CHRISTMAS 2025

SAPPY HOLIDAYS

In the final months of WWII in the European theater, General George S. Patton and his troops captured the city of Trier in Germany, the former Roman provincial capital.  This was accomplished against the orders of General Eisenhower who anticipated such an undertaking would require at least four divisions.  Notifying central command of his success, Patton sent a fourteen-word message that read, “Have taken Trier with two divisions.  Do you want me to give it back?”  This year’s missive from the Greenes, while a bit more wordy than Patton’s message, it is written and sent in a similar spirit: your advice against it fell on deaf ears, and there’s no way to recall it  Sorry (sort of). 

While the English language is replete with mellifluous words in various lengths, we have a favorite of the four-letter variety: Beau. At 15 months old, some would argue that he doesn’t yet possess the mental acuity to taunt and tease, but his canine brothers (Hank and Bruce) would beg to differ: as Beau feeds himself, he’ll gladly share his bounty with his brothers, but he will often offer up a handful of something to the two furry lads only to close his hand and yank it away as their jaws are clamping shut with nothing inside their maws . . . and Beau has a toothy (and slightly evil) grin beaming down at them from his throne above. We’re looking forward to Beau translating his skills of manipulation to getting Hank and Bruce to allow him to ride them like horses for a bite of beef or a chunk of cheese.

Having graduated from college in April in Computer Engineering and stuck around Utah for the summer, Sam got his first adult job and moved to Sunnyvale, CA, in August. Please don’t ask us what it is that he does – not because it’s shady or illegal but because Erin and I aren’t smart enough to understand it, much less describe it. Erin and I were with him in Sunnyvale after helping him move, and we went to lunch at a burger joint located in an open-air mall. Erin looked around and said, “Sam, your dad and I are probably the two dumbest people in a five-mile radius.” Our fellow diners were likely employed by Google, Apple, Nvidia (Sam’s employer), and other companies populating Silicon Valley; I couldn’t argue with Erin’s comment (and I felt judged by the baby in a stroller and the dog lying on the ground next to her).

Ever the romantic, Jack accepted an invitation from one of his company’s main suppliers to spend a week in Alaska fly fishing and sight seeing that coincided with his and Kali’s third anniversary. (Pause here for an eye roll and a shrug acknowledging this to be typical Jack.) All this occurred in the Dog Days of Summer. While Jack was off living his man-child fantasy, Kali and Beau went to Las Vegas to spend time with her family, which still doesn’t seem all that fair since they traded Phoenix heat for Vegas heat – that’s like escaping Hell to end up in . . . well, Hell with a broken AC unit. During that time, we had the granddogs (Hank & Bruce) where we found we had to swap the handle around on the laundry room door so we could lock it from the outside – as it had been, Hank could open the door and bust Bruce, Phoebe, and himself out of prison. Swapping the handle wiped that smug smile off their furry faces, I assure you.

On a trip to New York back in late May, Erin let her freak flag fly freely. While in the West Village, we walked by a pizza place with a line of people that was almost a block long leading up to it. Just as we passed the front of the line, I noticed a guy standing on the sidewalk with a pizza box from the joint opened atop a garbage can. I asked him if it was worth the wait, and as we chatted he offered us both a slice . . . AND ERIN TOOK ONE! WHAT? Then, a block over (after Erin finished her slice of stranger-danger pizza and didn’t die), we came upon a man wearing only butterfly wings and a jockstrap, which we saw from the back, just singing to his heart’s content. As we passed, Erin commented that I didn’t give her enough time to get her camera out for a photo. WHO IS THIS WANTON WOMAN? I told her, after we passed, that I’d give the guy $10 to stand there while I take a photo of her with him. The Erin I’ve known for well over half my life demurely declined so I was assured I wasn’t walking the NYC streets with a body snatcher.

In April, my sales territory grew to include Colorado and Wyoming, making it seven states that I cover. The first time I flew into Denver, I couldn’t quite put my finger on the vibe of the city. There’s a great deal of money and affluence with an equal amount of tree hugging and granola eating. Then it dawned on me: Denver’s like Beverly Hills and Berkeley had a baby. I also learned very quickly how to tell the granola areas from the affluent areas: in the former, women walk around without bras underneath their clothes; in the latter, they walk around in sport bras quite frequently without other clothes. Now that winter is upon us, it’s a little different story.

If you’ve read this far, you were either bored or psychotic: we embrace all sorts. With an empty nest, we have plenty of room for visitors. If you stay in our basement, you’ll be next to my office where I’ve unpacked and set up my record player so you might be soothed to sleep with a 12-inch remix of “White Lines” by Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five or the entire Side A of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon.” We take requests, and the lodgings are free.

The Mystery of Trump’s Hair and the Great Orange Enigma

While I don’t like to traffic in conspiracy theories, let’s be honest: there are only two unsolved mysteries left worth pondering in America — where Jimmy Hoffa is buried and what exactly is happening on top of Donald Trump’s head.

Now, his supporters call it “iconic”; his detractors call it “a bird’s nest on a blustery afternoon,” but scientists call it “a violation of several laws of physics.” This is hair that seems prepared for anything. Nuclear winter? Still fluffed. A hurricane? It bends, it sways, it rebounds. There are bridges in New Jersey less structurally sound than the coiffure of Donald J. Trump.

The styling process, I assume, involves a gallon of industrial adhesive, the whispered prayers of three beauticians, and at least one member of NASA on call. Because, honestly, if his hair ever fell out of alignment, we’d probably lose half the Eastern Seaboard to the resulting shockwave.

And then there’s the complexion. People say “orange,” but that doesn’t quite capture it. He doesn’t look like he’s been sunbathing; he looks like he fell asleep inside a Home Depot paint department. Depending on the day, he can range anywhere from “mild cheddar” to “glowing traffic cone you could see from space.” This isn’t a tan — it’s a mutation. If this level of bronzing were natural, Florida retirees would abandon their spray bottles and simply worship at Trump’s altar for trade secrets.

You’ve got to admire his confidence, though. Most of us step outside with a bad haircut or too much self-tanner and spend the whole day ducking into alleys and hiding behind mailboxes. Trump strides out in front of cameras, gleaming like an Oompa Loompa who inherited a real estate empire, as if to say: “Yes, I am the color of a sweet potato left too close to a tanning lamp, and you will think it’s the greatest thing you’ve ever seen — because it is.”

Frankly, I envy it. Because while the average American can’t decide whether their part is too crooked, here is a man who has chosen both an experimental hairstyle and a seasonal gourd-inspired hue as his permanent brand. Imagine being so committed to your look that even Pantone is like, “We may need a new swatch for this guy.”

And perhaps it works on a deeper level than we recognize. That hair and that glow? It’s camouflage. No one can focus too long on policy positions when they’re hypnotized by the spectacle of a man whose head looks like it was sculpted by Salvador Dalí after raiding a Tropicana factory.

So maybe the real trick is this: Trump’s not just a politician, he’s a performance piece. A living art installation. The world comes for the chaos, but stays for the hair — defying hurricanes, logic, and decades of mockery. And when the sun sets, and America asks itself what it has truly witnessed, the answer is simple: a man, his hair, and an unstoppable dedication to citrus-toned excellence. Make America Glow Again. 

The Visuals of Sound

When I was an adolescent, I yearned to play the drums; I begged my parents to buy me a kit and clear out the garage to all me a space to create and launch my career. The latter part of that wish was total fantasy as we were one of the only families in our neighborhood who did this weird thing: we parked our cars in the garage. Having a piano already in the home, mom and pops made me a deal: take one year of piano to learn to read music and show my commitment, and they would buy a drum set for me. Four grueling months into piano lessons, I gave up my dream - long on yearning, woefully short on commitment. They were grueling for my teacher (my future sister-in-law) and slightly discomforting for the rest of the family who had to listen to me practice. 

While the drums are the heartbeat of most of the music I like, being a member of the first generation of MTV kids, I am equally fascinated watching that member of the band who is usually pushed to the back of the stage. As I’ve had this fascination for 40+ years, I’ve come to put drummers in one of four groups:

1. The Cheshire Cat: whatever the rest of the band is doing, this drummer is always in the background with a wry, lopsided grin, and nothing is affecting them. They blissfully play on, perhaps mug at the camera, and give you the sense they’re just happy to be there whether the gig is a sold-out stadium or an intimate club not exactly filled to capacity. In this group I place the likes of Ringo Starr, Jon Farriss, and Charlie Watts. 
2. The Professor: their dedication to the craft, the art, the religion of percussion is serious and sober. With their painstakingly arranged kits, they compose and deliver an eloquent lecture of sound to all around them by arranging beats that enthrall everyone listening and causing some to look at them as if they’re gods. Neil Peart and Stewart Copeland are two such professors. 
3. The Storm: this group is what most people picture when they think of drummers - a force of nature whose energy would frighten you if their rhythms and soul-thumping sounds didn’t pick you up and deliver you to another place. Every part of their body is a blur; you’re equally energized and enervated just watching them. The National Weather Service should use the names of John Bonham, Keith Moon, Alex Van Halen, and Tommy Lee to designate hurricanes. 
4. The Calm: equally powerful as the storm, these musicians subdue it. They sit among their kit upright and slightly rigid, letting the power of the storm only manifest itself in controlled but relaxed movements coming from their arms and hands, tattooing a beat you not only hear but feel in your soul. You invariably wonder how the fierce tempos and seismic rhythms can be created by an individual who looks so serene and untroubled. With great pleasure, I watch artists like Larry Mullen, Jr. and Roger Taylor let percussion take center stage.  

Who are your favorites, and in what category would you put them?

PACK ANIMALS, THE LOT OF US

Air travelers fall into a number of different categories as far as how they pack is concerned. Your business travelers are easy to pick out: they have a roller bag that is well maintained with a valise/satchel/soft-sided briefcase or a SWAG backpack affixed atop said roller bag (by “SWAG backpack” I mean it’s a name-brand bag like Ogio, Under Armor, or Eddie Bauer with a logo embroidered in a conspicuous place - they got it as SWAG at a golf tournament or a conference). 

Another pack style is the roller bag with another bag that is clearly not going to fit under the seat in front of them. Nine times out of ten, the roller bag has been expanded to fit as much crap in it as possible. They likely have had shampoo bottles or something else WELL OVER 3.4 ounces confiscated by TSA. If you watch closely, and you’re lucky, you’ll see a gate agent approach them before boarding and instruct them to compress their roller bag so that expanding/minimizing zipper can be locked down and the bag can fit within the parameters set by the FAA. If they’ve already had their fill from their TSA experience, they’re going to lose their minds, and the sounds they make while exerting every bit of energy they have to zip down their bag will sound feral if not too high pitched to be heard with human ears. 

This next group really fits into one general category with two subsets: the travelers who know the size requirements for bags and the carry-on-bag policy (one personal item to go under the seat in front of you, one larger bag that fits in the overhead bin) - they’re the backbone, really, of air travel. The subsets I mentioned aren’t that different from one another, but the slight difference makes me chuckle, if I’m being honest: (1) those who “fly under the radar” by sticking to the basics; (2) those who are returning from a vacation, and they’ve acquired an odd-sized object that won’t fit in either their personal item or their roller bag - 99 times out of 100, the item can slip above the bags in the overhead bin (like a long tube with a poster or print), and it’s no biggie, but looking at the worry that knits across their forehead as they’re boarding is a tad comical. I entertain easily. That said, though, the ones who fall into this second group in the subset who have a sense of entitlement cause me to conjure up scenarios in which they trip on this additional item and get sufficiently injured that they can’t board the flight. It’s equally satisfying to see a flight attendant crush that sense of entitlement by insisting they have to check it. Right on!

Here’s the small group of travelers, pack wise, that inspired this post: those who have safari/expedition/hiking gear just dripping from toggles and hooks on their carry-on bags. They give me the impression that they believe there’s a 50/50 chance the plane’s not going to make it to its intended destination, and we’ll be going down in the wild OR they’re going to ask the pilot if she/he will give them the chance to parachute from the plane when it passes over their favorite hiking/camping spot. Failing either of those two options materializing, I’m picturing them walking out the double doors that lead out to the curb full of taxis, shuttle buses, and cars awaiting their loved ones, and seeing them cross the traffic and disappear into the trees and other flora that surround the airport. Why? Put simply, their “fit” doesn’t match the reality that they’re going to land in beautiful but urban Charlotte, NC, take a shuttle to the rental cars, and climb into an SUV that has about a 3% chance it will go off road because its first destination will be a Courtyard by Marriott. All the while, their wide-brimmed hats, built-in-filtration metal water bottles that cost more than a full-size vending machine, and binoculars that are strong enough to detect skin cancer on a mosquito all dangle from their Cotopaxi backpacks, and their feet are shod in hiking boots to protect their feet as they traverse the grueling terrain of a parking lot. 

The next time you find yourself at the airport sitting in the boarding area, play this little game with yourself or with your travel companions. You’ll laugh at the accuracy, I promise. And if you find yourself about to board the with Mr. & Mrs. Safari, stay close to them in case the plane does experience an unplanned landing; they’ll be sure to have something in their bags of tricks to keep you safe from the middle-aged woman who is now acting like one of those gorillas from that old Samsonite commercial because she’s still angry at the flight attendant for making her zip down her suitcase. 

RFK Needs to Address This Disease

Perhaps it’s a universal thing, but I know it’s a disease acutely thrust upon us here in the United States: people backing into parking spaces. I call it a disease because its effects are felt by those in the vicinity of the carriers of this pathogen - the carriers are seemingly immune to the stupidity of their actions and go about afflicting all around them without a care in the world. 

I’ve yet to see someone back into a parking space because they are going to be loading something into the back of their vehicle, which would make absolutely perfect sense so one wouldn’t have to carry something as far. Often, it’s a large truck that I see being backed into a space, and those who see no problem with this explain to me that they back in so that when they get ready to leave, they reduce the possibility of hitting a pedestrian or another vehicle. Okay, but doesn’t the SAME possibility exist WHEN BACKING INTO THE SPACE?!!!!!! Your argument is without merit, people. 

Tonight, I was pulling into the parking lot at a local church to attend a wedding reception when I was halted in my progress by some chucklenuts not just backing into a space but requiring an 8-point turn to get it just right FOR HIS FORD FOCUS! Curious, rather than leaving my vehicle in the traffic lane of the parking lot and going over and kicking the driver squarely in the testicles, I paused to see who was this person. It wasn’t Batman, a police officer or firefighter, an OB/GYN on call, or the guy who fixes the Coke dispensers at all the local Circle Ks - people who would clearly need to have their vehicles at the ready in case they got called out to an emergency - just a dude wearing an ill-fitted suit, white shirt, ugly tie, and shoes that hadn’t seen a buff brush or polish in the last three presidential administrations. Why? Why did he feel it important to back his sub-compact car into the parking space at a wedding reception? 

I could think of a handful of justifiable reasons, actually: he would be loading something into the trunk, which is the size of a carry-on suitcase (but this was near the beginning of the reception, and he didn’t pop his trunk when he got out, so we’re ruling that out); he was delivering the bride and groom’s vehicle that would carry them off to their honeymoon (but the car wasn’t decorated AND it was a beat up Ford Focus that I’m about 99% positive the groom wouldn’t be caught dead driving). Using Occam’s Razor, after eliminating all other possibilities, I could only come up with one of two reasons: (1) the driver is an escaped mental patient, or (2) the driver is so self-centered to believe everyone SHOULD wait for him and his poor driving skills to park his car. You really don’t want to consider reason 2 because you want to believe people can’t be that oblivious to others around them, but I couldn’t really go with reason 1 because there aren’t any mental hospitals nearby. Perhaps he just hasn’t been committed to one yet? Hmmmm. 

ID Required, Brains Not

While the atrocities of 9/11 will remain a scar on the soul of America that will never fade with time but make us stronger and more resolved, there are things that were instated as a result of that event that have made a large number of people here in the United States . . . absolute morons. I speak of the security checkpoint at the airport. 

When these security measures were first instituted, EVERYONE got a free pass: it was new, some of the requirements didn’t make immediate sense, and quite frankly, a lot of people weren’t preparing themselves beforehand by looking things up on the internet before they arrived at the airport - and in the beginning, we all collectively let it slide. However, this September will be 24 years since this all started, and if anything, the restrictions have been either lessened or streamlined. We’re not trying to qualify for the Army Rangers or get through the NFL combines. It’s NOT that hard, kids. 

Since it has been 24 years, and air travel has been made cheaper and more attainable than ever before, I’m going out on a limb here and saying that it’s likely that no more than 10% of our population have never flown since 9/11/2001 - we should ALL be able to breeze through TSA without opening our mouths to ask a question or even make eye contact with an “officer” who somehow got his pants to zip up and his shirt to button without popping off and taking out a civilian. Step up, put your laptop in a separate tray, then stick your carry-on bag (which, for many, is large enough to stow a small family from the Philippines) in another bin along with your shoes and belt and the contents of your pockets. For those with metal in their bodies (artificial hip, cast iron bladder, or a piercing in a non-visible area of your body, you’ll step through the metal detector; the rest of us will go into the little tube where we mimic a jumping jack while we get scanned. Simple, right?

Apparently, each time I go to the airport, the line I choose consists almost exclusively of either the 10% who have never traveled or forgot to pack their brains the night before when they were gathering up their luggage. And, honestly, I don’t know which is worse: (1) the person who bitches and moans about the process while they’re loading up the trays with their items as if the TSA agent can or even wants to change the process; or (2) the person who has been instructed ad nauseum by the TSA agents to empty their pockets and remove their belts, and when they pass through the metal detector or the tube thingy, they are absolutely shocked that they are subject to an additional pat down. 

If TSA really wanted to streamline the process (and since they’re a government agency, that’s not likely), I would be willing to volunteer for a shift a week for minimum wage to be the “Idiot Whisperer”. Any sign that a person is going to be a hindrance to the flow, I’ll walk up and shunt them over to a designated lane where they can be as stupid, slow, opinionated, and shocked as they wish. The only thing I fear is near the end of my shift, my right hand will be stinging and almost blistered from all the high fives I would be getting from the “smart” passengers. 

God, Part III

It’s been more than a couple of days since my last installment - sorry. I’ve written and rewritten this about 73 times.

That said, let’s recap for just a moment, shall we! Using logic and reason - two things many people don’t generally associate with the topic of religion (but they should) - I made what I believe was a fairly compelling case for there being only one god, divine entity, mighty creator, etc. presiding over things here on earth. Following that same bulletproof line of logic and reason (if I do say so myself), I put forth the idea that a Methodist praying to their Creator and a Muslim petitioning Allah - it will turn out - are lifting their reverential voices to the same being, just with different names. 

While it’s my personal contention that Divinity did establish a particular religion, let’s consider the possibility that she/he/it/they didn’t at all; the Divine design was to have myriad religions and concepts of a god that fit with different parts of the world as seen through various cultural lenses so the human population had variety - each of us could walk up to a spiritual smorgasbord and choose what we felt would sate our hunger, and we could make additional trips either to double up on what we chose originally or get a clean plate and go in a completely different direction. 

Whether you want to consider this possibility of “no one religion is THE ONE” or your faith is such that your soul KNOWS the religion you have followed IS the one, the concluding part of my thesis is the same: live your religion . . . well, religiously, and encourage your colleagues, neighbors, family, and friends to do the same. Whoever you worship, that god wouldn’t want it any other way, right?

Imagine the state of the world if every single person who follows a religion were to live by the principles and doctrine to which they subscribe AND encourage others to embrace their respective churches! No matter how strongly we believe in the teachings of the religions with which we have aligned ourselves and the responsibility we feel to share them with others, if we looked at one another as fellow “religionists” or travelers simply on different paths to the same destination rather than askance and thinking of others as spiritually off at best or as potential spiritual foes at worst, just think how much more comfortable we would feel around one another, if we would allow it.  

Why did I tack that qualifier onto that last sentence? Let’s be honest and acknowledge that in our own churches/religions there’s an implied obligation not only to proclaim that ours is THE ONE but to be devout to the point that all others are lacking in some way or another. There are members of every religion - mine included - who translate that devotion to a charge to convert or condemn. Almost 1000 years ago, that took form in The Crusades, and that spirit of contention has continued. 

Many of the experiences in my life ranging from the subtle and mundane to “holy cow!” (a nod to the Hindus) have confirmed my faith. Those same experiences, though, have helped me come to respect the dedication, discipleship, and determination of friends, colleagues, family, and neighbors who are members of their chosen religions - and I have come to know, with a great deal of study of my own church’s teachings, that Peter won’t be “checking IDs” at the Pearly Gates and turning away anyone who doesn’t have an LDS membership card. 

As I wrap this up, allow me to remind you of this simple fact: not until we die will we DEFINITIVELY learn the answers to the BIG THREE QUESTIONS, agnostics and atheists included (I didn’t forget about you).  While we’re still breathing and walking around on this rock that makes an annual trip around the sun, let’s take religion off the table as one fewer thing to argue with one another - THAT will make for a far better existence, don’t you agree! By doing so, when we eventually pass on, we’ll see our neighbors and friends with whom we enjoyed our earthly journey and smile as we learn together how it was all meant to turn out - unlike the combatants in The Crusades who, perhaps, died within minutes of each other and then found themselves in the SAME “waiting room” - AWKWARD.