"Apparently I Am An Idiot!!"

One of the intangibles about being married is that my dear wife keeps meticulous records, especially as it pertians to where I, her husband, needs to be and when I need to be there. Just yesterday I posted an entry about my scheduled stress test that I was convinced was scheduled for this morning at 8:15. Wrong. It's next Friday. Yes, apparently I am an idiot.

Before retiring last evening I set the alarm clock for 7 a.m. It dutifully went off and I laid in bed for another half hour, becoming more and more emotionally worked up and concerned that there would be a repeat performance of my last stress test: my legs would give out before the procedure was finished. I have yet to learn that if I lie in bed and think about things that concern me that I manage to blow them all out of proportion. Still, I do it anyway until I finally decide that by pulling the covers up over my head isn't going to convince my wife (or me) that I have disappeared and thus will be dismissed from dealing with whatever challenge I would otherwise chose to avoid.

So, out of bed I climbed, hunted around for something resembling workout clothes, and headed downtown to the hospital and Doctor Rosenthall's office. Cheerily checked in with the receptionist, took a seat in the waiting area, opened my latest selected book to consume, Marley And Me," and settled down to await the beckoning call to begin my scheduled stress test. Two minutes later I hear my name. Mr. Latchford?" I bounce up and report again to the receptionist. "Are you under the impression that your appointment for your stress test is today?" ("No," I'm thinking. "I always dress like I'm going to enter the Boston Marathon.") "Yes...at 8:15." Replied the smiling receptionist, with a touch of condensation in her voice as she observed before her yet another example of a clueless male, "Actually your test isn't scheduled until next Friday." "Oh..." It was the best reply I could come up with spare of the moment as I envisioned great globs of egg white sliding slowly down across my face. "So...I guess I'll see you next Friday." "Yes," she replied, her professional smile turning up at the corners into a perceptible smirk. "Well, alrighty then. See you next Friday." "Would you like us to give you a reminder call?" (She couldn't fool me. She was determined to rub my embarrassment in with that one additional departing shot). "No...I don't think that will be necessary. I'll just come back on Thursday evening and sleep on the couch." (Gotcha!!)

Still it's a reprieve. There's a little more bounce in my step. My dear wife just laughed in her knowing way when I told her of my "mix up." "I'll put in on my calendar," she said. Probably a good thing, I thought.

"Living Forward By Looking Back..."

Without solicitation comes out of the blue a repressed memory rushing into one's conscience as an unwelcomed intruder. Such mental visitations can be triggered by a word, a scent, a lyric, or a visual clue. My new friend in Georgia, John, encountered such a disconcerting memory as he observed outside his window children disembarking from a school bus. The sight of watching parents lovingly greet each child opened an unwanted floodgate of personal reflections that recalled his childhood that did not mirror that which he watched with silent comparison. I can relate...

My Dad, now deceased over a year, was a tyrant. The word spanking was not in his vocabulary. Prolonged beatings of my brother and me was his method of discipline. Throughout my childhood I feared and hated my father for his unceasingly tirades of violence. My Mother, a gentile lady of southern lineage, was herself often the target of his relentless abuse, although I never personally witnessed that Dad ever laid a hand on her in anger. The carnage was nevertheless just as devastating, as her sense of self-worth was laid waste in his wake. We tiptoed in trepidation around him, never knowing what inconsequential event or slightest gesture would trip his hair-trigger of displeasure, invoking a violent response that two small boys and a petite woman were powerless to quell. There were periods of relative peace and quite solitude, but they were too few and far between to be identified as the normal course of events. His uncontrolled episodes of rage served like bookends to mark the interim periods of uneasy peace.

It wasn't until many years later, after I had long since left that environment, that it came to light that my Dad suffered from a chemical imbalance in his brain, a condition that was detected when, as as far older man, he was given a thorough medical examination at the veteran's hospital. Medications were prescribed to combat the condition that slowly and steadily changed his personality: so much so that he later commented to my Mother that he "must have put us through pure hell." It was at this point that I forgave him and let go of all the bitterness I had harbored toward him for a childhood that, albeit was rich with material comforts, lacked those emotional comforts that a child in need of nurturing and assurance should be embraced with unconditionally. Water under the bridge...

Some idiot once mused that "That time heals all wounds." Perhaps for some, but not for me. The memories still exist and there are telltale signs within my personality that reflect that upbringing...characteristics of my Father that I have fought to repress with greater success with each passing day, month and year. I tackle even the most mundane of projects with a determination to accomplish it to perfection, as though my Dad stands behind me still to judge and criticize my every effort. Yet with practice and the patience of my dear wife and wonderful daughter, I have managed to discard many of the outburst of anger that marred my earlier years as a husband and father. That trait of quick temper lingers too close to the surface still, but it is my personal determination to emulate only that which was good and unquestionably noble about my Father and to identify as a restraining yardstick those behaviors to avoid that he possessed that are ingrained in me that too quickly have and can drive a wedge of bonding affection between me and the two people I love and care for the most. I cannot change that which has passed. I can only effect that which may provide either good of bad memories for those whom I eventually shall leave behind.

The Beatles perhaps said it best of all... "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." I am confident that my friend John is well ahead in this equation as we both in our own ways try to make a worthy sum out of all of our parts.

"It's Another Uphill Climb..."

Tomorrow is stress test day. This will be my second such test since I had my heart attack back in 2005. Admittedly, I have a small amount of concern about the entire procedure, it being not unlike knowing one must go to the dentist for a checkup with the self assurance that one's teeth are perfectly healthy, but also entertaining the discomforting thought that the doctor might just utter the disquieting phrase, "Oh my...what have we here!?!" as he reaches for those pointy and very sharp instruments to begin a closer inspection. I certainly do not wish to hear any such comments emanating from my cardiologist, Doctor Rosenthal, a brilliant, but abjectly humorousless man who is all business when it comes to his patent's health. Anything less than a report of "You're progressing nicely," which I received at the conclusion of my last check up, would be, to say the least, a blow to my belief that I am the very flower of health. I'm not borrowing trouble, just being pragmatically prepared.

In my younger and far more athletic years I participated in all type of competitive sports, including cross country and track and field in which I specialized in distant running. In high school I ran the mile in four minutes and eighteen seconds, a record for my school that went unchallenged and unbroken for over twenty years. With less than a month to go before I obtain the lofty of age of sixty, those days and that ability long ago departed with my youth. Now my legs grow weary from the simple and undemanding task of mowing the lawn. That particular malady came to the fore at my last stress test. The procedure starts out innocuously enough. there is a warm up period where the treadmill is clipping along horizontally and at a reasonable rate. So far so good. Then phase two kicks in. The speed picks up and the front end of the treadmill begins to pitch upward perceptibly. More physical effort is required to keep up with both. Still, so far so good. Then step three arrives and the whole enterprise ceases to be merely a leisurely walk in the park. It's an uphill struggle to maintain pace with the speeding treadmill and my upper legs are beginning to protest vehemently that further labor of this intensity will result in total collapse. Still I solider onward and upward, knowing that there is a prescribed time and heart rate requirement that must be achieved before this exercise in agony can be terminated.

With sweat now pouring from every pore and my heart rate just below the 130 beats per minute required threshold I announced to the female young nurse attendant that her assistance was now immediately required if I had any realistic hope of completing the test. Alarmed she inquired, "Are you having chest pains!?!" "No," I gasped, "But these legs of mine are about to give out!" Instantly she moved behind me and placed both of her hands on my rear end and leaned into the task of keeping me on the treadmill and pointed uphill. "Does that help?" she inquired. I replied, "Well I suppose you think this means we're engaged?" She laughed. I labored on, determined to see this thing through to its ultimate conclusion. Finally...130 bears per minute was obtained and the treadmill responded by reducing its speed and pitch. "You did well, Mr. Latchford." Your heart is functioning within the prescribed limits." "Good,"I breathlessly replied. "But I'm not sure that my legs will ever recover."

For her generous assistance that was certainly over and beyond the call of duty, the following day I presented her with a varied selection of doughnuts to share with her office mates. "In lieu of an engagement ring," I said, "these will have to do."

So, tomorrow I once again subject myself to this form of necessary torture trusting that my heart will again perform within the prescribed limits of acceptablilty and my tired old legs will see me through. I'm stopping in at the local supermarket in the morning to pick up more doughnuts...just in case.

"What Was She Thinking!?!"

If you think this photograph looks like a mug shot, you're right. Meet Lesa Lynn Ledesma. Ms. Ledesman is the mother of son Shawn, who on a September evening in 2007, decided that he wished to pick up five of his friends for an evening out on the town. He requested the use of the family's automobile, where upon "Mom" turned over the keys. Problem. Son Shawn had only just the month before been granted a learner's permit, and, at age 15, was not permitted by law to operate a motor vehicle after 1o p.m. or without a licensed 21 year old driver in accompaniment. Result. Shawn lost control of the vehicle, plowed into a tree, injuring four of his passengers and killing a 14 year old female classmate.

Son Shawn was charged with vehicular homicide. Mother Lisa this week was arrested on the felony charge of second-degree manslaughter, on the surface a rightful conclusion of indifferent and reckless endangerment of another human being. "Legal experts" are already weighing in with the opinion that the charge may be difficult to prove. I have learned a long time ago never to confuse justice with the law, but if it goes to a jury trial, I'm putting my money on a "guilty" verdict outcome. Sorry "Mom." Callous stupidity doesn't deserve a pass this time around.

Viewing this story from a dispassionate distance, one cannot help up assign tragic consequences for all the parties involved. Two separate families have been decimated for a life time. For what? Because some misguided parent wishing to find favor in her child's eye failed to adhere to the most basic principle and tenets of being a parent: remembering who is the adult in a parent-child relationship. Thankfully there are thousands upon thousands of responsible parents who diligently practice the basics of common sense by not allowing their emotions to dictate their decision making process when it comes to raising their children. It is hard enough to do the job right in the best of circumstances. Giving your child the opportunity to do bodily harm to themselves and others is, for me, beyond the pale of comprehension. I am quick to feel genuinely sorry for victims of events beyond their control. But I have absolutely no pity for consequences that result from sheer stupidity. Mrs. Ledesman...I am sorry that your moment's lapse of good judgment has brought you and your son to this point in your lives. But I take no pity on either of you for the results of those decisions...all of which were profoundly irresponsible and tragically unnecessary.

"VICTORY"

I would be terribly remiss if I didn't take this opportunity to gloat a little...perhaps a lot...about an accomplishment in which my daughter, Megan, played a significant role in helping to bring to fruition. Megan is a senior at the University of South Florida located in Tampa, the largest public liberal arts and research university in the state and fifth largest in the country. Few people even knew that USF existed until its recent exploits on the football field propelled the Bulls to number two in the NCAA rankings this past year. USF has for many years taken a back seat in recognition to the other better known state universities: University of Florida, Florida State University, and Miami University. USF can now proudly proclaim that it too is an equal elite among the states institutions of higher learning.

Taking the next steps into assuring that USF maintains and promotes USF's prominent status is the new student government executive team that was voted into office for the up-coming 2008 fall semester. The election results were published last evening and the candidate team of Greg "Butters" Morgan and Thomas King were elected by the student body to serve in the capacities of President and Vice President respectfully.

So, how does daughter Megan figure into this equation? She served as Morgan and King's campaign manager, stepping reluctantly into that position only after the first campaign manager was unable to fulfill her assigned duties and obligations. Megan, who has yet to meet a challenge she believes cannot be throttled into submission, resurrected the struggling Morgan/King campaign and championed it through a run-off election to the successful vote count of last evening. Admittedly it is also true that her romantic relationship with Mr. Morgan may have played more than just an insignificant role in her decision to give it her all on Greg's behalf. Whatever floats one's boat...

Judi and I have known Greg for almost a year and liked him from the first time we were in-troduced to him as a quest of our family over the Easter holidays last year. He possess a keen sense of what is right and wrong, is a man of personal integrity and unwavering morals, has a servants heart, and is dedicated to using his God-given talents for the betterment and prosperity of those for which he cares and has the responsibility to serve. The USF students have acquitted themselves well in arriving at this side of a very contentious campaign season to select as their next student body President, Greg Morgan. If Mr. Morgan, Mr. King and daughter Megan are representative of the type of high caliber leadership that this nation will depend upon to move this country forward, we are indeed in very excellent and capable hands.

To say that I am merely just proud of these young citizens would be a gross understatement. We applaud their justly deserved victory, share in its arrival and promise for even greater achievements and accolades in the future.

"Say It Ain't So!!"

I don't know what I'm more upset about... The fact that Hillary is still apparently a viable candidate for President after the results of yesterday's primary elections, or the recent news that Victoria's Secret has announced that they have become "too sexy" for its own good. "Say it isn't so" on both counts.

Just as assuredly as day follows night and the swallows are soon scheduled to once again return to the mission at San Juan Capistrano, there are just certain things that the average red-blooded American male looks forward to each year: Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition and the arrival of the Victoria's Secret summer catalogue. We men set our watches and calendars by those two auspicious occurrences. And now...the apocalypse must be upon us...Victoria's Secret is rethinking its position in the world of women's lingerie and in the faint hearts of men. Again, Mable, say it ain't so!"

Find me a male who hasn't at least once tentatively ventured into one of Victoria's Secret's alluring and intimidating retail outlets to procure a little something provocative for their lady fair and I'll introduce you to a male who needs to get his pulse checked. Such forays are always unnerving to say the least, as this is no hardware store and the merchandise, so alluring displayed, do not lend themselves to glad handing as one would otherwise mull over the purchase of say a reciprocating saw. We are completely out of our element is this environment. Our pulse quickens, our eyes dart here and there in bewilderment, and sweat begins to bead on our upper lip as we begin to seriously rethink this ill-advised journey into the world of female unmentionables, becoming more convinced by the second, as we sink further into the bowels of that establishment, that perhaps the "little woman would much prefer something for the kitchen."

And then we find ourselves outed by the approach of a charming sales lady who immediately disarms us with the dreaded question, "May I help you?" (You think to yourself, "Say something, stupid!") "Ah-a-a-a-a-a..." (So far so good...) "I'm not sure... I'm just looking right now." (Brilliant, you idiot!! She knows you're not in here to buy motor oil!!) "Well...let me know if you have any questions that I can assist you with," politely responds the pert little sales lady. (Dude!! Get a backbone!! Tell her you need her help...otherwise you'll be the last lost soul left in the store when they close up the place!!) "Aha-a-a-a... I want...I think...I mean I want to buy my wife some new underwear," you respond pitifully. "What do you have in mind?" (Dear god, lady!! Do you honestly think I have any clue as to what I want and, by miracles of miracles, she might actually like and, even more remotely possible, wear? Have pity on me...please!!) "Well... Ah-a-a-a... " (This is not going well at all!!) "I was thinking of a new...ah-a-a-a-a...bra and maybe some (God, I hate saying this word in public!) panties." "Oh, how nice for her," she says, smiling sweetly. (You think she's thinking... "What a total loon!! How soon before my shift ends before I can be shed of these insufferable idiots!?!") "As you can see sir, we have a wide variety of bras and panties to pick from. Perhaps you could guide me toward a special type and color. (There are types!?!) "Ah-a-a-a-a...red! She likes red!" (Or was it baby blue? I'll stick with red...) "Good... Let's look at these red bras and see if any of the styles appeal to you." (Dumbfounded! I am now officially dumbfounded!!) "Ah-a-a-a-a... That one looks nice....what there is of it. Yea...that'll do. I like...I mean I think she'll like that. You have a return policy don't you?" "Oh yes, but I'm sure she'll like this bra. You've made a very intelligent selection." (If she only knew how 'intelligence' had so little to do with it.) "Now sir, what size is she?" (What!?!) "You know...her breast size...her cup size?" ( That kitchen utensil is beginning to sound more and more like a very good idea!!) "Is she an A, B, C, D, or bigger?" "Do I have to give them a letter grade?" She smiled politely, but I could tell she was more annoyed than amused. "Let's do it this way," she continued. "Is she my size?" (This had to be the only place in the world but perhaps a gentleman's club where one was encouraged to ogle a females breasts in public and not get severely reprimanded or slapped senseless!) "Aha-a-a" (I hesitated, trying to draw a comparative image of my wife's breast to this wisp of a girl. Patiently she waited my response knowing that I was engaged in a detailed mental exercise of comparison shopping. Would she somehow be offended if I said that my wife's breast were smaller or larger than hers? Is there even a right answer?) "Well...I suppose they... I mean she is probably about the same size as you...more or less," I said without much conviction. "Okay. I'm a C...almost a D," she offered without a hint of self conscientiousness as though she was merely advising me of her shoe size. "She can always return it for another size if it turns out it is too small or large. Now, how about a pair of panties to match? What size? (Here we go again...) "Ah-a-a-a-a... Do they have a letter grade also?" "No, just small, medium, large, or extra large. How big are her hips?" (Compared to what, I'm thinking. I couldn't help it. I find myself staring at her hips to get another comparative mental image.) "She's a little larger than you." "Okay...then she probably wears a large." (Oh goodness no...not a large!) "Can she bring them back for a different size too if they are not the right size? " "Yes...absolutely." "Then let's get her a medium...and hope for the best." "Good decision, sir." (She has no idea...) "Now...what type? (Dear sweet baby Jesus...is this ordeal ever going to end!?!) "We have these selections to chose from..." And she proceeds to show me every type of women's bloomers ever conceived by human inventiveness, most of which had less fabric than a small handkerchief. She continued... "These are nice and they are on sale for 3 pairs for $15.00." She held a pair up before her eyes and smiled broadly. "What do you think?" (Is it absolutely necessary that I make a public proclamation of my opinion?) "Yes...yes...they will do just fine. I'll take a pair of red, black and, to hedge my bets, a pair of baby blue." "Wonderful," she beamed. "Is there anything else I can help you with today?" "No, no. You've been most helpful." "Great. Just take these over to the cashier and she'll ring you up." I made my purchase, stuffed the distinctive Victoria's Secret shopping bag down inside my Sears store bag so as to curtail any snickers or snide remarks from passers-bys, and hurried over to the nearest Starbuck's for a cup of strong coffee to sooth my frazzled nerves.

Victoria's Secret too sexy!?! Perish the thought. But their catalogue is the way to go. Shopping in their stores is just too nerve wracking for we men of less refined decorum. Yes, indeed...a nice set of pots and pans for that next special occassion seems to me to be just the ticket.

"Hoodwinked"

Nikolai Lenin once coldly stated, "A lie told often enough becomes the truth." This statement is the premise on which author Jack Cashill bases his 2005 book, Hoodwinked." Cashill performs a masterful task in exposing the lies and half-truths that America's "progressive elite" have for generations been propagating to hijack the American heritage and culture...lies and half-truths that, with little or no in-depth questions as to being fact based, have been accepted as truth.

Attacking topics ranging from radical naturalism through sexual resolution, Cashill presents lie-busting evidence that shatter heretofore accepted myths that have shaped our nation and world into questioning, if not believing, that it is man and his intellect alone that is all powerful and the final arbitrator of what is right and wrong.

This is not a quick read book, but one that requires studious devotion to carefully digesting the information presented and an open mind to accept that not everything that we have been spoon fed about our social morays and ideologies are beyond reproach. Cashill cites example after documented example where supposed, unquestionable truths are not only impeachable, but are outright frauds. Alfred Kinsey's supposed research on human sexuality in the early sixties utilized...in fact encouraged...the utilization of an admitted pedophile to provide data that supported Kinsey's thesis that even small boys...some under the age of 4(!)...could experience organism. No one questioned how Kinsey obtained this alleged "documented proof." Margaret Sanger, the originator of today's well-known and, in many circles, highly respected Planned Parenthood, unabashedly advocated the need for society to sterilize the racially and genetically "impure." Alex Haley's historical novel Roots has proven to have been plagiarized in whole cloth. And the latter-day saint of the social progressives, Michael Moore? His speciality it to always use a lie when the truth is not convenient. Lie upon lie is exposed in the chapter topics dealing with the sexual resolution, multiculturalism, Marxism, and radical naturalism.

As previously stated, this is not an easy read. It is an eye-opener that should literally scare the pants off of the reader as he or she begins to seriously translate that which is revealed in the book to that which permeates our society today, wherein the mass media outlets look the other way in their deliberately slanted and prejudicial efforts to mold public opinion to their narrow and progressive way of viewing our world. Karl Marx of Das Kapital fame self-conceitedly claimed, "Religion is only the illusory sun around which man revolves...until he began to revolve around himself." When man becomes a law unto himself, there can be no room for God. And without God, or whatever higher power of spiritual guidance one wishes to assign this entity, there can be no truth. And without truth, there is only chaos. I strongly recommend Hoodwinked" as a must read.