Quick hits ...

... because a lot is going on.

First, let me add my prayers for healing and my heartfelt sympathy to those already offered to the many families and friends of those 49 people cut down in Orlando, as well those injured, along with any and all impacted by this horrible act of senseless violence.

The events in Orlando have opened up a series of emotional and impassioned subjects like a band-aid ripped off of a nearly-healed wound.

Gay Pride - this butcher focused his violence on a nightclub focusing on gay clientele. Those who were killed and injured, by and large, subscribe to that lifestyle. That is their right - and they did not give up those rights because they chose that lifestyle.  So all you "they deserve it" and God's judgment" types can stick it in your pious pie-holes. No one deserves to be murdered - and no one can make that judgment but God.

I have gay friends, because we respect each other. They do not try and "change" me and I don't try to "change" them. As a Christian, their lifestyles are between them and their maker and it's not for me to judge.  Beating gay people into submission with a Bible is not why the Bible was written.

This could have happened at a movie theater, a church, or a party at work. In fact, it has.

Gun control - I do not own a gun. I do know how to use them as I had to take gun courses in college and in the military. If the day comes that I do get a gun, it will be for one simple reason: Some part of my life needs to be defended with a deadly force, and no one but me can defend it.

It is important to note that I believe firmly in the concept of overwhelming advantage. If I am placed in a situation similar to what I have described above, I want to walk away successful - me breathing and the threat bleeding. I do not believe in applying just enough force to keep the threat at bay until help arrives. If I have to win that scenario, I want to win by as much as possible.

If that level of success can be achieved using BB guns, great. But if my odds or success go up with a weapon that delivers more firepower at a faster rate, I'd be all in for as much as I can afford.

That is why, my liberal friends, AR-15s are fine with me. As long as they are legal,

I know this post is not real funny. Hard to make this subject humorous. And I am sure no one in Orlando is getting a smile.

We're back ...

... well, I'm back, anyway.

To say "we're back" indicates I am more than me, which I am not. It could be said that my Mary Jo could take a portion of the credit (what credit it deserves) since she is my partner, my muse and my inspiration as well as my love.  She'd be the only person I want to be "We" with.

It also presumes that I have been somewhere.  I have been away - a couple of times - but I managed to get back to the ranch on the cul-de-sac each time, so I am a living testament to the effectiveness of Google Maps.

Yay, technology.

A few of you out there - and to be honest, there are only a few of you out there - might be a bit surprised that I am re-blogging after being gone for such a long time.  But consider this - Last time I broke off, it was four years before I re-started.  This time it's only been about two years. That's a 50 percent improvement.

That sounds like Obama Administration thinking.

So what has driven me back to the keyboard?  There is so much to blog abut right now! All kinds of irony, lessons of experience, and vast oceans of smart-aleckyness to cross.

And what is better to start with than politics? It's an election year, after all, and I am a political junkie from back in the days before Carter. And I proudly proclaim that in all that time, I have always cast my vote for my presidential preference each and every Olympic year. (Yes, presidential elections, Olympic Summer Games and leap years always occur in the same year. One of life's little oddities.  I'm kind of scared that I know that.)

This year, however, I am seriously considering passing up on what I consider an obligation of citizenship. Might just go fishing that day. Why? Because whatever I catch is bound to be better than whatever is on the ballot.

Let's start with my own political affiliation ... I don't have one. Registered independent. That way, I am excused from these stupid primaries, caucuses and tribal council votes. More importantly, I'm the voter that has to be swayed. Ya gotta work a little to get my vote. I like to be wooed, Pursued. I play a little hard to get.

Yes, I am still talking politics here.

Mind you, as independent as I claim to be, I haven't picked the Democrat since, well, Carter.  I line up on the right side of most issues, but I get off the Republican wagon when they just got too blamed preachy for my taste. A little too much telling everyone how they ought to live. You can't be elected to be Chief Justice of Morality Court.

So, on one side, there's Clinton. Hate her. Just hate her. Can't stand her droning, nasally, middle-school principal lecturing voice no matter what she's saying. Don't care if she's a woman. Don't care if she's politically savvy. Can't spend four years avoiding hearing the President that gives me the the old nails-on-a-chalkboard sensation whenever she gives a speech. So she's out.

Then there's Trump. I still don't see how he beat out 16 other candidates by using tactics he got off an elementary school playground, but it is what it is. Actually, Donald and I have a little in common.   We both grew up in great regard of our own opinions, and when threatened, we both reacted badly (Donald shouts insults; I just wet my pants).

The difference? I turned nine. Donald, apparently, has not.

Right now, I cannot bring myself to look at Trump, listen to his ideas, and actually consider him viable for the big house on Pennsylvania Avenue. Just can't do it.

Third party? First off, there really isn't anyone so popular, so inspiring, so monumental out there that could get enough votes away from the Dead-Head Duo (Clinton/Trump) to make any change. Secondly, no one wants the job. The only less attractive job vacancy in the country is Trump's potential VP choice.

So, to quote the immortal movie "War Games," the only winning move is not to play.  "War Games." Go ahead, Google it. Ally Sheedy was annoying, but it was a cool movie.

I hope that I will find a candidate and get behind said candidate. But it ain't looking good.

Also, the argument Republicans are making with "Vote for Donald, or it's just like you are voting for Hillary" is pure guilt-trip fallacy. If the Republicans couldn't get a nominee that people can vote for, not against someone else, then that is not my fault. If the Elephants can't find a candidate with positives, then using logic like "the lesser of two evils" won't get me off the lake on Election Day.

Mind you, Democrats are not doing much better. This election has been deeded to Clinton since Obama election No. 1. That does not sit well with the undecideds, so the Democrats ran a field of three guys with a pulse and little else, and Bernie Sanders - a Socialist.  (OK, you potential Jeopardy contestants, who out there really knows what a Socialist believes in? As opposed to, say, a Marxist or a Communist? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

"Ferris Bueller's Day Off" starred Matthew Broderick, who was also in ..."War Games." See what I just did there?

Anyway, Bernie brought that Crazy Uncle Joe flavor to the campaign that Biden usually stakes out for himself. And his "win or die" approach makes people not realize that this was in the bag for Hillary from the beginning.

O.K., we can give that a rest for now.

The next big thing in the news is the Bathroom Uprising of 2016.  You know the story, so let me just add this - being the Public Bathroom Monitor sounds like a job for folks who couldn't pass the TSA Exam; Pardon me sir, please prove you are a Sir; if they would put half the energy and effort used in arguing this issue into keeping public bathrooms clean, that alone might improve things; add a third gender of bathroom for these transgendered folks, with doors labeled "Men's" Women's," and "Decide once you're in there."

And while I'm about it - hey transgenedered folk, just because people object to you using the bathroom in the room you are not equipped for does not mean the objecting people are hateful, bigoted, or wishing bad things upon you. A difference of opinion is not always based in hatred. That works for a lot of other issues, too.

There. Phil Robertson (The Duck Dynasty guy) has been making that point for awhile. Gotta say I agree,

Hey Phil, perhaps you'd consider a third party run. If not, come join me and we'll slaughter a few crappie on Election Day.

The scourge of ...

After nearly four years, the blog LIVES!

First off, for those who may not have known, my daughter Becky survived her injuries and has overcome the obstacles that came from her accident.  She's a miracle, and I am blessed to still have her in my life each and every day.

So after four years of not writing in this blog ... some of you were grateful for the break, I'm sure ... What possible subject could have gripped me so fervently as to get me to write another chapter?

Vasovagal episodes.

Sounds terrible, doesn't it? Almost makes you wonder if there's a national charity dedicated to the eradication of this blight on our society. (There's not.)  Could also be one of those rare conditions only contracted by a few celebrities and defendants on trial who have used all the other reasonable defenses.  "Jurors, you can't convict my client.  If only you could imprison the vasovagal episodes he struggles with."

I bring up vasovagal episodes because I suffer from them. Please do not take pity on me (as if) or send donations to the research group dedicated to vasovagal eradication (there ain't one).

Let me save you one quick Google search. Vasovagal episodes, in short, are fainting spells.

That's right, fainting spells. The vapors. Checking out before check-out time. Taking a temporary nap.  Harmless, unless you hit your head or injure yourself on the trip from upright to prone.

But these things are a pain to live with.

Doctors will tell you they are caused by a variety of triggers, some of which are stress, exertion, improper diet, skipping meals, dehydration (the last two of which, apparently, were my triggers). Sometimes a trigger is not apparent. What happens is that your blood pressure drops significantly.  You feel hot and sweaty (and not for good reason). You get dizzy and the room might spin (like vertigo, but not the Hitchcock movie). Parts of you go numb that work better when they are not numb.  (I'm talking about my hands.  Your mileage may vary.)

In my case, and in the cases of others who are heart patients, any medical condition I face has to be looked at in the light of "it might be his heart." So when my last episode struck earlier this week, the good doctors took the safe route and stuck me in the hospital overnight to monitor my heart and run some tests. None of the tests showed a problem and I was released yesterday.

Living with this is really not hard when you consider what some folks have to live with - I don't have to jab myself with a needle, I can do pretty much what I want to do and I can ward off symptoms by eating regularly, eating right, and staying hydrated. But having this particular malady does leave the sufferer feeling like a bit of a wimp.  After all, one doctor of mine described vasovagal episodes as something similar to how certain breeds of goat can be literally scared to the point that they fall over, lie motionless for a minute, then get up and go on their goatly way.

It makes me feel cowardly, which I hate feeling. That is also not correct. But I can't imagine they are going to cast me as any swashbuckling heroic lead any time soon.  Can you imagine Han Solo facing a dozen stormtroopers and just falling out? Would you see that movie? Could the Force be with a weenie like that?

Since I am a heart patient, it is really important for me to have nitroglycerin pills with me in case I show the signs of a heart attack coming on.  On Monday, when this most recent vasovagal episode (I still cannot bring myself to call them fainting spells) happened, I mistakenly thought it was a sign of a pending angina and took one of those magic little pills.

Mistake.

Those pills drop your blood pressure even more.  As a result, I made my symptoms a hundred times worse.  I pity the poor EMT that had to clean up that ambulance. I spent most of the next three hours on a Magic Carpet Ride, on which I will never book another trip.

So, sadder but wiser, I continue on knowing I'd better keep fed and drink plenty of liquids.  And if you see me, don't get me upset.  I might faint on you.

A tortured parent

After nearly five months, I have a reason to blog.

I reason I did not need or want.

One of the most terrifying thoughts a parent can contemplate has to be the loss of your child. It involves fear, panic, unspeakable dread, and an overwhelming sense of something you care deeply about going terribly and strangely out of your control, getting beyond what is within your own ability to maintain.

And I began that process Sunday night, when my son called me to tell me that his sister was in a fatal accident - another man had died - that put her in the hospital, in very serious condition.

Blind panic. I had to get to her. But I was hundreds of miles away, and far away from my responsibility, from where I was needed.

Guilt at leaving her crept into my soul. It was just a month ago that she called, crying at the distance between us and telling me that she loved me so much. She knew why I left, that the chance for a changed life was too valued to pass up. But still there was a searing, empty pain that sat behind my heart and thumped at my tortured soul.

No sleep. No comfort. she hurts, I hurt. That's as it should be.

Would I ever see her again? Will I ever be able to see how much love comes out of those brown eyes when she looks at me? Can I live with that? A parent outliving their child brings an odd, perverse feeling of wrong, an absence of balance. It is disquieting, a disharmonious discomfort that comes as though you took something which you did not deserve.

It is like no feeling I have ever experienced.

Seeing her in intensive care, unconscious, knowing she is better off right now being unresponsive to my touch or to my voice, and yet wanting to see that spark of recognition in her eyes ... wanting to be with her, and yet standing in the frustration of uselessness ... it's all a part of the tearing of your soul.

She is not out of the woods. It will take time for her to begin a tough road back. It will take adjustment to the new challenges that await her, and everyone around her.

It will take adjustment for me, was well. That's fine. Facing that adjustment is the sweetest challenge that awaits. Because in facing that challenge, she will have survived. And survival for her is all I ask.

She lost her foot. We got her life, at least for now. In the current moment, I will take that and thank God for it.

Duty to the masses

If you are going to do a blog, for heaven's sakes, do one.

It is incumbent on those who write these things to regularly perform those blogger responsibilities which keep the masses entertained. I believe that. Really, I do.

I just have trouble, well, doing it.

It's like a lot of other goals a lot of us have every day, but life gets in the way of accomplishing - like getting some exercise, or filing those papers, or washing the dog.

If I had a dog, I guess he'd smell pretty bad.

I am amazed this blog does not die of loneliness. I like doing it, but life indeed does get in the way of proper care and feeding of blogs.

When I was writing columns, I sometimes would have to fit a lot of small subjects into one column. I feel one of those times coming on.

So, let's rapid fire a little ...

- God Bless my lovely Mother, who prepared desserts for "a few folks" who came over for Mother's Day - "nine or ten," she said. Relatively, she is right on the money, since 40 to 60 relatives can make it for any given holiday - nine or ten is child's play. I caught the irony of my Mom having to cook to celebrate her special day. But to be honest, I wish I was one of the "Few folks." Especially if she made that pound cake. Yum.

- Erin Andrews is a lovely lady and a talented dancer, as she proves weekly on "Dancing With The Stars." And in no way am I condoning what the filthy slimeball who took naked pictures of her did - he is in prison where he belongs. But I can appreciate the irony of millions of people scanning the web for uploads of those photos of her, and her screaming about her privacy (and rightly so) and then accepting a role on a show in which she dances each week in skimpy, barely-there costumes.

More later ...

How much pain can you tolerate?

Apparently, the answer to that question surprises the people who ask it.

For reasons of relevance, I am talking about physical pain, not the agony of lost love, or the daily annoyances we all live with, or the overall crosses we bear. I am talking about the "shoot, that hurts" kind of pain we all endure.

I have just come out of the hospital after spending a few days trying to find out why I passed out while at work. After a bunch of tests and exams, I was told I passed out (as best they can tell) due to dehydration and stress from pain.

So I guess you can tolerate things better with a lot of drinking.

My own pain comes from a herniated disk in my neck, coming from a dive out the restaurant drive-thru window to save a ten-dollar bill that had blown away. I will go into that episode later on. But since that time, I have had to develop a tolerance to pain levels that I have not had to develop previously. I am not looking for a "poor pitiful you" reaction - knowing most of the blog followers, I would never get that anyway - but I have discovered that dealing with pain becomes a daily, even hourly exercise in just how much a person will put themselves through.

I was given medication to deal with the pain. But that medicine makes me sleepy, and I cannot work and take part in the rest of my life staggering around drowsy. I take it when I have time to tolerate the side effects, which is not very often. The doctor did change the prescription to something for arthritis, which has helped. But even with that, I cannot say I am pain-free.

So my pain does not go away, but it is adjusted to a level I can live with - usually. When asked "How ya doin'?," I am not honest when I say "Great." Usually, I am in a little pain. But you do not answer the casual question "How ya doin'?" with a long list of aches and pains, so you say "Great" and move on.

But you are not great. Some days, in fact, are better than others.

Medical folks have a scale they use, that measures a patients pain from a scale of 1 to 10, with one being perfectly fine and 10 being the worst pain you ever experienced. That would be good to use in casual conversation - "How ya doin'?" "About a three, thanks."

My sisters - three of the four - came to town to visit us while I was laid up. I noticed how difficult it was for one of them to get around, particularly when she stood up or went up stairs. She takes injections to ease the pain she has, and although it was not time for her to get another one, she is obviously feeling more pain than she would consider tolerable. But she goes ahead and tolerates it.

I felt badly for her state of pain, but she said she was fine and went on with her life. I guess that is what most of us do - we draw a line of final tolerance with the daily discomfort of our lives, then grunt and grit our teeth on those occasions when pain breaks that threshold.

If the pain breaks through that level more often, a little medical expertise is needed.

So dealing with pain is a matter of tolerance. Problem is, that experience is challenging to make others understand. My pain may make others wince, but would get still others to wonder what all the fuss is about.

It is, like most things in life, relative.

In the meantime, I'm about a two. I can deal with that.

Would you like some freakin' fries with that?

I am a manager at a fast-food restaurant.

I know, I know. I am really a writer. Have been for many years. But a series of events have changed my life once more, and now I have become what I once was before - a fast-food restaurant manager.

As Jerry Seinfield once said (about another subject), "Not that there's anything wrong with that."

A lot of really good people work in fast food. My used-to-be sister in law has done nothing but restaurant work since before she left high school, and has been very successful at it. My son and daughter have both worked in fast food restaurants, and several people I have met here in Texas who work in fast food are great, hard-working people who do their thing and make their way in life.

I am apparently good at my job, because I still have it. These days, with ten percent unemployment, bosses really do not take a lot of time working through employee situations. The easy answer to everything has been, "See ya - I have 15 resumes here and I can get someone who can fit into your uniform by 5 p.m."

My restaurant used to be owned by the franchise, but was sold to a franchisee just after Christmas. That involves changes, and not all of them are warmly received. No one likes change until it becomes routine, after all, and I am a team player. So if you want me to write up the sales report at 9 a.m. instead of 10 a.m., I can roll with that.

Dad used to tell me that any job is a good job if it involves honest work and provides for your family. He was right, as he often was about a lot of things. But going a bit deeper, for a lot of guys, a job is what defines who you are. It is what you might have trained for, gone to school for, gotten extra practice at, or generally worked hard at in order to become the best you could be.

Another Dad-ism: "If you cannot dig a nice, round hole in the ground, do not take up a career in ditch-digging. But if you do, be the best digger in the ditch." I adopted that stance when I began working in the restaurant. Sure, a few sandwiches might have come out without a few little things - like meat. But I got the hang of it and got through training. I spent the next six weeks or so certifying as a manager that knows how to cook food and serve it to the public in accordance with health and safety laws.

I have come to the conclusion that, like the days of the military draft, many people ought to be forced to work in restaurants or some other (so-called) menial labor so they can get a feel for how the other half lives. Many people would not act like jackasses at restaurants if they had to endure the aftermath of a customer gone bad.

For example, a customer asked for a sandwich with lots and lots of extra pickles. He got it. He then dunked each pickle in ketchup and used his napkin to slingshot them onto the wall, the window and the ceiling. How pleasant it was to clean that up.

Would any of you out there do that at home? Of course not. My mother never tolerated such stupidity at the dinner table, with the exception of one food fight that stated over the serving of hominy. A story for another time, although you can be assured that John started it.

So why do people - especially young people - get with their friends and have "I can be stupider than you" contests at a fast food restaurant?

Here is a quick list of dumb things done at fast-food restaurants - at least, since I have been there:

- Ordering food that is served at other restaurants. Ten times a day, I get asked for a "Happy meal." That ain't us. People come in and order Whataburgers with cheese. Wrong-o. We don't have tater tots and we don't have ice cream. And if the food item you want starts with "Jack," go to a restaurant with "Jack" in the name.

- Cell phones. Most people have precious little manners when it comes to using them in public anyway, but something about coming in a fast food place magnifies their uncouth-ness by a factor of ten. They come to the register, usually with people behind them, and talk away while they point at the item they want as if the staff can decode these signals. They talk with their voices to the called party, but pantomime and lip-sync their directions to you. And in the drive thru, the latest craze is to drive in, get the order taker's "Can I help you?" and tell them to wait with they call their friends and ask them what they want.

All of which, by the way, is RUDE AS HELL.

- Families. Fast-food places are family-friendly places, and they want parents to bring in the little ones. But for God's sakes, most families turn it into a baby-sitting service. One kid was playing in the playground as his father was out in the parking lot, in his truck, Yes, cell phones were involved. Kids, delightful as they are, change when they come inside. They scream, yell, cry, run through the restaurant, knock people down, throw stuff on the floor, smear condiments onto everything they touch and go into the bathroom to destroy anything they see.

All this goes on while Mom an Dad are munching away on their own bags 'o goodies with hardly a care as to what their kids are doing. After all, they don't have to clean it up - and believe me, they don't.

Not getting all racial on you, but some people of a certain culture that is widely populated here in Texas (guess for yourselves which one) comes into the restaurant with their kids. The parents cannot speak English past "Hi." So the kids, at age seven or so, come to the register to give the order, all the while yelling back at the parents (who have found a booth) in native tongue to get the order right. It's SO much fun! The kids might speak English, but they have not the math skills to get the correct change from the $20 they are going to give me no matter what the order totals.

- "Value" menus. Some sadistic bastard in the corporate office got a raise for inventing the "Value" menu. The problem is, no one knows what "value" means. At my store, the smallest fries or drink you can get is called a "Value" because it is the cheapest. So when a customer orders a small drink, you have to find out if he wants a small or a "Value" drink. This wastes more time at the ordering stage and ticks off the customer, who just wants a little damn drink.

Of course, at other restaurants, a value might be the largest drink of all at the price of a medium drink. Value is such a generic word and can mean so many different things that no one is really sure what they get when they get a value meal.

Anyway, I started out by saying I am a restaurant manager is if that was a bad thing. And I came to the job in the process of restarting my professional life, something I have done many times in my life. It is not a bad place, or an embarrassing place, or a degrading place to be. It is merely a place to begin again, to get up after the fall and start the climb back up the ladder.

I had to learn the hard way that Dad was right - about the ditch, the honest living, the effort that has to be put into everything you do. Honest, hard work is rewarded. Maybe not with a lot, but it is rewarded.

So if you want fries with that order, come on up to the second window and let me know. At this stage in my life, I will be glad to help you.