Here is an update on the EBAY saga with my wife. Now it is a tea cart. Hold on, I did not identify this correctly. She said, “I am on the hunt for this adorable retro tea cart. It will be perfect for that tea set that I found packed away a couple of days ago. You have to see it.” First of all this tea set was in hibernation for at least 13 years. EBAY has presented an opportunity to bring things out of the grave for no apparent reason and search for new things to add to old things. George Carlin was right, a house is a place to hold stuff. When you fill it up you a need a bigger house to fill up with more stuff. Be clear, I am not poking fun at my wife because her sincerity is palpable. I am sure if I saw this tea cart, I would have to acknowledge that it is adorable. My wife’s taste is impeccable however I am quite concern that someone at EBAY has locked into my wife’s email address. EBAY will begin sending subliminal email suggestions about a rug for the living room or an additional set of dishes for the christmas set we never use. This brainwashing will trigger her relentless search for other hibernating items that have been entombed in our house for years. As she unearths them like Lazarus from the grave, her computer will come alive Dr. Frankenstein plugged in to yet another bidding war. The FED EX guy will know our house like the Schwann’s man does. We will be on first name basis with our delivery guy as he brings in the kill for my wife to create adorable matches from across the country. Help!
AH
AH

When I was a kid, my father allowed me to work with him looking like a wild indian. He was a contractor and our family company built houses, commercial buildings and additions. I used to have longer hair and much darker skinned. My summer tan was my trademark. The back of my neck and shoulders turned charcoal color by June 25th. Shirts were optional and if I wore one it became a head wrap sooner than later. My father would allow me the freedom to work shirtless most of the summer. Shorts and work boots were my uniform from June to September. The sun baked my skin without the protection of the current ubiquitous sunscreen.  Saturday morning, I was working on my cars and I thought I am going to take my shirt off because it was hot. I gave this idea scant analysis. As I grabbed the bottom of my shirt, I stopped. On second thought, maybe those days are behind me. The days of walking confidently into a restaurant slithering my way into my shirt on the sidewalk just before entering the lobby have passed with my consistent purchase of SPF45 prior to going to the beach. Maybe when I am older and my kids have moved away, I will relocate to a remote rural location with an old pair of OP shorts and work boots so that Saturday mornings can be spent with my wife shaking her head at me from inside the house as a work shirtless soaking in the sun on a hot July morning. You know those old guys completely out of shape but too old to care what the rest of the world thinks about their stout roundness. I can’t wait for that day and unfortunately I am already prepared I just need the OP shorts and work boots. AH 

My friend Richard will say to me sometimes that it is good to get out and do some physical labor. He is right. Contrary to my current physical condition, I was taught to be a physical worker. My dad made sure that I could use a shovel, broom, and wheelbarrow with the best of them. Saturday morning I was cleaning out my cars. As I work, my mind will meditate on a variety of things. My dad used to do this also. As a kid, my dad would not speak or listen to music when he worked. I thought that he was ignoring everyone and thinking very little but now I know that my dad was communing with Jesus. He was always a hulk of a worker, throwing every piece of energy into the task in front of him. I think his best prayer time came when he was physically engaged and his mind can fly over the things of life to soar into a private conversation with his Savior. Like father like son, I will engage in physical labor with intense concentration. My mind is somewhere else. Saturday morning, I was vacumming the cars and sweating profusely when I spontaneously began thanking Jesus for things in my life. My wife was on the top of the list but the trance deepened and meditatively, I silently thanked the Lord for my kids, my mom and dad, my firm, my house, my friends, my friends kids, my family, my problems, my dreams, my trials, and so on. A memory of traveling to Guatemala with my dad was brought forth to the desk of my mind and then a series of memories tucked in manila folders labeled high school football was set on the same desk.  Another file came forward labeled trip my college roommate and I took to see the Allman Brothers in Richmond. Randomly, I remembered the numerous Hardee’s biscuits Richard and I would get on the way to cut yards when I was in college. The list went on on. I stopped because I started to get emotional. A single word dominated my thoughts - blessed. Just as randomly my mind started listing the sins and wrongs I committed during the week. That list was almost as long as the other one.  After about 10 minutes, I became emotional again and the word that came to mind was unworthy. When I am at my office, my mind does not soar into lists of thanksgiving or confession because I am using it. Saturday morning, I prayed that the Lord would accept my thanksgivings and remove my wrongs. As the sun blazed above me and the music mixed with the dog barking and the neighbor’s lawnmower sputtering, I said out loud, Thank you. That is the biggest sentence I could get out under the emotional weight of the blessings which I take for granted. Just as quickly as my mind was floating in space, I returned Windexing the passenger window trying to remove some mysterious sticky substance in the form of a hand print of one of my daughters.  I think it was Evan’s. AH 

 A person with a competitive streak is not always easy to indentify. If you are a sports fanatic, then you are usually identified as a competitive fanatic by the way you are willing to paint your various body parts with the team colors. A competitive person might also be spotted if as the adult he argues with a 8 year old kid until the kid cries because in your words, “that kid is a stinking cheater” and “that shot was in before the buzzer.” These activities indicate a level of  seriousness around games that might need some therapy. Unfortunately for me, my sweet wife (who by the way is a very competitive person not in the way previously described but still she wants to win) has recently discovered the sport of EBAY. Now, I know you are thinking that EBAY is not a sport. According to my wife, it is her against the world. Most of the time my wife does not see the point of sports. She thinks sports are stupid. I can’t remember a game that I participated where she knew the score after we left the stadium. EBAY has become her new blood sport. On Sunday night, she was determined to out bid this other person (a nameless competitor she had determined to be enemy #1) for a set of books for my girls. The gleam in her eye as she feverishly tapped the keyboard of her Macbook is disturbing. She is not just attempting to get a good deal but she is strategizing like the Joint Chiefs of Staff during a war. I am the hapless Private and she is the merciless General barking out times that I “have to make sure ” she is up to put in the final bid. Last night, I was given orders to wake her up by “3:30am”. That is right, 3:30am!!! I asked why and she said, “because then I can beat out all the other people who have been trying to steal these books from me all day.” Do I need to comment on the obvious paranoia? I responded with a sharp, “Yes Mamm” and set the alarm. Let me set the stage for you. Her laptop is on the floor next to her bed and she is giddy with anticipation. Any other time my wife would require a bucket of ice water to get up at 3:30am. I am concerned that God has set the rapture in the late afternoon just so Amy won’t sleep through the lift off. But last night, the alarm went off and she swung out of bed with cat like reflexes swooping up the laptop and back into bed in one harmonious Alvin Ailey choreograph.  Side table light snaps on and her lap top music evolves. I am half awake and she says, “alright, lets go!”  She is a vigilant gladiator thrown into the floor of the coliseum.  Tense and tapping away at the keyboard, she waits for two minutes before the bid is over and makes her move;  a suburban lioness crouched in the internet jungle pouncing on unsuspecting retail prey. Waiting anxiously and desiring to turn the light out and return to my hibernation, I ask, “Did you get it?” She waits a second and in the most satisfactory sultry voice she triumphantly says, “I got it. HA!” She silently claps her hands applauding her EBAY victory.  I say “good night sweetheart” and roll over as she curls up like a cat that had just finished off a mighty meal.  The lioness - victorious in competition. If you listened closely I think you could hear her purring. AH 

A war has started on Cedar Road in the Great Bridge section of Chesapeake. If you listen really close you can hear the salvos of lattes and cappuccinos hissing back and forth. I am calling on all people to choose a side and monitor the war. Here are the warriors that you can choose to support: STARBUCKS or DUNKIN DOUGHNUTS. This is a classic battle of two behemoths on a headlong path toward conflict. This battle rivals the ever present discontent between Pakistan and India or North and South Korea. Don’t attempt to minimize what is at stake here. Coffee dominance! A monopoly on the commuter coffee trade on Cedar Road is no small matter. People’s daily existence revolves around that sweet elixir popping hot infusing dark liquid into your soul with caffeine goodness. I have seen young children dropped and kicked to the side when a stressed out professional mom can get to the front of the line. Starbucks is the classic warrior - refined, formal, professional relying on the genesis of fine breeding. This company represents the British in this civil war. All of the power and global dominance of a superpower. Starbucks scoffs at the idea that an upstart middle class low brow like Dunkin Dougnuts would even attempt to open a store in the same vicinity. Dunkin is the colonists of coffee. Are they going to pull it off with there confederacy of coffee and Baskin Robbins? The differences between the two are palpable. One store is refined with hush tones of warm woods and dark rich colors while the other is made up like a woman of the night, a siren calling on all who would dare indulge her dilectable offerings. Bright pinks and reds with lights similar to the Vegas strip. One warrior tries to proselytize by subtle propaganda printed on their recycled cups while the other declares to the world unabashed economy using white stryofoam of an earlier simpler time with name only. This scrappy rag tag from other side of the tracks has dared to jump in head first throwing the pursuit of refinement and breeding in the trash opting for the pig in the mud glory of high fat, sugar laden sweetness. You must choose a warrior to support. Are you hoping to declare your allegiance to the monarchy of Starbucks, kissing its ring and bowing down under the weight of oppression? Or, are you ready to join the revolution? Choose this day whom you will support.
AH

I suffer from self-imposed ennui. Most people would accept a full life as indication of a life well lead but I sit listless wanting something that I don’t have the power to obtain - contentment. Tuesday I was getting a tank of $3.89 regular gas and the person behind the counter seemed content. She had decorated her booth with family photos and one of those small plastic fans labeled “Mabel.” My assumption was that Mabel had been at this location a very long time because as I was leaving she gave a hearty “Hey Baby” to a young guy bouncing in with hip hop grace. A polite thank you and I returned to my truck. Sitting there with the key in the ignition, I was overwhelmed with irritation for Mabel. Her high and mighty labeled fan and her convenient store memorabilia seemed oddly permanent for a convenience store clerk. I asked myself why I was so irritated with Mabel. She was nice, polite, efficient and important somehow. She provided a ray of sunshine in a drab location. I should be happy that Mabel works at the BP MiniMart. The problem was, I wasn’t happy for Mabel’s existence. With all honesty, I started feeling disgust. She had a achieved something that all of my education, training and reading had failed to produce - contentment. Not to be too condescending, but I assumed Mabel was not college educated. That might be a horrible assumption but for argument sake lets assume that she worked there in high school then graduated and had worked at “her” store ever since. She might have worked at that mini-mart location for 30 years without a watch or token acknowledgment. She probably survived more uniform changes and corporate “buyouts” to the point she catches herself telling a teenager getting money out of the ATM machine on a slow Friday night, ”hey baby, I remember when BP replaced the Citgo people’s slushy machine with that ATM bank be careful about those fees.” Mabel is the convenient store historian,  a glassed in chronicler of the military industrial demise of a once mighty and profitable convenience story economy. After my irritation subsides, I recognize something else that I envy about Mabel, her noblility and simplicity. These qualities are stark contrasts to my legal wrangling on the daily sinking ship called the American  legal system. Before I leave the gas pump, I take a quick look around and notice a sea of contentment. A mother and child, a group of city workers parked next to two male and two female teenagers with black sunglasses looking very content. My reaction is the same.  That is a selfish and immature reaction isn’t it? If I was a good person my first reaction might be calm envy but irritation reflects a character flaw. But the verdict is in, if good people are content then I am not a good person. A burning desire sets aflame that assures me that I am not going to ever get a fan and label it. I declare that I can’t become content with anything in my life or the future that I perceive in front of me so I better not get too comfortable with my surroundings. I am pulling out of the parking lot determined to never come back to that BP MiniMart forever avoiding Mabel’s haunting contentment. I hit the gas pedal trying to push the ennui through the floor and out of my life.  

AH 

Two weeks ago I had left knee reconstruction surgery. Dr. Kevin Bonner replaced my ACL and cleaned up some other damage caused by a basketball incident a couple of years ago. I am walking like a weeble wobble pirate. My left leg is in a full length brace that is set at zero flexion. Frankly, I look ridiculous. However, I am determined to live a normal life so Friday night my family went to my friends house to go see fireworks. We parked our political incorrect suburban in the street and I hobbled through the front yard. My oldest daughter walked ahead and picked up a small football. She looked back at me from about 5 feet away. She nods at me and I accept the tacit invitation to toss the old pigskin around. Mind you the operative word here is “toss.” What occured was a painful miscommunication. The mind meld between my oldest daughter and myself must have missed some silent translation because my mind communicated “toss” her mind interpreted my nod as “throw.” Innocent mistake yet with only five feet away and restricted mobility, I was disadvantaged. She threw the ball and I expected a toss so my hands were listless and my feet set. Unfortunately for me as the 9 family members and friends reunited in the front yard, my groin also thought a toss was going to occur. The ball however with the accuracy of a tomahawk missile landed with the force of a sledgehammer. Stunned,  I stop dead in my tracks and nausea begins as I slowly fall to the ground like a mighty oak felled by a juvenile lumberjack. 9 people laughing at you on the ground is a great way to start a Friday night.AH 

I woke up on July 4 2008 with a sense of expectation. My goal/plan for the morning was to make waffles for my family (a Hartley family tradition started by my father). As a way to commemorate this sacred day in world history I thought I would do something cool for the family. Mind you, I am not cool but I think I am. In a sort of academic James Dean delusion of myself, I hatched the idea that my family could read the Declaration of Independence around the breakfast table. My heart fluttered with my revived patriotism and my self-confident revelation. In a painful unaware moment of dorkiness, I declared to my wife, “Hey, I am cooking waffles and I have something cool we are going to do.” Unfortunately for me, I missed the mark. These consistent declarations are usually off the mark. My idea of cool and my family’s idea of cool are not the same. 21 years have not taught me to do anything different because my delusion of  myself is so strong. I am not cool, good looking or smooth but I have the idea of myself that I am James Bond, Brad Pitt and Einstien rolled up into one. Is that sick or what? As waffles come hot off the animal shape waffle maker and the family is seated around the table, I serve my crew. As the syrup pours out, I remove my “cool” thing for July 4th breakfast. A copy of the Declaration of Independence. I state, “Ok Evan start reading and we will each read a portion as a family.” Any normal father would not have anticipated an excited reception but I am abnormal. As their faces dropped and my realization burrows through my delusion, I am grateful that their love for me motivates them to patronizingly participate in this “activity.” After about 10 minutes of reading this archaic yet powerful document with the same excitement they would have if Santa brought them socks on Christmas morning, I snatch the document from the glum reader and declare, “Ok that’s it. Let me just read it for you.” What is really sad is that I get emotional every time I read that document. Is that mega-dorky or what? But I do, tears in my eyes. These are not the activities or the emotions of a James Dean intellectual. I am not cool but this document moves me to tears because of the fact that the men who declared their independence accepted financial ruin, family suffering and physical peril for principle. These wealthy men risked it all and we benefit in 2008. We should never forget that but I am afraid we have. Maybe my kids will get something out of my dorky July 4th activity. Next year I am going to listen to my wife and stick a sparkler in the waffle. Happy July 4thAH    

Sanctums are defined as a place of inviolable privacy  or  sacred. My truck is my sanctum. In my sanctum I can sing as loud and out of tune in my best impression of American Idol as possible. What is the best thing about my sanctum? Eating in my truck. What inescapable joy exists when I sit in my truck and engage in unfettered ravenous gorging without the judgment of others. Sometimes I will put napkins in a make shift bib on a 35 yr old plump infant so if I am eating a juicy burger and the collateral damage of the ketchup or other food juices fly around the car I don’t have to worry about getting outed when I arrive at my destination. There is no end to my love of eating in the car. Unbridled multi-tasking - driving, blackberry, jelly doughnut, coffee and singing a mobile carnival rivaling the Vegas strip. If you drive up next to me and viewed this spectacle it would remind you of a stocky valaceraptor ripping and tearing into the flesh of a new kill. His mouth drenched with the blood of the new kill eyes tight and focused. My mouth at times dripping with my new kill of Whopper, Krispy Kreme jelly doughnut or a the latest candy bar victim all of them unable to flee from my jurassic quickness their screams drowned out by the excessive Dave Mathews Band blaring through the speakers. I have thought long and hard of quietly slipping out of my suburban home to embark on ”hunting trips” wearing nothing but a loin cloth. Driving around bare chested and shoeless on a primal safari seeking the next place to pounce and drag an unsuspecting food victim back to my sanctum. Please do not ask any questions if you drive up next to me and I am shirtless. Look away and make sure that you don’t have food in your car or you could be next.

AH

During my morning devotion, Alistair Begg was teaching about Caleb. In the book of Joshua the book recounts that Caleb waited 45 years for something promised to him but lived honorably under someone else’s punishment. At the end of his life he claims his inheritance. The leader of the Jews gave Caleb his inheritance because “he wholly followed God” (Joshua 14:14) The phrase wholly followed God struck me.  ”Wholly” - the word means completely, fully or totally. Caleb was completely sold out to God. I am not sure that someone would give me anything but if they did I am not sure that it would be because I wholly did something. The lesson for me was that life must be lived every minute every second wholly. For true purpose, we must be wholly following God because without that we start keeping score according to worthless possessions and successes. Wholly following God requires a constant attention to remain focus against the distractions of life. I think I should commit myself to my inheritance the Lord has for me on the basis of seeking out a wholly lived life. Tearing off the fear of rejections, the criticism of others and the doubt of partial living are the first steps to being whole. A lesson I need to learn - live wholly.AH 

Forty Dollars a visit. That is what it costs me to obtain “physical therapy”. The only thing missing from this “therapy” is a star chamber and the torches because for all of the semantics these visits are “voluntary torture.” Everyone there is very sweet and appropriately genteel but the reality is yesterday I saw one of the physical therapist enjoying the torture. This is what happened. The “patient” or what I call “victim” was laying on the table face down. Now this position is extremely vulnerable in a Ned Beatty sort of way so I thought I should watch the “therapist” ie “enforcer.” The enforcer placed her 5′ foot body on the victims leg and began pushing her leg toward her buttocks. This so called therapy was intended to “stretch it out.” The “it” was something I could not ascertain but what I did see was the “therapist” check to see if the “patient” was looking back at her.  Finding the “patient” face down in the pillow wincing in pain, the “therapist” craned her neck back in an almost rapturous stretch look into the mirror and say to herself “nice, nice hurt so good.” Shivers ran down my spine because I was next. The “patient” whimpered a little bit and the “therapist” said “are you ok?” knowing full well that the “patient” could not answer because she was face down in the pillow screaming her lungs out. I also think I saw the “therapist” hold this poor defenseless 85 year old lady’s head into the pillow while she added another “good stretch.” The scary part of all of his is the normalcy and sanitized feeling the “therapy” room has. I am telling you in a different era or with different outfits these “therapists” could be placed in any medieval dungeon or an interrogation roon in Guatanomo.  I am sitting there thinking, “am I the only one who realizes that these ‘therapists’ are sadistic masocists employed by the health care profession for the sole purpose of extending pain and suffering so that the health care executives can count the co-pays on a daily basis.” I imagine the “therapists” at the end of the day sitting around the credit card receipts wringing their hands eating favre beans and drinking chianti.  They tell stories of people who they get to do the most ridiculous activities in the name of “therapy” but in reality the “therapists” joke about how simple minded and lemming like the “patients” are all knowing that none of this “therapy” works or has medicinal value whatsoever. All of this occurs after hours in their khaki pants and tennis shoes. All of this for a $40.00 co-pay, the never ending co-pay. Ironically there is a sign at this location that states “If it hurts don’t do it.” I think there is another sign in the back office that says, “Patients can’t be trusted.” AH 

I just had ACL knee surgery. My surgeon was very cool and seemed confident that everything went well. However, the nursing corps at the hospital the one night I stayed were interesting. The first nurse knew less about my care than I did. Anytime the patient has to make suggestions on what should occur you might wonder how many people these nurses have killed. Strict orders were provided that I should not get out of bed without my leg brace on. I was in a cloudy narcotic state and I swung my leg off the bed to use the bathroom. The nurse told my wife I would be ok and my wife stopped me and advised the nurse of the doctor’s orders. All I knew was that I was going to urinate all over myself if I did not get to the bathroom messed up leg, drugs, pain, whatever. I had to go!!! My wife kept them on course politely informing the nurse what the doctor said etc. To the nurse’s credit, she did not hold on to her ignorance long. She took the advice and adjusted the care accordingly. It was 3 am when I requested some percocet to numb the knife edge pain shooting into my spine from my surgery. The nurse comes in and asks, “Do you need something?” There were many answers to this question. Here are a few:1. underwear2. some water.3. urinal.4. pain medicine5. attention.I went with pain  medicine. Interestingly enough, I asked for meds at 3 and should have received them every four hours. The medicine kicked in She comes in and asks “Do you need something?” Well here we go again. A physical therapist comes in and asks if I am ready to get moving. I said sure but my leg is killing me. The PT said, well you should have received your pain meds. When did you get them last? I said 3 am. She said, “That can’t be right!. you probably don’t remember. let me check the computer. Oops. You have not had your meds.” Now I am not medicinal, scientific or a Nasa engineer but I can confidently say that the word “Oops” should not be used in a hospital. There is a not a context where that word should be used in a medicinal setting. Can’t  you see the doctor talking to the family of some poor schlub and they ask him, “Doctor why did you take my Dad’s good leg?” and the Doctor says “Oops” or something like this, I forgot to give you your meds after they drilled a hole in your leg and scraped you knee clean. Oops.AH

A special day for Fathers is a nice sentiment. In our culture where most families are destroyed by divorce, adultery and selfishness, I wonder what most people celebrate today. Fortunately, I can celebrate my father Albert Roy Hartley with pride and confidence. He is the Brooks Robinson of fathers. Brooks Robinson was a great ballplayer because he was not great at one aspect of the game. He was good at all aspects of the game. My father is good at all aspects of fatherhood. Understand,  he has flubbed some ground balls and struggled with boughts of hitting slumps. But on average, he has been good enough to get in the hall of fame of fathers. My father dreams like an intellectual starving artist while running against generational obligations with one eye on the clock and the other eye on his purpose. He has brought light to a world of darkness by being a good steward of the responsibilities God has given him and the talents God has bestowed upon him.  Humanity in Europe, Latin America, Africa and the United States are better off because of his life. His spiritual and charitable legacy grows daily. He continues to be internally wistful yet externally honorable.  I can’t think of anyone I would want on in the fourth spot on my roster more than my father. Sure he might strike out now and then, but when the game is on the line he is the person that I confidently know willingly accepts the responsibility to give it his all. On this Fathers Day I want to say thank you for my father for living his life with the passion, determination and drive required by Jesus and needed by me. I love you dad.Albert

Here is a confession. I am a big fat wimp when it comes to dark places that I am not familiar with. Some guys are the Dirty Harry types, you know the ones that act like they can handle everything and nothing scares them. My Dad is that type of guy. I always knew that my Dad would never buckle under anything thrown at him. His consistency has always provided me a hope that I can achieve what is set before me or what I want to accomplish. As I have obtained adulthood, he is still a benchmark of masculinity for me yet he is a little more human. He has expressed his fears about things and failings which helps me see him more realistically. When I was a kid, he would wake me up for work at some evil hour when animals are still asleep. I can still remember a bear head in the glow of the hallway light coming through the crack in the door speaking into the darkness of my room as an overweight angel bearing the message “Albert your burning daylight.” That hyperbolic phrase always made me laugh since it was a ludicrous statement because when my Dad got up there was never any daylight to burn. A hallway light pierced the darkness. That light became significant to me. It represented my father’s unconditional love, commitment to my family and his consistency of purpose. I get scared in the dark.  I hate horror movies and thrill rides that have tunnels. So I am not afraid to admit that the absence of light describes my spiritual condition at times. Light is critical. I believe that when Jesus says that he is the light of the world He proves his existence and deity. Other religions claim to lead you to a light but Jesus declares that He is the light. As light, He pierces the darkness of the deepest depression, the hopelessness of circumstances and the confusion of events to illuminate our path to Him as salvation, hope and joy. He is the father that opens the door to our isolated place and through a small crack in our world His hope pierces our dark corners and sightless condition by telling us that we are “burning daylight.” So roll out of bed, wipe your eyes and  walk in the light no matter what darkness surrounds you. AH

I read an article yesterday that Walmart has starting to put health care clinics inside the SuperWalmart. That is a great idea. I can deal with cheap health care while I am getting my oil changed, my wife gets her nails done and I can make deposits in the bank all while picking up some slave labor manufactured underwear and apple sauce. I believe Congress should disband and turn over the Federal Government to Walmart’s Board of Directors. Grant them full authority to run the country. Within 2 days, the healthcare crisis would be solved because Walmart would find a way to make money at it. Surgery could still be done in a hospital but there would be a ninety year old man waiting for you in the OR sticking a yellow happy face on your hospital gown before you went under the knife. As you left, another middle aged craggly faced person would ask you if you wanted your excess parts and organs in a paper or plastic bag. I know that we would give up some progressive rights like child labor and women’s rights but I am ok with that if I can get my health insurance to be less than $10,000 a month. What is a little child labor amongst friends? AH 

I was in a 7 Eleven yesterday and when I furnished purchasing a Power-C Vitamin water I said, “Thank you mam” to the cashier. She looked shocked and said, “Don’t call me mam I am not that old.” First -  she was old. Second - if she wasn’t she looked like she was and a good ol’ southern mam should have been welcomed in between the drags on her Camel cigarette. What happened to manners. Young people are so crude and rough that a yes sir and no sir are dismissed without a thought. Frankly, I would like to grab some of these kids by their piercings wherever that may be and jerk it out and say, “Hey, you little brat I pay taxes that you don’t pay but while you are in school today wasting your life at least acknowledge the fact that your existence and possible good fortune in this country is being provided by the adults who continue to work their butts off to pay for your benefits.” I don’t think mam, or sir is to much to ask, is it?AH 

Asking for help is the hardest thing for a human being to do. For some people, they are helpless because they are on the other end of the spectrum. They never learn to do anything for themselves. What I am focusing on is the person who pridefully says, I can do this on my own. I don’t need to ask anyone because I should be able to do this without help. They continue to argue with themselves and say, “Hey if I ask for help then I am less of a person and I am not as good as someone else.” News flash - there are people better than you. I have come to accept my own moderate level of mediocrity. There are things on the bell curve of my life that I am on the high achieving end but for the most part these are flashes of brilliance amongst the dullness of waning bulbs. Yet, I have learned to ask for help. A myth about asking for help is that the asker is really suggesting that the helper become a surrogate. In East Asian cultures people work together because they do not expect people to know everything. They infuse the culture with a teacher student master cycle which allows for mistakes and instruction. Western culture infuses a unyielding pride in the idea that only ask for help to fix a problem but never ever submit to a relationship that might require subservience. This is an interesting paradox in a nation of Christians. I thank God that I can ask help from my mentor. He is my teacher and I am incredible grateful for his time, patience and attention when I ask for help. I need to ask for help more often so that I can be at the high end of the bell curve. AH 

A distinguishing characteristic between living and life is passion. Merging passion and vocation should be the goal of every young person. If you are not excited about starting the day then you lack passion. Men are not passionate anymore unless it is sexual. Society has reduced men to feminized eunochs lacking the burning desire to win, conquer and lead. I want to “suck the marrow out of life” by attacking every task or obstacle with reckless abandonment. I want to be passionate about the tasks in front of me and the hope of building something lasting for those coming behind me. Kill me if I am just going through the motions in the hopes of getting ahead even though I have no desire or fire in my belly. Maybe that is when God takes us home. In Genesis, Moses records that God breathed life into Adam. I think God breathed on a spark implanted in Adam to ignite the flames of passion in every subsequent human being. When that flame flickers and wanes in the winds of life, we have to be careful not to quench the oxygen feeding that flame by cutting off the supply due to complacency and mediocrity. Kaizen!!! Men should be crying out for the flames in our souls to burn so intensely that the people around us catch fire too or burn up. BE PASSIONATE!!!! You only have one life to live. AH 

Starbucks is a dividing line for human beings. There are people who go to 7 Eleven and others who go to Starbucks.  The difference is that people who go to 7 Eleven are really only going there to get coffee. They are not attempting to find a new life or be enlightened with a new idea. Starbucks people walk in wanting more than the coffee. They want hope. A hope for something new which did not exist yesterday. It could be as simple as a CD or a new hip book that has a foreign person on the cover which “everyone” should read. 7 Eleven people don’t give a crap about a new cd or a book they want the coffee and the paper to confirm that all politicians are liars and gas prices are still kicking them in the pants. Hope, 7 Eleven does not serve hope which is why their coffee is cheap. Starbucks charges $10.00 for a cup of coffee because they serve a little hope along side that double half caf triple shot four pump vanilla latte. Fifty cents worth of coffee and $9.50 worth of, “hey look at our cool store with our cool books and our cool cds - you know if you drink this coffee you are going to be like these cool people that we subtly shove down your throats along with this butt tightening awful coffee.” Will that be all, sir? Yes I think so but let me check: I am taking from my retirement to buy this coffee, it tastes awful, I am leaving feeling so much better about myself so when I drive by the 7 Eleven I will sip my coffee feeling sorry for the losers inside just getting a good cup of coffee. Yep I am ready, thanks my dreadlocked unshaven English major barrista who knows my order because I am such a pathetic loser, I will see you in the morning for another cup of hope. AH 

On June 14 at 7:00pm I will be attending my 21st dance recital at the Mary Ann Wood School of Dance. My daughters and I will be performing a dance together. I do not dance well, I dance in the shower and in my house when no one is around. The music of choice for me is usually Robert Cray or a Keb Mo tune fully clothed and lacking rythm but no passion, enough of that. Dance recitals are painful. Most of them could be used to extract information from the most hardened AlQueda terrorist. After the tune Lollipop is played four times in a row and the 25th little girl cries on stage Jihad is over. Now, let me qualify that statement by saying that I have attended 21 years of them so I am an authority. My kids are great and my wife spectacular. I love to watch them enjoy the crowd and music. I also attend because the most important thing happened to me at my first dance recital -  I fell in love with my wife. You know it was one of those awkward situations where the new boyfriend has to attend with the smothering family and the overbearing intimidating dad.  I showed up trying to figure out the legal size front and back quadruple folded program would take for an ADD hyperactive guy proned to sweating out of his clothes. My girlfriend’s dad fell asleep and prior to snoring somewhat inconsiderately tasked me with waking him up one number before my girlfriend came on. I marked each number and diligently went to work. Most of the night is a boring blur but my girlfriend (now wife) had a private number where she was performing ballet. I knew she could dance because she attended a special school for gifted kids so nothing new there but I had never seen her dance. As the lights went down and the stage was dark except a lone spotlight, she stepped into the light wearing a beautiful white flowing dress. She was more than beautiful. She was radiant and I was sold. I knew that she was the person for me because where I had to fill every moment of silence with useless mind numbing blather she spoke volumes to the world without saying a single word. After the recital, I stayed out until 1:00 am with her family at a Denny’s eating pancakes and two pieces of bacon with a coke. Her grandmother asked the family, “Who is the Oriental boy eating with us?” My girlfriend’s brother answered and said, “Nana that is the lawn boy, you know Albert Amy’s new friend, the boy who cuts the grass.” Thus was my introduction into the family. Everyone laughed at my expense but I knew something they didn’t. The best part of that family would be my wife someday and then my brother in law could introduce me with something like, ” This is Albert the lawn boy who looks somewhat Oriental to old people, uh, Amy’s husband.” On the evening of June 14th 2008, the lawnboy will watch his beautiful graceful wife take the stage again. He will also trip the light fantastic much to everyone’s mockery with his two beautiful daughters. I am looking forward to June 14th not because I enjoy 4 hours of buttock numbing endlessness but the opportunity to bask in warmth of my family whom I love very much. Warning to all parents, watch out for lawn boys. They work awfully hard and sometimes they want more out of you than a tip. I know I did. AH