Whoever “they” are, they finally did it.
They figured out how to make the days between Halloween and New Year’s one long, seamless spending and shopping season without the interference of that bothersome little holiday known as Thanksgiving. How? By ignoring it. Specifically, what was previously a mostly un-marketable holiday, distinctive for its lack of commerce as much as for its focus on family, food and faith – is fast becoming a mere launching pad for the mass-hysteria buying spree that has become the Christmas ... whoops, I mean “holiday” season.
The past couple of weeks, more than ever before, I’ve sensed that the Thanksgiving holiday is officially less of a celebration of thankfulness and gratitude and more of a kick-off for the mother of all spending sprees. With so many stores now open on Thanksgiving night this year, it won’t be long until some cash-craving corporate cretins decide that they need to go that extra mile and open all day Thanksgiving to get the edge on the competition. It’s coming, I have no doubt. And their excuse will be – as it was repeated ad nauseum last week – “we’re only doing what our customers have asked us to do.”
How very big of you. And how long until Christmas day itself gets the same treatment?
I feel a sense of sadness and loss watching news reports of beefed up in-store security and police patrols being dispatched to handle unruly crowds of holiday shoppers across the country. Granted, there didn’t seem to be as many reports of fights and mini riots at the nation’s malls and big box stores this past weekend – at least I don’t think any shoppers or store personnel were trampled to death or sprayed with mace as has happened in recent years. And all this for a deal on flat screen TVs, game consoles and mountains of meaningless merchandise to add to the stuff of contemporary life.
In case the original meaning of the terms has been lost in all the media hype, “Black Friday” was so-named because, long ago in the pre-internet days of yesteryear, many retailers relied on the shopping days between the Friday after Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve to make a significant portion of their annual total sales, thus, taking them into the profitable “black” on their balance sheets. On the other side of the weekend, the “Cyber Monday” moniker also comes from the days of yore (the name was first used in 2005) when the early adopters who were comfortable with the concept of buying online would start shopping in earnest from their employers’ workplaces on the Monday after the Thanksgiving holiday. At work, people had access to high-speed internet connections which made online shopping faster and more reliable than doing it at home over a (typical for the time) dial-up modem. Those days are long gone with a majority of people now able to shop online anytime from anywhere as long as they have their smart phone, iPad or laptop at hand. Yet the Cyber Monday name and phenomenon are stronger than ever.
We had the joy of spending Thanksgiving afternoon and evening with some wonderful friends of ours who live a few hours north of us in Lompoc, CA. (Many tryptophan-laced thanks to the always amazing Radabaugh clan!) On our way back down Hwy 101 later that night, we passed a huge Target store somewhere north of Woodland Hills. It was almost 11 pm and the store’s parking lot was filled to capacity with cars. I just don’t get it.
By the way, sandwiched between Black Friday and Cyber Monday was the slightly more laudable Small Business Saturday. Sure, why not. As was finishing this column, I heard a radio reporter call last Thursday “Gray Thursday.” Has a nice, cheery ring to it, right?
Here’s an idea; as long as we’re renaming the holiday formerly known as Thanksgiving, why not just call it Thankless Thursday? I’ll see you ‘round town.
I’ve heard it said that, “The key to happiness is forged from gratitude.” Okay … so, I actually made that one up. But the philosophy behind it comes from years of profound counsel from wise folks like nationally syndicated talk show host (and fellow Crescenta Valley resident), Dennis Prager, who says; “All happy people are grateful. Ungrateful people cannot be happy. We tend to think that being unhappy leads people to complain, but it’s truer to say that complaining leads to people becoming unhappy.”
I also love a quote from G.K. Chesterton: “You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in the ink.”
It is in this spirit, and with your indulgence, that I would like to give thanks for but a few of my many, many blessings (wife, kids, health, home, country and community, included, of course).
I’m thankful for pumpkins and the lengthy menu of fabulous foods that can be made from the goopy, gloppy stuff. At the top of my favorites list is pumpkin pie. After that is ice cream, lattes, muffins, bread, scones and cookies. I’ve heard you can also make pumpkin butter, pudding, yogurt, smoothies, curried pumpkin (huh?) and even something called low-carb pumpkin and sausage soup. Might have to pass on that last one, though.
I’m thankful for college students who come home during breaks in the school year and leave a trail of hurricane-like flotsam and jetsam in every room of the house merely by walking through it. The amount of debris and dirty clothes and half-finished mugs of long-cold coffee and chargers and cables and key fobs that magically appear out of thin air is astounding. And I wouldn’t trade it for all the pristine, Martha-Stewart-like antiseptically clean, neat and sterile rooms in the world. Like I always say, nothing says “home” like clutter. My wife sticks her fingers in both ears and yells, “La-la-la-la-la!” when I say it, but I say it nonetheless.
I’m thankful for the outstanding servers at our many local restaurants. The legendary Lalo at Joselito’s in nearby Montrose, CA, for example, never fails to amaze my wife and me. We can go for months without dining there, and he will not only remember our favorite dishes (no onions in your enchilada, right?), he even teases us about how the restaurant has a surplus of bacon cheeseburgers because one of our sons has been away at college for the past few years. There’s a lot to be said for small-town living.
I’m thankful my formative years took place during the heyday of Hostess Brands. I can envision a time in the not-too-distant future with grandkids at my feet as I sit in rocker and reminisce to their enthralled, upturned faces about the once-common joys of Ding Dongs, Twinkies, Ho Hos and Zingers. A pox on your houses, Bakers & Teamsters unions!
I’m thankful that as of tomorrow I can once again go out to my backyard and unlock the shipping container filled with Christmas music CDs that has been hermetically sealed since last New Year’s Eve. It is indeed, the most musically wonderful time of the year.
Finally, and most importantly, I’m thankful for God’s unceasing grace, His undeserved forgiveness and His unsurpassed gift of eternal redemption made freely available to all who ask in His son's name.
To come full circle, I’ll wrap up with a final thought from Catholic Benedictine monk and interfaith teacher, Brother David Steindl-Rast: “In daily life we must see that it is not happiness that makes us grateful, but gratefulness that makes us happy.”
With that, I wish you and those you love a happy and thanks-filled holiday. I’ll see you ‘round town.
When this column was published in yesterday's edition of the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper, it was one day short of exactly five months since we said goodbye to our remaining family dog. Not that I’m acutely, achingly, painfully aware of the exact day that old guy left us, or anything like that. You may remember, he was a goofy, ridiculously pampered, joyfully loving Yellow Lab named Darby.
As I’ve written before (probably too often for some readers), I’m a dog person from muzzle to tail. I’m not losing my hair, I’m shedding. If I’m not feeling well, my wife has been known to feel my nose to see if it’s cold and wet or dry and warm. I have pants and coats hanging in my closet even now that I would bet have dog biscuits in them. I find it remarkable but not surprising that my wife and I have spent more money in vet bills over the past twenty-or-so years than we have on medical treatment for our own four human kids. (Thankfully, our kids have been blessedly healthy!) We have spent countless nights clinging to the edge of our queen-sized bed because our dog(s) were sacked out and snoring smack dab in the center of it and we didn’t want to disturb their slumber. Yes, dogs tend to live a mighty cushy life at our home.
That said, I’m amazed that our house has been sans-dog for these past five long and lonely months. While my wife, bless her heart, enjoys the dramatically less frequent use of our vacuum cleaner, along with not tripping over a dog or two every time she opens the refrigerator or pantry door (not to mention much more available real estate in our bed every night!), I have been not-so-patiently waiting to begin the process of finding the next dog(s) to welcome into our family. You might even say I’ve been panting to get started. (Seriously, how could I NOT have just written that?)
And so, for several weeks now we’ve been in the process of browsing animal shelter web sites, visiting the shelter in person, and emailing or calling dog breeders about available puppies or upcoming litters.
Now, I can already hear the outrage and gnashing of teeth from well-meaning animal activists screaming, “Don’t shop, adopt!” and other less-printable comments in my direction. Believe me; our hope is to find a young dog of the Lab persuasion (or Labradoodle, Golden Retriever, Italian Waterdog or some Heinz 57-like combination thereof) that needs a dog-loving home and doting, overly permissive adoptive parents. But, from our experience so far, the reality of the “adoption” process today is not an easy one. In our limited experience to date, unless you want a dog who had either Pitt Bull or Chihuahua parents (or both, somehow and incredibly!), you’re out of luck. Any and all larger dogs in the retriever family simply won’t be going home to your family. As the very nice woman at the Pasadena Humane Society told us, “Oh no, the waiting list for any lab is full almost immediately after they arrive at our shelter.” Bummer.
At the risk of offending fans of the breed, let’s just say I’m not the Pitt Bull type. And as for Chihuahuas? Well, we have an old, geriatric, exceedingly cranky and belligerent house cat that not only would eat a pocket puppy’s dinner, it would probably eat the dog itself. She is one mean, mutha of a cat.
And so we continue our search. I’ve got a bucket of chew toys, coat pockets full of biscuits, a nicely re-grown lawn in our backyard, and an ultra-cushy, super-plush, extra-large dog bed all ready and waiting for whatever lucky dog(s) is out there waiting for us to find him and/or her. Not that I have any delusions that any dog of ours will actually sleep on its own bed.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
This column was written and due to my publisher on Election Day, so I didn’t know which side of the American populace would be celebrating when it was published and which would be packing suitcases to leave for more civilized shores.
Whatever the outcome, and with such weighty matters finally behind us, I figured it would be as good a time as any to discuss something completely different and discuss, what else, but … fly swatters.
If a national election isn’t enough proof that we live in an amazing country, try searching for fly swatters the next time you’re on Amazon.com. You’ll get 1,052 results. I kid you not. You can choose from at least 74 different brands, a myriad of types and multiple sizes of the lethal gadgets. Even better, if you’re an Amazon Prime member, you can have your fly swatter of choice in only two days with free shipping. Is this a great country, or what?
According to fly swatter lore, the first fly-flattening device (other than a rolled up newspaper) was invented in 1900 in Decatur, Illinois. Common sense would suggest that there are as many flies in Decatur today as there were then, in spite of the fact that we can now buy plastic fly swatters, wire mesh swatters, electronic zappers, swatters shaped like a golf club or a tennis racket, telescoping fly swatters, a fly swatter with molded finger grips on the handle. You can go retro and order an Amish-made leather fly swatter, or more high tech with the Koolatron Biteshield RZ02 Electronic Racket Zapper model.
While searching Amazon, it took extreme willpower not to add to my shopping cart the Martin Paul 100-75 Flyshooter Original Bug Gun with attached lanyard for retrieving the flying disc of death. Be still my heart. Other models that caught my eye included “The Executioner,” “CatchMaster,” “Zapper Swatter Killer,” “InsectAside” and of course, the “Bug -a-nator 2” – which I can only assume is an improvement over the original Bug-a-nator.
I saw models with the classic simplicity of the Willert Home Products Model R38 all the way to novelty of a talking fly swatter. (Why make a fly swatter that talks, you ask? Because this is America, pilgrim. Duh.) I have to wonder what the thing says, however. If you score a direct hit and smoosh the bug all over the kitchen counter, maybe it shouts, “that was for the egg-salad sandwich you ruined, bucko!” Or if you miss entirely, does it sneer, “I’ll be back”?
After spending at least 30 minutes reading user reviews of the various fly swatters, it dawned on me that – for crying out loud – those are 30 minutes of my life I’ll never get back. As if it’s important what others think of different models of fly swatters. Besides, who in the world would take the time necessary to actually write a review of a fly swatter, anyway? We live in interesting times. I refuse to look, but I have no doubt that there’s a Facebook page for fly swatter aficionados or that right now somebody is tweeting about the latest and greatest tool to splatter Musca domestica with great malice aforethought.
Speaking of which, I recently read a fascinating article in the Wall Street Journal about a guy who has invented “the better fly swatter.” It’s a $30 shotgun-like device designed to blast a pinch of common table salt from a few feet away at flies, spiders and small pests of all kinds. Apparently, it has a satisfyingly lethal effect on a fly, but leaves almost no trace of the salt ammo wherever you happen to shoot it. It’s inventor calls the invention the “Bug-a-Salt.” Get it? Believe me, as soon as that bad boy becomes available on Amazon.com, it’s going in my shopping cart.
Now, wasn’t this more fun than reading yet another post-election analysis?
I’ll see you ‘round town.
Next Tuesday those of us who vote will have our quadrennial opportunity to help determine the course of the country for at least the next four years. To quote a new President Obama shortly after his inauguration and explaining his refusal to extend a cooperative legislative hand to the Republicans on Capitol Hill, “Elections have consequences.”
Indeed. With that colossal understatement in mind, and with next week’s crucial election upon us, herewith some thoughts on the occasion.
Once again, there are several California propositions on the ballot that supposedly benefit “schools”, “education” or that Holy grail of all emotional appeals, “Our kids.” One or two props even pretend that money that will actually trickle down to the classroom itself. Sure it will. Just once, I’d like to see all the groups (are you listening, teachers’ unions?) who spend untold millions of dollars to support higher taxes “for our children” be forced to spend all those advertising and political contributions on – wait for it – education! If more money for schools would actually make the difference, and if you really and truly have our kids’ best interests at heart – by all means – go ahead and give that money you dump into political campaigns and TV ads directly to the schools. It’ll never happen.
Speaking of schools, I cringe each time I see the pro-Prop 30 commercial with the voiceover that says something about “keeping the money out of the hands of Sacramento politicians …” And yet, the very next mug you see is the top Sacramento politician himself, the very man who has championed this latest “temporary” tax hike on Californians, Governor Jerry Moonbeam Brown, urging us to vote for his latest ploy. It’s akin to asking a chicken to vote for Colonel Sanders.
I find it deliciously ironic that President Obama had to show a picture ID when he became the first President ever to participate in “early voting” on October 25. Was asking for hi ID racist? Did it suppress his vote? And by the way, why bother at all with an “election day” if you can vote weeks in advance? Why not have election month. Or election year. This push for early voting stinks of Chicago politics on a grand scale. I wonder how many early voters will wish they could change their vote as the quickly developing Benghazi Libya ineptitude and cover up is exposed to the light of day?
I’m grateful this isn’t Ohio. Whenever we’re up in Mammoth Lakes during an election, the frequency and fury of political ads broadcast from nearby Nevada is just plain numbing – easily triple the number we see in California. I can only imagine what those poor souls in the notorious “battleground” state of Ohio are living through this year. Owning a TV station in Ohio must be like owning a Saudi oil field – a gusher profits.
I’ve never seen our country so divided by the political left and right, radical cultural agendas and shamefully blatant race baiting. It’s no wonder that polls are showing there to be hundreds of thousands of Americans who voted four years ago for “hope and change” and who now are simply hoping for change.
Finally, I’ll wrap up with two more quotes from President Obama. He spoke the first on February 1, 2009. “If I don’t have this [turning the economy around] done in three years, then there’s going to be a one-term proposition.” The second, said often during these last weeks of the campaign, “People, you know that I say what I mean and I mean what I say.” Please God, may it be so.
For better or worse (and in more ways than one), it will all be over in less than a week. I’ll see you in the voting booth.
