Going Fourth!

I often opine on Independence Day as an inspiring holiday for our nation, but today I found myself thinking about it as the thing itself and how it's been in my life. Like Christmas -- we all know the difference between the story of Christmas (awesome) and the actual celebration with loved ones (dicey). Every holiday has that kind of dichotomy -- the thing for what it celebrates and the thing for how it is. 

And I have to tell you, my Fourths of July have been a mixed bag. 

Never works out exactly as I would like.

I don't remember doing much at all when I was a kid. When I was little more than a toddler, I think I was at a parade, a big town deal with floats and stuff, but it was so far back I can barely remember anything. Later my family really didn't do anything. No parades, no fireworks. We visited relatives because it was a day off and Mom could go see her family. Then, as adults do, they sat around and talked. BORING! 

Later on there were some winners. I went to a Mets game one year, and while I don't even remember if they won the game (I think they won), the fireworks show at Shea afterward was spectacular. In 2002, my wife and I went to the local kaboomery show and it was great -- the patriotism was still thick on the ground here in the lower Hudson Valley, where many locals had been lost on 9/11. 

One July 4, after my first year in junior high, my family spent the day with a family that had enough fireworks to invade Canada. I shot off more bottle rockets in one evening than I have the entire rest of my life. Almost burned down their house, but not quite (a bottle tipped backward after I lit the fuse). In fact, it was a miracle that with alcohol-consuming adults and explosive-armed children there were no major disasters. 

For a few years the Fourth was spent at a relative's cabin in the country, something I would enjoy much, much more now than I did as a kid. Very quiet.

One year, as the Fourth loomed, I convinced a friend to get a party going at his house -- and then my parents informed me that we were going out of town for the holiday. I have never lived that down. But my friends all got even a year or so later, when I threw a party in my parents' backyard and all the guys decided to bug out because they wanted to play basketball in the park. So my parents were looking at me like Don't you have any friends anymore? It was humiliating. The guys returned later out of pity, or hunger.

More recent years have found our family unit with dogs, and we usually spend the holiday making sure no canine freaks out and goes running wild. Usually it's okay, but about five years back the idiots up the street were blowing up enough stuff to -- well, invade Canada. Poor Nipper took it hard. And it sparked an argument between my wife and Mrs. "Deuce" Baggio nearby, which my wife decidedly, comprehensively won. I could have warned the Baggios not to argue with my wife, especially when she's defending one of our dogs. 

There were other summer parties that were eventful, and even near terrible, but I think they did not land on the Fourth, so I'll leave them for another time, if at all. This year I just want to make some decent food and distract the dog when the bombs go off. I love you, America, but your birthday is not always my favorite day. 

Fun and hatred.

I've heard it attributed to Erma Bombeck -- though I can't track down the quote -- that one should never marry someone until they've played the board game Monopoly together, because that's how you can see the true person within. 

That's pretty good advice. Someone who is cruel and ruthless in meaningless things may be very cruel and very ruthless when it counts. Some women look for that in a man -- a guy who's a killer, who will protect and provide -- only to find out that he will cut them off at the legs when it suits him, too. On the other hand, some women want a nice guy who couldn't care less who wins or loses, and then get furious when he turns out to be a couch potato. 

Monopoly can be illuminating. 

Board games can teach us a lot. One of the reasons that people like myself who love words are so frustrated by Scrabble is that, as my wife noted, it's not really a word game. It's a math game. People with good vocabularies think they have an advantage going in, but the mathemagicians who know how to slay with an X on a triple letter score and always know how many of each letter tile are likely to still be in the bag are the ones who win. They can make up for their lack of words by -- completely within the rules -- hogging the official Scrabble dictionary while they scan their letters. They're not looking to get rid of that Z. They're looking for a way to get set up by you to dump it on the triple word score next time. Because it’s not the killer word that counts, it’s the killer score.

All this is very educational, but for those who really want to know how evil their friends and loved ones can be, I still say that you can't beat Avalon Hill's classic, Diplomacy. It is the king of bad relations. 

1976 edition

Forbes magazine called the game board "the map that ruined a thousand friendships," and I'd say that's being nice. The goal of the game, for up to seven players, each representing a pre-World War I nation, is to take over Europe, which means capturing eighteen of the thirty-four major cities (as supply centers). There are no dice, no cards, just moves and alliances. All moves are written in secret and played simultaneously.

I believe that it is impossible to win this game without screwing someone over. 

There's no way. You can only survive for any time by making alliances, and if your alliance vanquishes the other alliance(s), no one player will yet control enough of the map to win. Someone's gotta go down, and the best way to do it is a surprise attack, when you can mortally wound your former friend and he cannot stop you. We called the game Screw Your Buddy.

I've played the game many times, and it's ugly. It’s the only game I have ever seen end with someone's announced move being "I flip the game board." In this game it's routine. There are no good losers in Diplomacy. There are no good winners. Just sore losers and sore winners. No one's happy.  

It's amazing.

The last time I played, I started out with an ally who said we would experiment with the noble idea that we would be pals straight to the end. Blood oath to not attack each other. I took advantage and made an unusual early aggressive move on an opponent. He didn't like it -- basically, he didn't want me as an ally, he wanted to control my country -- so he immediately stabbed me in the back. I swore the game off after that. The hatred would have made Emperor Palpatine look like Tweety Bird.  

If you want a classic game that tests the mettle of up to seven people, try Diplomacy. Even people who are weak on strategy can do well if they're good on personality. Of course, you may never speak to one another again, but c'est la guerre. 

Groups.

A friend of mine asked me if I wanted to join a little writers' group she's putting together. I said no, but she's persistent (and very sweet). They haven't met yet, and I might still figure out a way to get out of it.

You might wonder why I would be reluctant. I'm not anti-joining, as so many of us are these days. Robert Putnam's Bowling Alone came out in 2000, and despite his optimism I see little to suggest that community is making a comeback -- except on social media, where people are insane. The Chinese Death Virus didn't help matters, either. However, I'm not anti-community. I'm a believer in the importance of commitment to worthy causes. I'm simply not convinced of the value of writers' groups, or perhaps in my ability to bring any value to one. 

Years ago in my misspent youth another pal suggested we get together with some other people he knew who wanted to write. We all met in a downtown bar, and talked about writing for about three minutes, then drank and played darts for the next couple of hours. That was our one and only meeting. 

I think at the time I felt that the others were not very serious, but the truth was that I too was not very serious. I had no voice, no ideas that weren't absorbed from someone else's work, and it took quite a while and a lot of bad words out of me (in every sense) before I felt I could write something worth reading. And that was a purely lonely job. Maybe it would have been faster if someone were to show me a direction, but when everyone is a novice, no one knows what he's doing. Bad writing ideas and habits can spread like a common cold. Maybe we all have to hack our way out of the jungle by ourselves, even if it means we may go down into the quicksand. 

At its base, writing is a lonely business. Some people are great collaborators, but I think that works better in show business, where people have to cooperate with others and no individual's personal vision gets to the audience exactly as intended. When writing for the page rather than the stage, however, the writer has to have confidence that his vision can be seen and understood by others. 

Either way, there's a lot of ego involved. 

And that leads me to the other problem. If group members are really tough on one another, feelings will be hurt. If it's really light and upbeat, no one's going to learn anything. If I am going to have my ego bruised, I would like it to be done by the person who is simultaneously seeing to it that I get paid. Otherwise, hell, I can hate myself all by myself. I don't need anyone else to help me do it.

TV writer Rob Long quotes an unnamed producer whose adage is, "I never take a no from someone who doesn't have the authority to give me a yes." Seems reasonable. So why would I want to join a writers' group and make other people feel bad about their own projects? I can't help them get published.

And what the hell do I know? When I'm not working on my own projects, I can be found working on someone else's books being published by my clients, and I think about 90% of the novels would never see the light of day if it were up to me. Nine percent of the remaining 10% would have to be reworked to death. But they're all getting published, and by some big publishers, so again, what the hell do I know? 

In the best-case scenario, the group does make your work better, and you get published, and you're the breakthrough one who has to try to get all your friends published, too. Plus, you have to list them along with every human being you've ever encountered in the acknowledgments or the dedication. 

Long story short: I don't want to join a writers' group. However, the friend who invited me has been my pal for like 25 years and sends us cookies every Christmas. So you never want to hurt a friend that good.

Oh, well. Mom wanted me to be a lawyer. Maybe I should have listened.

Regrets, I've had a few.

An article in the London Sun, linked on the New York Post site, reported a hospice nurse's experience with her patients, particularly the four most regrets they have revealed to her at life's end. Julie, an American nurse, had posted her observations on TikTok. 

Julie posted the video in the hopes that people watching would take away her advice so they would not have the same regrets when looking back on their lives.

     The nurse responded to a question which asked: "What kind of regrets do you hear? I feel like in the end, everyone's going to have regrets of some sort."

     She said: "Most people at the end of their lives have regrets about not appreciating their health.

     "Not appreciating being alive, the little things.

     "Working their life away.

     "And not spending more time with family."

It's hard not to see the wisdom in that. The story continues:

From her patient's confessions, Julie has learned to "Be in the moment, live presently, be grateful, don't take for granted your health, and little things about living life.

     "Don't work your life away if you don't have to, or make it so you don't have to.

     "Spend time with those you love, not necessarily family, but those you love and make you feel loved."

Sure, that's fine. However, most of us do have to spend most of our waking hours working at something, or traveling to and from work, or working on our domiciles, or plain running errands. And that's okay, actually. Work is important to mental health. Everyone needs a purpose. If that purpose is selling Chryslers or mopping floors to feed the family, supporting ourselves independently, preaching the Gospel to save souls, or organizing charity events to help the poor, or any other honest work, that shouldn't be disparaged as a waste of time. Of course, looking back on one's life, it's easy to think about all the dull hours spent in these pursuits, but that doesn't make them useless. To me, looking at it that way disparages one's achievements, no matter if -- or perhaps especially if -- those achievements are humble.

And on that note, one of the reasons I find it hard to live in the moment is that the moment can suck. "Yay, I'm living in the moment as a proofread the most boring book in the history of books." "I'm living in the moment while I'm wiping dog hair off the toilet." "Mhmhmsm mhmsh momnbent whilemn bbrushing muh teef." Similarly, no one wants to live in the moment in the dentist's chair.  

Still, the point is taken that we shouldn't be so busy providing for others that we neglect the others. My dad and a lot of dads I knew growing up were like that. They worked like dogs and then felt like the kids hardly knew them, and vice versa. My dad even said as much once to my cousin's husband.  

Anyway, I expect I'll have all those same regrets if I linger on a deathbed rather than suffer a quick demise, like getting thrown off a cliff by an enraged author. ("How DARE you correct my speling?!" "It's 'spelling.'" "AAARGH!") 

Being a special and sensitive soul, though, I plan to have some extra regrets as well. Such as:

• Leaving the oven on
• Not saying goodbye to my dry cleaner
• Leaving the car running outside the emergency room door
• Janet Schnorbuss (forgive me, Janet!)
• All the people I ran over on the way to the hospital
• That time I swam naked in the fountain at Charlotte Premium Outlets and told them my name was Stiiv 
• That awful All-You-Can-Eat Wednesday at Schnitzel's Hofbrau
• Lying to the dog (I still had the ball, Fazzy)
• Not buying Apple in 1999
• Pulling Wanda's hair in class (you'd think a college senior would have a sense of humor about it though)
• Rumple Minze -- let's leave it at that
• Taking the Work Hard Challenge (turns out putting your nose literally to the grindstone has its drawbacks)
• Investing in Acme Corp.
• Swimming with electric eels at Ocean Mystery World Park
• Reading a Tom Robbins book
• Anvil paragliding

So many regrets, and yet, so many joys. Life! Sweet mystery of life!

New Year's devolutions.

I was inspired yesterday by this meme on the Great Lileks's comments, posted by our friend Mongo:

I find this is pretty true for me as well. In that spirit, I've decided that my best course of action is to resolve to do exactly the opposite of what I ought to do this year, in the hope that it will result in me doing what I ought to do as I break the resolutions as normal.

In that spirit, I hereby resolve:

📅To gain at least thirty pounds, if not more, by letting my diet go to hell and exercising as little as humanly possible. 

🙌To do as little work as I can while seeking lower pay all the time. 

🥳To stay away from church and avoid all forms of spiritual growth, stuffing myself instead with pop culture and stupid timewasters. 

🔔To allow my dogs to run wild and undisciplined, and do whatever they please with no training from me. 

📅To neglect family, friends, and all other personal relationships to the point where they wonder if I died.

🙌To let my finances fall into complete disarray and spend, spend, spend. 

🥳To let the house go to hell and stuff every room with garbage like I'm auditioning for a hard case episode of Hoarding: Buried Alive.

🔔To be as rude to my fellow man as I can without getting beaten up or killed.

📅To achieve nothing more intellectually challenging than sitting through an episode of a Real Housewives show. 

That should do it. Check in next December to see how it's going, if I live that long. 

Funeral in the time of COVID.

The obit said it would be a Mass, but it actually wasn't. I wonder if the family or the pastor decided against an actual Mass, knowing how popular the deceased was and how they would have to turn away mourners if the ceremony was to be held in the church, in compliance with state edicts on how many people may be inside a church, as Chinese Death Virus ravages the nation.

I'm not sure I can honor myself by calling the deceased a friend. I certainly admired him, and saw him many times. I was never part of his close circle, though. And he now has the singular distinction of being the only person I knew personally to die from COVID -- at least so far. The last time I saw him, in January, he seemed healthy enough, for an older guy with preexisting conditions, but the next I heard he was in the ICU, and he died on Ash Wednesday. 

So the funeral ceremony was held outdoors, in fog, beneath heavy skies. The hearse pulled up; the casket wheeled under a small tent near the cemetery grounds. But even this was all for show; the deceased was going to be cremated at a later date; the casket would be put back in the hearse and taken away. 

The ceremony began. A laptop was set up so some mourners could see the livestream. There was a reading, a brief homily, a eulogy, and a blessing, and it was all over in half an hour. The family made an announcement that there would be a reception... later, at some unknown date, when the Chinese Death Virus was no longer ruining everything in the world. 

So congratulations to the Chinese Communist Party, for taking yet another head through its malfeasance and wickedness. And God bless the family, the wife, the kids, the grandkids, who are deprived of a beloved man, and have to give him such a diminished farewell. 

And God, please restore our nation to sanity before it's too late. Unless it already is. 

Live and let dice.

Some people will know exactly what these are:

And they will probably have a guess why there is no twenty- or eight-sided dice in the set -- because those are probably still in the dice sets belonging to my old friends, decades after the fact.

These four dice were in my first set of dungeon dice, the basic set needed for the Dungeons & Dragons role-playing game. To determine the results of actions in the game, a participant must have a four-sided die, a six, an eight, a ten, a twelve, and a twenty. (It's best to have two tens in case you have to roll a number between 1 and 100; one die is designated the tens and the other the ones. Or you could roll the same ten-sider twice.) I got these from a local toy store, which probably didn't know what the hell the kids were up to now but the older ones wanted these, plus the books for the games and lead figures to paint. The dice came with a red crayon, which was used to rub color into the numbers of the dice. Later in my career I went to the beloved Compleat Strategist on E. 33rd Street, which is still there and still carries a breathtaking array of games and gaming equipment.

There is an etiquette to dice in role-playing games. Messing with a man's personal set of dice is like messing with his car or his gun. Players get very attached to their dice, especially if they were used to make an epic lucky run in a well-remembered game. Then the player will revere the set of dice even if they let him down for weeks and get his or her favorite character killed. They were there for me in the Vault of the Unbegotten, by Crom! Gamers are probably more superstitious about dice than craps players are.

You might borrow a fellow player's dice if yours are on a cold streak, of course, and if you suddenly get a critical hit that turns the party's fortunes around in a desperate battle, you might even want to steal them. Enemies, they say, steal your money; friends steal your books. And your dice.

Once I finally understood what role-playing games are and how they worked, they became my favorite kind of games. I did not and don't much care for board games. In my house, playing a game meant either losing, which was no fun, or winning, and being beaten up for being "smug." (Smugness, I have found, is an easy characteristic to project on anyone who has just beaten you.) Role-playing games were cooperative, meaning the players were usually united in a quest, and no one else in my house was interested in them, which was another plus.

Of course, if you decided to go all Leeroy Jenkins at a delicate spot in the adventure and get the party wiped out, you might be threatened with bodily harm in real life.

I have a lot of affection for those summer afternoons spent rolling dice in parents' basements and rec rooms. I also have a bunch of other dice from other sets in a dice bag -- actually a repurposed velvet jewelry sack -- but the blue set above is always special; my first set. I haven't even played a D&D campaign in eons, but I still use them as randomizers when I can't decide which task on my list of tasks to do first.

Sometimes I tell people I'm a recovering geek, but I'm not sure I ever have recovered. The nerdiness went underground in my twenties but would pop out here and there. Maybe one day I'll start a campaign in the old folks' home. "Okay, players, this one's called 'The Secret Potion of the Senacots, or Questamucil.'"

People!

I'm running a little short today, and that's not because someone cut me off at the knees. No, what happened was this: An old friend -- I think we've been friends since age 15 -- arranged a Zoom Virtual Bar & Grill last night to kick off the weekend with a bunch of the old gang. I thought it might run for an hour, but we stayed on yakking for almost four hours.

I can't begin to tell you how good it was to see the faces of my old pals again.

Part of me, and not an inconsiderable part, sometimes wants to go find a cabin in the woods where I can take up housekeeping with a shotgun. It's a retirement plan for if my wife leaves me. I'll live on Social Security, half for food and half for shells, and fire blasts into the air anytime someone gets within a football field of my front door.

But it's all nonsense.

On Thursday I mentioned in the comments section of the Great Lileks's site that some of the local fellows and I were going to meet up in a public place, lawn chairs and masks and social distancing, and just spend an hour enjoying the sun, human company, and see if we got arrested. I brought junior varsity dog Nipper for protection, so if others gave us trouble he could lick them. Not only were we unpestered by any police or any Karens (sorry to good women named Karen), but we also had a really nice time. Nipper even behaved beautifully. I felt a kind of warmth and peace after that little get-together that I had not known was missing.

It's not like I never see anyone. My wife is here with me all the time, and we get along very well. Seldom is there any friction between us. And I do get out of the house for the odd errands. But it's not the same. Maybe everyone I see is a friend I haven't met yet, as the optimists say, but it's not likely I'll meet anyone masked and six feet away.

Nope, I have to resign myself to the fact that I like to see and talk with people after all. That they are positive influences in my life, and lead to greater peace and happiness. Some others may disagree...

... but that is my experience. At least I don't have to buy a shotgun now.

Who was that masked man?

A couple of observations from wearing a mask in public for the last couple of weeks:

1. I'm not sure I like the way my breath smells, and I've been breathing a lot of it. Maybe it's the fact that I've been digging into my supply of dust masks, which have their own slightly weird scent. And all the coffee.

2. I guess the dust masks are okay for the purpose and to comply with the order from Governor Corleone. They'll do to contain the droplets if I cough or sneeze or breathe at someone. A dust mask may not be the best but it's all I got.

3. I was in Home Depot yesterday and they were cleaned out of all types of masks. They did, however, have toilet paper, some kind of industrial brand sold by the roll. I was glad I didn't need it. It looked like the kind that would sand your butt flat. Maybe it's repurposed fine-grit sandpaper.

4. Everyone looks like a bandit, or like a dust storm is a-blowin' through town. Get the cows in, Pa! Dust storm a-blowin'!

5. These frigging things get hot. A friend of mine, a retired New York City fireman, says that the dust masks were so annoying that the guys working the World Trade Center site in 2001 would just throw them away. I asked if that's why so many of them have succumbed to lung diseases and mesothelioma. He didn't think it would have made that much difference in such a contaminated environment, but figured that we'd never know.

6. Spider-Man must be hot all the time with that full-head mask. Batman would be cooler (in every way) but non-compliant with Governor Corleone.

7. I too am non-compliant, in that while I am willing to wear the mask in stores, where it's not possible to stay six feet away from people at all times, I am not going to wear one while walking the dogs. This is the freaking suburbs, not the Avenue of the Americas, and I can easily stay away from other people.

8. They may try to enforce a mask rule, but they can't make me not wear my Bat Pants when I'm attending an online meeting!

9. Just kidding. I have some pride. I wear sweatpants.

Lookin' good!

Today is National Compliment Day! And let me say that you are awesome! And such good taste, too! Not just the fabu way you dress, but the fact that you alight on this sensational blog for all your bloggy needs. What can I say? We all just think you're the bee's knees, my friend.

Yes, this is one of those non-holiday holidays that populate the calendars of teachers and office-party planners in the HR department with too much time on their hands. Aren't you smart to figure that out!

Various calendar-centric Web sites tell us that National Compliment Day was created in 1998 by two New Hampshire women, Debbie Hoffman and Kathy Chamberlain, to encourage positive, upbeat communications with our fellow human beings. Perhaps, since they lived in New England, they saw the need for warmth.

Of course, there are some activities suggested to go along with this day.

Holiday Insights suggests this one:

1. Gather in a circle.
2. Look at the person to your left.
3. Find a compliment for that person.
4. Write the compliment on a piece of paper and who it is for.
5. Gather the notes and post on a board.
6. All players match each of the compliments to a player. 
7. The person with the most correct matches wins.

And National Day Calendar has this similar one:

1. On a piece a paper, have each student write down or draw the best compliment they ever received.
2. Have them describe how the compliment made them feel. 
3. With that feeling in mind, challenge them to think of something positive about each of their classmates. 
4. Then allow each student to stand and receive a compliment from another student in the room. 

Hmm.

I think it's great to be nice and all, and I would love to pass along some of the compliments I got, if I ever got any. Certainly I never got any in school. My entire education was based in New York City, where no day is Compliment Day but any day could be Backhanded Compliment Day.

• "Hey, Cheech, you lose weight? You don't look so fat today."
• "That's some dancing you did. I was sure you was gonna fart."
• "You came up with that? Who would have thought a moron like you could do such a thing?"
• "Good haircut. It kinda hides that weird and deformed nose you got."
• "That guy you're datin' looks interesting, Jess. I heard they call him Cro, like Cro Magnon."
• "Yo. Nice face."

Don't underestimate the value of backhanded compliments. They prepare you in life for... well, more abuse, I guess.

Ferocious bear adventure!

Yesterday afternoon I went on a secret bear mission in honor of the dead. I had to brave danger, come face-to-face with the bear itself, penetrate a structure in which I did not belong that was intended to keep out the likes of me, and escape quickly, all to keep a sacred promise to a friend.

Sounds pretty great, huh? Such high adventure!

I wish I could thrill you with pictures of the ferocious beast I wrestled, but I was unable to get a good photo. That's because he was wrapped in plastic. I thought it was best to keep him that way. Here's one of his relatives.

My friend's grandfather started a charity that collects teddy bears for children who will be hospitalized over Christmas. Although the grandfather has passed away, his family keeps his charity and his memory alive by collecting bears for the kids. So I ordered a bear, coming nose-to-nose with the monster when I got it out of the box, and the fight began -- the fight to fulfill my promise or to keep the cuddly bear myself, acting like the Winter Warlock with his choo-choo.

But no, my word is my bond, so off we went to the drop-off box at the American Legion. As a non-veteran, I am not entitled to join the Legion, which is why I describe the place as closed off to my kind. Indeed, the members' room seemed to be locked with an electronic key when I arrived, and I couldn't get in. One of the guys at the bar saw me through the window, though, and opened the door. The door was just stuck, not locked. He pointed me to the collection box, near the pool table, and my ferocious bear joined his ursine fellows in its depths. Then I got out quickly -- I had work on my desk to do.

So that was yesterday's big adventure, and jolly good it was. I was happy to help out, and I know that bear will be a great comfort to some boy or girl who needs comforting.

Oh, the danger part? Meh, still some icy spots on the roads out there. Had to drive carefully.

Weekend update.

The Greatest Weekend Updaterizer

Hi, gang. Couple of things to report after the weekend, especially a followup on poor little Nipper, the 100-pound puppy, whose overnight tribulations, as noted yesterday, led to a terrible night's sleep for both him and me (and senior varsity dog Tralfaz). Nipper was the poster child for the phrase "sick as a dog."

I won't recap all the gross details of his illness, but they continued all day Sunday to a lesser extent. He couldn't eat, could barely take water, and was still just as cheerful as can be. I think we spend most of our lives working hard to try to be half as happy as a Golden Retriever, and most of us never get there. Anyway, he did finally have some chicken and rice last night, and this morning he ate hungrily. Maybe we'll take him to the vet later. We'll see how things go.

I'm sure it was challenging for him, and it didn't do me a bit of good either. Saturday night I was stone-cold exhausted. I had a commitment in the morning and company coming at night, so between those two periods I had HOUSECLEANING! MyFitnessPal estimated I burned about 800 calories doing all that work, which is great, except I ate about 10,000 calories on the food my wife cooked. So, bloated and exhausted, I stumbled to bed late, and that's when Nipper's Yippie Trips to the Yard began.

It's a shame, because we really had a great time with our old friends. They love our dogs, and we all had a good time getting caught up and reminiscing. Well, we humans did. The dogs are excellent company but lousy conversationalists.

On Sunday, while Mrs. K watched the dogs, I dragged my tired hinder to Mass, where we celebrated the feast day of St. John the Baptist. Although the Gospel reading was about John's birth, I always think of Jesus's description in Matthew 11:11, that "among those born of women there has been none greater than John the Baptist". The greatest man who ever lived, is what it seems to say, and then we think of him wearing "clothing made of camel’s hair and had a leather belt around his waist. His food was locusts and wild honey," in Matthew 3:4. So the greatest man ever was kind of like Bigfoot's kid brother (as played by Michael York).

The thing about the reading we had, in Luke 1, is that after the strange tale of John's birth and naming, the story cuts to the narrator (if it were a film) who says:

For surely the hand of the Lord was with him.
The child grew and became strong in spirit, 
and he was in the desert until the day
of his manifestation to Israel.

And I thought of John the Baptist, and saw him now not as Desert Yeti but as a man who had a particular calling and fulfilled it with everything he had. It would cost him his life, but he was wiser than most of us, and more blessed, to have such a gift after all.

To go from the sublime to the more familiar, this is something even dogs know. To varying degrees, dogs need missions too, and those with jobs are happy dogs. Often a dog will appoint himself a job if nothing is assigned him, good things like protecting the family or cheering them up, or bad things like making humongous holes in the yard. I'm not sure what Nipper's job is, but whatever it is, he likes it. So, everyone's happy. Or will be when he's healthy.

One last thought on John the Baptist: When I was turning my life around from crap to non-crap some years ago, and taking faith seriously, I remember seeing this guy who hung around the 34th Street station of the R line, playing the guitar for Jesus while dancing barefoot on cardboard. And I used to think, God, please don't let that be my calling in life. And He hasn't. But that guy with the guitar always looked happy, and I sure as hell don't.

Maybe we're lucky if God doesn't call us to do hard or embarrassing or dangerous things. Maybe we only think we're lucky.

Fredding season.

MEN! You all know how hard it is to make real-live friends these days. But maybe that hasn't stopped you from finding that special someone who has roped you into marriage. Now you have to get your act together and produce groomsmen! Here it is, wedding season, and your only male friend is your cat, and he's been neutered! What to do?

Let Rent-A-Fred be your solution.

Yes, boys, for a reasonable and nonnegotiable fee, you can have Fred appear as a groomsman in your wedding, swearing that he has known you for years. You'll need to provide the rental clothes, of course, but don't worry! Fred cleans up real good. And he doesn't care what kind of monkey suit the bride picked out for your party.

Your rental friend Fred will retain a quiet dignity with a wry sense of humor throughout the proceedings. He will assure the bride's family that she isn't marrying a dodo -- look at his classy friends! -- but will never make them think she should have married Fred instead. He knows which fork to use at dinner, will praise every aspect of the meal, won't get drunk and hit on the bridesmaids, and will be friendly to your family and hers. At no added cost, Fred will Chicken Dance and Macarena and Electric Slide and Hokey Pokey on an as-needed basis.

Studies show* that wedding parties that include Fred get 35% to 38% higher collection on the dollar dance. He practically pays for himself!

Upgrade to our Gold Key Package and have Fred as your best man! Fred will arrange your bachelor party so you can have all kinds of stories to tell later, even if it's just you and him and your neutered cat. Don't worry; we'll come up with something.** At the rehearsal dinner, Fred will make a heartfelt toast to the happy couple that will bring laughs and maybe a little tear to the eyes of the wedding party.*** And he will be extra careful not to tread on the feet of the maid of honor, even if she wears size 13 gumboots and dances like a rhinoceros.

So remember, sad friendless male, for a nominal fee you can have turn your Wedding into a Fredding. You can't afford not to!

* Studies from the F.K. Institute of Marriage Sciences.

** You'll have stories, we promise.

*** Charming fictional slide show of our friendship included at additional cost.

Not much.

Hi, gang! I don't have much to report today. The weekend was full of events; we had folks here from out of town, and it was all I could do to keep up regular posts. After all, 4 out of 5 doctors recommend a dose of Vitamin Fred daily, and I can't disappoint my public. (That fifth doctor is a freaking no-good Commie bastard. Just saying.)

I hope to have some info tomorrow about the weekend's events that you might find interesting. One of the events of the weekend was that baby dog Nipper turned two years old. He didn't seem worried about getting older, wasn't looking for wrinkles or gray hairs. I guess in dog years he's just 14, though, so it makes sense. I suppose he'll be looking to get his driver's license soon -- after all, he'll be 21 in dog years next May -- but I won't do it. Dogs are terrible drivers. Maybe better than cats, but still.

Anyway, more tomorrow! And remember: No Commie Doctors!

Nuts.

Hope you're hanging with your loved ones this Christmas.

Merry Christmas, Stiiv, Mongo, Mr. Philbin, the angelic Marshmallow (Mrs. Key), and all of you so kind as to visit this site. God bless us, every one!

See you on Boxing Day.

Card.

Finally got my Christmas cards into a mailbox yesterday. Your should be along soon.

WAIT! The STAAAAAMPS!!!!!

Oh, well. They were nice cards, too.

As I complained last year, most of the cards I get from friends and family are pre-printed photos with pre-written messages through outfits like Shutterfly. I wasn't kidding when I wrote that I get more heartfelt and personal messages from my mortgage company. This year I got a card from the insurance company that gave me more happiness than the average card from friends. Really, many people seem to treat Christmas cards as just a pain in the ass to get through as fast as possible.

So why bother? To support the post office?

Okay, Fred, you're such the arbiter of class and propriety. What do YOU do with your Christmas cards besides forget the stamps? you ask.

Well, I start with fresh organic recycled pulp, scented lightly with ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon, and a soupçon of cardamom, which I hand-roll into paper and trim into shape for cards. (A lighter batch is used for envelopes.) Upon each card my team of artists paints a Christmas theme, generally religious based on the Renaissance masters, and a message inside written by an old lady of my employ who is an expert in shodō, or Japanese calligraphy. After enclosing a personal 800-word essay with each card, I seal using beeswax with larch resin, stamped with my signet ring, and delivered by my flock of trained messenger pigeons.

No, we just get nice cards from Hallmark or American Greetings, sign them with our own hands, add a personal note or well-wishes, and send them off.

Time-consuming? I suppose. But it means more than junk mail.

Friends till the end.

As you look over your Christmas card list, you may find yourself thinking various thoughts:

1) Why do I have fewer friends than I used to?

and

2) Why am I sending Christmas cards instead of just posting something on Instagram and calling it a day?

Well, the impersonal holiday messages you share online may have something to do with it, but often one simply loses friends over time.

Proximate cause: Kramden's Delicious Marshall

In fact, I have found that friendships break up over many things, but that those things are predictable in the varied stages of life. Here’s my handy list of common reasons friendships break up.

Ages 0-10

Your family moved
You stole my pudding
You ratted me out to Ms. Kloopheimer

Ages 11-20

You’re the opposite sex and there are social school rules about that
You spilled juice (or beer) on my best shirt
We both wanted the same girl

Ages 21-30

You fragged me on Facebook when I didn't pay you back the loan, which I was totally gonna do
My spouse thinks your spouse is insane
You had a baby and I didn’t

Ages 31-40

You took up golf, which I think sucks
You had more babies and I didn’t
You went to work for the competition

Ages 41-50

You moved to L.A. and I just can’t be bothered
You found Scientology
You became a better golfer than I am

Ages 51-60

You bought a motorcycle and I’m revolted by your pathetic attempt to hold on to youth
You stopped going to church when the kids left home
You stopped drinking

Ages 61-70

I finally got sick of your malarkey
You won’t stop talking about your miniature schnauzer, Mr. Piddles
I made a pass at your daughter when I was loaded

Ages 71-Up

We both wanted the same girl
You stole my pudding
I can’t remember who you are
You died

Occasionally you find people who have been friends from childhood and have never stopped being friends. They may be people who have stayed in the same social or geographic area throughout life, like poor people in the same lousy housing project, or rich people in the same small and rarefied atmosphere.

More often they are relatives of some kind in a tight family, so they’ve always been obliged to stay together through the rough patches. They may be inoperable Siamese twins.

Really, I’m not the guy to ask. I hate everybody. Except you. You I like.

Ranking friends.

Acquaintance

Too dull; just "some guy,"  really

Adjunct
Professional connection, so you're stuck together

Clubber
Okay if you're in the Drones with Bertie Wooster; otherwise barely above Adjunct

Well-wisher
Friendly person who doesn't really do anything for you

Connection
Does something for you but is not friendly

Abettor
Does something with you that is not friendly

Associate
Does something with you, but there's no warmth

Colleague
An Associate with warmth

Peer
Someone you're really eye-to-eye with, except maybe in England

Fellow
A guy you know and like who is on your level; now we're getting somewhere

Ally
A Fellow that you can count on

Compatriot
A closer Ally; less likely to stab you in the back

Collaborator
Even less likely to stab you in the back, lest you both go to the big house

Confederate
Unity of vision leads to greater loyalty

Companion
Someone you can endure traveling with

Crony
Someone you can endure swiping money with

Accomplice
Someone you could endure going to jail with

Teammate
Pulling the oars for the same boat, but he could suck at it

Partner
Pulling oars in the same two-man boat, so he'd better not suck at it (TV cops would rank this higher)

Cohort
People see you together, they know you're up to something

Comrade
People see you together, they think "Molatov cocktails"

Pal
Someone you actually like

Mate
Someone you like even more, at least in Australia

Homeboy
Guy from the 'hood upon whom your favor rests

Crew
Guy from the 'hood whom you trust

Pard
Guy from the ranch whom you trust

Confidante
Guy you really trust but may not like so much

Brother from another mother
A good guy, but one who seems a little phony

Wingman
Guy you can't do with out, until a girl comes between you; think the "Road to" movies

Chum
A good guy, period

Amigo
A good, fun guy

Stalwart
Someone who would go to jail for you

Buddy
Someone you would go to jail for

Blood brother
Someone you have bled for

Friend
Top of the heap; someone you would bleed out for

Not on list:

Supporter (too subservient); Disciple (too subservient; too biblical); Helper (too subservient; too blah), Entourage (too subservient; too showbiz---and there's no actual friends in showbiz).

Magic Dog.

My dogs are very friendly fellows, especially Tralfaz, the older one. He is past all immature puppy fighting. He greets all people and all dogs with enthusiasm.

But his favorite dog is Magic Dog.

Magic Dog is a brown and white dog who pops by unannounced at any hour of the day or night. He and Tralfaz will give each other the ol' snifferoo, then adopt the play position, crouched down in front, butt up, tail waving like a friendly flag. Then they'll jump around and goof off for a while. And then Magic Dog will take off, and Tralfaz wants to go with him.

That's been a problem when Tralfaz is off leash. The first time Magic Dog joined us, in fact, was one dark, chilly night when Tralfaz was maybe five months old. They took off together with me in panicked pursuit, and got three houses away before I corralled my guy. Magic Dog continued on home.

And that's the problem with Magic Dog. He is a runaway, a repeat offender. He's got a collar, but he never lets me get close enough to see what the tag says. He's way too magical for a mere human to grab. Plus, he's a tagger -- unlike my dogs, who release a huge stream when the time is right, Magic Dog releases dozens of teeny peepees to mark the places he travels. I'm sure there are times he's been at our place and vanished again, leaving nothing but little spots that make my dogs crazy the next day.

As I considered the problem of Magic Dog, I realized that I'd had several humans of that sort in my life, especially when I was young. People who seemed wild and free, who blew in and blew back out again to places I could never follow. They seemed to be charged with life and creativity in a way I could never be; they were privy to secret knowledge I could never comprehend. These relationships always ended, and usually poorly. Sometimes the people actually ended poorly, too, their promise and potential always unfulfilled.

My dogs don't think about Magic Dog's worried people, finding him gone through the gate or under the fence, wondering if this is the night he never comes back. But I do.

There was be blood.

I gave blood again. Must be a mania.

Just a pint. What the hell, the skeeters have already gotten about half that much off me.

As regular readers may recall, I am willing to give blood because it's a charitable act that doesn't cost this skinflint a nickel. In fact, they give you free cookies. Lorna Doones. Oreos. Oh, yeah.

This time I agreed to go when a friend asked me. It was a blood drive organized in memory of a young man who died in a car crash. Under the circumstances it was something I would normally want to do, but maybe wouldn't have signed up for, just in case. Something might come up. You know how it is.

I'm like a lot of people when I'm asked to do something.

I went through with it, even though I have a lot of work to do (thus all the retreads this past week from the old blog) (probably next week too). In fact, we had a power outage Friday that helped me get my work done not at all. It was the opposite of helpful. It cost me a couple of hours. So I was behind in my work. Still, when I say I'm going to do something I always aim to do it.

When I got to the blood drive yesterday they had brought in a couple of bloodmobiles, cramped buses that seat five bleeders at a time. It started to rain, so I got to sit in the rain while I waited to be called aboard. There were two intake rooms in the back of the bus, smaller than any bathroom you've ever been in. I was examined (blood pressure, iron test, paperwork, etc., all above board) by a phlebotomist who was a big guy like me; if someone had opened the door we'd have tumbled out like the end of the cabin scene in A Night at the Opera. 

The staff was good and the procedure easy. I'm glad I can do something like this, especially as a lot of people cannot these days. I'm not talking about rampant blood diseases or hepatitis. New York Blood Center says you cannot donate for a year if you got any piercings or tattoos (unless the tattoo was applied in New Jersey -- I guess they have higher standards in Jersey tattoo parlors). As we know, kids today, in addition to getting on my lawn, are all out there piercing and tattooing themselves all the time, until they all look like psychedelic porcupines. They'll never be able to donate blood. But I can.

If you can, consider looking for a blood drive in your area. Nice ol' ladies, including a grandma friend of mine who is fighting cancer, may need some of that blood. This is one charity that cannot spoil the recipients or be skimmed by fund-raisers. There's no substitute for human blood. Think about it.

I'm not asking you to make an appointment. I'll leave it up to you. I don't want to hear your scream when donation day arrives.