Most Awesome Moments of 2011

There is no shortage of lists these days. I suppose it's the most efficient way of reviewing the old year as we prepare for the new. So in honor of the end of the year, here is my personal list of Awesome Moments from 2011:

• Finding out that people actually do read BillsWeek
• Going to that little local donut place (Walton's Donuts on Leetsdale) on the way to work
• Watching all five seasons of Brothers and Sisters on Netflix
• Attending new member classes at the Episcopal cathedral
• Seeing lots of friends from back east as they passed through Colorado on their summer trips
• Estudiar español y recordar algunas palabras
• Deciding that instead of going to Village Inn for a piece of pie, we'll go and buy a whole pie to take home instead
• Two, count 'em, two separate trips to San Diego
• Charles let me have a Christmas tree this year - he did break one ornament, but that's better than the whole tree, so I guess he's turning into an adult cat finally
• The discovery that visiting every Colorado state park is not going to take one year, but probably three or more
• Xanax
• Going to the Atomic Cafe for biscuits on Sunday mornings
• The Occupy Movement
• Learning how to delete channels on Pandora
• Listening to BBC Witness on the iPod at 24 Hour Fitness
• Near daily cuddles with Freddie, the Pomeranian who lives next door
• Herman Cain's spectacular downfall
• Figuring out how to use the automatic thermostat on the car heater (I've only had the car three years)
• Watching the hawks outside my office window

Happy Holidays! See you next year!

Dying Dishwasher Spurs Appliance Crisis

 When I remodeled my kitchen, the green dishwasher which melted all of my plastics was replaced with a white one that had heat control; the green stove featuring uneven metal coil burners was discarded in favor of a white model with a smooth glass top; the green fridge sporting metal shelves was replaced by an energy efficient white unit containing glass shelving. All the cheap dark corkboard cupboards and drawers were replaced with European style (or so I was told) glossy beige and blue ones.

My modern kitchen!

As a relatively new homeowner, I felt like I had taken a big step towards transforming the dumpy fixer-upper where I lived into a showpiece home.

That was 12 years ago. Since then, every three or four years, I've done a major remodel on a different part of the condo, the most expensive of which was the bathroom, itself worthy of a separate writing.

Thing is, though, I'm wondering if it's time to start all over and again invest in the kitchen.

I'm asking because the "new" dishwasher I got in 2000 is making a loud noise - like a death rattle. Recent Thanksgiving guests could barely converse without shouting over the rhythmic clang-chunk, clang-chunk, clang-chunk sound.

Do all appliances age at the same rate? Will I have to replace everything at the same time?

My worst fear is not the cost, but whether I have the nerve to empty the freezer. See, I love to freeze stuff. I really like the idea of being prepared for that blizzard which strands me in the house for several days with lots of frozen soup on which to survive. So every time I cook, I set something aside and stick it in the freezer. It feels very secure, like money in the bank.

The problem, however, is that I don't take stuff out as much as I put stuff in. It gets to the point where I'm cramming and shoving just to make room for a sandwich baggie of leftovers.

I recently found a jar of unidentified frozen substance that I was pretty sure predated the last couple of blizzards. I thought about thawing it to save the jar, but decided it was too gross to contemplate. I threw it away to make room for a baggie.

There are also a couple pounds of meat someone gave me in 2010. I don't know how long they had it before that. I've heard of people eating 10,000 year old mastodon found frozen in a glacier. The meat in my freezer isn't that old, but I'm still not sure how long I should keep it.

Way in the back of the freezer, I fear, could be items dating back to the Clinton administration.

As I foraged for a snack one afternoon, I found an old ice cream sandwich. It looked ok. But when I bit into it, my teeth encountered something completely dry, spongy, and flavorless. All ice cream had been defrosted away, leaving nothing but a scummy white shell between ancient husks of wafer. I gagged on what was basically a mummified frozen snack. I only finished it because I was hungry.

 Epilogue: The good news is I have cleaned out the freezer and now it's nearly empty. The bad news: they are predicting snow this weekend.

Is it OK to Listen to Christmas Music Before December?

Every year, starting in late August, shoppers complain that while browsing patio furniture clearance sales at the local department store, Christmas music can be heard. We shake our heads and agree that this seems to happen earlier every year. We are shocked - shocked! - at the crass commercialization of the holiday.

Everyone knows that the yuletide season shouldn't start until Thanksgiving midnight when the stores open.

Some, Christians mostly, insist that they won't acknowledge Christmas one moment before the first Sunday in Advent, the church’s official four weeks leading up to the celebration of Christ's birth.

In theory I've agreed, and yet, as I fight to hold off ho-ho-hoing until the church says it's ok, I've started to reconsider my position on the subject. Must we limit holiday happiness to a set of rigid dates?

December 25, after all, is not really Jesus' birthday, but a date selected by the early church to coincide with the return of the sun after the winter solstice (and to usurp more ancient heathen celebrations occurring at the same time).

So why do we have to wait until some date on the calendar before we start whistling Jingle Bells? What about that old Dickensian adage that we should keep Christmas in our hearts all year around? What Dickens meant, in part, was that it's ok to enjoy Christmas TV reruns when they are shown in July.

Most of December is just one rush rush rush after another - from obligatory work parties to attending your friends' kids' concerts. It's exhausting. But amidst all the craziness, music can provide a nice break. Sometimes a particular tune takes us back to another time, a happy holiday in the past. Oh sure, there is seasonal music we don't care for. I know a woman who practically goes homicidal when "Santa Baby" comes on. I personally chafe at heavy-metal versions of Little Drummer Boy. But overall, I'm always happy to start hearing the familiar tunes in the stores.

This year, I set up my Pandora holiday channels in early November. I may even get some decorations out before Thanksgiving. Mind you, at noon on January 1, I'll shut off the music and take down the lights. I know that according to the church, Christmas lasts until January 6, but come on, a person can only stand so much.

Winter, Like Laundry, Just Keeps Coming Back

No matter how much laundry you do, there's always going to be more. We don't stop wearing clothes just because clean laundry is folded on the closet shelves (or in my case, just tossed into the closet somewhere).

The trash can in the kitchen also continues to fill no matter how empty we try to keep it.

And dishes: any given evening after cleaning up, we admire the gleaming kitchen, counters free of all used plates and pots, the dishwasher rhythmically cleansing the residue of dinner away. It is never long before the first dirty glass appears. You just got everything washed up and now it's messy again!

Life never stops, even when we want it to.

We don't stop consuming beverages just because the dishes are done. The laundry basket doesn't stay empty - you toss a little into it every day, eventually stuffing it beyond overflowing, and finally you have no choice but to wash a load.

I suppose you could think of it as the circle of life: like birth and death, over and over again. Autumn is a good time to contemplate life's cycles, like the rotation of the seasons, one right after the other, repeatedly over time.

Winter is kind of like laundry. You think it's behind you but it always comes back with its dark nights and cold weather. What happened to summer? Wasn't it just a few days ago that every window was open? And even though we've barely recovered from the last round, it's time to prepare for the holidays again.

The years roll by faster and faster, like the washer's final spin cycle. Which reminds me, I need to do a load.

Falling Palms: Autumn in Southern California

There were more people than seats in the tiny little boarding area. I was torn between sitting on the floor or walking around with my heavy carry-on bag. It would surely be more comfortable to sit, but I'd be on a plane for two hours and I thought I should keep off my butt as much as possible.

When the usual boarding rituals finally commenced, I waited anxiously to be allowed on the plane. But first the disabled could board. Then families with small children. Then special club members and people assigned to the seats with extra leg room. I wasn’t in any of these groups. Then the back five rows could board. Then the back 10, and so on.

As people shuffled forward, the gate agent got on the PA system and announced that the flight was overbooked. They needed a volunteer to be bumped to a later flight. In exchange, the volunteer would receive a voucher for a free flight in the future.

 I was so tired, all I wanted to do was get home. Traveling is such a hassle and the less time spent at the airport, the better.

The agent made another announcement: still looking for a volunteer to get bumped. Won't someone please come forward?

I couldn't believe no one wanted that free flight. I suppose everyone was just as tired as I was. On the third request for a volunteer, I heaved myself and my carry-on off the floor and made my way through the gathered passengers. I told the agent that, yes, I would volunteer to get bumped.

Cut to several months later. It occurs to me that I still have the voucher and it will expire after one year if I don't use it. I feel like I have to use it on something special -- not the places I usually fly, which would be San Diego and - well, just San Diego. Frontier's international destinations don't interest me. No other destinations excite me. I suppose I could get worked up about going to Florida to visit Disney World and the retro-futuristic Epcot Center. Key West might be fun, but everyone in the advertising is so thin and hairless, I wouldn't fit in. New Orleans is fun, although I don't have many sober memories of it. Forget New York - I'm still not over having to live there in the 80s.

I've been lucky to be able to travel through the years. I've watched a wall of fog envelope San Francisco. I've stood on a sandbar in the Gulf of Mexico with a school of little fish encircling my ankles. I've leaned over the edge of a pier, Pacific storm waves soaking my legs high above the normal waterline as dolphins and pelicans just yards away feasted on the stuff stirred up by the surf. I've been totally confused by driving on the left side while coming to a roundabout in the UK. I smelled the breath of a humpback whale off the coast of Cape Cod. Last year I went to a retreat in West Virginia - Appalachia in the autumn.

I've been around. I once even took a cruise off the coast of Nebraska - a steamboat on the Missouri River. We went from Brownville down to the nuclear power plant and turned around.

Is there any place that I would like to see but haven't? Not really. My favorite vacations are the ones where I do a lot of beach walking and sitting and relaxing. Guess I'll go to San Diego again - this will be twice in one year.

Southern California in the autumn. Doesn't conjure images of falling leaves and crisp chilly mornings. But to be fair, those big palms do fall off the trees. You could get killed if you happened to be under one as it lands. I will take my chances.  Meanwhile, the voucher was generous and I am, this time, able to upgrade to the special seating with extra leg room. Looks like I’ll be among the first to board this time.

Lure of the Cult

 Inside a chilly stone building, the assembled gather over the symbolic remains of a revered leader. Chanting punctuates the ancient rituals which draw followers from all over the city. Indoctrination ("education") for newcomers is provided.

I held off the sect's advances as long as I could. But after several years of watching from the sidelines, I've finally given in. I am now becoming officially indoctrinated, falling slow motion into a cult that has existed for hundreds of years, many of them a bit on the bloody side.

You see, I am participating in new member classes (the Catechumenate) at St. John’s Episcopal Cathedral.

It seems like I have to try as many denominations as I can. I started out Presbyterian and briefly flirted with the United Methodists. After a stormy stopover in the United Church of Christ, I discovered peace and spiritual resonance in the ancient traditions of the Episcopal Church.

Lots of my fellow members from the UCC congregation left at the same time I did, the result of serious congregational contention. Many of them moved on to become Unitarian.

But I had to be different. I went for the more dramatic tradition. I chose mystical and ritual over practical. I like the colorful robes, the gigantic organ, and the kneeling. I love having communion every Sunday. I'd probably be a great Catholic if it weren't for their absolutist exclusiveness and some theology that I just can’t swallow.

The Catechumenate is nine months long, and if I so choose, I may officially join the church around Palm Sunday. No other church that I've been involved with demands such commitment from newcomers. I like that the cathedral, and the 70 participants in my class, take this seriously.

I have many questions I hope will be answered in the coming months: Why do Episcopalians wear black so often? How do they manage to keep disease from spreading when everyone drinks from the same communion cup? Is the Anglican community really protestant, or just Catholic-light? How do they decide where to put those signs that say, “The Episcopal Church Welcomes You”?  How many Episcopalians does it take to screw in a light bulb? Ok, I already know the answer to that one, but I’m not going to say it. I need to show some respect or I may be looking for a new denomination soon.

PostBlog from Scottsbluff – Pigging Out in the Panhandle

You might think it strange to take a 24 hour road trip to Scottsbluff, Nebraska with the primary goal of eating a lot of local food. Well, I never denied being strange. This is what my friend Brian and I did a couple weekends ago.

Highlights of the eat-fest included a Scotty’s cinnamon glacier - ice cream mixed with a slushee and flavored with cinnamon. It tasted like Christmas. It was totally worth the drive.

Of course when in Nebraska, one must have a Runza - seasoned beef and cabbage cooked inside delicious, doughy bread. We also sampled some of the delectable local Mexican cuisine, and had a delightful breakfast at a greasy diner.

We were pleased to be accompanied by my niece and sister-in-law who reside in the area. When it comes to eating, I can always depend on my family. Every event with my dad or my siblings centers around food. Every holiday, birthday, actually any gathering for any reason – we never miss a meal. Even when one of us is in the hospital, we don’t  forget to eat.

Wherever two or three Calkins are gathered, I always say, there is food also. Our obsession with food isn't limited to just consuming vast amounts of it. We use food to show love.

 After going through surgery a while back, before he was fully conscious, my dad sent me out to get him a chocolate malt from Cold Stone. I got one for myself as well so he wouldn’t have to eat alone. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

The afternoon of a different surgery he asked for two éclairs from Lamars - the kind with frosting filling, not pudding, per his exact specifications. The nurse said he wouldn't be hungry so soon after surgery. Clearly she didn't know who she was dealing with.

I've been more or less on Weight Watchers for the past year. I do weigh less than when I started and I look pretty good. When, after losing 30 pounds, I visited my dad, he said he was proud that I'd lost so much weight. He then proceeded to pull out cheese and crackers, chips and dips, olives, and beverages for us to consume before heading out for dinner.

It's not just my dad. It's all of us. On those rare occasions when my sister comes to visit me, the highlight is often a trip to Whole Foods where we buy little samples of cheese, some crackers, maybe some potsticker dumplings to snack on. One time we bought an entire cake (moist, with fresh berries in the whipped cream filling) for just the two of us. And let me tell you, it was good.

I have to admit that it's not just when I'm with family. I make food part of many routines in my life. For example, one of the locations of my gym just happens to be next door to Whole Foods. It seems only natural that after working out, I should head over to the store's deli for a specialty sandwich (turkey, fig jam, greens, and brie on a club roll). And while I'm there, how can I not go by the bakery and pick up a couple of those big, fresh chocolate chip cookies? I have just come from the gym, after all, so eating these treats won't make that much difference.

You see, while showing love to others with food, I've also learned love myself.

Smoke, Sexual Harassment, and No Seatbelts

It's a wonder we survived the 1960s. I’m not talking about the cold war, Viet Nam, or hippies.

I've just started watching Mad Med on Netflix - a show on A&E about an advertising firm in 1960.

In addition to the plot and characters such as the mysterious and troubled Don Draper, and in spite of being horrified by much of what I see, I'm fascinated by the 1960 styles and attitudes. Like a car accident, I can't look away.

It is a world made for straight, white, men. The only African Americans in Draper's life are the nearly invisible elevator operator and the guy who brings the sandwich cart around. Gay and lesbian people are either invisible or reviled, and live in constant fear of losing their jobs or worse. When a divorcee moves into the neighborhood, she is greeted with gossip and hostility, except for one of the neighborhood husbands who makes a pass at her.

They did things in 1960 that we wouldn't dream of doing now. For example, they smoked - in the office, in the kitchen, in bed, in the doctor's office, in the car... There is smoking in every scene. Pregnant women are smoking. And they drink: at the office, at lunch, everywhere. People drink mass quantities of wine and liquor. Sloshed, they get in the car and drive, and nobody says a word!

Also in the car, no one wears a seatbelt. Little kids climb from the front seat to the back seat and back again, as Mom speeds down the street.

I don't think Mad Men is exaggerating, except perhaps in the sexual harassment department. In Mad Men, if you're a secretary (and all secretaries are female), you should expect to be hit on by men in the office, multiple times, and you don't complain. Sometimes, you give in. This certainly happened in 1960, but surely not as much as Mad Men portrays. While my dad referred to his office staff as "the girls," I doubt very seriously if he sexually harassed them. On the other hand, without today's consequences, and with 1960 views of women in the workplace, I suppose sexual harassment could run amok.

 Don't be fooled by politicians who tell you things were better in the good old days. I'm not saying we don't have problems now. But at least there isn't second hand smoke in the office, gays and lesbians can usually find a safe place to be, and we work our own elevators.

Have a Nice Day

Some recent management handbook must say that the restaurant host, while seating you, should ask, "So how are you doing today?" I heard those exact words twice last week, first at the IHOP near my home and again at the Olive Garden in Fort Collins (hey, don't judge me – Olive Garden has great salad).

On the surface, it's a harmless question. You're supposed to answer, "Just fine, thanks." But my first instinct is to answer honestly. I doubt if the host wants to know about my sucky day; that my foot hurts and I just backed into another car. What if I just came from the doctor having learned I have a terminal disease?

Less intrusive but still annoying is the common wish people bestow upon strangers: "Have a nice day." At least with that one, there's no opening to discuss my sore foot.

A lot of people don't like "Have a nice day." It doesn't always ring sincere. I've been tempted to answer "Have a nice day" with, "Too late!" But I never have. When you think about it, even if it’s not sincere, the person saying it wouldn’t necessarily want you to have a bad day.

While sometimes irritating, I think I'd rather have these courtesies than the grunts of surly, snarly wait people and store clerks found, for example, in some east coast establishments. They don’t even say thank you, let alone "Have a nice day."

Given the choice I'll take false friendliness to open hostility.

A friendly thank you or even "Have a nice day" shows that a server at least has good manners. And good manners help to keep society civil, which judging from the House of Representatives (brought to you by the Tea Party), is not a bad thing.

So now that I’ve made a hostile comment about the Tea Party, I will sign off. But before I go, I really do hope you have a nice day.

You Know You’re from Scottsbluff If …

There is a big new trend on Facebook: hometown nostalgia pages. The one I'm interested in, You Know You're from Scottsbluff If ..., has become so popular I can't keep up with all the posts.

Not surprisingly, food figures prominently in the discussions. It's not for nothing that the Nebraska city was once named one of the fattest in the country. It seems people scattered around the world savor the memory of  Scotty's burgers and fries, rumbas, a rum flavored Coke beverage from the Dash In (Dash Out to the Dash In), and Taco Town.

Of course, non-food things are also remembered such as the elevator at Penneys when Penneys was downtown, stores staying open late every Thursday, the zoo being free, and a hair salon which used its phone number in a catchy radio jingle that remains entrenched in our minds four decades later (Six Three Two, Thirty-Two Ten, The Barber Den).

I only lived eight years in Scottsbluff, compared to 22 in Denver, which I consider my home town. But I have to admit that those eight years were formative, and since I was graduated from high school there, I suppose Sco-blo deserves at least honorary hometown status.

In the 70s (maybe still today), bluffers were a very proud people. We were different from, better than, the rest of Nebraska which was flat and humid and boring. Our town was built, along with twin city Gering, at the base of the magnificent bluff where trapper Hiram Scott was said to have died in the 1840s. Easterners (that is, people from Omaha and Lincoln) had no idea what a treasure existed way out in the panhandle.

 Scottsbluff wasn't huge but it had two TV stations (both now defunct, I think), an airport, traffic jams (when you had to wait for a long coal train at the crossing), movie theatres, a symphony, an art center, and lots of shopping which attracted those unfortunates who lived in smaller panhandle towns. Around 1980 when the mall opened we thought we were really big stuff.

Scottsbluff was a good place to be a kid. You could ride your bike everywhere including the zoo and the movie theatre. There were enough people there to make a lot of friends, but few enough that you always saw someone you knew when you were out.

Certainly there was no anonymity. Corporal Paul Manley of the Nebraska State Patrol (who had his  own radio spots – think the Shane Company but about driving safely) went to our church and reported to my mother that I'd run a stop sign. Yeesh. There was another time when I was goofing around in the street with a friend and a woman yelled out her front door, "Bill Calkins, does your mother know what you're doing?" I'm not going to say what it was. You'll have to guess.

Coming out as gay in Scottsbluff was very public regardless of whether I wanted it to be. Like all small communities, tongues wagged. Minds weren't always open and many of us fled at the first opportunity. I couldn’t wait to escape to the urban east, Lincoln, where indeed I did experience more diversity. I've since learned, however, that closed minds and gossip aren't limited to Scottsbluff or small towns in general. You can find ignorance everywhere.

I suppose we get nostalgic about hometowns because they help define who we are. The common experiences of a having shared a high school, dragging Broadway, and eating cabbage burgers at Bailey's Town and Country unites many of us who otherwise would have very little in common.

Bailey's and the Dash In no longer exist. But I understand Scotty's is just as good as ever. I feel a road trip coming on ...

Postblog from the Southwest: The Definition of Diversity

I get so offended when people from the west coast lump Colorado in with the Midwest – as if Ohio and the Centennial State have anything in common. Colorado is a land of cowboys, high plains, desert, and rugged mountains. Of course, if you live in California, it's just part of that great flyover which is of no consequence.

Please spare me the comments about how all Californians don’t think that way. I know that. I’m just using a little hyperbole to make a point.

Also, just to be clear, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the Midwest. I think Ohio is beautiful. It’s just that I take offence when others dismiss the flyover as one vast homogeneous region where diversity is as foreign as the ocean tides.

In my travels around Colorado trying to visit every state park, I’ve seen a lot of variety. I have to grudgingly admit that the northeast, say Fort Morgan and Sterling, look kind of Midwestern, with corn and wheat fields and just that touch of humidity. Southeast Colorado is high plains hot and dry and though I’ve never been there, I imagine it resembles west Texas, which after all, is not that far away.

This week, I’m vacationing in the four corners part of the state which, in terms of U.S. regions, belongs solidly in the Southwest.

One need look no further than some of the pueblo architecture in these parts to be reminded that this used to be Spanish territory. Spanish names dot the map and descendents of the Spanish as well as the more indigenous people are everywhere, a reminder that these Americans’ roots go way deeper and further back than my own.

Visiting the ancient cliff dwellings of Mesa Verde remind me that though we think history in this hemisphere only started about 1800 or so, there have actually been prosperous people with complex social and technological constructs for many centuries before.

If you really want a taste of the Southwest, just visit the Four Corners Monument, a marker at the point where Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah all meet. This interesting geographical occurrence, despite belonging to four states, is truly out in the middle of nowhere. This is desert with a capital D. To my eye it’s lifeless and barren, though the local Navajo selling food and jewelry at the monument would probably disagree. I seek the shade of a jewelry stand and buy a beautiful hematite necklace. I’m on the Arizona side of the marker, so I can say I bought this jewelry from a Navajo woman in Arizona. Don’t I sound well traveled?

Literally (sort of) burned out by the desert, I drive about 90 minutes and up several thousand feet into the green, lush pine and aspen forests of the San Juan range. This is more like what outsiders think Colorado looks like with its jagged peaks and breathtaking vistas. This year there’s been a lot of rain so everything is very green. Early in the morning, plumes of mist rise from the slopes like ghosts. At some points frustrated by the summer traffic, of course, I’m tempted to say that the San Juans look like the back of a camper and smell like diesel. But then I arrive in Silverton which is a truly historic town, preserved much as it was a hundred or more years ago. Unlike some other Colorado towns with their fake Victorian gingerbread looking facades, Silverton is the real thing. A piece of hot apple pie a la mode at the Brown Bear Cafe tops off the high drive in the mountains.

Those of us living on the Front Range are similar to my acquaintances on the west coast. We are at best ignorant and at worst dismissive of other parts of our state. There is a whole big Colorado out here which we should get to know. From the Southwest to the Midwest, Colorado is the very definition of diversity.

Nose Hair Signals That the End is Near

It's a delicate operation. One false move and it hurts. A lot. Using tweezers would be worse. I use little tiny scissors which don't take out the whole hair, root and all, but merely trim it down so I have to do it again in a few days. 

Lately, I've noticed something new. Some of the nostril hairs that I’m trimming are white. And that's just the tip of the ice berg. I have lots of white hair in other places.  Where did it all come from?  The hair in my ears is white. My beard has been white for a long time. My chest hair is turning white. The only place it's not white is on top of my head, and that's only because there really isn't much there.

It's not like I'm surprised to be getting older. True, I forget my exact age sometimes and have to subtract the year I was born from the current year. Really, objectively, I feel lucky to be getting old. By many measures, I shouldn't have survived this long. But here I am, saving for my retirement, wondering if universal health care will be a reality by the time I stop working.

I always told myself I'd age gracefully, without complaint, without regrets. Age is just a number, I always thought. I should welcome age and the wisdom it brings. Instead, I find myself continually surprised that the years are creeping up on me - and the decades are flying by.

Coming of age moments happen all the time.

For example, I occasionally go to the Village Inn near my office for breakfast. I've noticed that the same old guys are in there every morning. They talk with the servers like true pals, and say hello to each other by name. More often than not, the server doesn't even need to ask what they want to eat. She just brings it out. Kind of like how Betty knows to always bring me a coffee, no cream, and a large water. I kind of laughed at these old guys until it slowly dawned on me that I AM ONE OF THEM.

Face it: getting older is tough. Here are some of the frustrations I'm having as I age gracefully:

• Things I did to my body years ago are coming back to haunt me. I’ll spare you the details.
• I can't see.
• My memory isn’t exactly slipping, but I vividly recall a meal I had in 1987 - and I can’t remember anything about yesterday.
• I'm watching my friends age too. How can they look so much older while I still look the same?
• I'm working with people half my age who, for example, don't know the origination of the "cc" in email (if you're younger than 35, I should tell you that we used to type each letter by hand, using carbon paper to make carbon copies (hence the cc) because we couldn’t just print another document.
•  When predictions of a disastrous future are made, it is with guilty relief that I think to myself how great it is that I'll be dead before it happens.

Which brings me to the most startling thing about getting older. It is the thing that nobody talks about: the realization that you are going to die. With more than half your life behind you, time is limited. If you've always wanted to do something, now is the time to do it.

It's just a shame that I have to spend the rest of my life trimming unwanted hair from my facial orifices.

Machines Replacing People in Everyday Interactions

Every couple of months, I use this blog to spout off about technology. The occasion for this particular spout is that I just got a new GPS for my car. The Global Positioning System is a little gadget that plugs into the car's electric outlet (you know - the thing that used to be the cigarette lighter but isn't any more). A little screen shows me where I am and a voice tells me where I should be going.

It's one of those things we couldn't have imagined a few years ago and makes me think, as I often do, that we are living in the future.

The GPS speaks to me in a casual business-like female voice. I've started to call her Blanche. She really helps me out. Gone are the days when I have to mess around with a paper map and its complicated folds.

Of course, Blanche isn't perfect. In Vail with my sister recently, I decided to have Blanche direct us to a particular Mexican restaurant we were interested in. Blanch guided us to some empty lot on the frontage road which was clearly not a restaurant. My sister was not impressed with my gadget.

Blanche isn't the only new interaction I've been having with machines.

Since the classes I took earlier this year didn't work out, I'm attempting to learn Spanish from a computer program. If you pass by my place at just the right time, you'll hear me talking to simulated virtual people who only exist in software. They are Norman, Claudia, and Isabel. They always understand me in spite of my accent, and they are endlessly patient, allowing me to repeat each lesson as many times as I want.

Blanche and Isabel are not real people, of course, but sometimes I forget that. When Blanche reminds me just one too many times that I will need to turn right in a quarter mile, I sometimes call her a bad name. If I miss the turn, Blanche sounds just the slightest bit annoyed when she says, "Recalculating..." and attempts to get me back on track.

Technology pervades. Who goes anywhere without a cell phone? We use ATMs to interact with our bank and we check out our own groceries at the supermarket without even thinking about it. I can go all day without speaking to another human. And then there are the many times when my co-worker and I instant message each other though we sit only 10 feet apart.

I see where the Japanese are developing robots to take care of elderly people. Is this the companionship we have to look forward to in our old age? Yeah yeah, it's easy to complain about technology, but it really can help us. The Japanese robots, for example, will enable people to live more independently for a longer period of time.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that I contribute to technological depersonalization. In my day job as an Instructional Designer, I write curriculum that can be accessed from any computer in the company. Web based training at your own desk at your own speed is more efficient and requires much less interaction with other people. Whether that's a good thing is debatable. Hey, I didn't start  the depersonalization of technology, I'm just making money off of it.

Animals Have Souls

Of all the ridiculous nonsense religious people have spread throughout the centuries, one item in particular stands out. It first came to my attention when I was in about the sixth grade and my Sunday school teacher, a guy named Gary, pronounced with certainty that animals don't have souls.

Of course I knew he was wrong. Anyone who has been close to an animal, I thought way back then, would know old Gar was mistaken. In my case, it was a little black dog named Gyp who communicated with her eyes.

It wasn't the first or last time that an authority figure at church bombarded me with bullshit. But this one really got to me.

What you believe about a being's soul reflects how much you value said being. If you believe animals (or slaves, or women, or Russians...) don't have souls, it's easier to treat them badly.
I would like to think I value my fellow beings of all species.

Some people carry the value to extremes – by never eating another creature, or promoting animal rights above all other considerations. I don't go that far. While I wouldn't say that my life has intrinsically more value than any other, I also can’t deny that some life forms eat others. If you don't believe me, turn on one of the National Geographic predator documentaries.

Betty White, known for her decades long devotion to animals (oh, and something about a career in TV comedy), says that she's not interested in animal rights. Her concern is animal welfare. I think I'm with her. I want my cats well fed and comfortable. I don't think every right I have needs to be available to them. For example, what would they do with the right to vote?

I have so many food allergies, I couldn’t be a vegetarian even if I wanted to be. I'm not going to stop eating meat, but given a choice, I'll eat the animal that was ethically raised and humanely killed.

Somewhere I heard that some indigenous Americans thank the spirit of the animal before eating it.

I tried to thank a chicken after removing frozen parts from their plastic encased styrofoam container. It kind of fell short of the magnificent spiritual experience I'd envisioned.

Studies have shown that people who beat animals are more likely to act violently to other humans. I assume this means that respecting animals also increases our capacity to respect each other.

I HATE Talking on the Phone

When the device in my pocket beeps or vibrates, I moan with dread. As I write this, I’m interrupted by a call from a worthy nonprofit wanting to pick up my cast off furniture with their truck, my alma mater suggesting that I increase my annual giving, and a pollster about the Denver mayor’s race. Those are the ones I answer. Most others go unanswered because they don’t show up on caller ID.

Thank goodness for caller ID. There are probably two people on this earth for whom I would answer any call, any time: my sister and my father. Unless I’m in an exceptional mood, the rest go to voice mail.

Thank goodness for voice mail.

Of course with voice mail, you have to return the call. I am terrible at returning calls. If you've called me and I haven't called back, I apologize. You are not alone. It's nothing personal. I'm not sure what the problem is.

I don't dislike most people. I like my friends. I just don't want to talk on the phone. I don't mind talking in person. Usually. I love email and texting. But the phone conversation is a problem.

Phones are everywhere in our lives. People use their cells out in public while standing in line or walking down the street. A man I dated once spent the entire evening on the phone. We didn't go out again.

I've heard guys talking on their phones in public restrooms. I go out of my way to flush loudly when encountering that situation.

Previous generations only used the phone for emergencies. If the phone rang in the middle of the night, you wanted to know who died. I miss those days.

If I do get roped into a conversation, I like it short and sweet. What is the plan, what needs to be done, what do you want from me, goodbye.

Chit chat? Let's save that for our "in person" time.

I don't know where my hang-up originated (hang-up - get it? har har har). Perhaps it goes back to the time I worked as a switchboard operator when I was between "career jobs."  I had to answer by the third ring, route to voice mail, take a message, juggle people on hold, and handle multiple calls at once.  I was not allowed to eat or go to the bathroom. After working the phone under such pressure perhaps I burned out.

Perhaps it goes back even further to when the homophobic aunt I didn't like called and my dad insisted that everyone in the family take a turn talking to her. He literally chased me around the house with the phone because I refused. I finally hid under a bed. True story.

I met a guy once who didn't have a phone. Talk about a lifestyle choice. He didn't want it controlling his life. And the little parasites do control our lives. What other instrument is allowed to interrupt whatever you are doing? What else demands that you drop everything and respond to its beckoning? For what else do we wake up from a nap, stop dinner, put down our work, or interrupt a face to face conversation?

I really can't explain why I have this strong anti-phone reaction while most people don’t.

It's probably some manifestation of social anxiety. Maybe I'm just contrary.

I’ve always tried to fight it and get over it, but I’m getting to an age where I think I should just accept it as an eccentricity and hope my friends understand.

If you have any ideas, give me a call. Better yet, text me.

Postblog from the Arkansas Valley: Cramming a Lot of River into One Weekend

Arkansas Headwaters Official Page

Lake Pueblo Official Page

John Martin Reservoir Official Page

In a manic effort to see as many state parks as possible this summer, I decided to hit three this past weekend.

I don’t recommend it. It’s a lot of driving. One inch on my AAA map is actually a pretty long distance.

I had a lot of time to think in the car. I kept wondering if people call Southern Colorado, “SoCo.”

A lot of people shorten the names of places in Colorado. Everyone knows that “The Springs” is short for Colorado Springs. If you’re from Grand Junction, you might refer to your hometown as “Junction.” Likewise, I’ve heard people call Fort Morgan, “Morgan.” But I’ve never heard Fort Collins referred to as “Collins.” I have heard it called “Fort Fun.” There’s also the popular “LoDo” for Lower Downtown Denver. Some people call Aurora, “Saudi Aurora,” but that’s a different topic, a comment on the number of trees or lack thereof in the sprawling suburbaplex (I just now made up that word).

If you’re expecting a travelogue about my visits to the state parks, you may be disappointed.

To tell you the truth I tried to cram too much in. I was too busy worrying about the drive to enjoy the parks adequately. Sure, they’re all real pretty and interesting in their individual ways. Basically I followed the Arkansas River from its spectacular headwaters high in the mountains (Arkansas Headwaters Recreation Area) down to the city of Pueblo (Lake Pueblo State Park) and out to the lowland plains (John Martin State Park).

Presumably, if I’d kept on going I’d have followed the river through Kansas, Oklahoma, and I suppose into the state of Arkansas, right to the Mississippi River.

In case I didn’t get it before, I’m positive now that the Arkansas is a major river. It cuts through SoCo’s near desert landscape like a wide ribbon of green. Following along on Highway 50, windows down so I could smell the sweet spring air, I had the opportunity to see some towns I’d only heard of such as Rocky Ford (home of those incredibly sweet, juicy cantaloupes) and La Junta (where some of the natives say they live in “Lunta”).

The big city on the Arkansas, however, is Pueblo.

I’ve always liked Pueblo. It has real character. From rusting factories to modest southwest-style homes, it’s kind of a cross between Youngstown, Ohio, and Tucson, Arizona. There’s no phoniness in Pueblo. No districts of fake lofts, no faux gingerbread (come on Vail, it’s cute, but maybe you’ve overdone it). Just regular people, in a normal, unpretentious town.

The point of my State Parks venture isn’t just to visit the state parks but to explore the rest of my home state. I saw a big chunk of it over the weekend.

So with something like 38 state parks left, I’ll keep going, but I’ll try to plan the driving a little better.

Postblog from the South Platte Valley: Barr Lake State Park

Official Web Page for Barr Lake

Barr Lake was at one time an open sewage pit. In the 1950s and 60s all of Denver's untreated wastewater flowed into this reservoir just outside of Brighton, northeast of the metro area. 40 years later it is a haven for wildlife, lush with forests and wetlands, full of living things.

The first of many state parks I hope to visit over the summer, Barr Lake is familiar to me. I've bicycled and hiked even canoed the lake many times. I could have written this without going there this morning and it’s a good thing.

State Park Lesson Number 1: I have to share state parks with other people.

As I pulled up to the park entrance at 6:30 this morning, a committee greeted me and asked if I was there for the run. Now this often happens at Cherry Creek State Park where I go most Saturdays. That place is right in the middle of the urban jungle, almost a Central Park of Denver-Aurora. It gets crowded. But Barr Lake always seems so distant, so outside of the city. You never see crowds, and if you do it’s usually a gaggle of lively birdwatchers.

One of the things I enjoy the most is feeling like I’m back in the Midwest, surrounded by hay and cornfields, barns and horses. Unlike much of Colorado, this area is wet and swampy. Barr’s shores are less about sandy beaches and more about bayous. You’d almost expect to see alligators lurking amongst the cottonwoods standing in the shallow water. But as you gaze at the swamp, Longs Peak, in the distance white with snow, rises dramatically out of the plains.

I’ve never seen a gator, but over the years, I've seen many deer - some swimming in the water - hundreds of fish and thousands of birds, including the nesting bald eagles for which the park is famous. Spring is especially lively as hundreds of carp flop around in the shallows near the shore, spawning.

Barr Lake is a large lake (by Colorado standards), but it's fairly quiet. Large motor boats are not allowed. There are no jet skis, no water skiers. Even non-motorized boats (kayaks, canoes) are limited to half the lake - the other half is completely reserved for wildlife.

One thing you can do at Barr Lake is walk, nearly 10 miles, all the way around. Not only do you get a feel for the water itself, but the woods and farmland can be soaked in up close, including herds of sheep and cattle. 

The hike is flat but can be muddy. The mosquitoes can be nasty. But if you're like me, you forget all about that when a train rolls by. A big part of the lake abuts the railroad. If you're lucky, you'll be near (but not on) the tracks when a giant freight train rumbles past, shaking the ground, and causing that child-like thrill: "A train! A train! Wave at the engineer and see if he waves back!"

So I was disappointed when I arrived at 6:30 this morning, ready for my hike and my communion with nature. What I found instead was volunteers setting up, orange cones marking the trail, tables with big water dispensers on them and those cardboard waste containers with plastic bags in them – all around the lake.

I don’t have bad feelings towards the big runs. I love that I live in a state where there is usually one somewhere every weekend: the Bolder Boulder, the Turkey Trot, the Cherry Creek Sneak, the Fury Scurry, and today’s Sean May Memorial Run. Sean May was a district attorney in Brighton who was shot a few years ago. I certainly don’t begrudge today’s runners their good cause. I’m sure the organizers cleaned up after themselves and the wildlife felt no ill effect.

The good news is that people do use the state parks. I just need to get over my hang-up about sharing them.

I did get a good hike in before the run started. I didn’t get to go all the way around the lake, but I saw two huge pheasants, a million swallows, several rabbits, and some geese with goslings. I stood on the dam looking over the expanse of water and saw a long coal train making its way towards the city. I put my hands in my pockets to keep them warm and thought about all the state parks I’m going to visit this summer. I’ll try to share better.

Chatting Over the Fence or A Thousand Miles

That Wills sure is dashing, and I suppose Kate is pretty enough, as perfect brunette women go. All I could think of is what Di would have thought and how proud she’d be.  Hey, I am gay, you know. I didn’t stay up all night watching the royal wedding, but I did watch some of the documentaries before and after.

One of the commentators commented that this generation of royals is more “in touch” than previous ones because of social networking. I guess that’s true, if you consider social networking being in touch.

In the old days, so it is supposed, people spent more time with friends and family and less time on the computer. You'd discuss the news of the day over the family dinner, swap events with a neighbor over the fence, and wave to passersby as you sat on the porch.

With increased urbanization and greater mobility, families are further away and neighbors are, likely as not, strangers. Yet we are just as human as we were before, with that need to reach out and be connected. We've just replaced the porch with Tweeter and the fence with Facebook. We still wave to people. They're just possibly thousands of miles away and the wave is electronic.

It's interesting to see how differently people approach Facebook. Some, of course, resist the trend steadfastly and refuse to sign up. Presumably they’ve found life satisfying enough without being connected to all their elementary school friends.

Some people on Facebook don't seem to log in, ever. Don’t they get lonely? Some don't include a picture of themselves. Other’s should find a different picture.

Some don't understand that posting a note on someone's wall is not private - friends of friends can see what they're saying.

Some post every detail of their lives. Every date, sneeze, and meal are recorded for the world to see. Larry in Pittsburgh never shares a deep thought, but I know that he had broccoli for dinner.

Some people don't tell you the important events in their lives, but go on endlessly about their cats. Yes, I am one of those. But my cats really are terribly fascinating and everyone should be aware of the amazing and cute things they do.

Common postings on Facebook include, yes, pets; politics; comments wishing people wouldn't put political comments on Facebook; kids; travels; weather; sports; and Jesus.

And lots of posts are about really ordinary things, but ordinary things that are interesting because you know the people (or some of them) and you can relate to what they're doing. I loved learning that Linda, a woman I knew in high school, now lives with her family in the old Johnson house down the street from where I grew up. I think it's interesting when Phil describes his bike rides in the snow or what his kids did in church that week. I enjoy Chuck's casual references to places in Omaha where I used to live. If it weren't for Facebook, I would have never learned that my niece was sick last year. I wouldn't know how much snow my sister was getting up in her Wyoming mountain home.

You might argue that social networking is shallow, that it keeps a distance between people. True, 400 Facebook friends are not the same as 400 close friends. But who has 400 close friends? My close friends are friends in real life and on Facebook. I don't see any problem with that. And Facebook is a good way to discuss the latest antics of my cats. And I really do want to know what Kenny, in New York, thinks about Kate’s stunning dress.

When Nature Calls I Have an Answer

Back when the century turned, I purchased a little two man tent. Optimistic as that sounds, there were never any other men in it. Just me and a sleeping bag. And a very upset stomach.

When I was a kid I loved camping. My friend John and I would schlep out the big green canvas tent that was older than we were, set it up on the shores of Lake Minatare (home of the only lighthouse in Nebraska), eat bar-b-que potato chips, and revel in the sounds of the lapping waves which would sometimes creep closer over night as the water rose. I think part of the appeal then was sleeping away from home, independent if only for the night.

Things started to change when I went back country backpacking in Colorado with my brother. The mosquitoes were thick that year, and so tiny that they crawled through the tent’s mesh screens into our noses and ears. A planned week in the Mount Zirkel Wilderness turned into one miserable night plus a comparatively luxurious stay at the Motel 8 in Laramie on the way home. Now that was camping. Why didn’t we just go to Motel 8 in the first place?

As an adult, I tried camping again - with friends who went all out. There was a sleeping tent (for six) and a portable screened in day lounge gazebo. There were sleeping bags and auto-blow up air mattresses. A walk in (almost) cooler. A six-burner propane stove and roomy oven. Tarps on the ground. Skillets and pans of all types. Complete sets of flatware and nicer dishes than I had in my house at the time. Wash tubs. Portable food pantries (gotta get that food up there somehow). Large drinking water dispensers. Multiple director-style folding chairs with beverage holders. And every other gadget sold at REI.

It wasn't a campsite - it was a compound.

Anyone trying to get a feel for how the pioneers lived as they walked their wagons west would have to look somewhere else.  Of course, setting up and breaking camp took hours with all that stuff. I thought it would be quicker and easier to drive into town and go to a restaurant than to fire up the six-burner and unpack all that food, but I was overruled. So I pitched my little two-manner, spread out my sleeping bag on the hard ground, and pulled out my bag of chips.

I didn’t really enjoy myself, but I felt like I was supposed to. I mean what self-respecting Coloradoan doesn’t like camping?

There's just no getting around the fact that regardless of what you eat or how pretty the scenery is, nights get cold in the mountains. It's worse when there is something foreign living in your stomach and you have to repeatedly get up to go to the bathroom, as I did that summer night in Rocky Mountain National Park some 20 years ago. Mom and Dad offered to let me sleep in the motor home with them, but I had my little tent and by-golly, I was going to use it.

Trying to sleep while shivering is hard enough - but when nature calls the way it did that night, you really have to answer. I lost count of the number of times I unzipped the sleeping bag, scrambled for my shoes, unzipped the tent, ran to the facility which was not terribly close, ran back shivering, rezipped everything, and then did it all again about every 40 minutes until morning.

As a new day dawned and a bright sun rose into a crystal clear blue Rocky Mountain sky, I decided that the only camping I was ever going to do again was at the Estes Park Holiday Inn with a heated room and full indoor plumbing.

The two-man tent took a final trip to Goodwill. I have never again shivered the night away with only a thin piece of material between me and the sky.

Don't get me wrong - I love the mountains and being outside. This summer I’m going to visit as many of Colorado’s state parks as I can. I plan to hike, picnic, gaze at the stars, search for wildlife, lean over to get a closer look at flowers, and imagine what it was like in the world before cities and suburbs dominated everything.

But after a day of communing with nature, you'll find me curled up in a real bed with a bathroom nearby. I’ll use electricity to read a book, watch TV, use my laptop, and make coffee if I choose. For a special treat, I’ll haul out some bar-b-que potato chips. Now that’s what camping should taste like.

Entertechnology: A BillsWeek Rant

I've said it before and I'll say it again: we are living in the future.

For example, thanks to ever increasing technological advances, there are TOO many entertainment options.

What we can view, listen to, communicate on, and even read, are constantly expanding. Now we even carry our books around in thin little electronic conveyors of copy. No more lugging that tiresome thick paper volume around. All of this has no effect on quality. You can just as easily electronically access trash as classic literature.

 We are so spoiled. My sister has a subscription to the New York Times and doesn't even have to step out on the front porch to get it, let alone drive into town to buy it at the local bookstore like she used to. All she has to do is start the coffee and turn on her Kindle; no need to even don her slippers.

My Dad has a satellite dish with millions of channels plus Netflix, Xfinity, and I don't know what else. He has so much to watch, he barely has time to be a productive member of society. If he doesn't want to watch anything (say his eyes get tired), he can always listen to Pandora over his satellite system.

At the gym I can listen to my iPod or watch one of a dozen TV monitors tuned to the 24 hour news channels or ESPN. Some of the workout machines are affixed with their own private TV so I can watch the channel of my choice while working out.

Bars and restaurants all have multiple TVs playing around the joint.

I have almost as much entertechnology (new word I just coined for entertainment-technology) at my house. Now that I can watch favorite old TV shows on Hulu, I don't need to leave home for any reason. When I do go out, I have around 200 podcasts to listen to on my iPod (yes, I only have an iPod - it's soooo last decade). If I run out of those, I have hours and hours of music on the same little device. I am considering a long road trip just to listen to it all.

In the olden days, people sometimes left their homes to be entertained. You might actually go to a public place to be in the same room as the performers. Sometimes they played music. Sometimes they wore costumes and talked to each other, pretending to be someone else. The people watching would rapidly tap their hands together multiple times. It was called clapping. How quaint. Imagine having to leave your home to hear music or be otherwise entertained.

Now multiple individuals can be in the same room at home engaged in separate entertainments. During a quality visit with my dad recently, we both in the same room, simultaneously, headphones in ears, watched different movies on our separate computers.

Kids watch movies in the back of their minivans. Not poor kids though. They have to look out the window at the boring real world.

When I was a kid, a movie in the car was unthinkable. My sibs and I took turns choosing the radio station on long road trips. On late night family drives in the 70s, it was a treat to find an awesome AM rock radio station from Oklahoma City. That's right. KOMA out of OKC. I haven't checked but I'm sure that station is now a right wing sports talk mouthpiece.

Anyway, now each kid has their own iPod or whatever. Do they have some other way of practicing negotiation skills when they don't have to disagree over the radio station?

All this entertechnology is not perfect. I still have to get off the couch to switch my television from DVR to Roku. I can't use my wireless surround sound and my internet router at the same time because I guess they are on the same frequency and cancel each other out.

And on the subject of technology, my microwave is slower than the stovetop. My cell phone is not an i-anything and if it has applications, I sure don't know it and probably wouldn’t know what to do with it. My printer leaves inky blotches on what it prints, and does not double as a fax or a scanner. I have a digital camera, but no charger for it. And I HATE it when my phone beeps while I'm standing at the urinal.

How I long for the good old days when there were just three TV stations and an AM radio. Of course those days weren’t as simple as we remember: you had to get off the couch to change the station. How did we ever put up with that?

Eating Cheap Long Term Consequences

Conscientious parents make sure that kids eat healthy. It is paramount that sugar be kept to a minimum. Fruit instead of cookies. Milk instead of pop.

It wasn't always this way. I recently produced a cook book from recipes my mother used over the years. It brought back memories, to say the least.

When I was a kid, my mother valued saving money more than nutrition. Sometimes she went a little overboard. But in the inflation besotted years of the 1970s, particularly for a mom who grew up on a Nebraska farm in the Depression, saving money was the most important thing.

It's not that we were poor. We had a large sprawling house, three cars, a swimming pool, and room for a pony (that is a reference to Hyacinth Bucket – don’t worry if you don’t know her). But Mom never got over the fear that someday, she might end up back in her dust bowl childhood with no indoor plumbing or electricity.

Unlike me, Mom grew up poor. Walking to the outhouse in the middle of a winter night was a chilly endeavor. And there was no air conditioning in the summer. On truly hot nights, a wet sheet might have to suffice. You had to choose between opening the window for the slight chance of a stray breeze or closing it to keep mosquitoes out.

I'm not sure what she ate as a kid, but she did mention seeing live chickens in the yard some mornings, followed by fresh fried chicken for dinner.

When I came along in the 1960-70s, you no longer had to see your food alive. It was the age of convenience food, pre-packaged, pre-health craze. All that mattered to my mother was that it was cheap.

I didn't know until high school that Tang and orange juice weren't the same thing. My sister and I, however, were acutely aware that drinking Carnation powdered milk was not the same as having the real thing. I, for one, was traumatized by that clump of undesolved off-white goo in the bottom of my glass. To this day, I can barely stomach milk except on cereal - and it helps if it's whole milk or cream.

But I do have fond memories of other food items from the 1970s. There are some which today's parents wouldn't allow near their children, but that are comfort food for us.

What aging Boomer doesn't secretly prefer Wonder Bread? Come on, you know you do. Well, I don't, but I think a lot of other people do. Slap some Miracle Whip and baloney between a couple slices, and BAM, you're a child again.

There's lots of other stuff we loved back then that we don't see often in this Whole Foods world. Velveeta processed "cheese-like" product. SPAM broiled in brown sugar. Jello with carrot shavings (a salad) and Jello with Dream Whip (dessert). Some cooking trends from those days are a little hard to believe. But did those overly processed foods hurt us, after all? Well, I do struggle with weight. I would rather eat cake than pita bread. But I would also rather have orange juice than Tang. And in the end, I'm pretty good at saving money.

Two Dimensional History Distorts Presidential Reality

I just watched an episode of the 2004 Discovery Channel series, "Decisions that Shook the World," about Lyndon Johnson. It was a great illustration of how people are not all that they appear to be; are not completely good or totally bad.

While remembered for letting the situation in Viet Nam get so terribly out of control, Johnson also did more than any president since Abraham Lincoln to advance the cause of civil rights. These days, when we especially vilify our political opponents by, for example, seriously equating President Obama to Hitler and calling him the worst president in history (move over Andrew Johnson), it is important to see our leaders as complex and not as two-dimensional caricatures. I'm not claiming to be above this tendency. Just ask me what I think of Sarah Palin. I dare you.

President Johnson was a man of the Old South who used the "N" word freely but also pushed through the Civil Rights Act (which Kennedy was unable to do), the Voting Rights Act, and the Fair Housing Act. Johnson was, to me, not particularly likable. He was crude and rude, vulgar and macho. Yet he used his old-boy, back-slapping style to get things done in congress, and wasn't above threatening old supporters who opposed his legislation.

On the subject of presidents who are usually seen as either all good or all bad, there's a new movie on HBO about Ronald Reagan. The mere thought of Reagan, actually, literally, has upset my stomach for 35 years. No one except for George W. Bush has had that same effect on me. As early as 1976, I feared Reagan as a war-monger and malevolent disassembler of valuable social programs. In fact, my father lost his job as a county psychiatrist thanks to The Gipper, and millions of mentally ill people were turned out of institutions to become part of the nation’s homeless population.

Reagan getting credit for the fall of the USSR is as bogus as anything I've ever heard. It most certainly would have happened anyway, and certainly not because he told Mr. Gorbachev to "tear down this wall."

Reagan refused to acknowledge AIDS as a problem, and I always found his folksy friendliness as phony as a seven-dollar bill.

It pains me to try to see the good in him, but this HBO movie about Ronnie tries to show him as the complex human being he really was, not the sainted statue, or pariah, that we now make him out to be. Especially when today’s "Tea Partiers" claim him as their patron saint, Director Eugene Jarecki points out that the real President Reagan would not only be too liberal for them, but would probably be embarrassed that they were besmirching his good name.

Clearly, LBJ gets the short shrift in history. I'm willing to give Reagan another look. But don't ask me to reconsider “W” yet. It's too soon.