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.

God, Part II

Show of hands: anyone believe at the end of the last installment, I was setting you up to be punked, that I was trying to convince you that there is only one religion that’s right with all the others wrong to one degree or another? Sorry. That wasn’t my intention.  In fact, my true hope for this entire thing is to encourage EVERYONE who reads this to stay strong to the religion/belief system in which you take strength, and let it make you a better person. 

Around the time humankind was weening themselves off of riding around on dinosaurs, I served a two-year mission in New York City for the church to which I have belonged my entire life and still belong (The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints).  My “job” during that time was to teach people about our religion and invite them to become a member of the LDS Church.  I didn’t win a set of steak knives with every tenth person I was able to bring into the fold – I wasn’t paid a dime to do any of that but actually paid to maintain myself on the mission out of personal funds. 

With that as background informing who I am today, you would think it’s weird to hear me say this: none of us KNOWS which combination of religion and Creator, if any, has it RIGHT.  That’s not me expressing doubts in the religion in which I’ve invested over a half century of my life – it’s a statement of practical fact.  I’ve not had a personal appearance from Deity telling me that I’m in the right place – like everyone else, I have faith in something that’s bigger than me and feel I’m on the right path for me.  And I’m reasonably certain most, if not all, of you haven’t had a heavenly visitation either. 

(Side note: there’s an inherent and unintended problem with postulating which church or religion or belief system is THE ONE because we, as human beings, reflexively infer that if one is correct, then that makes all others false, wrong, counterfeit, etc. Such an inference pits us against one another with nothing but negative results. That’s a big part of the reason for my writing this.)

Here in our earthly existence there are seemingly countless iterations, names, and concepts of a Supreme Being/Creator: Heavenly Father to the Christians, Jehovah to the Jews, Allah to the Muslims, Ahura Mazda to the Zoroastrians, Izanagi and Izanami to the practitioners of Shinto, Brahma to the Hindus, and Buddhism has a view of creators that is difficult for me to understand and even harder to try and describe in a few words - that’s not a slight or a negative comment but an admission that I haven’t invested myself and the respectful amount of time to learn more about their beliefs. The common thread that runs through all this, though, is a belief that some form(s) of Divinity, by whatever name(s), created us. My contention is that the most logical answer is that we humans were created by one Being – this Being is one in the same for each of us who lives, has lived, and will ever live on this earth. (For atheists and agnostics, you get a free pass in this exercise – I’m not going to try and convince you of God’s existence. You’ll find out with the rest of us whether there is or isn’t a God, by whatever name, after we die.)

Going back to the conclusion of my last installment: Death will be the great equalizer – the big reveal – when it comes to the BIG QUESTIONS. That will be the moment when we come to KNOW for practical fact who the Supreme Being/Creator is, whether she/he organized a specific religion, and which one (if she/he did).

Every single person who considers her/himself religious needs to buckle up for this next part. When we die, we’re eventually going to see the face of our Creator. (I’m not saying it’s going to happen the very moment we breathe our last and our souls leave our bodies; we may have to go through some type of admissions process that requires a lot of paperwork, but my money’s on the timing being relatively short.) It’s possible that the Creator will be Brahma . . . and those of us who have dedicated ourselves to a religion OTHER than Hinduism are now screaming at me right now to tell me how wrong I am in the strongest terms possible. Not wishing to leave the Hindus out of the chance to yell at me, I’ll posit this:  It’s equally possible it’s Allah or Ahura Mazda. Now I’m really digging myself into a hole with everyone who subscribes to one of the “Western” religions, right? However, following the logic I’ve outlined above that there can only be ONE Creator, anyone who has lived a life influenced and informed by any religion must accept the possibility that the name and identity we’ve attached to our Supreme Being is incorrect. I hope what I say next will get you to back away from the edge.

That same logic tells me this: the moment we see the face of our Creator, we will look at her/him as if we have known them since before we were born to earth – because we have. Whatever set of dogma, gospel, tenets, etc. we have faithfully followed in our sojourn here on the Big Blue Marble made us better parents, neighbors, co-workers, and fellow servants, and the Creator will know that. There won’t be even a scintilla of a moment of our thinking we messed up and chose the “wrong” religion. The Creator’s smile upon our reunion will override any thoughts in that direction, and we will instantly feel grateful that we DID follow our chosen religion; we’ll present ourselves to the Creator as a flawed but fervently purpose-driven child who tried to be better each day.

Before anyone decides to burn this article (or me) for heresy, sit down and take a few deep breaths. This is not meant to cast doubt on your life plan or your decisions to live by a particular moral code. As I said above, my intention is just the opposite: to encourage you to stand firm in your faith and live a life of good that your religion teaches. Now why would I put it that way when I just tossed out the possibility that billions of us are going to be “wrong”?

It’s quite simple, really: all adherents, acolytes, worshippers, and witnesses, in whatever religion we may be, are taught to be the best versions of ourselves. Every woman and man who truly lives the teachings and precepts of the church they attend is living a good life, one that is worthy to be emulated and looked upon as positively contributing to society.

Ironically, though, what constantly divides and causes us to believe we need to convince everyone else of the “correctness” of our chosen religion is our belief in who the Supreme Being is and what she/he/it expects of us. And if there were multiple “competing” deities governing our souls, we might be justified in this battle of wills. However, regardless of your religion at present, it only makes sense that we earthbound beings – ALL of us – have ONE common Creator. We ARE all brothers and sisters, children of that source. As the world is right now, we act like a highly dysfunctional family who is so off the rails that Joe Rogan would refuse to book us on a show because he couldn’t smoke enough weed to keep his cool.

Every religion has aspects that run the gamut of appearing mildly weird to wildly bizarre to persons who are not members of that religion. I can think of a number of examples with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints that I believe and accept with my whole soul that may cause others to think I’m delusional. I accept that and don’t lose ANY sleep over it – I don’t need to prove the veracity and/or reality of those things. My reason for mentioning this is to encourage everyone to let people believe what they believe – as long as they aren’t taking away your right to believe and live as your conscience dictates, what does it matter?

Even with my upbringing in the LDS Church – our doctrine holds that we ALL come from the same God – admittedly it’s sometimes difficult to wrap my brain around the fact a police officer in Japan, an import/export executive in Uganda, a voodoo priestess in the Caribbean, and I (a sales rep in the US) are related to one another in sharing a common Creator – if for no other reason than our looking SO UNLIKE one another and living in such disparate cultures. And when you tune into a news channel, you see wars being fought and unrest constantly aboil because one religious group contends with another – that makes it hard to think that we all come from the same premortal place. That may be viewed by many as one of those wildly bizarre beliefs I mentioned above, but it is a belief to which I hold strong despite my difficulty to comprehend it fully.

Let me wrap up this second installment with a bit of a recap, if you will: logic dictates that there can really only be one Supreme Being, which means that when an Episcopalian prays to Heavenly Father and a Hindu offers a prayer to Brahma, those requests for aid, comfort, solace, guidance, etc. are being heard and answered by the same deity, whatever the true name may be.  Further, for all of us who live our lives according to a particular set of commandments, principles, ethics, or fundamentals as outlined by our respective religions/belief systems, none of us is wrong in doing so – our obedience and discipline please that Supreme Being.  Let that percolate in your brain box for a little while and see if it has you looking at the people around you a little differently in a good way.  The next installment will come out soon. 

God, Part I

Never discuss politics or religion in mixed company, wisdom suggests. Obviously, politics present a minefield. Religion, similarly dangerous, deals with souls and questions that extend beyond whether it’s acceptable to wear white after Labor Day.

How many different religions and sects are there on the earth right now? Not sure but probably more than ten. Whatever that number is, though, it’s the same number of different answers to the BIG THREE QUESTIONS OF LIFE:

1. Where did we come from?

2. What’s the purpose of life?

3. Where do we go after we die?

In many cases, not only do religions differ in their answers to these questions, they (meaning: we as the persons who populate them) make great efforts to “prove” that the others are wrong – which is a really weird part of the human condition, one which really shouldn’t be present when religion is the topic because of its attempts to elevate us to a higher plane and get us to think more like the deity we worship in our chosen religion.  That said, though, our humanness has a hold on us, so we have to deal with it head on like the relative who always comes drunk to the family party and says things that are hurtful but spot-on true, if we’re being honest. 

For the next little while, humor me, please: let’s say every single religion/sect’s explanations of the BIG THREE are flawlessly correct – there’s no inherent human need to call them into question. Accepting this as my premise, the only way to reconcile that possibility would be to acknowledge that this earth is watched over by innumerable and wholly individual gods, spirits, intelligences, and/or amorphous beings – and we, by our proclamation of faith through a religious rite like baptism, are only subject to the will and oversight of the god, spirit, intelligence, and/or amorphous being to whom we pledge our worship. Sort of like summer camp where each cabin is its own individual group who only has to listen to the counselor assigned to them – and, quite often, some of the cabin members go out of their way to rebel against the counselor or even seek to align themselves with another group. 

On the question of our origins, assuming each religion is correct, I can think of two conditions that would HAVE TO BE accepted as fact: (1) the earth began as a cosmic melting pot of extraterrestrial immigrants, an Ellis Island of the universe, if you will – and possibly points beyond; (2) these supreme beings had a meeting before the world began and came to an agreement on how “humans” would generally appear and function: two eyes that see, a nose that smells, a heart that pumps blood, etc. Obviously, there was a great deal of latitude given as to how people would actually look, which explains different races and attendees at county fairs.

Further, the after-life destination for the different religions: Nirvana, Paradise, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Reincarnation, etc. – one such destination awaits each of us depending on how we followed or didn’t follow the tenets of our particular religion. Assuming that as a given, we HAVE TO accept that there exists some type of a “trading floor” somewhere out in the cosmos for the simple but fundamental reason that while we’re here, many of us change religions from the one in which we were raised to another that addresses our spiritual needs at some later time in life, and possibly a third and fourth time.

John Davidson is born in Detroit, MI, to a Catholic family, and as he grows up, he undergoes the rites and ceremonies associated with his family’s religion – he’s a member in good standing. Fifty years later, he goes through something that causes him to reassess his religious views and decides to join Islam, and he’s all in. Catholic or Muslim, he’s a good man, a good husband, a good father, a good citizen, etc. While not making light of his decision or choices, I promise, I must point out the obvious: he’s traded the Catholic God for Islam’s Allah AND his after-life destination. And from what I’ve learned about those two destinations, they’re not just slightly different like Dallas and Ft. Worth.

Back to my point: this would require that somewhere out at the back of the beyond in space is a trading floor, perhaps tucked behind Pluto. Catholic God’s agent, Trevor, walks over to his equal under the auspices of Allah while pushing along a dolly loaded up with a couple of Bankers Boxes filled with paperwork and says, “John Davidson has decided to align himself with you lot, so here are all of his records and files. From the looks of things, he’s a good egg. Never gave his guardian angel or any of the saints any trouble. The incident involving Saran Wrap on the toilet seat shouldn’t be counted against him; that nun had it coming to her. At any rate, you’ll like him. If you have any questions, I’m available via email, text, or phone. Good to see you, Ahmed. Let’s do lunch soon.”

I’m not being sacrilegious, I’m confident of that; a bit glib, perhaps, but only to underscore this point: accepting ALL religious concepts as correct – that they got it spot on – requires looking at the universe in a VASTLY different and wholistic way. If you’re good with that, you don’t need (or want) to read on.

If you don’t (or won’t) accept that all religions and sects are flawlessly correct in their doctrine, the ONLY alternative is that there is ONLY ONE. There can’t even be two – as we’ve cross-examined the possibility above, more than one would present us with numerous existential and logistical challenges that are insurmountable and frankly impossible. Thus, there can be only ONE divine entity who created EVERY one of us here on earth from the dawn of time through today and up until the end of the earth’s existence.

If you’re not readily inclined to agree with that assertion, that’s okay, but think about this: no matter how SURE any of us is in our belief of where we came from, what is the purpose of this life, and where we go when we die, we’re ALL going to learn the ACTUAL answers AFTER WE DIE: we’ll find out who is the Creator, her/his name, and whether or not this Supreme Being had, in fact, directed that a certain specific religion be established here on earth at her/his behest.

Let that sink in and rattle around in your noggin for a few days – I promise to publish Part II soon, and I'm confident you'll be intrigued . . . or, at least, entertained.  

The Greene Flu: it Hits Once a Year

Let me start with a piece of invaluable information for men everywhere – especially those who are married: you can safely and effectively sleep on a mattress – wait for it – WITHOUT a mattress pad! How, you ask, was I able to convince Erin to spit in the face of generations of slumber-related tradition? Was I smoking something that gave me such courage? Even if I were higher than the combined buzz the crowd feels at a Lollapalooza concert, I would never take that walk on the wild side. Our washing machine broke down in the middle of a cycle with all our bed clothes completely soaked; we had to sleep on our mattress for the night without a pad. That said, you can look at this annual missive in the same way I’ve presented this phenomenon concerning a mattress pad: it’s certainly not necessary, but my wife believes it is.

In the early part of September, when the rest of the country was welcoming the cooler days of the coming fall, we here in Arizona were still sweating like a fat guy on weigh-in day. However, we found cool respite in a hospital room where we got to meet the newest member of the family: Beau Taylor Greene. I believe more photos were taken of Beau in a 20-minute period than we have of both Jack and Sam combined from birth to age 18. He was nonplussed by the whole affair: in almost all of the photos, his eyes are closed, and he’s snoozing. If Beau were keeping a journal, it would probably read: “Day 1: Tired from the move.” (Credit to Steven Wright.) In the three months since he was born, I don’t believe he’s worn the same outfit twice – sort of like Vanna White – and he certainly hasn’t worn the same diaper for more than a few hours, tops. His two furry brothers, Hank and Bruce, went from sleeping in Jack and Kali’s bedroom and having run of the house to being banished to their kennels faster than Bruce can chew and fully digest Hank’s leather collar (and certainly faster than the time it took him to pass it).  Kali continues to influence and mold young minds in the classroom (not to worry, she washes her hands), and Jack has recently gone from a 90-minute commute each way to 20 minutes, as he’s been pulled into the office to become an estimator.  How hard can that job be?  It’s fairly easy to estimate that 100% of buildings humans occupy are going to want/need electricity. 

 

As the clock ticks down to the last days of 2024, Sam finds himself finishing up his second to last semester for his undergrad work.  For those of you who haven’t seen him in a while, let me assure you that he’s still tall – in case you were wondering.  This summer, he came back to Phoenix to complete an internship with a company called Microchip Technology, and I believe the record-breaking temperatures served only to melt any shred of a desire he had left of moving back to Arizona when he graduates.  He’s currently networking with folks to get himself ahead of the hiring curve before next semester ends, so if you hear of anyone who is looking for a tall Computer Engineer who lives on pizza and drives a Honda Odyssey, hit him up – I would imagine he’d be pretty flexible on the Honda Odyssey and even his height if the right opportunity came along, but giving up pizza is probably a deal breaker, just so you know.  

 

Just a few days ago, we were able to get a collar for Phoebe that emits a less-than-dulcet tone and then vibrates when she barks.  So far, it’s worked very well with the barking almost nonexistent, and she’s far less of a crackhead psycho than usual – since she is a Chihuahua/Dachshund (yes, a Chiweinie), she still has her manic episodes of chasing flying insects and birds and running laps around our backyard.  In the northeast corner of our yard is a spot of pea gravel, so it’s fun to watch her make that turn at speed and fishtail like she’s in one of the Fast & Furious movies.  

Both Erin and I have jumped into grandparenthood with both feet and find it quite enjoyable.  I’m curious what names we’ll get when Beau starts talking.  When Jack was a wee one, he called Erin’s mom Framma and Erin’s dad Papa.  Honestly, I’ll take whatever Beau decides to dish out in the name department just as long as he doesn’t follow in Jack’s footsteps and kick my mom in the shins (just as Jack had done to my dad’s mom when she told him he couldn’t get a treat at the grocery store).  That about raps up 2024 for the Greenes.  I hope this year’s ramblings were seen more as an unnecessary thing like a mattress pad and less like a kick in the shins.

God is Not Angry

When Christ appeared to the people living here on the American continent after his death and resurrection, knowing that He would be spending a relatively short period of time with them, He likely chose with meticulous care what He would share with them. During His visits, He chose to repeat the words contained in Isaiah 54 (found in 3 Nephi 22), and whatever His specific reasons were (I will never pretend to think with the mind of God), I am grateful He did. In the seventh and eighth verses, we read:

For a small moment have I forsaken thee; but with great mercies will I gather thee. In a little wrath I hid my face from thee for a moment; but with everlasting kindness will I have mercy on thee, saith the Lord thy Redeemer.

Having been born into a family who were members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I attended Sacrament meeting, Sunday School, Primary, Seminary, and Young Men’s activities regularly - you might even say religiously. Whenever I applied myself and didn’t give in to my adolescent, prepubescent, and teenage tendencies to do anything and everything within my power to divert myself and others around me, I was fortunate to have some wonderful teachers who presented lessons I can still remember these many years later. Among those teachers, of course, were both of my parents who set an unwavering example of dedication to their covenants as disciples of Christ. It would be fair to say I was raised in a home and an environment that seemed like it came right out of a Norman Rockwell painting (or whatever the “Mormon” equivalent of that would be). Before I go on, let me assure you I’m not setting you up for a twist a la “appearances can be deceiving” and lay out a life of criminality and dark shadows. 

While I had more than my fair share of teachers over the years who taught the gospel rather than their personal interpretations of the stories and doctrines we were studying, I developed my own perception of my Heavenly Father through those lessons: a God who saw things in a very black-and-white manner who was just waiting for me to step out of line one too many times so He could smite me. My perception of how I would obtain admittance into “heaven” was equally skewed: everything I did was being written down in a book out of which I would one day be judged in the hopes that I had enough “good” marks to put me over the edge. While I had these views, I did feel that I was loved by my Heavenly Father but in a rather stern manner . . . that I would one day learn to enjoy and respect. 

Fast forward to when I first became a father: over the next almost 30 years, my perceptions and views of Heavenly Father and the life hereafter have significantly changed and have been a profound source of joy and peace for me. To wit, I have come to see God truly as a Father; and being a father myself, I have been fortunate to see life akin to seeing it through His eyes to a degree. Just as I would never be happy being at odds with my sons or considering the prospect that if they don’t do as I say, they won’t be able to live with me for eternity, I have come to believe - and rejoice in doing so - that Our Father does not find satisfaction in distancing Himself from us. 

Jesus’ inclusion of those particular words of Isaiah, to me, are comforting. As He says, “For a small moment have I forsaken thee, but with great mercies will I gather thee,” I am reminded that this is part of God’s Plan of Salvation - His Plan of Happiness for us - that we are to be apart from Him for a relatively short period of time, but we will be showered with mercies while we are alone. Those words DEFINITELY describe a Father who is actively watching over us, not to smite us when we’ve stepped out of line one too many times, but to bless us by providing what we need to face our trials and tribulations here on earth. 

Further, He reads, “In a little wrath I hid my face from thee for a moment.”  With my perception of God altered for the better over the last three decades, I now have trouble picturing Our Father being “mad” at us for being human.  Instead, I see the beauty of this passage: no matter how upsetting our behavior may be, He won’t show us an “angry” face - He doesn’t want to discourage us from repenting - and will shower us with mercies as we try to improve. 

Though I’ve had some reversals in my life, and I’ve experienced my share of challenges, leaving me bruised and perhaps a little scarred, I readily acknowledge that I have not had to face and live what so many others are forced to manage, ranging from wars, famine, drugs, abuse, etc. That said, though, I know what I say is true, not just for me in my relatively soft life but for every single person on this earth - for we are ALL the children of Our Heavenly Father. May each of us seek to know Him and feel His unconditional love that He has for one and all!

 HOLIDAY HASSLE 2023

In January, I started a new job (more on that later), and one of my colleagues asked me how old I was.  Before I could answer, he ventured a guess: 60?  For many of you, this Greene Family holiday missive may feel like it’s been inflicted upon you for that long, and for that I wholeheartedly apologize.

The beginning of this year found Sam starting his Junior year in college.  Fully committed to his major of computer engineering with most of his GE and prereqs out of the way, he continues to work for one of the school’s IT departments.  If that alone doesn’t make him the most attractive and eligible bachelor in the greater Provo/Orem area, he’s ratcheting up his sexiness by employing the family minivan as his mode of transportation.  It’s a 2008 Honda Odyssey that never properly got named when we had it here at home.  We threw around the name Homer, but it didn’t really stick.  So, for all of you single ladies out there, I would imagine Sam would be open to your suggestions. 

Kali and Jack moved into their first house in Mesa in the spring of this year and quickly added to their fold: they got another dog, Bruce, a Blue Healer mix whose energy is matched only by his desire to eat whatever’s on offer, even if it’s his brother Hank’s leather collar.  Kali was asked to be one of the advisors for student government at the school where she teaches (it would be weird if she were asked to advise at a different school), which gives her a little more variety while still teaching Chemistry and Mandarin.  Jack went to work for a different electrical contractor as a project engineer soon after they moved into their new house.  While the new job is giving him a lot of great growth opportunities, he’s being given increased opportunities to tune up his road rage as the project site at which he’s working is on the opposite side of the valley.  When that project wraps up, he’ll be able to move on to another project . . . next door to his current project site. 

On President’s Day, we gave leave to our senses and decided to get another dog: a mix between a Chihuahua and a Dachshund – some call it a ChiWeenie; we call ours a Psycho.  Her name is Phoebe, and among her many talents are peeing on the family room floor while looking you straight in the eye (as if she’s daring you to say something) and barking.  With the latter, whenever given the chance, she makes a beeline to the back fence and starts up a yak fest with the two pugs living behind us.  If I thought she and the pugs were doing something to solve world peace or harness the energy of splitting an atom, I’d give her a free pass, but I suspect it’s just a canine equivalent of gossip and dirty jokes.  (And I’d be okay with the latter if I could understand her.) 

A few months back, Erin switched from one real estate brokerage to another where she’s on a team headed up by the mother of one of the students at the high school where Erin worked in the library.  Funny how life makes connections for you.  When she’s not busy trying to convince a home seller that Barney Purple is NOT a color that MOST people would want to see on their kitchen walls, Erin still teaches a lesson at church with the women’s organization. 

As I mentioned, I started a new job at the first of the year – I returned to work for the company that moved us to Arizona almost 20 years ago: Ranpak.  When I left Ranpak in 2008, I felt like I was still a kid; upon returning in 2023, I’m DEFINITELY not a kid (I refer you to the opening of this message).  Older, grayer, and fatter but still the same guy selling paper-based packaging. 

We hope all is well in your corner of the world, wherever that may be!  When you find yourself (whether it’s because you lost a bet or you’re being punished) coming out to Arizona, drop us a line so we can get together and have you stay with us.  We have an empty nest with only a small dog – we’ve trained her not to pee ON anyone, but you might want to keep your suitcases on a shelf.  God bless!

Greene Family Christmas (An Annual Affliction)

We’re not even halfway through the month of December, and we’ve already been the recipient of enough family Christmas cards to wallpaper a gymnasium.  Obviously, Erin is the one so universally beloved and deserving of these glad tidings and the reason we receive as many as we do.  As I take a gander at these perfectly posed, carefully coiffed, blissfully beatific photos, these questions leap to mind: How many hours and attempts were made to get this one photo?  How much medication was involved and/or needed afterward? Did PhotoShop stock spike a few weeks back?  Rest assured, no PhotoShop will be required for this year’s missive from The Greenes, but I can’t promise that medication won’t be needed after you read it. 

With the world slowly coming out of hiding as 2022 dawned, Sam started his second year at BYU.  In his major, there’s a class that many put off until the last possible minute but is required in order to climb into the upper levels of the program and get serious – Sam decided to bite the bullet early and subject himself to the inevitable torture.  While Sam happily came through alive and kicking, and able to move on to bigger and better things, there were times in that semester I believe he would have preferred undergoing waterboarding to some of the tests and assignments he had to endure.  He’s thrown himself headlong into his major and has joined a club/group (I’m not quire sure what the kids are calling these little organizations these days) with the goal of building an electric car to compete with other groups from other schools.  Sounds to me like he’s on a career path to buy and run a social media giant someday. 

In June of this year – in fact, on the same date as Erin’s parent’s anniversary – we welcomed a new member into the clan: please allow me to introduce you to Kali Stoker Greene, Jack’s better half.  They were married in Las Vegas, but Elvis didn’t officiate at the wedding.  Leading up to the nuptials, whenever I would tell people that Kali and Jack were getting married in Vegas, I would either get a slightly raised eyebrow or a knowing “been there, done that” nod, which would require a brief explanation that Kali is from Las Vegas where most of her family lives.  They were married in the temple for our church and not on the Strip, in case I still hadn’t painted enough of a picture for you.  As of the writing of last year’s Christmas letter, Kali was someone we had met only once, and this meeting was a memorable one: Jack had come home from work that day and made a beeline to his bedroom in the basement.  That wasn’t TOO unusual, but what ensued was two hours of furious cleaning of his bedroom, a thorough scrubbing of the basement bathroom, and the hauling out of at least three bags of garbage.  While we didn’t quite know at the moment what inspired such anomalous behavior, it soon became clear when he announced a “friend” of his named Kali was coming over to visit.  Kali is a Chemistry and Mandarin teacher at one of the local high schools, and Jack has moved from the field as an electrician and into the position of an estimator.  They currently live in a guest house on some rural property surrounded by livestock and other farm animals.  Their dog, Hank, spends his day hanging out with the jackasses – and by that, I mean, the donkeys, while Jack and Kali are off at work. 

On the day after Christmas last year, we had to say goodbye to Lola.  I’m not quite sure where religious doctrine ends and fantasy begins, but I hope we get to see her again someday.  Yes, I’ve become one of those crazy dog people.

With the wackiness of the housing market in full wack, Erin has maneuvered the real estate landscape extremely well and continues to kick butts and take names – and sometimes it’s to sell a house.  She continues to teach at church, and no one has gone to Hell because of it – win win.  As for myself, I was asked to work in an outreach program where we serve the folks in a local detention center who are awaiting trial, awaiting sentencing, or have been detained by ICE and awaiting deportation.  I’m pleased to say that my activities this past year have kept me free to come and go at this detention center 

Enjoy your holiday season with family and friends – whether you need medication or not to do it.  Our doors are always open to you.  Peace on earth and in every life!

Season's Beatings 2021

Recently, we had to keep two dogs locked inside of our home for about nine hours.  While I wasn’t so naïve as to believe that the two canines were going to be content to “hold it” for that entire time, I wasn’t expecting to find our front entryway looking like a subway station from 1989.  Fortunately, we had chosen to appoint our home with flooring that is both more attractive than pockmarked concrete and cleans up far more nicely.  Nevertheless, while a hazmat team wasn’t necessary, it took more than a few minutes to clean up . . . and that may be how you view this year’s holiday letter from the Greenes: a mess you expect to encounter that takes you more time to get through than you would care to devote.  We get it. 

With a new year, Sam began a new chapter in his life: college.  While still in the throes of the pandemic as the year began, his initial college experience was less than ideal.  He didn’t expect anything on the scale of “Animal House,” but he wasn’t quite prepared for “Watching Paint Dry” either.  Nevertheless, he was able to land himself a job right out of the gate that is far better than what Erin (grounds crew where she got a stick with a nail on the end of it to pick up trash) and I (cleaning student apartments once the tenants had moved out and clearly had no expectation of getting a dime of their security deposit back) had back in the day: working for the school’s IT department – so there might be some shades of “Revenge of the Nerds” involved here. 

Remember how I mentioned TWO dogs in the opening of this year’s missive?  No, Lola didn’t get pregnant and give birth to another dog – that would definitely be immaculate conception.  Jack moved back to Arizona from Utah for a better career opportunity (still an electrician and loving it), and he’s been living with us since so he can save money to buy a house . . . and, no, I’m not calling Jack a dog.  With Jack’s arrival came Hank, a lab mix that, I’m sure, finds Erin and me the two most boring people in the world.  All we do all day while Jack’s at work is sit at our computers in the office and talk on the phone.  No fetch, no walks.  To him this place is a tomb – he’d be better off finding a nut house where it’s fun. (If you got that reference, you’re our kind of people!)

It’s not been a good year for Lola, if I’m being honest.  First, she gets her entire life turned upside down with the introduction of Hank into her world – his exuberance to play, run, chase, and smell butts is not shared by Lola.  Then, in early fall, she developed some health problems that are likely to spell the end for her at some point in the not-too-distant future, which is a little hard to accept given the fact she never took up smoking, and alcohol has never been a drink of choice for her.  Be that as it may, we’re just trying to keep her comfortable – and if we ever make a movie about her life, I’m thinking Salma Hayek would be the perfect person to do the voice for Lola.  Let me know if you have a connection.

Back in May, Erin walked away from the school to work full time as a real estate agent.  Some of you might be wondering what it’s like having both of us working from home and sharing the same office.  While I don’t possess sufficient talent to describe this perfect mix of Nirvana and Utopia, suffice it to say the spell is broken for both of us when Lola’s licking gets a little too intense and loud to be ignored – it’s like she insists on an audience. After being the fearless leader of the local women’s organization at church, she’s been able to fade a bit into the background and help out in other ways with her main focus on teaching a lesson once a month.  As for myself, I’ve been asked to work in the local men’s organization at church as the secretary.  My latest focus has been on toning my calf muscles so they look really good when I wear those short skirts. 

With that lovely image, I leave you.  May your holidays be happy and warm – it’ll likely be in the mid 60s here in Arizona when Christmas rolls around!  Our door is always open to you – stop by and stay a while with us.  It’ll give Lola someone new to impress with her licking.