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