Another Casual Observer

Fight On!

2010-10-08T08:55:00.001-04:00

The strength you gain through hardships endured provides a vision that enables you to accurately analyze and weigh the thoughts, recommendations, and acts of even experienced professionals and would be guides. From that evolves a rock-solid commitment to manage your destiny.

Never underestimate your power. Wield it with the confidence and self-assurance that goes hand-in-hand with that commitment.

Your active role in the decision-making process, the extensive research that you have conducted, the enormous network you have cultivated, are all part of a divine plan to see you through the most challenging ordeal.

We were never meant to "Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence…," as espoused by Max Ehrmann in Desiderata. Where is the growth in such a perspective? You are battling powerful forces that are kept at bay only by your diligence.

As Algernon Sydney simply put it, "God helps those who help themselves." Let there be no doubt about His appreciation for your efforts. The reward is the incredible bond of love that will be yours forever.

Integrity in government

2010-10-01T08:50:00.001-04:00

CNN's Jack Cafferty on openness in government

Being a little low on the political totem pole, Cafferty's message took nearly nine months to reach me. It's message is just as chilling today.

Time spent pointing fingers is time wasted. The effort (focus, if you will) has to be upon finding a way out of this situation. There should be a way to hold politicians accountable, short-term - less than impeachment. If you lie, if you fail to fulfill promises you have made, then there should be a penalty.

Under our current system, the only true recourse is impeachment. Those who serve as jury in an impeachment process are part of the same group as the person being impeached. Would you select gang members for a jury in the trial of a gang leader?

Perhaps establishment of a national scoreboard would work. It could be publicly posted and provide a record of shortcomings/failures by category. An elected official starts off with a value of 100. There would be no positive points for work well done, since that is expected and also the reason the individual was elected. Points would be subtracted for:

shortcomings: 1
misrepresentations: 2
failures: 3
lies: 5

Scoring could be done by a panel representing a cross-section of our population.

The score would be a tool to compare performance of politicians. It would also elevate public dialogue, enable more knowledgeable decisions at the polls, and when necessary, expedite the impeachment process.

God Has Retired - Replaced at the center of the universe by Kevin

2010-09-20T09:37:00.003-04:00

Just ask him. Kevin is easy to recognize. He rides a Trek Madone 6.5, a Carrera Blue OCLV2 bike that retails for $4,929.99. It is the bicycle equivalent of a Ferrari. Kevin believes that as an exalted (in his own mind) human being, he has the right to blast by slower moving cyclists without warning and as close as possible. You see, Kevin does so while testing his anaerobic threshold. Therefore, his behavior is totally within reason.

That rationale is equivalent to the driver of the aforementioned Ferrari driving down the road at Mach 3, and endangering the lives of countless others, because he doesn’t want to miss the Blue Light Special at K-Mart.

Let’s set the stage for this revelation: Coastal Highway A1A is a delightful stretch of road between Jupiter (FL) Inlet and Juno Beach. For most of this length, it sits high upon the protective dune that follows the Atlantic Coastline. Approximately 5 years ago, at considerable expense, A1A was converted from a shouldered, sand-clogged, overused lane into a park like setting replete with curbs, bike lanes, marked crosswalks, shrubs and palm trees. It is a thing of beauty with great views of the ocean. Sadly, the road is now overloaded with cyclists in groups of 1 to 30 or more, inline skaters, joggers, strollers with baby carriages, and cars. Weekends are particularly heinous.

The cyclists ride with a chip on their shoulder. After all, it’s a bike lane, not a roller-blader/jogger/stroller lane. Right? The others are offended by the cyclists’ attitudes. The air is filled with a tension that is almost visible. Incidents of road rage (cyclist style) are not uncommon.

Cycling and running decorum teaches us that a cyclist/runner, while approaching a slower moving individual from behind, should call out a warning. Typically, “On your left!” or “On your right!” suffices. In Bermuda, bicycle bells are commonly used. Done properly, the call will not offend or even surprise the slower moving individual. It allows the individual to prepare for what lies ahead: the pass. Florida law states that a vehicle passing a cyclist/runner must maintain a minimum distance of 3 feet at all times. Florida law also states that cyclists must obey all automobile laws and regulations. Therefore Kevin, and all you other hotshots out there who get some perverse pleasure by riding as close as possible by the unsuspecting slow-moving individual without issuing any advance warning, SHOW A LITTLE RESPECT! While you may be the center of the universe in your own mind, that doesn’t give you the right to harass everyone in close proximity to your wonderfulness.

Kevin? What about Kevin? When politely although somewhat lightheartedly called to task for his indiscretion, Kevin's response was indignation and a useless effort to intimidate through boisterous behavior. Grow up, dude...

Wake Up!

2010-08-03T08:00:00.000-04:00

New York tags on a dark red Saturn; obviously a tourist. The car we followed up US1 through Jupiter and Tequesta gave Louise and me cause to consider the incredible gift we enjoy. While it would be easy to view the 26 mile daily commute to our offices in Stuart as the ultimate drudgery, today the 6:30am trip was filled with introspection.

People from all over the world pay thousands of dollars for the opportunity to briefly experience the life we have enjoyed for more than 25 years. While visitors look in awe at Jupiter Inlet from the Carlin White bridge, our minds are filled with thoughts about the next "hump night" picnic at DuBois Park, how great the fishing will be if the ocean lays down like that on the weekend, when we will next visit the memorial to Louise's son at Jupiter Lighthouse Park.

This is our home. We live here year 'round. We rarely stray outside of the boundaries of our state and then only for the briefest period of time. The morning fog laying low in the undulations of Jonathan Dickinson State Park; the occasional deer; an early morning fisherman, fly rod in hand, trudging down the path to the water's edge; the daily check to see if the gates on Burt Reynolds' driveway are open; the instant when the sun pops its sleepy head above the ocean horizon. These are the daily rituals of our lives.

Last week during lobster mini-season (a local phenomena), a 60 year-old man came up from his second dive. Back on the boat, exhibiting signs of a coronary, he was immediately treated by a medic as the captain rushed to the marina and called for emergency assistance on the radio. The man's last words: "The only thing to make it better would be if I had brought up some lobster." What a truly remarkable expression of complete joy!

May we never lose sight of the beauty that surrounds us. May our lives never get cluttered to the point that we fail to recognize the gift that has been bestowed upon us. May the magnificence of nature constantly fill our lives with joy and wonderment. May our world be a constant source of energy and enlightenment as we go about our daily lives.

Florida Trend - July 2010

2010-07-06T08:47:00.000-04:00

Family - Fly Fishing - Fun

2010-02-13T00:29:00.000-05:00

There was a time when every weekend meant hours prowling the Loxahatchee River, the Intracoastal Waterway, Jupiter Inlet, and the edges of the Atlantic Ocean out to the Gulf Stream. Most often, it was our boat, but there were many times when a ride was hitched with friends. There were also numerous trips to Lake Okeechobee as well as infrequent journeys to the Everglades, Stick Marsh, and even the cooling ponds at the FPL power plant in Indiantown. A lot of time and effort was put into fishing, but catching? Not so much.

Times changed. Kids grew up. Kids built lives for themselves. Good times became fond memories. Tough times required serious commitment to families, jobs, and health. The boats were sold or simply stopped running. The rods were put away. Contact dwindled to occasional brief phone conversations or even less frequent email messages.

Then, the phone call came: "Hey Dad, I want to tell you something..." Six months later, the door that was opened has enabled me to pass into a world so precious it defies definition. John, my eldest, had stopped into John B's Fly and Light Tackle in Stuart. He had heard that it was the place to go, that John B had a heart of gold and a burning desire to turn every man, woman, and child into a fly-fisherman. My two granddaughters had tagged along with their dad on this expedition and patiently passed the time sitting on the floor engrossed in fly-fishing magazines. When the hour-long process had culminated in a $3.50 transaction and my son gathered the kids to leave, John B insisted that they wait until he finished rummaging around in the back of the store. He finally returned with a juvenile rod and reel, which he offered to the sisters as a gift.

All my life, I have lived by the belief that there is goodness in every person. A young person sometimes has difficulty grasping that concept especially after struggling mightily to find success and happiness. That day, my son became a believer.

John B had told my son that a friend of his gave free fly-fishing lessons every Saturday morning at Indian Riverside Park in Jensen Beach. "Do you want to go with me this Saturday?" The stars were properly aligned. The wind was in the right quadrant. Everything fit together perfectly, and the park became my Saturday morning destination.

Even with no expectations, the experience was a continuing series of surprises. John and I arrived nearly 1/2 hour early to an open expanse of grass on the edge of the Indian River, which seemed like as good a place as any to wet a line. The day was off to a beautiful start. While some shy from the sun and heat of an August day, I thrive on it. Even at 8:30am, the temperature was poised in the high 70's on its way to a real scorcher. The heat had stolen the wind leaving a dead calm weighted with humidity. My kind of day!

The slate gray Suburban with US Army, Stars and Stripes, and Airborne stickers rolled into the parking lot and backed lazily to the curb. Finally settled into place, the tank's door popped open and belched out our instructor. There was no doubting ownership of the vehicle, as his belt buckle carried the same military theme with the impressive winged parachute front and center. A body that had experienced one too many low altitude jumps in full gear was twisted like a pretzel. It didn't slow his gait. Gigantic hands formed a grip that did not hide their strength. The voice was clear. The gaze was sharp. Our instructor was a force to be reckoned with. Introducing himself as "Sarge," we quickly learned that he was a retired Command Sergeant Major, an original member of the Special Forces, and was in his mid-80's.

His sidekick who arrived shortly thereafter is a retired Air Force colonel who is fighting the vagaries of Agent Orange. I was stunned to discover the depth of Sarge's warmth, his innate ability to simplify a complicated process and his patience as we struggled to duplicate his effortless cast. Instead of fish in the river, we were casting to bare patches in the grass. Typically, 15-20 feet of line ended up in a pile within 10 feet of where we were standing. Sarge can drop a perfect, straight/taught line over a squirrel's back at 90 feet! We had a long, long way to go.

The hour passed too quickly. The following week passed equally fast, but with one exception: multiple phone conversations with John reviewing the events of that fateful Saturday, discussing fruitless practice sessions, and planning the next excursion. The weeks and months have marched inexorably onward with mundane work and life experiences punctuated with entertaining fly-fishing classes. If I can somehow learn to stop bending my arm, the endless pushups might come to a halt. Each week, others have joined us, but none have remained. John and I continually return, more for the contact with a truly wonderful old soldier than for perfection of our cast.

John B died. He died way too soon, way too fast. No one was ready to let him go. The memorial service at that same park was attended by hundreds of family, friends and acquaintances. John and I were there. We shared the grief. We laughed at the stories. We marveled at the tightness of the fishing community in which he thrived. While we frequent other similar stores, we try hard to make our purchases where they will in some small way help John B's family.

John and I talk nearly every day. Once a week we meet at his home and work on a 14-foot johnboat that we plan to use this summer in quest of snook, trout, and redfish. John's brother, Morgan, has a new "best friend forever." Dan is the salesman in the Orvis store in Alexandria, VA, Morgan's home. During his infrequent visits to the area, the three of us manage to squeeze in some time to try a new stream, canal, or pond.

It's not like "old times." Everything has changed. John and Morgan's mother, my first wife, is fighting cancer. Morgan is battling a chronic illness. We all seem to have a fair share of dents and bruises, but we have also found a place in our minds and hearts where we can escape to lie back and immerse ourselves in the comfort of relationships that are totally devoid of rules, exceptions, or disruptions.

Fly-fishing has opened the door to a world populated almost exclusively with John Bs, Sarges, Colonels, and other equally warm, generous, good people. The space that world has provided for my sons and me cannot be defined. We are learning to simply accept it with the deepest gratitude.

The Last of the Best!

2010-01-15T15:29:00.000-05:00

Steve Lee, (Cell phone: 408-691-1016) a delightful young man, informed me minutes ago that the very last unsold Pontiac G8 GXP is now available at Pearson Buick Pontiac GMC, 1176 W. El Camino Real. Sunnyvale, CA 94087. This is a car that has made numerous 10 best lists and received more press this past year than any American car. This one is white and has a manual 6 speed transmission. It was the dealership owner's personal driver and has about 4600 miles. It has never been titled and is eligible for all rebates and a full factory warranty.

There were 1,829 manufactured in Australia by Holden and shipped to the USA. This is the only one remaining.

Why don't I buy it, you say? I bought mine on 3/31/09. After 22,000+ miles, I can only say that it is the most awesome vehicle I have ever owned!

Saffron :: An Experience in Fine Dining

2010-01-13T09:29:00.000-05:00

Last night Belker, that lovable detective whose multitudinous idiosyncrasies made him the pet of the Hill Street precinct, discovered where the disappearing feral cats were going. Today, October 31, 1984, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi has been assassinated. Tonight, we will be travelling 30 miles to an Indian restaurant at the intersection of Ridge Road and Lincoln Highway in Kingston, NJ. The highly coveted reservations for two were made months ago. Ever since the NY Times review appeared praising the skills of the chef owner, every gourmand in the New York Metropolitan area has made the trek to this sleepy community on the outskirts of Princeton.

With bottle of Gewürztraminer in hand and not knowing what to expect (confirmation that the restaurant would be open having been made), we approached the three-story Victorian style mansion with uncertainty. As we entered, it was immediately clear that we would have a very private dining experience. Capable of easily accommodating hundreds, the sprawling rooms had only the tiniest population. Although the staff’s somber demeanor was somewhat off-putting, the overall experience confirmed the accuracy of the restaurant’s lofty rating.

Twenty-five years later, a first visit to Saffron, owner chef Mike Hussain’s newest of three restaurants, early on a Tuesday night was déjà vu all over again! A sparse crowd at the 1061 East Indiantown Road location in Jupiter brought back a flood of memories. Thankfully, the staff’s enthusiasm and the grainy Bollywood music videos broadcast on small, discreetly placed screens with a very low volume created a delightful energy.

While we explored the extensive menu, we nibbled on Masale-e-wale Papad, paper-thin, crisp bread that was served with three chutneys: tamarind, tomato, and mint. Each chutney is distinctive and memorable. While my partner found the tamarind refreshing, the slightly hot spiciness of the mint while not anticipated was excellent just the same. Our meal started with Lamb Samosa, two moderately sized puff pastries filled with lamb, peas and aromatic Indian spices for my partner and Aloo Tikki Chaat, potatoes with chickpeas, flour, yogurt, sev, and spices. Sev is string-like, gram flour based snack that is similar in consistency if not flavor to dried Chinese noodles. Both dishes were notable for the preparation and the presentation, which was very appealing.

The entrees, Lamb Chop Masala and Shrimp Vindaloo, were similar yet entirely different. Served in tureens with an abundance of sauce, their appearance caused one to wonder if both dishes were prepared in the same pot. We quickly learned that each dish was totally unique. The curry sauce with the lamb chop was rich and full bodied. The hot spicy sauce on the shrimp was fiery. Each had a slightly different texture, but both were ideal on an unseasonably cold night. Both dishes were well prepared.

The Riesling, chosen from a limited wine list was the perfect accompaniment to the meal. The delicate sweetness offered a perfect balance to the robust flavors of the meals.

No genuine Indian feast would be complete without one of the leavened breads with onions. Our choice was plain naan, the garlic being another concession to a cool evening.

The evening turned out to be a memorable experience that will be repeated in the coming weeks with friends who enjoy experiencing new flavors and aromas, who appreciate unique textures and colors.

The Call

2009-12-05T22:10:00.000-05:00

Invariably, it comes at absolutely the worst possible moment. The message drives you to your knees. In an instant, your life is turned upside down. Decisions and actions that were of the utmost importance are relegated to some far away place in your brain as you rearrange priorities, battle guilt, struggle with fear, and are blanketed with gut-wrenching sorrow.

Barely able to return the telephone to its cradle, you suddenly discover rage boiling up inside of you. Stupid phone. Stupid damned phone. Goddamned stupid damned stupid phone! The cradle is no place for a stupid phone. Let’s see how it looks after it has bounced off a wall at 90 miles per hour. Why did I ever buy a stupid phone? Why did I ever allow myself to feel love? Why did I ever allow other people into my life? Why didn’t I run off and live a hermit’s existence totally removed from society, family, and friends?

Decisions suddenly come easily. I’m never going to feel pain again. I’m never going to let anyone into my world. I’m tough. Nobody is going to see me suffer. I’m going to focus on all that needs to be done. I need to be strong for the others. I need to set an example. No one will ever see me cry. I can get through this on my own…

Then, the questions. What do I do now? Who should I call? What about the arrangements? Should I go? Should I go alone? Should I go now? Can I get off from work? Can I afford the trip? Who will be there? What if I don’t go? How do I get there? Where do I stay?

Then, the commitment. I’m going… Right away! I have to be there. I’ll find a place to stay when I get there. Damned the expense. This is more important. I’ll sort out all of that when I get back. I need to be there for ________ (fill in the name of your choice). I need to be there; now!

There is a source for comfort in the most trying times involving the health of family members and loved ones. Little known and underutilized, there are small oases of comfort. Similar to a bed & breakfast, homes have popped up throughout the United States with one simple purpose: to provide affordable accommodations while you tend to the needs of those who are closest to you. Known as hospital hospitality houses, they are frequently affiliated or have close ties to hospitals and medical facilities.

The best-known facilities are the more than 270 Ronald McDonald Houses located throughout the United States and in 52 foreign countries. Started 35 years ago in Philadelphia, these facilities were created to offer families a way to stay together, in proximity to the treatment hospital where seriously ill or injured children receive care. Access to Ronald McDonald Houses is limited to parents of children under 18 years of age.

Similar services are available in homelike environments to families of adults as well as children who are hospitalized in medical facilities throughout the United States. Instead of sleeping in a hospital waiting room or even your car, you can stay at a hospital hospitality house where you can find rest in a warm and supportive environment, usually for a voluntary donation that is a fraction of the cost of a motel room. For more information and a directory of hospitality houses, visit the website for the National Association of Hospital Hospitality Houses (http://www.nahhh.org)

Thanksgiving

2009-11-19T10:49:00.000-05:00

“Shoo-Fly Pie & Apple Pan Dowdy,” released in 1946, was Dinah Shore’s treatise on a traditional Pennsylvania Dutch delicacy: molasses pie, and a simple apple dessert.

Aunt Annabelle was born and raised in Port Jervis, NY, across the Delaware River from Pennsylvania. She became part of the Shannon (Mom’s side of the family) clan when she married my Uncle Booch (Robert), the youngest of seven Shannon siblings. One can only guess how my grandfather’s Irish heritage ever melded with my grandmother’s Pennsylvania Dutch (She was a Cristman.) background, but the union produced a feisty, fun-loving, passionate family that followed tradition closely: I have nearly 20 cousins! Few members of the family strayed far from their roots in the Delaware Valley or the family traditions.

Thanksgiving was half bedlam, half food. With rugrats clogging the corridors and carpets, adults setting tables, arranging chairs, and shifting serving platters, the clan would gather to share each wife’s contribution to the feast. Luscious aromas permeated the air, as idle chatter slowly focused on the reason we all gathered together under one roof.

A silence permeated only by Dad’s brief prayer was followed by a gentle crescendo of chatter as positive comments were made about Mom’s turkey, Jerry’s mashed potatoes, Aunt Millie’s dressing, the cranberries, gravy, beans, and brussel sprouts (Dad’s favorite). It wasn’t until the table had been cleared that people would begin to focus on the pièce de résistance: dessert.

As fresh, black coffee was poured into awaiting cups, a parade of pies made its way from the kitchen to the table. Pumpkin Pie, Apple Pie, Dutch Apple Pie, Mincemeat Pie, and Shoo-Fly Pie. Accolades filled the air as everyone proclaimed my Aunt Annabelle’s Shoo-Fly Pie to be the crowning touch to a perfect celebration. To this day, I can visualize her beaming smile, her glow of satisfaction. A simple, traditional dessert was the key my aunt used to open the door to our family’s hearts.

I have the recipe for that pie tucked away for safekeeping. I will never attempt to make one, however. Although I have hunted far and wide for a bakery that makes Shoo-Fly Pies (Believe it or not, there is one in Seattle of all places!), I have never bought one. I don’t want to cloud the memory of my Aunt’s creation with anyone else’s attempt at perfection. Aunt Annabelle’s Shoo-Fly Pie will always reign supreme.

Walt's Widow

2009-11-02T10:37:00.000-05:00

At the intersection of Routes 202 and 206 in Bedminster, NJ, an insignificant Texaco gas station served as the home office for Walt Hansgen, one of the best road racers of the 60’s. Notably, the station also featured the U.S. Senator Harrison Williams/John Z. Delorean memorial telephone booth. Locals were accustomed to seeing long black limousines parked close to the phone booth as their famous, notorious occupants made calls from the presumably tap free pay phone.

Despite their public image, FBI agents are simply not that dumb. Not only had they tapped the residential phones of these local ne’er do wells, they also had all the local pay phones tapped and had a photographer capturing their furtive images inside Hansgen’s phone booth.

A horny high school student hitchhiked home from liaisons with his long-legged heartthrob along those same roads on a regular basis. Those experiences would have been forgettable, had it not been for the time that the free ride was provided in a late model, British Racing Green Jaguar “saloon” piloted by a raven-tressed, dynamic and spirited lady who stirred the manual gearbox with the alacrity of the Wicked Witch of the North’s potion preparations.

The Jag (not to be confused with “the car,” “the vehicle,” or any other mundane term) sang an ecstatic response to the driver’s delicate stroke: surging, pausing, surging, braking, leaning, gripping, diving, leaping with a fluidity of motion that belied it’s majestic proportions. This exotic, mysterious siren seemed to thrive on the energy she was able to coax from the highly refined driving machine.

Awestruck in the presence of incredible beauty, mesmerized by the intensity of pure passion, a young man who would in the not too distant future have all vestiges of innocence ripped from him in the violent struggle of military combat, could only sit silently and strive to understand inputs from senses that were on overload.

No gold and alabaster chariot pulled across the heavens by a team of 8 driven by Zeus himself could have elicited a more profound memory for this young man. A Jaguar was the ultimate expression of luxury and performance. That was a given in the minds of every boy over the age of 15. A Jaguar with a manual transmission was a mark of driving decadence. Only drivers addicted to performance lust for rising and falling engine tones played to the cadence of swift gear changes.

Who was this incredible vision of beauty and sexuality, this ethereal expression of all that is feminine and delicate who clearly thrived on danger, speed, and power? As in all singular moments, the answer came too late: my personal vision of pure perfection was the widow of one of the truly masterful, truly great sports car drivers in the world.

While others lust for wealth an power, the overriding goal in a long life containing innumerable successes and personal accomplishments has been to somehow capture the same raw emotions that filled a young man’s heart on that fateful day: to connect through heal and toe, hands and fingers with a mechanical thoroughbred, a purpose-built, refined automobile with the heart, power, and grace of a champion. Forty years later, every flick of the wrist, every whine of the synchros, every crisp and distinctive metallic click of the shifter brings light to a reality that seems more like a dream.

While Mrs. Walt Hansgen is long gone, her memory lives in the heart of a now old man as he strives in some small way to capture that oneness of man and machine, that synchronicity of thought and action which propelled us through the countryside with an impossible fluidity nearly fifty years ago.

Mark Foley :: In Perspective

2009-10-09T09:11:00.000-04:00

I have never made a mistake in my life. I have never said something that I regretted for years. I have never unintentionally hurt someone. There are no levels to personal perfection. You are, or you are not. I am. Therefore, I am eminently qualified to pass judgment on Mark Foley and all members of society who have erred in their ways.

The exchange of inane sexually tainted banter with a juvenile is a very serious failure of morality, character, and integrity. How does it compare with the acts of Bernard Madoff, a man who has caused much, much more permanent pain to many, many more people? How does it compare with the acts of a wealthy local financier who was recently convicted of some type of sexual encounters with underage girls?

Now, consider the fact that Mr. Foley immediately and openly acknowledged his shortcomings and accepted a penalty that is extremely harsh. He resigned his high profile position as a United States Congressman and accepted the vituperation of his colleagues, his constituents, and society as a whole. Consider that after thorough investigations no legal authority found a basis to file charges. That is even more significant when you factor in the moral outrage directed at him and the investigatory authorities from all levels.

Although he has apologized profusely, his request for forgiveness has not reached my ears or eyes. He has acknowledged his failures and accepted mass condemnation. If you choose to forgive him and wish him well, then you are acting within the scope of the faith that taught you compassion and love. If you choose to scorn and rebuke him, then may you find peace in your life, for you are a troubled soul indeed.

Oh, that first paragraph? Just a dream… just a dream.

Scratching the Itch...

2009-09-22T18:30:00.000-04:00

The phone rings in the middle of dinner. The phone rings at 7:00am on Saturday morning. The phone rings while I'm in the shower, under the car, or up to my eyeballs in a project. Always, always a question: "What time do you open?" "What time do you close?" How do I get there from ..." This pattern has continued for twelve plus years. There it goes again! Actually, that was my wife calling for me to pick her up, but you get the point.

Being a reasonably intelligent person, I have asked callers where they obtained the number they called. Through that process, I've tracked down a number of sources for the erroneous information and managed to get the error fixed. One would think that after 12 years, the problem would go away. After all, no reasonable publisher would print the same incorrect information over and over for that long, would they? Eventually, like worn out dollar bills and old tee shirts, the existing documents would go away. But no!

The calls continue. A major breakthrough has just occurred. I just Googled my telephone number and discovered that my personal home phone number is on page two hundred something of Fodor's USA, "The King of Guidebooks," according to Newsweek in the "Completely Updated (their words)" 28th Edition.

I have written to Random House, but there's not much they can do at this point. There is only the slightest satisfaction in knowing the source of my annoyance...

R o a d T r i p !

2009-09-18T09:22:00.000-04:00

Next Thursday (9/24), I’ll be riding shotgun on a trip from South Florida to Alexandria, VA in a ’94 Jeep Wrangler. The last two attempts had to be aborted when the vehicle balked at the exercise. My son, John, will occupy the driver’s seat. This is the first road trip we have undertaken together in more than twenty years. We will fly back from the DC area on Sunday.

My son, Morgan, bought the Jeep during his last visit over Labor Day weekend and had to return home sans vehicle when the voltage regulator failed. Lacking that control, the alternator delivered an excessive charge to the electrical system, which caused a fuse failure. Absent a complete charging circuit, the battery was slowly drained. That caused the engine to fail.

Our arrival in Alexandria will signal the beginning of a long weekend that will be limited to a father and his two sons, a once in a lifetime experience. Morgan left South Florida nearly 10 years ago when he went off to college in Orlando. After graduation, he made several moves as he went from St. Petersburg to Tallahassee and ultimately to Alexandria, where he has lived and worked for the past year.

What a day!

2009-09-11T15:24:00.000-04:00

This trip took us to Northern Illinois, not far from the Wisconsin border. The 1962 Chris-Craft Holiday we were chasing turned out to be in worse condition than expected. A complete trailer overhaul was necessary preparation for the high-speed 1,400 mile return to South Florida. That meant an extra day added to the journey, which Lee and I could ill afford. Just the same, our safety and the safety of every car we passed was at stake.

Wednesday morning broke cool and clear. The breeze was brisk as we hopped into the big Ford dually and headed for the trailer shop. Running on precious little sleep and our minds filled with “what ifs,” there was no idle chatter as we made our way through the little village.

The shop owner understood the importance of a first rate job. He definitely didn’t want an afternoon distress call from Mid-Kentucky. They were finishing up as we arrived. Bearings were repacked. Wiring was replaced. Assorted and sundry connectors were tested, repaired, or replaced. We were ready to go. If there was any question about the extent of his effort, the invoice put it to rest. Everything was precisely recorded along with the time it took to install. Time would confirm without a doubt that the money was well spent.

We rode the wave of rush hour traffic that was making its way into Chicago but broke away just before the city limits as we turned south toward Indianapolis. I-65 traces a nearly straight path through fields of grain. The wide-open expanses are broken only by the occasional overpass.

Overpasses. Dozens of them. We see them all the time, but these were different. They were crowded with people, people who were jumping up and down and waving to the motorists speeding by below. They had flags. American Flags. They were waving American Flags, waving, and cheering. They were cheering, and we could hear them. The first thought we had was a question. What made this Wednesday so special for so many people?

When we turned on the radio, the stations were playing patriotic music: Lee Greenwood, Toby Keith, Neil Diamond, and the list went on. When the reality finally sunk in, Lee and I were both deeply humbled. It wasn’t the day of the week. It was the day of the month. The American heartland had risen on September 11, 2002, with only one thought: to vigorously profess its love for our country. That was the only way to honor the memory of those who had lost their lives one year earlier.

Throughout the countryside of Indiana, Kentucky, and Tennessee, we were greeted by equally moving expressions of patriotism. Our country shared a fervor that was beautiful to behold. May we never forget the terrible tragedy, but may we also remember the emotions that were stirred in our souls.

What Price, Fame?

2009-08-06T14:30:00.000-04:00

An evening walk down King Street toward the Torpedo Factory in Alexandria, VA, with my wife and son was abruptly interrupted by flashing red lights, police vehicles suddenly blocking off traffic, and armed/uniformed officers who prevented pedestrians from proceeding. A somewhat somber silence fell over the crowd of now stationary people as curiosity fought fear for mental prominence.

When enormous battleship gray SUV's urgently rolled from nowhere into the middle of King Street, and football player sized/demeanored men in dark suits began scurrying about, the answers to myriad questions began to formulate in our clouded, confused minds. Someone of great prominence was about to be whisked away in a flurry of unfamiliar motion.

A restaurant door and a door on the largest of the SUV's opened simultaneously just a few feet apart. Preceeded by the largest of the football players, a tall and slender woman conservatively dressed with hair pulled back appeared to be belched from the restaurant only to be swallowed up once again by the sinister SUV. Instantly, four vehicles jumped to life and drove off impetuously leaving multiple suited football players behind to shake hands with the armed/uniformed officers, patting them on the back and expressing appreciation for their support.

The entire event had drawn to a speedy close in the time it took for the image of Mrs. President Obama to register in our brains. Just as the crowd had frozen in place, it now thawed and flowed smoothly in a hundred different directions once again. All that remained were more questions: Why was she eating alone? How did she come to choose that particular restaurant? What did she eat? Did she wave? Didn't she wave? Was her hair really pulled back? How often does she eat out alone? Those questions will remain unanswered.

Where's the value?

2009-07-21T12:44:00.000-04:00

For $132,900, I can buy a 29 foot ’07 Wellcraft with Twin 250 Outboards. A couple of thousand more will pay for a 2002 Luhrs 32 with a 330 hp Cummins and 340 gallon fuel tank. Then, I have to think about dockage, maintenance, and operating expenses, etc.

On the other hand, for the same price as the Wellcraft, I can buy an essentially new (04-09 Annual – Prop Time: “0”) Piper Lance II, with a range of 650 nautical miles. Picture and description

Can the plane actually be more practical? Since I know the owner, I know the plane is in excellent condition. Capable of cruising at 175 knots, I can make it to Key West in a little over an hour. Nassau would be an hour and 15 minutes. Jacksonville the same.

Hmmmm…

Three Reasons Why A National Health Plan Is Doomed

2009-07-20T19:06:00.000-04:00

What would an acceptable reduction in medical expense be? 10%? 15%? 50%? Would you be happy if your anesthesiologist reduced his bill from $2,200 to $2,000? What if the surgeon reduced his fee $122 to $1,098? Probably not. Now, if the hospital reduced their invoice $5,390, you would be ecstatic until you discovered that you still owed $48,589.

Clearly, any reduction in medical expenses would be appreciated, but a meaningful reduction for most people would have to approach 50%. Any reduction in medical expenses has to be accompanied by an equal reduction in income for the payee.

According to the US Department of Labor –Bureau of Labor Statistics, as reported in May of 2008, 3,353,110 wage earners with 15 Healthcare Practitioner and Technical Occupations job descriptions earned $288,721,888,800.
http://www.bls.gov/oes/2008/may/oes_nat.htm#b29-0000

Imagine asking the entire working population of New York City to accept a 50% salary reduction so that your medical expenses will be reduced. Imagine asking those same people to reelect you to office after you made that request of them! Our elected officials have one objective: They want to be reelected. Their chances of achieving that goal are significantly diminished each time one of the legislative acts they endorse fails. It is far more beneficial for them to criticize the efforts of the opposition versus proposing legislation that might not succeed.

According to the Congressional Budget Office, the Average Effective federal income tax rate in 2005 for healthcare practitioners was 14.1%, plus 6.0% for Social Insurance Taxes, 4.9% for Corporate Income Taxes and 0.5% for Excise Taxes, creating an overall effective tax rate of 25.5%.

Those 3.3 million healthcare workers paid $73.6 billion in federal taxes in 2008. Imagine asking the federal government to take a $36 billion cut in tax revenues!

Finally, much of the cost of medical expense has been directly attributed to the cost of medical malpractice and product liability insurance. Our litigious society provides an opportunity for those who are injured to receive compensation through a circuitous process that incurs enormous legal expense in addition to actual compensatory payments. Clearly, significant reductions in the cost of medical care cannot be accomplished without commensurate changes in the insurance industry and the legal profession.

An open letter to a Pontiac dealer...

2009-07-16T15:17:00.000-04:00

The time has come to reach out to those around us who somehow make our lives more bearable. Our world poses challenges unheard of before. Every person we come in contact with is struggling with either a financial, health, interpersonal, or professional burden of some magnitude. We owe it to those who rise above it all and provide support to us. This is my start:

July 16, 2009

Mr. Carl E. Fischer
Carl’s Buick Pontiac GMC
2445 SE Federal Highway
Stuart, FL 34994

Re: A very singular occurrence

Mr. Fischer,

Nine. Nine Pontiacs have been part of my life over the past 60+ years, along with a number of Oldsmobiles (3), Chevrolets (2), Volvos (3), an Austin Healey 3000, and assorted Plymouths and Fords. One simply cannot own that many vehicles without logging a wealth of encounters with auto dealers on a variety of levels. Add to that several years spent selling and managing property & casualty insurance programs for auto dealers, and one could categorize me as an expert in auto dealer customer relations.

That knowledge and understanding has been thrown out the window. Whether you represent a “new breed” or a very “old breed” of auto dealer, my experience as a customer of Carl’s Buick Pontiac GMC over the past 1 ½ years can only be described as a very singular occurrence. Unlike any other auto dealer I have met, your entire team has shown me levels of professionalism, efficiency, empathy, and respect that were not anticipated.

There are now two places that I actually look forward to visiting: my barbershop and your automobile dealership. We all know that these are incredibly difficult times. Everyone is carrying personal and professional burdens that are immeasurable. Somehow, your staff has found a way to not only move above those challenges but to also assist me in achieving a similar result.

I would like to recognize Bob Lloyd today in particular. Bob’s integrity is an enormous value to your organization. I trust Bob with the care of my remaining two Pontiacs (an ‘06 Solstice and my G8 GXP). Actually, after shopping across the country for a GXP, my decision to buy from you was made on the basis of my anticipated experience with your Service Department and more specifically with Bob.

Mr. Fischer, the joy of auto ownership has been restored by the quality of the product and the support of your staff. It’s an awesome experience! I am deeply grateful.

Sincerely,

A Castle :: A Boat :: A Moat :: A Boat in The Moat

2009-06-08T10:43:00.000-04:00

Did I mention A Dragon? It's all there. Where, did you say? Nowhere. Well, it seems like nowhere, and it takes forever to get there. You think this is a joke, right? Well, the joke's on you if you're a "Real Florida" buff and haven't visited Solomon's Castle in Ona. Ona, Florida. Well, it's not really in Ona. Ona is the name given to the nearest crossroad.

Solomon, Howard Solomon that is, tells a funny story about why he created a tin-clad castle and filled it with whimsical sculptures crafted from odds and ends he has collected over the past 30+ years. There is a delightful story behind each object he proudly presents during the course of a 45 minute tour. Many of the vignettes pass almost too quickly to catch as he moves from sculpture to montage, from concoction to contraption. By the time you are guided through the Boat in the Moat (restaurant) and into the gift shop by way of the Lily Light House, you realize that the real attraction is a warm, kind-hearted man with a vivid imagination, a self-deprecating style, and a vibrant sense of humor.

Everyone should have the opportunity to meet at least one Howard Solomon in their life. You will be energized by the experience.

Cafe' Copenhagen :: Nordic Cuisine in America

2009-05-27T11:10:00.000-04:00

Remember this word: FRIKADELLER

At Cafe Copenhagen in Jupiter, FL these Danish delicacies are created according to a 200+ year old recipe with only the freshest ingredients. Light and tasty, frikadeller is a staple of a true Dane's diet. After a long hard day, we all look forward to the comforts of home, flavorful aromas filling the air, almost musical kitchen sounds ringing in the dinner hour. Our stomachs growl in anticipation of a hearty meal served in a family setting.

Christian Cotton has captured all those images in his friendly restaurant in the Driftwood Plaza on US 1. As owner and chef, the restaurant is a personal statement reflecting his Danish heritage and his years of training in the top restaurants in Copenhagen. More importantly, Christian's outgoing hospitality and attention to detail can be found in every aspect of this peaceful oasis

The food is extraordinary. The menu is extensive. The preparation and presentation is precise, but it's the atmosphere that will bring you back again and again. At Cafe Copenhagen, frikadeller is more, much more than a meatball.

Go Fish!

2009-05-07T08:22:00.000-04:00

Fishing, photography, website design, sports, outdoor recreation, travel, you name it. Unless you choose to relegate your life to a darkened room, you will find something on Catch Magazine (http://www.catchmagazine.net) that will entertain you and bring a smile to your face. The quality of the imagery on this website is over the top. The magazine format is perfectly executed and intuitive. Each page presents a different perspective on fly fishing.

"Published" every other month, there is an abundance of content. I didn't know Snake River Cutthroat's existed until I studied Corey Kruitbosch's photo essay. A website of this caliber shows the true potential of the internet and justifies all the junk you have to wade through on a daily basis. Even the ads are professional and appealing. Perhaps fly fishing will be part of my future.

It's time to get detailed!

2009-05-06T10:25:00.000-04:00

What does it take to get someone to finally acknowledge mortality? That’s what is happening to a lot of baby boomers as they watch their friends and relatives battle debilitating diseases. While most resign themselves to a future filled with limitations, aches and pains, a small but growing group is discovering an exciting fact. Many, if not most, health issues are reversible. Sixty is truly the new thirty.

Now, if I owned a 60 year old something of value – a car, for instance, I would devote a lot of time to making sure the engine purred, all the systems (brakes, electrical, etc.) performed flawlessly, and the appearance was perfect. I would rely upon guidance from experts. It would be impossible to turn it into a show car without the help of a trusted, experienced auto mechanic.

That's Lee Cotton. Lee is a human mechanic. She has the experience necessary to fine tune and polish our bodies. It's no more mysterious than selecting the right motor oil, the right octane for your gas, or the right wiper blades. The terms she uses are unfamiliar, and the process is a little confusing at first, but stop and think about it for a couple of seconds: We put additives in our gasoline to keep the engine clean and improve performance. Doesn't it make sense to do the same with our bodies?

You can probably tell that I'm getting into this. I actually find it interesting. Well, here's Lee's website: http://www.pilatesandyourpalate.com

Babcock Ranch :: A 21st Century City

2009-05-05T11:06:00.000-04:00

When the Babcock family determined that the time had come to relinquish ownership of 70,000 acres of Southwest Florida farmland, they wanted to create a land stewardship legacy. Together with a successful developer, the groundwork has been put in place for a brilliantly thought out project. Syd Kitson's vision of the Babcock Ranch, the first solar-powered city in the world, is perhaps the greatest example of responsible land planning ever. Visit http://www.babcockranchflorida.com