...well actually, it's only Wednesday...and that makes today even better.

The first year I moved to the District of Columbia from California, I remember driving down Connecticut Ave to the IBEW Office at about 4:30am (I used to go to a nearby gym before work) on the day before Thanksgiving and the street was literally deserted.  The entire town seemed to be asleep, and as I crossed the Woodley Park bridge over Rock Creek, Michael Buble’s song “Home” began to play on the Wash, FM radio. I was so lonesome for Los Angeles, and I remember almost starting to cry when the haunting music started playing. Now, after living almost seven years on the east coast, I’m often amazed that no particular place feels like home…except maybe the few days every couple of years that I’m able to spend in North Dakota.

So, while I typically feel you can’t ever really go home again (especially when you’re not sure where it is), this past weekend I came pretty close. After spending the better part of the week at an IBEW conference in Las Vegas, I shot over to LA for the weekend and after years of being away, I was amazed at how much it felt like home.

I had a luggage nightmare when I arrived at LAX on Thursday evening, so I stayed by the airport on the Westside of town in the neighborhood where I grew up. The next morning I picked up an attorney colleague and dear friend at LAX (flew into LA for the MLS championship), and we cruised up to Malibu on Pacific Coast Highway to have lunch on the outside patio at an old haunt called Gladstones that literally sits right on the beach. After that, we shot up to the Pepperdine campus before turning around and heading back to Los Angeles.

We drove through West Los Angeles, and passed my elementary school in Cheviot Hills. We then cruised by the old house on Esther Avenue, the high school, the Beverly Hillcrest Hotel where we  had our (my wife and me…not the attorney) wedding my reception, through Beverly Hills where I had my first apartment and then through the mid-Whilshire District to downtown Los Angeles. That evening we went over to watch Dorsey High take on Fairfax High (where I coached for many years) in an inner-city playoff game at a field adjacent to the Dorsey campus. The police helicopters circling overhead before the game...only added to the atmosphere.

The next morning I checked out of the Wilshire Grand in downtown and drove west on the Santa Monica Freeway toward Beverly Hills. I met my friend Chuck at a Starbucks in Beverly Hills just north of my old apartment on Beverly Drive. As I sat there chatting with him and listening to Bing Crosby singing holiday songs while looking out the window (I was looking out the window…Bing was singing) at the intersection of Beverly and Charliville…I realized how familiar it all seemed. After saying goodbye to Chuck, I drove west bound on Wilshire towards Westwood passed the Diplomat (the first jobsite I was ever dispatched to as an electrical apprentice) and passed the UCLA campus where my short-lived Bruin football career crashed and burned in the ugliest of ways. As I entered the onramp to the northbound 405 toward the San Fernando Valley for the drive up to my mom’s place in Santa Paula, I realized that like it or not, Southern California really was home. Now however…it’s happily in DC…and as I drove up the 405 that morning, I couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to get back to the District.

With the litany of challenges, losses and setbacks facing so many, it's not always easy feel particularly thankful. However for the best of reasons, I'm hopeful you are able to find your own slice of holiday blessing. 

Not sure where you’re headed this Thanksgiving, nor whether or not you’ll even go over a river or through any woods. However whatever you’re doing and wherever you’re traveling, I hope get a break from the hustle and bustle to have some time to chill with family and friends. Whether it’s by a fire, sipping a glass of wine, or watching the palm trees sway in LA, have a wonderful and well-deserved holiday.

If you’re on the road, travel safely…we need to make sure you all make it home again.

Happy Thanksgiving

A Thanksgiving tune just for you...

...actually...it's only Thursday...and tomorrow is Veteran's Day.

“There goes the Arizona…there goes the California…there goes the West Virginia.” I don’t remember being spellbound too many times as a kid while sitting at the dinner table in my Los Angeles boyhood home, but the night my Uncle Ted recounted his experiences on a December morning in Hawaii in 1941 is etched in my mind as well as any childhood memory. Like a lot of his peers (and just about every one of my other relatives of that generation that I ever knew), I don’t recall Uncle Ted talking much about his WWII service. However for whatever ever reason on that night, he uncharacteristically provided a thorough account of much of what he remembered from that harrowing morning.

He was relaying the radio reports of a fellow Navy Officer who was providing almost  play-by-play account of the attack from his perch above high above one of the other U.S. warships. I couldn’t have been more than about 10 years old at the time my uncle told that story, which means the actual events had happened less than 30 years before (less time that I’ve now been out of high school). To attempt to retell my uncle’s story wouldn’t do it justice, but I remember being amazed, even at my young age, at the apparent chaos and horror conveyed through his graphic account. He always seemed like such a relaxed, reserved and mellow man.  However on this night while recounting the events from that morning in Pearl, he seemed like an almost a different person.

Over the course of my life, I can recall only a handful of similar times when I had the privilege of hearing from Veterans that served in the military and in battle. One of those times was listening to my own dad recounting the time his carrier, the U.S.S. Ticonderoga, was hit by two Kamikaze planes in the Pacific in January of 1945. Actually, for some reason, I had heard that story a couple of times…always as a result of my own coaxing. I always got the sense he didn’t like to talk about it, but I suspect as much to teach me about the the horrors of war, he typically repeated the story in an unemotional and matter-of-fact way.

The last time he told the story was in response to a request I made at the dinner table on a Christmas Eve sometime in the late 1990s. It dawned on me that my wife Julie had probably never heard the account, so I asked my dad to recount the events of that January day. My father reluctantly obliged, but as he moved through the story this particular time something was different from the usual nonchalant tone that he typically used to paint the picture. On this holiday night, as he recounted the horror of what he saw on the fight deck immediately after the attack, he began to cry.

Quite thankfully, I don’t have any stories about military service, or tales connected to the dreadful nature of battle. I can’t tell you about the trenches of Europe, the cliffs at Normandy, the jungles of Southeast Asia or the deserts of the Middle East. I can’t tell you about watching a buddy get cut down by machine gun fire, parachuting into a hail of gunfire, dodging roadside bombs or wearing the same underwear for months on end. I’ve never froze in a foxhole outside Frankfurt or boiled over in a bunker near Bagdad. As a matter of fact, due to timing, luck, and probably a relative life of privilege, I never had to suffer in battle on foreign land.

Sure…I do have legitimate stories of sacrifice here at home. Just in recent months alone, there are sobering tales of clogged shower drains, broken sink p-traps, non-functioning ATM machines and navigating paralyzing gridlock traffic while attempting to commute 4.6 miles home up 16^th Street. One recent Sunday, I was literally stranded when the battery died on my Harley while in Alexandria, VA (not exactly friendly territory) and I needed a jumpstart from a complete stranger. Just this week, I was literally schvitzing up a storm while sitting on the couch in my office…something to do with the temperamental thermostat. Just this very morning, I’m grappling with the hassle of walking to the Metro (and it’s kinda cold) versus driving in and having to fight the pre-holiday traffic on the way home.

Thinking back, people like my uncle Ted and my father never really had a fair appreciation for my own struggles here on American soil. On the eve of this Veteran’s Day, I’m awfully grateful for the sacrifices they made on foreign land…so I have the luxury of suffering here at home.

A couple of years ago we were travling with another couple over in France. We had headed out to Normandy for the afternoon...and after getting lost, we arrived on the cliffs about sunset. As darkness set in, there were lights twinking from a what appeared to be a small town at the bottom of the cliffs right next to the beach. We made our way down to the charming hamlet of Arrowmanches and walked into a near deserted cafe. As we sat down at the table...this song started to play.

Happy Veteran's Day

BTW...absolutely no time to proof today...so I apologize for the many likely mistakes.

...and you really should do your best to enjoy the weekend.

There are a lot of cool things about my current job, but one of aspects that offers the most tangible sense of accomplishment comes from the opportunity to teach as an adjunct several times a year in classes for union organizers. For me, it’s almost like smoking crack (I mean…so I’m told), and the therapy I get from spending an afternoon outside of the office and out in the field with the people doing the work in the trenches is beyond my feeble ability to describe. Usually, I am privileged to do a communication’s piece around skills needed when talking to unrepresented workers, or open shop employers, however this last time around, I did a new segment for advanced organizers on avoiding burnout.

Now, like just about everything else, I have zero academic expertise in the area of burnout. As the former head of a large contingent of construction organizers, and having been one for many years myself, I did feel as though I had some practical knowledge on the subject, but no textbook expertise. So…as I always do when I need to find out how to repair the belt on the clothes dryer, or the name of a buttery Chardonnay, or to diagnose shortness of breath and a sharp pain in my lower abdomen, I began surfing the internet.

While perusing the online material on the subject of burnout, it was tantamount to what happens to me just about every morning these days (OK…every morning). It was, for lack of a better analogy, like the horror that accompanies my first morning glance into the bathroom mirror (I have to put a dimmer on that light switch). Despite the fact that it happens every single day, I am still shocked and disappointed each and every morning…and I cannot fathom how things went so wrong so fast (actually…that’s the problem…it took a long time to get this bad). I could have a house on the water in Fort Lauderdale for all the money I’ve spent on those useless anti-wrinkle creams.

 As I read through the differences between stress and burnout, and the consequences of letting both go untreated, I recognized immediately that I was reading about me. Sadly, it was apparent that years of mounting stress and my failure to deal with it was resulting in my own burnout, and it was a difficult and sobering recognition that I had let things get way out of hand. I won’t bore you with all the details, but perhaps the best analogy I came across is this. If you feel like you’re an eight-ounce glance and someone is trying to pour a one-gallon pitcher of water into you…you’re under stress. If you feel like your glass is empty…you might be burned out. My glass is too often bone dry. If you feel like every day is a bad day, if you’re often exhausted, or if you feel like nothing you do makes a difference or is the least bit appreciated, you may be beyond stress and into burnout.

The good news is that burnout is reversible, which is why I’ve plunged headlong into increased tobacco consumption, heavy drinking, copious amounts of trash TV, reapeating myself and heavy drinking. OK…truth be told, I’m not sure that is the best medicine but I haven’t surfed yet on fixes and cures…too busy trying to self-diagnose this tightness in my chest.

I have a feeling one of the remedies is taking it easy, and because no one of us is going to turn this thing around by ourselves, there really is no reason to drive ourselves into the ground trying to do it alone. We are all reminded repeatedly of the fragility of life, and in recognition of those signposts, we owe it to ourselves and our families to just chill a bit. Who knows, if we were actually refreshed, clear-headed and well-rested enough, we may actually be sharp enough to figure out how to turn this thing around.

If you’ve ever wandered into a saloon down were Bob Wills is still the king, you’ve probably heard this snappy little tune. There are literally a hundred versions of this song, and I like this particular one because it is one of the longest. The sawing fiddle, steel guitar and piano won't be everybody's thing...but I'm hopful it puts a smile on your face nonetheless.

Have a wonderful fall weekend. The weather is supposed to be splendid, with sunny skies, colorful leaves and temps pushing the upper 60s. Go do something fun…recharge your batteries, step away from the chaos, laugh, crack a smile…and feel appreciated.

 This could be my theme song...

...and Monday is Halloween

Just off old 81 about 40 miles south of Fargo, North Dakota, there is a quintessential mid-western small town that my grandparents called home after moving off the family farm in about 1967. I’ve talked about that town of about 300 here before, and while so many other small towns across the Plains have slowly died, this particular little trade center has managed to keep going. The town is not exactly thriving…the bank, the hotel, the hardware store, the small Ford dealership, a couple of filing stations, the butcher, and the café have all shut down since I started visiting, but there is still a grocer, a town hall, one Standard gas station, a lumber yard, a fire house, a grain elevator, an elementary school, a Lutheran church and a thriving bar. Even if everyone were to leave…I have a feeling the bar would still do enough trade to stay open. Note: I have been in towns in Minnesota…where every single of the businesses have closed…except the saloon.

For many years (15 in a row) I would drive from Los Angeles back to that North Dakota town to visit my Grandfather and family each summer. I would stay in his old house, which had been the local hospital back in the late 1800s and early 1900s (my mother was born there), and we would spend days driving around the country with my Grandpa as he told stories about the old days.

My grandpa was pretty old when (in his 80s) when I started visiting him each year, and he was a devoutly religious man that attended the Evangelical Free Church in neighboring Wolverton, Minnesota. Any kind of extracurricular activity was usually off-limits, and drinking alcohol was a sin that doomed you to an eternal future that included a shovel and a whole lot of coal. Thankfully I was pretty straight-laced at that point in my life, and he used to love to introduce me to folks by telling them that I didn’t drink…and that I didn’t even like coffee.

In the evenings he would “hike of to bed” pretty early (sometimes around 7 or 7:30, at which point I’d sneak down the stairs and hop into my car and head up old 81 into Fargo. They had just passed a gaming initiative about the time I started to visit each year, and in Fargo you could walk into a bar and play blackjack...but there was a two-dollar limit on the bets. I would sit there for hours…drinking diet pop and playing blackjack. Usually around 11pm, I would leave and head back to my car and make the drive back south.

One of the things I love about the Plains is the hellacious thunderstorms that come across the prairie. Oh this night…it was shaping up to be a good one. I was driving my red 72’ Ford Pinto (whatever cool image you have in your head…I looked even cooler) with the window rolled down and you could literally feel the hair on your arms standing in anticipation of the pending electrical storm.

As I drove southward by towns like Oxbow, Hickson and then Christine, you could see bolts of lightning striking the ground. I stepped on the accelerator hoping to get to my grandpa’s house before any heavy rain…or worse…a whole bunch of hail. Thankfully, I could see the lights of town on the horizon and security of the blinking yellow caution light that swayed in the building wind above of the intersection of County Road 81 and Broadway.

Just on the left side of that intersection is the cemetery that hugs the Lutheran church on the west end of town. I used to see an old woman that lived in town walking her dog along the road there sometimes late at night, but after not seeing her for some time, I was surprised to see her outline illuminated by my headlights…particularly on this stormy June night…especially with the weather closing in fast. To make matters worse, she was walking directly through the cemetery…and I remember thinking as I made the left turn into town that it’s true what they said about Plain’s folks…they are a hearty group indeed. There is no way I’d walk through a cemetery at night…in pitch dark, with an electric storm about to break. I surmised that she too must have felt the storm approaching…and decided to take a short cut back to her house to avoid the rain.

The next morning I walked up town to have coffee with the boys (my grandpa never came…couldn’t see “giving” 35 cents for coffee when you could boil it up at home for free) at the town hall. I’ve referenced this group of mostly older farmers before, and I had become a welcome yearly regular with these guys (many of whom I was related to in some way…you may start hearing the banjo music from Deliverance in your head). They reveled in my stories of rough-an-tumble “life in the hood” stories of LA, and they also enjoyed my animated recaps of my nightly gambling excursions into Fargo. Often times, if I’d hit it big, I take my 10 bucks and cover coffee for everyone at the table…I was a popular guy.

On this morning I was telling them about my previous night’s winnings and one of them asked me if I’d driven back in the storm. I told them yes, and almost as an afterthought, I mentioned that I’d seen crazy old Mrs. Erickson out walking at midnight again…directly through the cemetery on the west-end of town. Some of them laughed a bit nervously, and I continued to go on about how odd it was that she’d be out in weather like that. I noticed my uncle looking at me kind of strange…and he leaned over and asked me if I was sure that I saw her. I told him yes…it was her…I have no doubt. I asked what the big deal was…at which point he told me that she had passed away the previous winter.

I know what you’re thinking…but it’s a true story…and the only I was drinking that night was diet Pepsi. It was her…but don’t ask…I don’t know either.

One of the trippy things about moving from Los Angeles to the east is the amount of fervor folks have here connected to Halloween. Sure, kids went trick-or-treating in the west, but there just wasn’t the fascination with the holiday that there is here. I’ve had some people here tell me it’s their favorite holiday…and it’s clear that folks really get into it.  So…have a fabulous and festive holiday weekend. It’s going to feel like the season…so make it a good one and do something really ghoulish.

This ain't the Monster Mash

...and you have a designated driver.

After dinner a couple of Friday’s ago my wife suggested we stop by the Politics and Prose book store so that she could pick up a book. She was out of books, and because she is the most voracious reader I know, this is a problem. Note…please don’t send me anything about how much you love your Kindle. This is weird to me, because I totally don’t get the whole book thing. Sure, I suspect they provided some entertainment back before indoor plumbing and Edison’s light bulb, but to me 54” HD flat screens and shows like American Chopper: Senior vs. Junior or The Housewives of New Jersey have made reading unnecessary. I suspect books may serve some purpose someday (maybe during an ice storm if you don’t have a generator), but until a transformer blows at Bravo and Kourtney, Khloe and Kim aren’t available seven nights a week…I’m just not getting the need to paint pictures with words.

So (it still trips me out how many people start sentences with “so”), I’m walking up the old staircase in the bookstore and on my left I notice a book called “Choosing Civility: 25 Rules for Considerate Conduct.” I glanced around the old store (I hadn’t been in there before), and noticed there weren’t any TVs. They had some comfy chairs, but I didn’t see a remote…let alone a flat screen…anywhere. I remember picking up the book and thinking it would be cool to skim, if only I had chosen to bring my reading glasses. I could see the title, but when I opened the book the number 10 font just looked like black lines. Then, it dawned on me there might be some reading glasses in the store (if you see me today, just call me MacGyver), and I found a small display around the corner on the counter. Unfortunately, all the glasses had flowered patterns and appeared to be for women, but I didn’t see anybody I knew (all home watching the Housewives Reunion I suspect) so I bit the bullet and began reading.  

I remember thinking it was a good thing it was a book because the subject matter had no future on cable TV. There was no instant hook like you get on Storage Wars or Man vs. Food, but I persevered nonetheless and it actually began to draw me in. For one thing, there was an early quote by Eric Hoffer noting that “Rudeness is the weak man’s imitation of strength.” This was immediately intriguing to me, because if I’ve noticed anything about myself over the years, it’s my undeniable de-evolution toward becoming an A-hole. There was a line about the “coarsing of America” (I used it last week), and it hit me like a lightning bolt because I often lament the coarsing of me. I used to be fairly considerate…or at least try to be, but over time…especially of late, I have simply become less considerate and more rude. Hell, there was a time when I NEVER even used profanity or even words like A-hole, and now, I think nothing of starting a sentence with the word hell (or much worse), and putting it on the internet for all to see.

A little bit later in the same chapter, the author was talking up the virtue of restraint. They contended that restraint is our inner designated driver, and it’s often what separates immediate gratification from later happiness. It encouraged the reader to do ask three questions before taking an action.

Do I really want to do this?

Will anyone be hurt by this?

Will I like having done this later?

I’d love to tell you I applied this criteria to everything I did this week, but that would be a lie. I did however try it quite a bit, and those three questions alone probably prevented me from sending about five fully composed (and rather acidic) emails. I also noticed I was a lot quieter, and I suspect the folks I work with appreciated that too. Now, after applying a little restraint, I have to admit I’m happier in the long run than I would have been with the instant gratification provided by zinging folks with a stinging electronic messages or a well-chosen caustic comment.  

Anyway, all this is yet another reason why there’s no point in reading with shows like Modern Family. Everything is so much less complicated when you simply watch TV. If everybody was reading books, especially about civility, they couldn’t even find people to be on shows like Housewives.

Have a wonderful weekend, and if you’re even slightly tempted to do anything inconsiderate, listen for your inner designated driver. Hopefully, many of those you encounter will reciprocate with the same consideration.

Start the day with a song...

...and on Tuesday, I had a magical evening.

On Tuesday night about 8pm, I walked into the Prime Rib restaurant with a couple of old friends from a former life. Every table in the old-school eatery was occupied, as was most of the bar, and as I looked about the room and took in the sport coats, ties and dresses, it literally was like stepping back in time. As you walked in, you could hear the conversation, laughter and cocktail glasses tinkling…and there was a fellow in a black tux (with white hair) sitting at the piano tickling the ivories with all of my favorite old tunes. At a point in my life where I literally feel like an island, where much of what  I truly love seems to be dying, this instantaneous step back to another era immediately transported me to a better place. If you’ve ever read one or two of these stories, you know this old-soul was genuinely in heaven.

One of the friends I was with knows the owner pretty well (I think his name is Russ…the owner…not my friend), and he came over to greet us at the bar. The guy was classic…sporting a handsome tanned complexion, white hair neatly combed back and a tailored blue sports coat, red tie and matching red handkerchief neatly tucked (in a fold I could never duplicate) into his coat pocket. He looked like something off of a 40s movie screen, and he oozed of sophistication and class (kind of like a male Barbara Shailor for those of you that know her) in a way that no amount of money, wardrobe upgrades, Emily Post training or Beverly Hills makeovers could ever do for me.

The piano player took a break, and when he did my friend walked over the owner (now seated opposite us at the bar) and asked him if I could sit in a play. He walked over and said “you’re on…but don’t play too loud.” One of the good things about hanging out with these guys is that after three drinks, my judgment is impaired enough that I’m up for just about anything. Without hesitation, I walked over to the piano, sat down, and discretely started playing “As time goes by.” I blended that into “I’m in the mood for love” which morphed into “Smoke gets in your eyes.” As I looked around the restaurant, it dawned on me that nobody really noticed the switch. You could still hear the conversation, the tinkling glasses, the laughter and the tapping of silverware on the plates. As I finished up with “Autumn Leaves,” I was struck by the fact that for me, it really was a magical moment.

When I walked back to the bar, the real piano player sat down and essentially replayed my entire repertoire...but he played it the right way, like a pro. As I glanced back at him and smiled, we exchanged the classic “leave it to the experts” glance. It was actually nice to hear the songs performed by a master, and I bowed down signaling his superiority. When he finished he came over and explained how I missed several of the chords…so I beat the crap out of the old man.

Actually, I didn’t…(for all I know he could have dropped me)…and he was a charming guy who was just trying to help. He started talking about minor chords (I didn’t know there we minor chords) and immediately started talking way over my head. I thanked him for the opportunity to play…and he graciously encouraged me to practice more.

When I was a kid I used to hate practicing the piano. I would be able to hear the kids playing football out in the street, but my old man would make me sit and practice 30 minutes every, single night. I wouldn’t complain much, but whenever I did, he would often respond by saying “someday you’ll thank me.” As I sat at the piano Tuesday night at the Prime Rib and played to a full room…I was thanking my dad. The son of a gun was right again.

So…what’s the point of all this? I have no idea. Maybe it’s just a story for a Friday morning, or perhaps if you have a child or grandchild contemplating taking up the piano (or any instrument), you can encourage them to play. That way, if the coarsing of America ever reverses and civility ever becomes vogue again, there might still be a restaurant with white table linens, tuxedoed waiters and a grand piano where they can one day sit down and play.

Have a truly fabulous weekend. Try to do something fun.

BTW...this is one of my all-time favorite songs. It's not the best version, but it's a good one nonetheless and I promise to send along the best one at some point before too long. Also...once again, I hadnno time to check typos so I apologize for all the mistakes.

One of my favorites...

...and I'm thinking again about things my father taught me

There was an incident this week that reminded me of what of the few times I ever saw my father cry. The vivid memory is a striking one for me, because the emotional incident was one of only three or four episodes that I can ever recall him being moved to tears.

You may recall my dad has been described here before as a politically conservative devoted husband and father, who lived through the Depression (born in 1917) before serving proudly in WWII and Korea. He was also a 50-year IBEW construction electrician that I had seen cut off body parts without as much as wincing. True…it was only a tip of a finger, but you might remember the story about him sitting calmly drinking a beer before he drove himself to the hospital (he had put the fingertip in his lunchbox knowing he’d try to have it reattached…but only after the whistle blew). He was simply the quintessential tough guy that almost never cried…and as far as I could tell, there was no part of it that was even close to an act. I suspect after all he witnessed and lived through…there just wasn’t a whole lot that hurt so bad that it would cause him to cry. As his spoiled son who still often curls in the fetal position when the ATM malfunctions, his reluctance to cry was always a trip to me. Looking back, the few times he was ever moved to tears, it had nothing to do with any kind of physical pain, but everything to do with his disappointment in me.

The first time I remember happened when I was about 13 or so. I had been to the grocery store with my mom, and while there the manager asked me if I wanted a job bagging groceries (I was big for my age and looked much older). I don’t recall what the scale was going to be, but whatever it was (seems like it was around two or three dollars an hour), it was huge for the time. I didn’t really understand it, but the store was having some sort of problem, and they needed willing folks to come in and help with duties until the issue was resolved.

That afternoon my father returned home from work, we had our usual two-second interaction but he must have immediately picked up on the fact that I was quite animated. I remember hearing him ask my mother what I was so excited about, and she told him I’d been offered a job making good money up at the local market. I remember my father calmly walking into my room as I dressed to head up to the store. Things seemed pretty normal at first, but they disintegrated pretty quickly.

He then explained to me that everything we owned, every bed we had in the house, every thread of clothing, was paid for by collectively bargained wages. Though he epitomized rugged individualism, he explained with passion his fervent belief that despite his master electrician’s skills, he would NEVER be able to provide the kind of life I callously enjoyed every day had it not been for the enhanced wages and benefits made possible through collective strength. I’m not sure why, but I suspect he was disgusted with my lack of response, and as he tried to explain why I wouldn’t be taking the job, I remember his lip starting to quiver. It was unreal.

I made the mistake of thinking I still had a choice in the matter, and unmoved by his reasoning, I informed him I still intended to take the job. He was firmly planted in the “spare the rod, spoil the child” camp, so I won’t tell you what happened next. Let’s just say the few times he had to go that route, he did it with enthusiasm. Needless to say…I didn’t go to the store, and shortly after he won me to his way of thinking, he further explained the destructive consequence of what I was about to do, and how even considering doing such a thing, violated everything he and “our family” ever stood for.

Not sure why all this matters now, but with folks seemingly appreciating the value of standing together, it just seemed apropos.

Hope you’re all on the threshold of a great three-day weekend (Hmmm…weekend…now that I think about it…that might be another thing that grew out of collective action). If you can, start it off with a genuinely great song. If you don’t like this morning’s tune, you may have an obligation to resign yourself from the song club.

BTW...not even a second  proofread today...so I know the errors are horrendous. I do apologize.

Always be a good boy...