang was called away unexpectedly on that cold January day to the crate where he will rest forever.  He heeded the call like the good dog he was even though it was much too early for him to go.

Ways to Improve Your Golf Game: #1 Redefine "Success"

Recently, the golf bug bit me again. However, I have the same problem I had when I stopped playing many years ago. I basically suck at golf.

Fortunately, I’ve learned from clean corporation living that there are many ways to measure success. If the "standard" way makes you feel like a loser, change it up! And so, I've embraced some different standards to help me feel good about playing golf badly.

After much discussion and some intuitive research, my son Dave and I came up with a new system to rate our golf game. We analyzed that a typical round of golf is actually played in phases. These are Warm-up, In the Zone, Worn-out, Second Wind and then complete Burnout. A very good golfer, like Tiger Woods, does the Warm-up before actually playing the first hole, and then In the Zone for the next 18 and never hits the Worn-out stages.

Alas, a golfer like me does the Warm-up over the first few holes, enters the Zone for a brief period and shoots right into the Worn-out stage. With luck the Second Wind stage occurs, before the insidious Burnout happens.

This leads me to the first alternate method of measuring success on a golf course. My last round went like this: Warm-up 5 holes, In The Zone 4 Holes , Worn-out 3 Holes, Second Wind only 1 hole and then Burnout all the rest of the holes.. In the Burnout stage, it becomes incredibly difficult to strike the stationary ball with a tennis racquet-- much less hit it well with a golf club. My Burnout phase mercifully ends when I pick the ball up on the last hole. I do this in case someone is watching me from the clubhouse.

So, to summarize. The longer I stay In The Zone, the more successful I am. So, if I stay ITZ for 5 holes (one more than last time), and even if I shoot a hideous 119, I can consider the round successful and I can feel good about it.

Here are some other ways you can measure success on a golf course in case the In The Zone fails to satisfy.

When I lose no balls in woods or water and complete all 18 holes, I call that a Perfect Round!

A You Da Man Round is free of absolutely humiliating golf swings others can witness up close. I remember once hitting a ball that struck a nearby tree and bounced behind me, thus becoming a –10 yard drive.

When I don't sustain injuries of any sort for the entire 18 holes, I can call that a Good Workout Round.

I also like to count the number of putts I take separately from the number of overall strokes, as I consider myself a good putter. I've named my putter Harry Putter because sometimes there is magic in him.

When I don't chop up the turf with absurd swings, or fell small trees and bushes and avoid striking geese, that's a Nature Boy Green Round!

The whole point is to make the game enjoyable again, and for many of us duffers out there, it become difficult to enjoy traditionally. So, be flexible and enjoy. See ya on the course!

Dear New Yorker - Fire Your Editor

I sent this note to the editors of the New Yorker this morning regarding the cover displaying Obama and his wife as Muslim terrorists.


My wife and I are life-long democrats and professionals in our fields. We were both sickened at the Obama cover this week. If this is satire, it widely misses the mark. Do you actually believe that this cover will NOT be used politically? Do you believe that the tens of thousands of families that would who have made sacrifices during the war in Iraq would laugh at these "clever" portrayals? Do you think the international community will marvel at this display of wit? And to be politically "fair," will next week's cover portray John McCain as a dottering, confused fascist? Wow, wouldn't that be sarcastic?


I believe that the New Yorker has the right to publish whatever it wants under our constitutional freedoms, but I think this type of treatment of a Presidential candidate is simply tasteless and plays to the lowest common denominator of humanity. Now excuse me, I have to go watch the new episode of Bridezilla.

Independence Day Dog

     This is a story of a dog.  A Jack Russell terrier to be exact who bolted into our lives on July 4, Independence Dog, uh, Day..  The image above is not the actual dog, but represents a reenactment by an actor dog.  I didn't think quick enough to grab my camera and snap the little fella. 

     As we were finishing up our illegal fireworks display in the street in the front of Stacey and Dave's house about 9:30, we observed a white animal bolting from down the street in quite a hurry -- and making a bee-line for the group of us standing on the porch.  This dog was booking.

     Obviously, the dog (let's call him Thomas Jefferson) had declared independence himself on this date, much like the founding pops did in 1776.  TJ looked like a house dog and had a tag on with a phone number and a name.  He was extremely friendly, and wanted to go into our house, despite our yapping schnauzer.   I think he wanted to join our little union.

     My son, being pragmatic, wanted to release him back to the street, but even TJ wasn't voting for that. He wanted to stay with us.   The delegates from New Jersey (Rita and I) and the patriotic Virginian Stacey voted to reunite TJ with his original owners, who were -- no doubt -- distraught at the loss of this fine (if not over-fed animal).  It seemed more noble, but in truth I guess the three of us were "loyalist tories"  while Dave choose the harder path for independence.

     Dave secured TJ in their fenced-in backyard and we dialed the phone number.  I was imagining a joyful and tearful reunion, and a warm feeling from having done the right thing.  But no one answered.  Undaunted, and using the modern reverse lookup phone feature, we located an address that was within a few blocks.    

     In the car the three of us -- Dave, TJ, and I -- drove off to deliver TJ to his home.  Again, filled with the spirit, I imagined the family scouring the neighborhood looking for TJ and thus unable to answer the phone.

     Instead, the house was dark.  No one was home except another dog inside barking his head off inside the house.  I wondered if we had the wrong house? If one dog is kept inside the house, why not TJ?  As if to assure us though,  acted familiar with the surroundings and was undisturbed by the barking animal inside the house.  I took this as a sign that this was the place.

      When we went around to the backyard to see if there was a doghouse, TJ slammed his breaks on.  Wanted no part of the backyard.  Hmm.  He definitely recognized this place.  Dragging him through the gate, we discovered a dog dish and some biscuit crumbs on small deck.  This did reassure us that we had the right place.

     We couldn't be sure though.  Bright idea -- find a neighbor and ask if he recognized the dog as belonging there. In New Jersey, we would never do this.  Neighbors are usually not that neighborly, but this was Virgina,  land of the Southern Hospitality and all that.

     The neighbor's house across the street was lit so we knocked on the door.  A man in his pajamas opened the door and seemed friendly enough.  And he was pretty sure that he had seen the dog before.  Good enough for us. And oh lucky day he had the cell phone number of he the TJ's owner from across the street.  

     Obligingly, our new friend -- Greg -- called the cell phone and with no answer left a message that his dog was found. Greg informed us that the man who lives there has a boat on the river and often spends weekends there with his young daughter.  Probably where they at now.

     So, Greg, Dave and I went back to the house. dragging TJ with us into the backyard.  Assuming the dog had escaped, we looked for holes in the fencing and patched up a couple of obvious spots with some small sand bags that were around the house.

     Ah, good deed done.  Now for the happy.  Dave and I drove off in his SUV, turning around at the dead-end block causing us to pass in front of the TJ's house.  Wait.  The headlights illuminated something little, white and moving quickly right toward us.   It was TJ again -- escaping from the backyard in a New York minute -- and heading right back to us.

     We stopped, opened the back car door and TJ jumped right in.   We are family!

     Again, we try the patience of the neighbor by calling on him again, and again he very agreeably helps us put TJ back and patch the fence in yet more places where the Houdini Hound might wiggle through.  As an additional barrier, I put TJ on the small deck where his water and bisquits are.  I barricade the entrance with deck furniture, and a few ubiqitous sandbags.

    We drive off again.  This time we do not drive back past the house for fear we see the white terrier loose and on the move again.  And although you might think this is the end of a happy story, it is not.

     The next morning, we finally hear from TJ's owner.  Stacey took the call from the owner. Yes, the dog did not escape again and he was there this morning.  And by the way, he's spent 4500 dollars on vet bills for TJ and would we want to permanently keep him?  Even though his little daughter loves TJ, he does not and would be willing to get the pooch to us.  Stacey politely turns him down.

     Were we surprised by this call?  No, it seemed to me that TJ knew what he was doing and was willing to run away to take his chance with strangers.  It is sad but a reality that many animals -- and indeed children -- can sense where they are not wanted.  In TJ's case, he clearly communicated this to us.   

What's A Segway?

Oh, about two pounds, I said to my son Dave on the phone. It took a moment before he remembered the told joke about a "what's a hen-way?" We traveled to Richmond for the 4th of July weekend to visit my son and his wife and the highlight of our trip would be a tour of downtown Richmond on Segway machines.

The Segway looks like an animal from the Stars Wars movie, and kinda acts like one also, with a little bit of intelligence of its own. This two wheeled vehicle is on a self balancing platform, has a stick you put your hands on to steer left or right. To make the Segway move forward or backward, you simply lean in the direction you want to go. The dang thing goes 12.5 miles per hour -- four times the average walking speed!

Was it easy to ride? Well, 12 of us required around 15 minutes get used to moving on it. The photo above is about the only "hands-on" training Rita received. Still, the 19 year old tour guide did say ominously say "you will go down" if you hit a curb the wrong way.

Our tour was to last 2.5 hours and cover a pretty good chunk of the old town of Richmond, stopping (briefly usually) at some historic sites. The tour was conducted by two young Virginians, one a very recent political science major with streaks of purple in her otherwise brunette hair, and the other a 19 year old enthusiastic young man of undetermined educational background or intellectual capacity.

Riding on the Segway looks weird as one does not move arms or legs. Instead you glide along kinda "ghost like" (I am thinking of the scene in Poltergeist of the ghosts gliding down the stairs.) After a short period of adjustment, you can feel pretty comfortable standing on the platform. A little lean forward or back and you are moving. In fact, you perform such "little" movements that I started to feel the machine was 'intuitively" guided.

I was feeling "oneness" with the machine (which I was now imagining it to be a other-world beast) when disaster struck. I hit an uneven spot of pavement and then lost control. One wheel began to spin while the other did not. Spinning wildly, the machine had had enough of our oneness and was now determined to discard me.

Discard me it did. Off I went, falling on my left side I did my utmost to fall "well" on the concrete. One knee struck the ground and I flopped like a fish. I had not raised my hands to protect my head, opting to protect my lower body and articifial knees. Consequently, the side of my face struck the concrete -- stunning me for a moment.

I was surrounded by help at that point -- the fall must have looked pretty horrific -- but most of the riders stayed on their Segways -- dismounting from them is a skill to be learned and they saw what happened when one of the Segways feels taken for granted.

My left knee was nicely scraped and I had banged my head during the flop, but other than that there was no damage. The young tour guides had a "first aid" kit without much first aid in it but there was a band aid to cover the scraped knee.

After collecting myself, I got back on the Segway a bit more cautiously now. The tour was in its last 45 minutes or so and I thought I could finish it up in fine fashion. And finish we did, but I must say I now was a bit less confident and certainly more wary whenever we approached curb lips or even slight bumps in the road.

At the end of the two and a half hours, I was tired and still a bit shaken by the accident. We did see Richmond in a much more personal way and as long as we respected the beast, the Segway was a lot of fun!

By the way, the rest of our party -- Dave, his wife Stacey, and my paramour, Rita all stayed aboard their Segways throughout the tour! I was one of only three people to take a tumble -- the other two were over-confident males also, I'll bet.

At the Shore With High School Buddies

Some friends from High School and I spent an afternoon at the Jersey Shore last week. Not an unusual event except it occurred almost exactly 44 years years after we graduated.  

That many years can cause quite a bit of damage to one's personal person, I assure you. One of us has two artificial hips, another one is living with his 3rd (third!) liver. Yet another has lost a part of his lung and has had a colostomy. And I have two artificial knees. You just don't know what kinda crap you are going to get into during those 44 years.

We graduated in 1964 when the Vietnam war was amping up. We all went to college and 3 of us went into the military. We certainly were the last generation that expected to go into the Service and in fact, did go.

Unless you were "4F." I mentioned the term 4F to a couple of 20 somethings the other day at work -- and they had no idea what that meant. It means you have some physical impairment that disqualifies you from being shot at.  Kind of an "anti-darwinian" government view, eh? Usually the impairment is such a ridiculous disqualifier, you had to laugh. Such was the case with Lou -- he was one of the most physically fit of us but did not have to serve.

Two of us -- John and Lee -- ended up in Vietnam. And they have endured the effects of war for many years. In Lee's case, he has had multiple livers, horrible recovery periods, other associated and not so associated diseases for the past 10 years. He collects a disability from exposure from Agent Orange. Lee, our most gung-ho Republican, served 2 tours over there.

John served one tour in the Nam and although he doesn't collect disability, he has developed several cancers prior to age 60. He is recovering now from a round of Chemo. We'll always suspect that he was exposed to something over there as well.

I joined the Air Force and never went overseas, although I tell everyone that Arkansas was a planet of its own. I cannot claim damage from my 5 years, and in fact, think it was an extremely useful life experience.  One that many could benefit from today, but that's another posting.

So we gathered in Point Pleasant Beach bringing our wives and memories with us.  One one hand, I think that a lot of living goes on in 62 years or so, but on the other hand, I still can relate to these guys and think of them still in terms of being young.  No one would mistake any of us for young though.

Throughout the course of these years, a person makes many relationships and I am count myself lucky to have maintained these acquaintances all this time.  We currently stay in touch through email and phone, as well as these periodic visits.  We still have a lot in common.  And our lives have been filled with so much without each other.

For instance, I could never beat Lou in Chess in high school and we play online now.  And guess what, I still can't win.  He's won 19 straight games.   Lou was a brain in school and he went to Rutgers for an engineering degree.  He got a job after graduation up in New York state and has managed to find time for a wife and two children as well. He is a one time grandfather as well! Lou loved sports like I did and I think we engaged in all of them except for hockey.  I last played Lou in a sport in 1988 in Squash -- a truly brutal sport that is tough on knees and hips.  This kind of sport is a contributing factor to the two new knees I have and two new hips he has.

Lee is the most enigmatic of the group.  Lee did not take the traditional college path the other three of us did, but it wasn't because he is dumb.  Far from it.  In grammar school Lee was a science whiz, making things that exploded, fizzed, vaporized and whatnot. Instead, Lee futzed around a bit with college and then basically joined anything that offered an official uniform.  He was in the Air Force Civil Air Patrol, the Navy Reserve and then the Marine Corps for a couple of spins in the Nam. ere we surprised when he became a Cop for the township?  No way.  Lee is retired now, has a wife, and 3 grown children.  Another surprise:  his son is a policeman now.  When we were kids, Lee and I and Lou were into hell raising in our late teens/early twenties.

John is the most sensitive and I think the closest of my three HS friends.  He is retired now as well, having worked in home office insurance for many years.  He hasn't been all that lucky the last three years with some severe illnesses, but his spirits remain high and he is on the road to recovery.  He is married and has two kids also.   He is the only one of us (except for me) to have an earlier marriage.  It was a rocky ride filled with drama, I am afraid, and he has to persevere through some very troubling times early in his life.   

As for me, I've had a few bumps along the way as well.  My first wife, who bore me two fine children, died in 1989 of cancer.  Luckily, I found Rita and we've been married for 7 years now quite happily. Helping raise two more teenagers Rita brought with her has kept me young, too, I think.  

I've been very fortunate in a lot of ways and I am thankful for all the smiles and even some of the bumps along the way.