MESSAGE FOR THE NATIONAL ORGANIZATION FOR WOMEN, KNOWN AS “NOW”
With all due respect ladies, there is an ill wind blowing among you. There seems to be a concerted effort by your rank and file members to eliminate the term “Gentleman” from the English language. Your modus operandi seems to be to blur the distinction between men and women to the point where there is no longer a need for the term Gentleman. This bothers me.
I am all for equal pay for equal work, equal scholarships for men and women, fair treatment when being considered for employment and across the board equality. No exceptions and there really is no other side to this argument. It just seems that in the pursuit of this goal there have been certain time honored traditions trampled.
The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines Gentleman as “A man whose conduct conforms to a high standard of propriety or correct behavior”. I suppose there can be some wavering between generations about what is a high standard of propriety or correct behavior but since I have the floor I will give you my thoughts, which I believe reflect those of my generation. I believe in treating a lady like a lady. That means opening the door for them, letting ladies go first, not using profane language in their presence, walking on the street side of them and other shows of respect. Doffing ones cap when meeting a lady is nice but seems to have gone by the wayside with the wearing of caps backwards, sideways and half sideways. Calling a woman “Mam” was summarily rejected as offensive by a certain female Senator recently.
It always irks me to sit in a restaurant and watch a hostess showing a couple to their table with the man leading the way and the woman trailing along in his wake. I just want to shout out “You male chauvinist slob!” Then there is the time honored tradition of any true gentleman, you never speak to anyone about what you and your lady do privately. Anyone. How many men have you heard lately boasting of their accomplishments with women or, as the case with some celebrities quoted in tabloids, degrading a woman’s performance in the sack as being sub-par. Like they are some Don Juan. Please. They might as well hang a sign around their neck “Pig With No Class”.
I realize times are a changing but please allow us of my generation to continue to feel as though there are those among you who enjoy and appreciate being treated in the old fashioned way. Regardless of the progress of mankind there are certain traditions I hope remain with us forever. So the next time you and I arrive at a doorway at the same time, allow me to open it for you. It will make me feel good.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
THE PUNK YEARS
I suppose it was too much to ask that my wife and I could skate by without being touched by the Punk years. We had chosen to send our four kids to a nice Catholic school reasoning that if they were provided a solid foundation in right and wrong they would be well equipped to withstand the barrage of social pressures they would face as teenagers. I will refrain from using names or gender here to protect them in the event their kids read this one day but there were some detours from what we deemed to be the right course to adulthood.
One of the four sailed through with no hint of knowing what Punk was, other than having an affinity for and the talent to do an award winning imitation of Billy Idol. One showed no outward signs of Punkism other than getting weak at the knees at the sight of any entertainer with a leather jacket and spiked hair. The other two were a different matter. They became so engrossed in the movement that we thought we had a couple of space aliens living with us. As usual, being the Dad, I was the last to know what was happening.
Working very hard at the time and putting in many hours in our family business, I was not tuned in to what was going on at home. Looking back, the early signs were there but I was oblivious. The first signs were that they were going a little heavy with the eye makeup, something that could easily slip by a Dad. The Mom no, but I shrugged off her concerns. I guess the next thing was a definite wardrobe shift to black. It was a sweat shirt here, skirt there, when all of a sudden it was “If it isn’t black, I’m not wearing it.” Then there were little touches here and there such as shaving the side of the head above the ears. The hair color was next beginning with subtle little streaks of pink, red and blue (one day they brought home a friend named Teresa Blue Hair). When the hair became the color of charcoal I knew something was amiss.
Trailing along just behind the new look was a new attitude. Not so much me but they began to look at my wife like “Who are you to tell me what to do?” They had this defiant, dagger eyed look that parents of teenagers know all too well. Posters began appearing on their bedroom walls of bands with God awful names. Friends that came by to pick them up were always “waiting in the car”. Combine this attitude with the all black Punk look, throw in a little Gothic and a no smile face the color of someone who has been in a cave their whole life and you have a real thing of beauty.
Miraculously, we weathered the storm. I am not sure how but I am sure there was a great deal of luck involved. They tell stories at our family parties that I am hearing for the first time. Given the intervening years, they are hilarious now. Had I known about them at the time I would have flung myself over a cliff. Now they are happy, contented adults that my wife and I are immensely proud of. Our social life revolves around our family and they are our best friends. They include us in their lives, which enrich ours beyond belief.
One of the four sailed through with no hint of knowing what Punk was, other than having an affinity for and the talent to do an award winning imitation of Billy Idol. One showed no outward signs of Punkism other than getting weak at the knees at the sight of any entertainer with a leather jacket and spiked hair. The other two were a different matter. They became so engrossed in the movement that we thought we had a couple of space aliens living with us. As usual, being the Dad, I was the last to know what was happening.
Working very hard at the time and putting in many hours in our family business, I was not tuned in to what was going on at home. Looking back, the early signs were there but I was oblivious. The first signs were that they were going a little heavy with the eye makeup, something that could easily slip by a Dad. The Mom no, but I shrugged off her concerns. I guess the next thing was a definite wardrobe shift to black. It was a sweat shirt here, skirt there, when all of a sudden it was “If it isn’t black, I’m not wearing it.” Then there were little touches here and there such as shaving the side of the head above the ears. The hair color was next beginning with subtle little streaks of pink, red and blue (one day they brought home a friend named Teresa Blue Hair). When the hair became the color of charcoal I knew something was amiss.
Trailing along just behind the new look was a new attitude. Not so much me but they began to look at my wife like “Who are you to tell me what to do?” They had this defiant, dagger eyed look that parents of teenagers know all too well. Posters began appearing on their bedroom walls of bands with God awful names. Friends that came by to pick them up were always “waiting in the car”. Combine this attitude with the all black Punk look, throw in a little Gothic and a no smile face the color of someone who has been in a cave their whole life and you have a real thing of beauty.
Miraculously, we weathered the storm. I am not sure how but I am sure there was a great deal of luck involved. They tell stories at our family parties that I am hearing for the first time. Given the intervening years, they are hilarious now. Had I known about them at the time I would have flung myself over a cliff. Now they are happy, contented adults that my wife and I are immensely proud of. Our social life revolves around our family and they are our best friends. They include us in their lives, which enrich ours beyond belief.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
LEONBERGER
If you don’t know what a Leonberger is don’t feel bad. I am rather long of tooth and had never heard of them either until I came across one while visiting my daughter. A Leonberger is a dog. To be more precise, as I later learned by Googleing the name, they are a mix of Newfoundland, St. Bernard and Great Pyrenees and a member of the Mastiff group. This lineage means they tend to be rather large, as in 130 pounds for a lady and 170 for a man dog.
My daughters and I were chatting when a girl walked by with 2 dogs on leashes. One was a something or other prancing along that could easily fit in a ladies purse, the other was a waist high dog with hair the length of a Collie and coloring similar to a German Shepherd, that we learned to be a Leonberger. He was the sort of dog that looks you in the eye and you are toast. A loveable, gentle giant. He and I bonded instantly as our eyes met. We listened to the girl tell us of what a great pet they are. She happened to be a nurse who often took him to the hospital as a therapy dog to visit very ill patients. The whole time we visited he stood next to me like we had been buddies forever. My daughter took a picture of us with her cell phone and we watched as they walked away.
The next day I get an e-mail with the picture and a plethora of information about Leonbergers. My daughters had decided that would be our next pet. Over the years my wife and I have had a number of pets, mostly dogs, with varying degrees of lovability. Mostly low. A Sheep dog who almost drowned in our pool, an Afghan hound who could have starred in the movie Cuckoo’s Nest and a mix who refused to stay in our yard and costs us hundreds of dollars of fines for being out without a leash. Then there was the topper of all, Nike the wolf that I recently blogged about.
The Nike experiment scarred my wife for life so the chances of us getting another dog were about the same as me beating Mike Tyson in a fist fight. Add to that built in bias the fact that since we did have dogs you now have to follow one around with a plastic mitt gizmo to clean up after them and forget it. As much as my kids can envision me in my lounge chair by the fireplace with my robe and slippers and a Leonberger at my feet, my marriage is worth too much for me to even broach the subject. But we sure did bond.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
A GREAT DAY
I had a great day yesterday. I was invited to be a guest for the School of Infantry changing of command ceremony at Camp Pendleton. Located on the coast between Los Angeles and San Diego, Camp Pendleton is a base of some several thousand acres, for the United States Marines. The many miles of the base that lie along the ocean allow for extensive amphibious landing and helicopter support training while the interior land is ideal for all phases of combat training. It would not be a stretch at all to say that the freedom our country enjoys is due in no small measure to men and women who did their boot camp here before shipping out to hot spots the world over.
As I turned off of Pacific Coast Highway on to Basilone Road and headed away from the ocean to the entrance gate I remembered the last time I was here. Many years ago I used to surf a beach called Trestles. It is located right where the Basilone Road off ramp is and is considered one of the best surf spots on the west coast. At the time I was surfing here it was a part of the base and thus was considered off limits to civilians (It is now open to non-military personnel). Those willing to take the risk, like me, would park our cars in the brush, cover it up with tree branches, and go surfing. Periodically (it always seemed to happen when the surf was good) the Marines would appear out of nowhere, park their jeep yards from the water, sit their menacingly with their rifles and wait for us to get out of the water. We surfers had three options. Out wait them, paddle miles north to the city of San Clemente and exit the water there or meekly get out of the water and face the music. I chose the latter. Whatever feeble excuse I gave them they did not buy so they loaded me and my surf board in their jeep and we took off. They drove me several miles inland to their barracks, handed me a broom and ordered me to sweep up the place. I guess this satisfied them because, when I finished, they took me back to the beach and released me and my board.
This time the Marine at the gate, decked out in a well starched uniform and standing at rigid attention, saluted me smartly and welcomed me to the base. After driving several miles inland past the PX, rifle ranges and barracks I was directed by Marines to parking next to the parade grounds. Adjacent to the parking lot was a display of various hand held weaponry, each with an attendant soldier to explain what it was and what it does. There was everything from rifles that could hit a gnat in the eye at 1,000 meters, to those that could pierce an 8 inch thick concrete wall, to hand held missile launchers. There was also a couple of space age looking tanks I would not want to see fighting for the other side.
As the program began the narrator told us of the time honored tradition of the changing of command. Everything is done for a reason. I learned, for example, that the history of parades stems from the massed formation of troops on one long line at close interval that made possible the massing of firepower of the muzzle loaded muskets of yesterday. She also explained that the marching cadence of the assembled troops goes back to the Romans discovering that their legions could cover ground more rapidly and maneuver more quickly if they were in step. Even the square formations the soldiers used with its wheeling turns and countermarches dates back to 300 B.C. when “Alexander’s Macedonian Phalanx of spearmen conquered all enemy from Greece to India”. I also learned that this School of Infantry provides training to every single Marine, regardless of their Military Occupational Specialty (MOS), as infantrymen, thus giving proof to the phrase “every Marine a rifleman”.
The precision marching of the band and the troops was a sight to behold. Crisp salutes were the order of the day as various rituals were performed leading up to the Pass and Review so that the Commander can review the marching ability, state of training and discipline of his unit. This was followed by the passing of the colors between Col. B.T. Byrne and Col. K.T. Wooley. Each gave very moving speeches telling of thanks to many and their love of their country. Each gave particularly heartfelt thanks to the assembled troops who stood at attention before them. I could not help but think of the men and women these soldiers have prepared and sent off to war in the defense of our country.
I felt very moved and privileged to be among those standing at attention and saluting as the band played the Marine’s Hymn to wind up a memorable day. The following quote was featured on the back of the program.
“SOME PEOPLE LIVE AN ENTIRE LIFETIME AND WONDER IF THEY HAVE EVER MADE A DIFFERENCE TO THE WORLD, THE MARINES DON’T HAVE THAT PROBLEM…”
PRESIDENT RONALD REAGAN
As I turned off of Pacific Coast Highway on to Basilone Road and headed away from the ocean to the entrance gate I remembered the last time I was here. Many years ago I used to surf a beach called Trestles. It is located right where the Basilone Road off ramp is and is considered one of the best surf spots on the west coast. At the time I was surfing here it was a part of the base and thus was considered off limits to civilians (It is now open to non-military personnel). Those willing to take the risk, like me, would park our cars in the brush, cover it up with tree branches, and go surfing. Periodically (it always seemed to happen when the surf was good) the Marines would appear out of nowhere, park their jeep yards from the water, sit their menacingly with their rifles and wait for us to get out of the water. We surfers had three options. Out wait them, paddle miles north to the city of San Clemente and exit the water there or meekly get out of the water and face the music. I chose the latter. Whatever feeble excuse I gave them they did not buy so they loaded me and my surf board in their jeep and we took off. They drove me several miles inland to their barracks, handed me a broom and ordered me to sweep up the place. I guess this satisfied them because, when I finished, they took me back to the beach and released me and my board.
This time the Marine at the gate, decked out in a well starched uniform and standing at rigid attention, saluted me smartly and welcomed me to the base. After driving several miles inland past the PX, rifle ranges and barracks I was directed by Marines to parking next to the parade grounds. Adjacent to the parking lot was a display of various hand held weaponry, each with an attendant soldier to explain what it was and what it does. There was everything from rifles that could hit a gnat in the eye at 1,000 meters, to those that could pierce an 8 inch thick concrete wall, to hand held missile launchers. There was also a couple of space age looking tanks I would not want to see fighting for the other side.
As the program began the narrator told us of the time honored tradition of the changing of command. Everything is done for a reason. I learned, for example, that the history of parades stems from the massed formation of troops on one long line at close interval that made possible the massing of firepower of the muzzle loaded muskets of yesterday. She also explained that the marching cadence of the assembled troops goes back to the Romans discovering that their legions could cover ground more rapidly and maneuver more quickly if they were in step. Even the square formations the soldiers used with its wheeling turns and countermarches dates back to 300 B.C. when “Alexander’s Macedonian Phalanx of spearmen conquered all enemy from Greece to India”. I also learned that this School of Infantry provides training to every single Marine, regardless of their Military Occupational Specialty (MOS), as infantrymen, thus giving proof to the phrase “every Marine a rifleman”.
The precision marching of the band and the troops was a sight to behold. Crisp salutes were the order of the day as various rituals were performed leading up to the Pass and Review so that the Commander can review the marching ability, state of training and discipline of his unit. This was followed by the passing of the colors between Col. B.T. Byrne and Col. K.T. Wooley. Each gave very moving speeches telling of thanks to many and their love of their country. Each gave particularly heartfelt thanks to the assembled troops who stood at attention before them. I could not help but think of the men and women these soldiers have prepared and sent off to war in the defense of our country.
I felt very moved and privileged to be among those standing at attention and saluting as the band played the Marine’s Hymn to wind up a memorable day. The following quote was featured on the back of the program.
“SOME PEOPLE LIVE AN ENTIRE LIFETIME AND WONDER IF THEY HAVE EVER MADE A DIFFERENCE TO THE WORLD, THE MARINES DON’T HAVE THAT PROBLEM…”
PRESIDENT RONALD REAGAN
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