Move Over “Free Tibet” Bumper Stickers, Now There’s the “Facebook Cause”

I remember the first time I saw it. I was on the off-ramp of the North Avenue exit of I-75 Southbound in downtown Atlanta. I was just a boy – a wide-eyed college student returning from an off campus excursion into the heart of the city. As I waited patiently for the traffic signal to change, I saw the bumper sticker that would have a profound impact on the next 2 or 3 minutes of my life. Plastered on the rear bumper of a white, late 80’s Jeep Wrangler was the phrase “Free Tibet”. Instantly, I was thrown into a state of perplexity the likes of which I had never experienced. Sure, I knew where Tibet was. Even knew a thing or 2 about the geography of the country. But the question that spun around in my brain like the spin cycle on a Maytag was this: just exactly what did the Tibetans need freeing from? Had the place been overrun by yaks? Was the abominable snowman real and living in Lhasa, feeding off the unborn children of Buddhist monks? Had the country been invaded by a horde of Nepalese martial artists skilled in the ways of the “purple nurple” demanding that Tibet relinquish all claims on Mt. Everest? All these unpleasant scenarios flashed before me in a nanosecond.

I soon discovered (soon meaning several years later, with the dawning of Wikipedia) the Tibet had actually been occupied for years by the communist Chinese. Yeah… turns out that the Chinese have slaughtered thousands upon thousands of Tibetans over the years, all the while holding the country hostage and disavowing its favored son, the Dalai Lama – who apparently is not a native of the Andes Mountains as I had previously suspected. All joking aside, it’s actually quite tragic what has happened to the poor Tibetans over the last 50 years. I felt as if I should interject something serious into this blog so as not to enrage the Amnesty International crowd. But getting back to my diatribe…

Instantly, I was bombarded with an overwhelming feeling of… well… being overwhelmed. What could I, Ned Wohlers (pseudonym used to hide my true identity from the Chi-Coms), do to free Tibet? Wasn’t I just one man? And yet, the makers of this bumper sticker didn’t seem to care. Somehow they believed I had the power to free those poor people from Chinese occupation. Or else why bother? And just who were ‘they’ anyway? Was I being recruited by the Tibetan Intelligence Agency? Had this seemingly random vehicle been parked at this traffic light for hours, patiently awaiting my return to campus? Could I be the chosen one of whom it had been foretold, “he shall come from the west, mounted upon his trusted CRX, and he shall rid Tibet of tyranny once and for all.” Or had this message been sent out to anyone and everyone with me being the only one willing to at least consider heeding the call? Perhaps the Dalai Lama himself had engineered this modern day ‘message in a bottle’ and somehow, someway, this jeep had travelled far and wide, only to make its way safely, with message intact, to me. Whatever the case, I determined that come hell or high water, I was going to come to the aid of Tibetans everywhere and free the mother land.

It felt good to envision myself as the liberator of a nation. I thought of all the people who had said I would never amount to anything. They’d all be jealous now. Oh sure, some of them would do well for themselves. Some might even make their first million prior to their 30th birthday. But how many of them could say they freed Tibet? I was on top of the world. I was a hero… a legend. I would be immortalized in literature, and songs would proclaim of my greatness for years to come. My greatness index had outranked that of the vast majority of people who had ever lived. In celebration, I reached over a patted myself on the back.

But alas, as Don Quixote demonstrated, one can only fight imaginary battles for so long before losing a grip on insanity. And my temporary madness subsided as the light changed to green and the little white jeep drove away. Immediately, I was transported back to the realm of reality where bumper stickers are just decorations and catchy slogans are just catchy slogans.

These days, you don’t see as many bumper stickers. At some point during the ‘90’s, society collectively decided it was time to stop wallpapering the bumpers of our vehicles with silly, hard-to-remove stickers, opting instead for the easy peel image of Calvin peeing on some object of disdain. However, thanks to the silliness of Facebook causes, we’re still in the business of recruiting windmill freedom fighters.

Facebook allows its users to start and join ‘causes’, simply by clicking a mouse. Such convenience empowers just about anyone the pleasure of becoming an activist without ever really taking any action at all. Just yesterday I joined the cause “Stop Prostitution in Amsterdam”. It made me feel really good about myself… until I realized that my joining will do absolutely nothing to deal with the actual problem. Wouldn’t my time be better spent by getting involved with a group who is on the ground trying to end prostitution in Amsterdam? Maybe I could volunteer some of my time by helping out or raising money or recruiting folks who will actually do something? Instead, I opt for the easy way out, along with 120 million other Facebook users who are just a click away from making a difference.

(On a side note, I ran across a Facebook cause called “Smacking Stupid People in the Face So hard They Might Get Smarter”. Interestingly enough, it has over 750,000 members and has raised $55 to date. Perhaps they’re fighting absurdity with absurdity, but my gut tells me that the founders actually have a desire to beat up on stupid people, which in my book is just below ending prostitution in Amsterdam.)

Whatever happened to activism in America? Where are the fanatics who organize protests and sit-ins? I remember the good ol’ days when women wearing fur coats could expect to be attacked by loonies with cans of red paint. Have we somehow offended the bombers of abortion clinics in such a way as to communicate that they are unwanted and unloved? Why are the tree huggers no longer chaining themselves to trees?

As I contemplate the sorry state of activism in America, I’m reminded of my dear friends, the Tibetans. Someone has to step up to the plate and help these guys out once and for all. I’d start a cause on Facebook, but at this point, I think we all agree that would be pointless. No sir. This time, I’m going old-school. I’m going to one of the retro, vintage 80’s websites, and I’m going to buy me a ‘Free Tibet’ bumper sticker!

A House With No Crown Molding

I live in a house with no crown molding, and that’s a source of embarrassment to me.

I currently own 2 houses, one of which I no longer occupy. Haven’t for almost 2 years, actually. During that time, it’s been either on the market or rented out. And given that it’s smack dab in the middle of one of the worst slumping housing markets in the contiguous 48 states, it’s been severely devalued. So much so, in fact, its market value is less than half the principle balance of the hefty mortgage I assumed when buying it several years ago. It’s a sad state when you can say with a straight face that a brand new Lincoln Town Car has held its value better than my house has over the same period of time. Nevertheless, sadness is reality, and like so many card players that have gone before me, I was dealt a less than desirable hand. And yet, a lousy game of cards is better than sitting on the sidelines critiquing those who had the fortitude to ante up.

So, because of the sorry state of things, I cannot afford to fix up the ‘fixer upper’ that I currently inhabit. As a result, there are a few details that we’ve neglected, such as crown molding, new bathrooms and a renovation for a kitchen that still houses appliances from the ‘Leave it to Beaver’ era. For this, I am often more than a bit ashamed that I’m not able to provide a better life for my beautiful wife and our 3 adorable children.

I didn’t plan it this way. In fact, looking back, there are many things about my life that I didn’t anticipate. When I was a starry eyed twenty two year old with college diploma in hand, I, like most other American dreamers, wanted my piece of the pie – nice Victorian house in the suburbs, 6 figure salary, kids in the best private schools and summer vacations at our beach house in the Florida panhandle. But, somewhere along the way, I was derailed. No… actually… I was sabotaged.

(Here’s where I probably lose about half of my reading audience. Please you 4… don’t stop reading… I promise I won’t whine… this actually is about to take a turn in a very positive direction!)

I wasn’t derailed by downsizing or an unexpected child or even an unorthodoxly stubborn wife, who refused to play that game the way that I wanted to, although I’m sure she’ll admit to being both unorthodox and stubborn, all the while playing no one’s game but her own. Instead, I was sabotaged by a God who would go to great lengths in order to disrupt my life as long as my life is devoid of His very best for me.

I probably couldn’t satisfactorily describe for you the ways in which God has been ‘tinkering’ with me, so I won’t even try. Any argument I could make would likely be met with skepticism by the agnostic, or even the hyper-religious. But I don’t have to explain myself to anyone, and deep down in the places that matter the most, I am confident that God is the One who has, at times, frustrated me in my attempt to fill my life with all the bells and whistles I have so desperately sought. And please don’t hear me wrongly… God is not opposed to bells and whistles. In fact, I honestly believe He created anything and everything we call good, and in a perfect world, we’d have every bell and every whistle our heart desired. But the problem is, we still live on this side of idealism, and many of us (myself included), have a tendency to pursue toys more than we pursue the One who dreamed us up before time began.

As I’ve come to grips with this merciful and beautiful Saboteur, I have begun to realize that this life has an etherial, temporary quality that pales in comparison to the tangible substance of eternity. I am here for just a moment, though I’ll one day linger on the other side. My time here is preparatory. I’m in the King’s schoolhouse, learning the ways of royalty. And the more earnestly and completely I reach for Jesus in the midst of this life, whether it’s a life with or without bells and whistles, the more completely I’ll reign in eternity.

Whoever we are, whatever our story, God has placed us within a certain specific context of history. That context is not for us to choose. It’s His story. But who we are and who we become is up to us. Will we be all that He intended when He first dreamed of us? Will we say yes to Him? Or will we fight to have our way, even when our way isn’t His way? The choice is ours.

I live in a house with no crown molding, but I’ll take Jesus over woodwork any day.

The Happy Traveller

It’s 4 am, and I’m awake. That can only mean one thing. I am going on vacation.

The phenomenon of sleeplessness on the eve a trip has me somewhat perplexed. I mean… I know that it’s nerves of excitement kicking in and all that, but, what sort of logic is my body operating under when it deprives itself of sleep before a big day of travel? Hasn’t it learned by now that I am extremely ornery while i'm 'on the road'? It doesn’t take a genius to understand that grumpiness and sleep deprivation are about as lethal a combination as Sudafed and heavy machinery. So whether it’s because my body is a glutton for punishment or it suffers from a horribly poor capacity to learn from past mistakes, it continues to haunt me on nights like tonight.

I don’t mean to be an irritable trekker. I’m honestly not the kind of bloake that delights in making everyone else around me miserable. It just sort of happens at times, especially when there’s an airport involved. My wife has pointed this flaw out to me repeatedly, and it’s a good thing. It seems it went undiagnosed for 24 years. But thankfully, she came along and revealed the truth that somehow hasn’t quite set me free just yet.

Honestly, I don’t think her assessment is all that accurate. I mean… sure, there have been a couple of times when I may or may not have been slightly edgy about getting to the airport on time. My frugality does seem to be at its worst when I’ve just dropped two grand on a pair of plane tickets, and tight wads like me often get irritated at the thought of parting with their money. And there was that one time, when we flew across the country with 2 year old who refused to go to sleep but instead opted for a three and a half hour long, blood curdling scream at an unprecedented level of volume. That was a little like grinding salt rocks into my already gaping wounds. But aside from a handful of instances, I’ve been pretty amiable while on the road.

The problem is, and I often think this is the root of many evils in my life, I’ve been typecast. I was, as I pointed out earlier, perhaps a bit ill-tempered at times during our first few trips together. Therefore, to her, I will forever be known as the jack ass with suitcase in hand. My niceness goes unnoticed, because she chooses to focus on all the horribly insensitive and abrasive things I say and do. Sure, there are plenty to go around… but why make them the focal point. After all, the law of attraction dictates that we will get the things that we focus on. In light of this untested and unproven theory, I could blame her for the occasional slip up… though such a thing would never occur to me.

Why not praise me every time I say something nice or do something that’s not malicious? After all, when my dog pees outside, I praise the heck out of her. I guess I could remind her that the moral victory obtained from relieving herself in the correct place will, in time, prove to be short-lived. I could, if I was that kind of person, chastise her daily and remind her that, in spite of a handful of successes, she’s caused me to clean up more dog excrement than I care to see in my lifetime, let alone touch. But I don’t do that, because somewhere, deep inside of me, I see the good in people (and apparently dogs). And I want to thrust my hand deep into the souls of those in which that goodness rests, and yank it out with all the benevolent force that I could possibly muster.

Regardless… I vow to make today different. Today I will be as nice as I possibly can. Today I choose to be as patient as Job, who, incidentally, griped at the drop of a hat, but no one ever called him a grumpy traveler. Today I will be as nice as… what th… doesn’t she hear that alarm going off? Is she going to sleep the morning away while our plane leaves without us? Hang on… I’ve got to go thrust my benevolent hand under the covers and pull my wife out of bed… %$#@!

Welcome Back Mr. Kotter

My wife is turning me into a hippie, and this is my cry for help.

It all started last November, when she made a rather bold announcement. “I’m no longer cutting your hair…” she boasted, then paused for dramatic effect. And with a look of derisive self-assurance, she concluded her thought, “…until I get good and ready.” She went on to explain that she was fed up with the same old haircut that I’ve been sporting for the past 11 years. Technically, I’ve had this ‘do since the Reagan years, but I didn’t feel that was a correction worth making at the time. Instead, I retreated into the deep recesses of my mind, in a little place I call my ‘inner war room’, where I began devising a strategy with which to combat this new evil that had just befallen me.

Now I know what you’re thinking. I could just go out and pay a professional to do the job for me. But my shrewd wife knows that I’m too stubborn to fold so easily. (Not to mention cheap.) No sir, this is a battle of wills – mine against hers. And while she’s out to convert me into one of those Hollywood pretty boys with their flowing hair and their manicured nails, I’m playing my hand in typical passive aggressive fashion as I grab the reigns of this hair-growth stagecoach and steer it into the bowels of the forgotten era of the 1970s. If it’s hair she wants, then by God I’ll give it to her… in spades. I’ll make her eat her words and loath the day she suggested a new ‘do for me. I’ll dig up the styles of the Disco days and prove to her that short hair is where it's at.

If you haven’t already guessed, hair is my Achilles’ heel, much as it was for Samson. Only, his deal was that his could never be cut. Mine, on the other hand, has to be trimmed religiously every other week, like a well manicured lawn. When Samson’s hair was finally hacked off, he became physically weak and was thrown into prison. When my hair goes untrimmed, my contagiously sunny disposition becomes eclipsed by a sadness that cannot be expressed in words, while those who've come to depend on my humor are imprisoned in the truest sense of the word. Ultimately, it was a woman who undid poor Samson, and now there's one nipping at my heels.

I am 64 days into ‘battle hair’, and while the urge to throw in the towel and solicit the help of a barber is stronger than when my journey began, I’m confident that I can morph my mane into the great white afro of Gabe Kaplan, if I can just stay the course.

Yet, like Rome, the ‘Mr. Kotter look’ can’t be built in a day. These things take time. That’s why my plan includes a 5 phase implementation process. Stage 1 – the Einstein: not much explanation needed here – long hair with no place in particular to go. Stage 2 - the Patrick Swayze: a little less harried with a distinct wave now noticeable (see also ‘the Danny Bonaduce’). Stage 3 – the Billy Ray Cyrus: also known as ‘the mullet’, ‘hockey hair’ and ‘business up front and a party in the back’. Stage 4 – the Willie Nelson: braiding is now necessary to avoid looking like that goof ball tenor from the Oak Ridge Boys. Stage 5 – the Gabe Kaplan (we also would have accepted ‘the Epstein’): to perfect this look, I’ll rely on lots of hairspray and a ‘fro pick. When I’m done, I’ll be oozing with sex appeal.

Of course, this plan of mine just might backfire. I could actually start a new retro-hair fad, and then we'd all be in trouble.

Rub A Dub Dub, Six Men in a Tub

Last fall, I discovered banya – the Russian sauna. I was in a tiny village about 5 hours north of the city of Perm. It was late September, and the first snow of the season had already fallen and still covered the ground. I was in Russia on a mission’s trip, and the group I was with had just made the lengthy trek to this little village. Our accommodations were somewhat Spartan. There was no central heat, and there were no beds for any of us, nor was there a shower. I didn’t complain. I’ve spent quite a bit of time in missions, and so I’ve learned to be grateful for what I have in such circumstances. After eating a hearty dinner, I was told that the men would all go out to the sauna for a bath.

The idea didn’t exactly excite me. It’s not that I have a problem with corporate nudity. I don’t. After all, I was an athlete in high school. So I know what it’s like to de-robe and shower off in the presence of other guys. And while it may have been awkward after 6^th grade gym class, by the time my senior year rolled around, it was as normal as breathing. But this was different. This wasn’t a quick rinse and reach for the towel kind of bath. This was a sauna… in a tiny little outhouse of a building. The 6 of us were going in there… naked. And there we would stew for hours, knee-deep in our own nudity. Filling out my tax return sounded like a better option to me.

I remember a Seinfeld episode in which Jerry dated a woman who insisted on going nude while in his apartment. While he first liked the idea, he quickly discovered that not all nudity is good. Jerry coined the phrase ‘bad naked’ when he described such activities as coughing, crouching or straining to open a jar of pickles. And as the 6 of us marched off to the little shanty of a banya out behind our house, I remember thinking to myself, ‘this is definitely going to be bad naked’.

But something happened as I sat there in that steamy little shack. I actually enjoyed the experience, despite the nudity.

Now, for those of you who are not wise in the ways of the sauna, let me explain what goes on. You don’t really do anything. You just sit there. It’s about 120 to 125 degrees, and every now and then, someone throws a mixture of water and eucalyptus oil onto super-heated rocks. As the water hits the rocks, it instantly turns to vapor, which is trapped in the room. The steamy moisture just seems to wrap around you like a wet blanket, causing you to sweat, which is quite good for you. On top of the sweating, the aromatic eucalyptus causes your sinus cavities to dilate until they’re the size of small melons. The sweating and the aromas and the heat all combine to bring about a euphoric sense of relaxation. And just when the heat gets to be a bit too much, you rinse off with very cold water, which carries all the subtlety of a swift kick to the groin. Despite its severity, however, it is extremely rejuvenating. Conceivably, you could stay in the banya for an hour or so, constantly alternating between hot and cold.

By the end of the night, I was completely and utterly relaxed. For a brief shining moment, I was able to relate to Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. I was naked, and so were the other 5 who occupied the tiny building. But nudity was the furthest thing from our minds. Oh sure, there were awkward moments. Like when I returned to the sauna from a cold rinse only to find that my seat was taken by someone else. I sat down elsewhere only to find that elsewhere was covered in a puddle of someone else’s bodily juices. There’s no telling what manner of infestation might have been passed from person to person that night. But one sniff of the eucalyptus oil, and all was well.

My parents, who are alternative health nuts, have an infrared sauna at their house. Upon my return to the states, I became a regular visitor to this Americanized banya. A couple weeks ago, they were shocked to discover that I had been using their sauna in my birthday suit. But thanks to banya, I’m now more comfortable with my nudity than I’ve ever been.

In Memory of the Darrell Porter

In 1982, the St. Louis Cardinals defeated the Milwaukee Brewers in game 7 of the World Series. I remember this well, as the Cards had humiliated my Atlanta Braves in the NLCS to make it into the Fall Classi. I was pulling for the redbirds despite the fact that most of my friends wanted the Brewers to extract revenge on the team that had beaten our beloved Braves. The reasoning behind my newfound loyalty was simple: getting beat by the World Champs is much more palatable than losing to the runners up (see Genius blog below). So I watched each game with great interest.

In the 8th inning of the final game, the Cards, who had put on quite an offensive display throughout the series, asked their ace reliever, Bruce Sutter, to preserve their 6-3 lead. He did just that, punctuating the victory with the strikeout of Brewers’ outfielder Gorman Thomas to end the game. What happened next will forever be etched into the fabric of my impressionable young mind. Cardinals’ catcher, Darrell Porter, who incidentally was the series MVP, tore off his mask and sprinted towards Sutter. When he was a few feet away from the ace, he did something I had never seen a dude do to another dude. He jumped off of the ground and into the arms of Sutter, where the 2 shared the kind of man on man embrace that is only acceptable in the world of sports and San Francisco’s Castro district. There was nothing sexual about the hug, mind you. It was 2 guys who suddenly found themselves at the pinnacle of success in their chosen careers. In such situations, what can be more natural than a hug… even if the recipient is “not your type”? Even as a kid, I recognized the asexual beauty of the moment.

Ever since then, I’ve wanted to Darrell Porter someone. I, too, want to know what it’s like to ride the kind of emotional wave that would result in such a shame-free, yet otherwise awkward embrace. Sadly, the years have passed, and I’ve never been afforded the right opportunity.

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you’ll recollect that I recently decided that life was too precious… too fleeting… for me to leave anything undone. I have adopted a “carpe diem” approach to living, and I’ve begun to take the initiative in fulfilling a laundry list of “to do’s”. The top item on today’s list – the Darrell Porter.

It was lunch time. I had just come home from work to enjoy some light refreshments and a visit with my wife and youngest daughter. It happened in the kitchen. I was snacking on something when I turned to find my wife walking towards me in a loving way. I leapt, only to rethink things in mid-air. The sheer weight of my 195 lb body would cause her delicate frame to snap in two. I tried to stop, but it was too late. I salvaged the situation as best as I could, given the complexity of the moment. I planted one foot safely on the ground, while half Portering my wife with the other leg. I landed awkwardly on the ground leg. When I did, I was thrown off balance. My Porter leg smacked my two year old daughter right on the forehead. As Doc Marten met flesh, my baby girl let out a howl that could be heard in neighboring counties. Her only crime was standing too close to a fool. For that, she paid dearly.

What began as a dream ended as a nightmare. My wife, who half expects this type of behavior from me at this point, just rolled her eyes. Unaware of the story behind my actions, she picked up our daughter and whisked her off to a safe place. I, on the other hand, was left to stew in a new type of humiliation.

The Darrell Porter is a tricky celebratory hug. And while I’ve not yet mastered it’s technique, I’m experienced enough to know that it’s probably best left to professional athletes.

Hello Anger, My Old Friend

Through the years, I’ve done some pretty boneheaded things. Like the time I drove my brother’s new scooter into the side of my Dad’s truck. At 12, I was relatively new to driving motorized, two-wheeled vehicles, and on my first go ‘round, I wasn’t 100% confident in my ability to distinguish between throttle and brake, both of which were conveniently located on the right handlebar. Looking back, I probably should have solidified that in my mind before assuming the reigns. But I didn’t. So, as I sped towards the side of the parked truck, I reached for the brake, but instead choked down on the throttle. The little red Toyota never saw what hit it. In a flash, I had lodged the scooter securely into the truck’s rear quarter panel, ripping it in two. That was boneheaded.


But of all my ridiculously dumb moves, the worst, by a country mile, are the ones committed while under the influence of anger. I once was conscripted by the Mrs. into attaching sun screens to our windows in our Arizona home. Her desire, which I have to admit was a noble one, was to provide us with the means to save on our electric bill. However, her timing couldn’t have been worse. It was the middle of a Arizonan summer’s afternoon. It was hot. Hellish hot. On top of that, it was Sunday – or as I like to call it – nap day. I would have gladly done it after my nap… after it had cooled down a bit. But that wasn’t good enough, and she let me know it. So I relented, but I did so under the influence of anger.


A funny thing happens when you’re angry – you lose all ability to think rationally. Such was the case with me, anyways. In my rush to get the screens up, I made several costly mistakes. Mistake #1- I measured incorrectly. You see, the windows ended up being about a half inch wider and a half inch longer than the hastily made screens. But I was not about to make my mistake the focal point of the afternoon. No way, in pig-headed determination, I pressed on, thinking I could somehow screw the screen into the window frame at an angle and miss the glazing entirely. Which leads us to mistake #2 – I tried to correct a previous mistake with another one. As I drilled through the frame of the screen, I heard distinct pop. It wasn’t a pleasant sounding pop, such as the sound of pop corn or rice kispies. This was an ominous sounding pop, like the sound of a blood vessel exploding in one’s head. I rushed inside to assess the damage from another angle. From the outside, it looked as if the window was in 7 different pieces. Hopefully , it would look better from the inside. As I walked into our bedroom, I found my wife lying on our bed. I was furious. I couldn’t take my anger out on her – I hadn’t hit her once in the 7 years we had been married, and I wasn’t about to start today. Instead, I quickly rushed to mistake #3 – I tried to kick one of my son’s toys, which was lying innocently on the floor of my bedroom. Notice the word ‘tried’. In my state of anger, I completely missed the toy. As I whiffed on the toy, I heard another pop. This, too, was not a pleasant pop. This one came from my knee as I hyper-extended it by about 90 degrees. I walked with a limp for days, and sometimes, when it’s really cold, I can still feel the pain in my knee.


Last night, my old friend anger dropped in at the worst possible moment. We were in bed. I was exhausted. I came very close to falling asleep. Then Heather tossed. Now, I must clarify something here. My wife does nothing half-way. It’s all or nothing, even when she’s tossing and turning in the bed. As she inexplicably levitated off the bed, rolled over in mid-air and then allowed her body to come crashing down on the mattress with a loud THUD, I was awakened. “No matter,” I thought to myself. “I’ll just drift off again.” A few minutes later, it happened again. Then again. Then again. I finally lost count of just how many times we replayed this dreadful scene, but with each deafening thud, I got a little bit angrier. I politely asked Heather to stop moving, but it turns out, she was asleep the entire time. So after an hour and a half of angry frustration, I got up out of bed and headed into the den to sleep on my loveseat-sized couch. As I made my way through the hall in the darkness, I heard another pop. Like so many that have gone before, this was not a pleasant sounding pop. This was the pop of my ring toe smacking against the tire of my daughter's tricycle which, for some unknown reason, we keep in the house. I bit my tongue as the pain shot through my foot, up my leg and rattled around in my head. But like that sunny day in Arizona a few years before, I was too proud to stop and see about my wound. No sir, I went straight to the couch and slept like a baby – literally… I had to, because I’m in the fetal position, I won’t fit on our couch. I woke up the next morning, to the sight of a battered toe. Thinking I had just jammed it real good, I decided to give it a good yank, so as to pop it back into place (there’s that word again). This was mistake #2. The throbbing finally quit around lunch time.


I’ve heard you can tell a lot about a man by the company he keeps. Those of us who keep company with Anger… often walk with a limp.