Is the law good or bad?

 

On the verge of releasing my first legal thriller, I've been thinking (and researching) more about the law than ever. 

A wave of lawlessness over the summer had violent crime increasing dramatically. People are afraid. And not just in big cities. Car jacking crimes are particularly on the rise. Organized burglary crews brazenly commit coordinated "smash and grab" crimes in high-end stores. Street takeover crimes are increasing. Train cars are looted with impunity. Everywhere, criminals are bolder, less fearful of prosecution.

Ineffectual laws encourage such a situation. California laws drastically weakened the penalties for shoplifting. In my home state of Illinois, the "Safe-T" act (nicknamed "catch and release" by its detractors) passed the legislature, was signed by Governor Pritzker, and will go into effect the first of the year. The law, at the discretion of the judge, allows people accused of violent crimes (including second-degree murder) to be released without having to post cash bail.  

So, laws can be inexcusably weak, and yet other laws are excessive, unevenly applied, and unfair. Laws that allow gigantic multinational companies to pay no federal income tax. An Oklahoma mother of four receiving a twelve-year prison sentence for a $31 marijuana sale. Extreme mandatory sentences for minor offenses. 

Laws are often so broadly written that they have the unintended consequence of harming people the laws were never intended for. Often laws, especially at the national level, are written by corporate lobbyists because the legislators are too busy raising funds for their re-election efforts. I read a book recently that said there are so many laws on the books that the average American commits three felonies a month without even realizing it. 

The FBI shows up at your door. They ask questions. You want to help. But you're nervous. Maybe your memory is not so good. Maybe you should request a lawyer—but that might look bad. Anyway, you say the wrong thing. 

But that's not how the FBI will view it. 

You have just provided them with an opportunity to indict you for lying to a federal officer. Maximum penalty—five years in federal prison.

There are over 4,000 federal crimes alone. Are you sure you haven't broken any of them? And ignorantia juris non excusat. "Ignorance of the law excuses not."

Imagine you're arrested and charged. Rather than go to trial, the prosecutor offers you a deal, a plea bargain. If you go to trial, you can get 40 years. If you plead guilty, you'll receive 18 months. Who is going to roll the dice facing such a drastic penalty for going to trial? So, people often plead guilty even though they're innocent. In the United States, 95% of people charged with a crime plead guilty. Surely, a lot of them are guilty, but the excessive sentences prosecutors propose should they go to trial certainly causes many innocent people to plead guilty.

The effect of such injustices—the United States has 5% of the world's population and 20% of its prisoners.

So, do we need more laws? Less laws? Better laws? These are ongoing questions that will never be fully answered, but questions that nevertheless direly need to be addressed.

 

 

 

 

Why I like dogs.

 

I like them because they're like me--they like to play.

There are other reasons too, but that's the main thing. Dogs are always up for playing. The other day I was stuck at a traffic light and watching this guy walking his dog down the sidewalk while he was totally absorbed with talking on his cell phone. The dog meanwhile grabbed a hold of the leash with its teeth and was tugging on it, trying to get his owner into a game of tug of war. And the dog wouldn't give up. He ran all over, trying different angles. Nothing worked but he never quit. If he could talk he might've said, "Get off the phone, you mope, and let's have some fun!"

And dogs are good sports about playing. They make no demands as to what sort of playing there is to be done. Like the dog with the leash. They'll create ways to play. Fetch. Winging a Frisbee as far as you can. Squeaky toys. And they're game even when we stack the deck against them. 

I used to have a Golden Retriever named Dustin, and he loved to play with a tennis ball. A tennis ball. Then one day a tennis-playing friend came over with a tennis hopper filled with maybe fifty tennis balls. Well, I spilled the hopper all over the floor and poor Dustin was overwhelmed with trying to control them all. I know it was kind of mean (but a riot to watch).

And dogs like to play with each other. I remember being at house for sale. I was looking around the house, and then at a sliding glass window I saw a playground set and a huge dog romping around. It was a Great Dane and when I looked closer I could see that it was playing with a tiny little Chihuahua! And they were having a ball, running around, chasing each other. (Eventually the Chihuahua got a little tired and hid under the slide to get a breather!) It was so encouraging to see, especially since the the Chihuahua wouldn't have been much more than a bite-size snack for the big fella.

And so that's why I like dogs. They are the most playful animal on the planet!

Why Clothes Are Dangerous

Ever since the fig leaf (and I imagine even they had problems back then too--like what if fire ants were on the fig leaf?) there have been problems with clothing being dangerous.

I was driving last night, and it was pitch black, and at a stop light this guy was crossing against the light. He was wearing dark slacks and a dark jacket. I swear I didn't see him until the last second. I easily could've hit him. So...

And what about women's shoes? Some of them are basically lethal weapons. You get your foot stepped on with some of those and you've got a hole in your foot and you bleed out.

So...

But then there's guy-specific clothing like cowboy hats. I'm from Chicago, but when a friend of mine went to college in Kirksville, Missouri, I visited. Well, it was a whole different world down there. Pickup trucks with rifles in the back window racks. People with guns everywhere. And tattoos and cowboy hats. Well, I wasn't buying a gun or getting a tattoo, but a cowboy hat? 

I took the plunge. And I was in for a rude awakening. For starters I was amazed at how big it was. When I drove home and got out of my car, it caught on the roof and fell off. I (well, the cowboy hat did) bumped into so many doors, walls and windows. I really felt like I'd lost the ability to navigate around normally. It was embarrassing. And like you really need to accessorize the rest of your outfit around the cowboy hat. Like cowboy hat + Bermuda shorts = no bueno. If you're going to wear a cowboy hat you really should wear chaps (whatever those are) and drive a pickup truck. And like it's so easy to wear a baseball cap backwards, well, with a cowboy hat, that won't be happening. 

So...

 And there are special dangers about clothing that are Covid related. Like I saw a car pull up to a convenience store, and two girls jumped out with bandanas over their faces like they were Jesse James reincarnations. I'm telling you a lot of these mask wearers look like criminals. I mean, how are the cops supposed to tell the good guys from the bad guys? 

So...

 

 

Okay, maybe that's a little extreme, but he definitely wouldn't be taken for a criminal. 

And let's not forget about the danger of wearing loose clothing around machinery. Your car's running a little hot, so you pop the hood and act like you know what you're doing, but then before you know it, your scarf is sucked into the engine and you are ground to little pieces. 

Heck, even long hair can be dangerous. My dad had this massager for his arthritis. Kind of like this thing this guy is using on his bicep.

Anyway, I told my girlfriend about it (I apologize if you're reading this) and made her lay face-down on the couch. Then I massaged her back with the thing. She was just loving it, moaning with pleasure. Gradually, I moved the massager up to the back of her neck. More delighted moans. Until...until her hair got caught in the massager's motor! She was like, "Aah!" She went from pure pleasure to intense pain in a heartbeat. (Kind of like when you wake up in the morning and you're lying there in bed all comfy and you get a charley horse.)

So...

And I'm sure you have clothes horror stories of your own. Just leave them in the comments section--and be careful what you wear!

You are loved!

Life can be scary.

It can seem overwhelming.

Sometimes the world seems like it's spiraling out of control.

And you feel so alone.

It feels like one more step could lead to disaster.

But then you notice something.

And realize there's still hope.

That you have friends.

That people will help you.

And that no matter what happens.

There will still be love in the world.

Keep your chin up! Together, we'll get through this!

Why you don't want to watch a movie with me

I know I should be writing positive, engaging things, but come on, positive, engaging things are rarely interesting. So here is why you don't want to watch a movie with me.

My attorney-friend Danny came over to watch a movie one Sunday night. Danny's an up-and-comer, married, two kids, a soon-to-be legal star cutting his teeth at a downtown law firm. I was surprised he showed up when he said he would because he's one of those maniacally busy types and also because it's maniacally hard finding a parking spot in my crowded Rogers Park neighborhood. But yeah, he was here and it was all good, right? At least it started out that way. But by the time the night was over, the whole thing was so traumatic I can't even remember the movie. But it was like most American movies guys watch together (violent).

So we got our beverages and finally settled in. The movie started, and I skipped through the coming attractions. Yeah, it was all good. Then just as the movie proper began in earnest the phone rang.

It was only set to ring three times before voicemail got it, so I let it ring. But Danny said, "Aren't you going to get that?"

I'm one of those people that when I watch a movie I watch a movie, so I said, "Nah, voicemail will." I even put the phone out in the hallway on the ironing board.

So the movie was rolling. Shootings, drugs, profanity—we were enjoying it. Then the phone rang again. (I should've put it out of earshot.) Now Danny said, "Aren't you going to get it this time?" I somewhat politely told him to just watch the damn movie.

He bristled at that for a moment, but then got back into the mayhem on the screen.

Well, you guessed it. The phone rang again. Danny was like, "You better get that. I forgot my phone at home. It could be my wife. It could be something important. An emergency."

"Your wife can live without you for as long as it takes to watch a movie, Danny," I scolded.

"But..."

The phone rang a few more times as we watched, and Danny still bristled, but he also realized my will was too strong for him.

The movie ended, and I felt bad for Danny because I could see he was uptight. I resolved there and then that next time we watched a movie together I would put my phone on silent. Danny left in a silent hush, and I went for another beer and to see if the pesty caller had left a voicemail.

Oh my.

"Gregg, it's Danny's wife Sharon. It's an emergency. The police called. Danny's car is blocking somebody's driveway, and if he doesn't run down there and move it, they're towing it."

Double oh my.

Each succeeding message was more desperate. 

Understandably, after a few minutes there was a knock on the door.

There stood Danny, his face utterly drained of color. "I can't find my car."

Perhaps pathologically a prankster, I asked, "Well, where did you leave it?"

"I thought down the street, but it wasn't there. Then I walked all around the block. It's not anywhere."

I couldn't torture him any longer. I told him about the messages.

So that's bad enough, right? But there's more.

Danny had legal briefs in his car, and the car was towed to the police pound, and no one would be there till Monday morning.

So for sure that's bad enough, right? But there's more.

Danny needed those briefs to argue a case before the Illinois Supreme Court in the morning.

Yeah, that's as bad as it gets. And that's why you don't want to watch a movie with me.

How to know where your golf ball ends up when you can't see it land

I was playing golf the other day with some buddies, and one of them (not me of course!) hit his golf ball hurtling off the golf course toward a house that lined the fairway. (People love to live on golf courses. They just don't like what happens when bad golfers play them.) So, as the ball soared through the blue sky like a white, heat-seeking missile, the four of us looked at each other and thought, Uh-oh.

The fact of the matter is bad golfers know where their golf balls land even when they go whizzing off the course and they can't see them anymore. How? Audio confirmation. So in the hopes of helping newbie golfers know where their golf balls land when they veer off the course, I've compiled a list of the sounds (and their consequences) to expect.

thrash—the ball hit some tree branches and got caught up in their leaves (You lucked out.)

thud—you hit a roof (Sure, you'll have butterflies in your stomach, but you should be okay.)

crash—uh, you just broke a window (This is not so okay. Pretend in your mind that you didn't  hear it, hurry up, hit your next shot and get on to the next hole.)

plop—the ball landed in somebody's swimming pool (You're mega lucky—buy a lottery ticket on your way home.)

aaaahhh!—you hit someone (Consider contacting a defense attorney.)

aaaahhh! and plop—a particularly nasty combination. You hit someone in a swimming pool and drowning is a real possibility (Leave the golf course immediately and make plans to flee the country.)

yelp!—you just killed the family dog (When the enraged pet owner charges onto the course, point to your friends.)

So there you have it. Newbie bad golfers now can always know where their golf balls land. Remember, though, when you hit a shot that goes off the course, you will often lose a golf ball (and some golf balls are very expensive), but it can be worse for the homeowner—having broken windows, losing pets and experiencing fatalities.

And don't forget to say, "Fore!" Happy golfing!

Sleeping is trying to kill me

Okay, if you enjoy sleeping, this is not for you. However, if you're regularly traumatized when you sleep, read on, and I'm sure you'll be able to relate.

Sleep is so wonderfully regenerative. (Hum Brahms lullaby.)

Until...a charley horse strikes!

And in an instant you go from peace to AGONY! Okay, maybe you don't die from that, but what about sleepwalking! (I've done it.) If you live in a high-rise and the balcony is missing, well, you can figure out the rest.

Or how about sleep-talking? You talk in your sleep saying something like, "Alexa, my bank account password is XXXXXXX, please share it with the world."

 
Then you wake up and all your money's gone and you kill yourself. See.

Ever dream you were falling?

Well, doing that could give you a heart attack for sure.

And then there's dreams. Sweet dreams. Not! I had a dream I was making out with Hillary Clinton!

Okay, I admit it, it was kind of fun. (She's a good kisser.) But imagine if you were a Trump fan! Muerte! You'd have a stroke and you're gone!

Honestly, I even hurt myself yawning. I Googled to see if that was even possible, and Google said it wasn't. But that's not true!

Hopefully, sleep is a wondrous regenerative respite for you. Just have a little empathy for those of us that aren't so fortunate.

My doctor is trying to kill me!

Oh, you're exaggerating, you're thinking. Well, you decide.

My doctor is old school. He definitely fits the "old" part of old school, but I'm not sure he went to school, at least not medical school. (Okay, he probably did, but you'll soon see what I'm saying.)

Not that he's not a nice guy. He's a super nice guy. And he shares this nice little office in the Chicago suburbs with a chain smoking cardiologist, so his office smells like a casino at four in the morning. But the secondhand smoke, while unpleasant, isn't the issue. The danger is much more direct.

I'll just tell you about a recent visit. I had two things I was concerned about: a boil on my chest and a little lump on my forearm. So there I was inhaling the secondhand smoke in the waiting room. I was nervous because I knew what my doctor was like. But the thing is he got things done. He wasn't afraid to do just about anything in his office. Once he cut a mole off my cheek. (I said, "Are you sure you want to do this in here? I mean, it's my face and all, so I want it to look okay." He smiled and said, "I'll make you look interesting.") Really, I think he would do anything short of a heart transplant. Or maybe he'd do that too. He'd just have the cardiologist assist him. But back to this visit.

So yeah, I was nervous. But I figured it was best to get this over with. So there I sat with my thigh bouncing like a diving board after a cannonball, and that's when I heard the first cry. It was the patient currently in with my doctor. I thought, No, I probably just imagined I heard that.

"Aaaaahhhh!" came another cry.

There was no denying that one. And the one that followed. And all that followed that. I was like, I gotta get out of here. But I sat there transfixed, second by second, my body trembling with each blood curdling cry.

Now I was next.

Using the babiest of baby steps I made my way into his office—and he was cleaning blood off the curtains! Yes, blood! He had a rag and he was wiping them down! (And his curtains were plastic, like this happened all the time!) I know, I know, I should've left, but it was too late—I was mesmerized and in his Svengali-like power.

He tossed the bloody rag (I was tempted to ask him about the bio-hazard risk but couldn't speak). Then he told me to take off my shirt and lay on my back on the exam table. What could I do? I obeyed.

Now I think it's important to point out that I like to do health things slowly. Very slowly. Some would say too slowly. Like, my typical approach would be to say to him, "let's consider this visit a consultation, doc, and maybe we'll do something in the coming year."

I barely had time to see him as he appeared over me with a lance and stabbed it into the boil on my chest.

"Aaaaaaahhhh!"

"There, that takes care of that. Now where's that lump on your arm?"

Seriously? I was so tempted to tell him it went away, but then what if he found it on his own? He'd probably amputate my arm. In abject terror, I pointed to the lump.

I could feel the cool of the alcohol prep cloth as he shimmed it over the area. Oh God. I closed my eyes. Let him do what he's going to do, but I just don't want to look at it.

Now, he was saying things like, "I bet it's a lipoma. It's probably a lipoma."

(Like I'm supposed to know what a lipoma is!)

I felt the scalpel slice into my forearm. It hurt but it was manageable.

"There. That's it," he said.

I breathed my first clear breath since I'd walked into the office.

"See?" he said.

See what? I opened my eyes.

A strange, lima bean-shaped thing was only inches from my face!

 "Aaaaaaahhhh! Get that thing out of here!"

He did. Getting sewn up wasn't bad at all, and I was in and out of there in fifteen minutes. Like I said, he gets things done. When I arrived home, I checked my phone, and there was an email from his office.

It was one of those surveys. The first question was:

"Would you recommend doctor to a friend?"

I started thinking about the people I hated.

My car is trying to kill me!

Okay, maybe it's not that bad, but I swear my car is trying to kill me.

It started subtly. I bought my car at one of those re-seller places, which I won't name so I don't get sued. This was 2007 and after trying out sitting in about a hundred cars where my right knee banged into the console or my head hit the roof, I came across a big, really big, beautiful American car that was only a 2004, and get this, it only had 4,000 miles on it!

My internal scam detector of course went off. 4K for three years! Something was fishy. An old lady who kept the car in the garage except for when she went to church (once a year on Christmas!), or on the other hand, maybe it was a mafia scumbag who turned the odometer back from 4,000,000?

But there was so much room in the car. (I know, I know, maybe not the best reason to buy a car, but it was like sitting on my living room sofa.)

Ok, I bought it. And in the beginning my car's homicidal tendencies were latent. For a couple of months everything seemed okay. Yeah, I was digging the car. Thinking I'd made the deal of a lifetime. But then little things started going wrong. After a heavy rain, my passenger door filled with water. (I only realized it while driving. When I'd brake it was like a fish bowl was in the car door.) Then my windshield started to leak. Slowly at first, then more, then more. Not quite a fire hose, okay? but it was getting there. (I should've seen the writing on the wall at this point—was my car trying to drown me?)

I fixed those potential flood risks (quite costly) and soldiered on, but clearly my 'garage kept by a church-going old lady' theory was kaput.

Now, it's not my car's fault that it has huge doors. That I'm not arguing. My golfing buddy won't park next to me in the golf course parking lot because he's sure if I open my door even half way, I'll dent his nice Toyota Avalon. And okay, okay, so I can take a little vehicular rejection, but the thing about the big doors is—I'm convinced they are trying to kill me.

How? Every time I open my door and get into the car, the door swings back and crushes my legs. Although the door hasn't broken my legs yet, I'm sure if I had osteoporosis it would have. Nevertheless, my legs are bruised and battered, and okay if the door hasn't killed me, besides making it very difficult to walk eighteen holes, it has weakened me to the point of being vulnerable to my car's most recent attempt at homicide.

I smelled gas. Not a lot at first. In the beginning, I thought it might have been the car in front of mine's exhaust. That sort of thing. But over time it became clear that it was my murderous car's latest try to get rid of me.

Well, you know how the story ends because I'm writing this. And I haven't sold the villainous car. How could I palm it off on someone else? For all practical purposes, I would be committing murder.

So now I keep a very suspicious eye on my car. Now if the car is going down a hill, I'm anticipating brake failure and preparing to eject. I have a fire extinguisher in the back seat for when the engine inevitably catches on fire. Lastly, for when that terrifying 'check engine' light comes on, I have a defibrillator to restore my heartbeat after the massive heart attack I'll surely have.

I honestly hope your car is better than mine (not all cars are evil), but at least now I know for a fact that my car is trying to kill me, and I'm preparing for its next attempt.

My hair dryer is trying to kill me!

Okay, full disclosure: that is not me in the photo.

And secondary full disclosure: I'm a guy.

Okay, I used to have this little hair dryer. It was so tidy. It was like a gun but a gun with a very short barrel. And it even folded up so it fit easily in a suitcase (for trips I never took). Here's one similar but mine's barrel was even shorter (and it was blue). Not that being blue was important. I'm not color blind or anything.

So life was good while I used that hair dryer. I'd get up groggy in the morning, shower and then dry my hair. It all seemed to take a long time but at least I wasn't injured.

Until the nice little hair dryer broke and I had to get a new (evil) one.

See the new one had a longer barrel. (I just got the cheapest one I could at Walmart.) So yeah, it was really long like this one this barber is using. Again, that is not me in the photo. I don't know who that guy with the mohawk is or who the barber is (or why he's wearing a construction worker's overalls with a bow tie).

So what was the problem? Well, the problem was I was used to the short barrel on the old hair dryer. So now when I get up groggy, shower and use the long-barrel dryer I smack my head because the barrel is longer than I'm used to.

Okay, I don't think I've fractured my skull or anything, but I have repeatedly given myself substantial smacks with the dryer, and that is not a pleasant way to start the day.

And you know what they say about it taking thirty days to break a habit? Well, it's true! So for thirty days I smacked myself in the head with the stupid too-long hair dryer. (Something similar happened when I visited my friend in Missouri and bought a cowboy hat, which kept getting knocked off when I'd get in my car.)

I considered suing the manufacturer (At least to recoup my medical bills for head contusions, cuts and burns.), but then the thirty days passed and I sustained injuries much less frequently.

So learn from me! If you've got a snub-nose hair dryer, don't get one with a long barrel or you'll pay dearly!

Why you don't want to go shopping with me!

Okay, full disclosure—I'm a guy.

Now that I got that out of the way, I'll tell you why you don't want to go shopping with me. Actually, an example might be even better.

The other day I went shopping to Kohl's. Kohl's is the perfect guy store because they have all these discount racks, where guys can buy at really cheap prices shirts that are too big, colors that are too garish and pants that even golfers would be embarrassed to wear. But on a Saturday a couple of weeks ago I was shopping for shoes (and there is no discount rack for shoes).

I know all about shoes, as my neighbor is a podiatrist. So I know you need a thumbnail's amount of room at the toe, that the shoe's dome should be big enough so that the toes can move freely, that the foot shouldn't touch on the sides. Yeah, I'm a veritable Dr. Scholls.

So I found a pair of shoes I liked. As a bonus, a really nice twenty-something female sales associate was there to help. I had already done all the self testing described above, but it was good to get a second opinion and the nice clerk obliged, confirming that this pair of shoes was a perfect fit.

So the next step was on to test the shoes around Kohl's store. (Buying shoes is the ultimate in a tricky purchase. Shoes are designed by their manufacturers to fit perfectly in the store but then change shape on the drive home and pinch your feet once you've worn the shoes on asphalt and scuffed them up—ie. when you can't return them anymore.) And boy, am I glad I did the tour around the store because I felt slight pinching somewhere. At first I thought it was in the toes on the right shoe, but by the time I got back to the shoe department, I felt the heel was slipping on the left shoe.

With such terrifying reservations, it was clear I needed to find a different pair.

I did. I was excited and by now I really wanted to get out of there too. I enjoy Kohl's but it was a Saturday, after all, and I had things to do. So I chop-chop ran through my self testing of the shoes and determined them to be another stellar fit. I told myself I should just buy them and get the heck out of there, but the nice clerk that helped me before was still there and it wouldn't hurt to have her—real quick—check them.

She seemed surprised to see me, as I'd already been there an hour and a half, but she dutifully confirmed that indeed the shoes were a 100% foolproof failsafe perfect fit. I was thrilled! But still the floor test awaited.

So off I went walking through Kohl's again. I was getting familiar with the store layout by now and was a little embarrassed to be walking through the lingerie section so regularly, but it was part of the path around the whole store and what was I going to do—backtrack? So round and round and round I went. This pair of shoes was a real hands-down winner. But maybe one last trip around the store would discover a latent flaw.

I was getting really tired. I'd been there over three hours, and I just decided to buy the darn shoes. I went back to the shoe section to get the box and get out of there. As fate would have it, the same clerk was there (I hadn't seen her on my rounds in a while—I think she must have gone to lunch or something) and when she saw me, her face flushed and she said, "Are you still here?!"

I was like, "Well, yeah, you see, I'm kind of mentally ill actually."

(I didn't really say that.) No, I just smiled, thanked her for her help and ran out of there as fast as I could.

And that is why you don't want to go shopping with me.

How I single-handedly changed VISA corporation

It's true! I single-handedly changed VISA! How? you ask. (Well, okay maybe not out loud but in your mind.) Well, I'll tell you.

For months I kept dutifully paying my VISA bill. Boring. But it had to be done. Well, finally the boredom got so bad I remember one day really examining the VISA statement. I noticed that in one little area it said:

List changes below

Well, of course, they meant address changes or other changes that would apply to my account. But they didn't say that. Ha ha.

They just said:

List changes below

So I wrote in the allotted space:

Bought a new toothbrush

And then on the next month's bill (again in the allotted space under 'List changes below') I wrote:

Lost five pounds

And as the months (and statements) rolled by I continued to inform VISA corporation of all the little changes in my life. I must admit I figured I probably wasn't being heard, but it felt good being able to share my life with at least something that wanted to know what sort of changes I was going through!

But then one day lo and behold a VISA statement came and rather than it reading:

List changes below

it read:

List address changes below

And I knew then that I had single-handedly changed VISA! Ha ha. Oh sure, it had taken a while, but it felt so good to know that I had the power to change a mega-corporation!

Why I don't like reading modern books

I developed an interest in Isaac Newton. Then I came across this book called Dark Matter by Philip Kerr, which is a fictionalized story of Isaac Newton's life. Issac Newton—the apple falling on his head guy. Mathematician. Scientist. He discovered Calculus. A towering intellect, a scientific genius.

Okay, a little bit about my reading interests. I don't like reading sleazy stuff. It's just not my thing. And I don't write it either. A couple of my books have some sex stuff, but it's always pertinent to the story and never explicit or titillating. Same thing with profanity—my books don't have any profanity. I don't like to read it, so I don't write it.

But back to Dark Matter. Isaac Newton. Isaac Newton! Certainly there wouldn't be anything sleazy in a book about Isaac Newton, right? Guess again.

217 pages into the book it got really sleazy. And so now I've invested a lot of time, and I want to know what's coming. But if I want to continue, I have to read trash. Nope. Not for me. At this point I don't trust the author anymore. I put the book down.

That's why I wish books had ratings like movies. But at least, for the most part anyway, it's safer to read older books. They just don't have the sleaze modern books have.

My Navy Seal book started as a joke

My newsletter list, the people who help me with many things (thank you!), was giving me suggestions for overcoming writer's block. Which I was suffering massively from. Amongst the many great suggestions was 'write whatever you want.'

So I started writing this insane story about two Navy SEALs in Hawaii. And I started sharing it with my newsletter. Some hated it. (One guy told me I knew nothing about Hawaii. Which wasn't true, I knew about Don Ho music.) But a lot of people enjoyed the loony humor and I was enjoying writing it, so I just kept going, figuring it wouldn't amount to much.

Oh, some of it had to go. I got rid of the first scene where the protagonists latch onto a shark that swims 15 miles out to sea and then they're saved by a Navy SEAL helicopter that 'just didn't happen to be doing anything at the time.' But a story started taking shape. Yeah, the new SEALs were loopy, but they were given a big mission--to find a US Senator who disappeared in Cuba playing golf.

One thing led to another and before long I realized I was writing a novel.

Like my buddy Plato said:

The beginning is the most important part of the work.

Old Plato knew what he was talking about. ;)

The world is more than black or white

This whole madness of "either or" in life is crazy. The political turmoil brings it to the forefront. Right vs. Left. Republican vs. Democrat. Conservative vs. Progressive. Everything is just more 'us vs them.'

Is this any way to live? Any way to run America? Where it's not a question of working together to improve things. It's "destroying" the other side. Demonizing them. And whatever little contact transpires between opposing sides, it is only to convert the other side to one's own opinion.

If aliens invaded earth and start killing people, we would very quickly realize that we're all the same down here. But aliens invading being unlikely, we better figure out a way to get along on our own.

Yes, differences will occur, but differences can be respected, rather than demonized. I may not like what you have to say or how you live, but I respect your right to say it and to live the way you want.

Both sides are guilty of intolerance. Wingnuts are at both extremes.

What's the answer? Think. Be conscious. Realize that other opinions are just as valid as your own. Look to build up, rather than tear down. Respect, don't revile. Help, don't hurt.

And it all starts with you.

Is lying the new normal?

Almost fifty years ago, the U.S. landed a man on the moon. Or did they? Former President Obama was born in Hawaii. Or was he? John Kerry was a war hero in Vietnam? You sure about that?

And on and on and on. It's to the point where you just don't know what to believe anymore.

Years ago, I was in a car accident. I was driving in the left lane of a four-lane road, and the cars in the right lane were backed up. From out of nowhere (I never once saw it) a car pulled out of a parking lot and smashed my car in the right rear fender, sending my car spinning in a 180.

I was pretty rocked. The police came and documented things. And I was very surprised when the insurance company for the person who hit me wasn't going to pay for the damage.

I had to go to court. (I was only twenty and pretty naive.), thinking it was just some technicality that needed to be set right. Well, the woman who hit me, on the witness stand under oath, read a very detailed statement saying that I hit her! That I swerved my car into hers.

Talk about your jaw dropping open. I was so surprised I could barely think, let alone speak. But I fumbled through what actually happened, the police backed me up, and the judge forced the woman's insurance company to pay for the damage.

But it was a life lesson: people lie. And now it seems like lying is the new normal.

I remember this one guy I knew, who worked for the city of Chicago, told me about "The Chicago Way." It was simply: "As long as I get mine, I don't care about anything else." And it seems more than ever, that's become the way most people think.

So as long as the economy is good and we have money in our pockets, we don't care about anything else. Politicians, media outlets, anybody at all can lie to us as much as they want as long as we get ours.

What in the world has happened to us?

Does waiting on God work?

I used to live next to this great guy named Genaro. Genaro worked so hard and he loved it! He'd work all day at his factory job, and as soon as he came home, he'd be in his back yard, sawing or pounding, making something, cleaning something, always working working working! (I told him: "Genaro, your version of hell is going to be lying in an inflatable lounge chair in a pool drinking pina coladas.")

I'm a novelist. I usually have ideas lining up, just waiting to be written. Until now, that is. I haven't had a good idea for a book in months. So what did I do? I pressed. I'd bludgeon an idea up from my soul. Life was too short to wait for inspiration, and I wanted to work. I needed to work.

And what were the results of my whirlwind effort? Nothing were the results. All I did was frustrate myself. I'd racked my brain for ideas. I'd read what other writers were writing. I'd Googled it, for Pete's sake. And all I got was more nothing.

Being a hard-head I naturally decided to triple up on getting an idea. I got an idea to search for a book on my bookshelves about achievement via living consciously. For sure that held my answer! Oddly enough, instead, I came across a book I wasn't looking for. Although, in hindsight, it may have been looking for me.

It's called Beyond Failure: Discovering Grace and Hope in the Hard Times of Life by James A. Scudder. But honestly I didn't even read the title, I just randomly cracked open the book and saw that I'd underlined the following:

We have all been guilty of taking matters into our own hands when it comes to dealing with a difficult situation, thinking that if we sit back and wait on God, nothing is going to happen. (pg 25 in the paperback)

Huh. That certainly got my attention. For I was supremely guilty of what it accused. I had taken matters into my own hands in this difficult situation all right, and I was thinking that if I sat back (ugh, just the thought of sitting back, even now, makes my skin crawl) and waited on God, nothing was going to happen.

So where to go from there?

You got it. Sitting back and waiting on God. I gave it a try. The results?

I'm still not writing, so it didn't work, right? Well, in a way yes, but in a bigger way, it did work, because I'm relaxed again. I'm myself again. I'm no longer frantic.

Will I ever find an idea for my next novel? I don't know. But I had no guarantee I'd find one before, and at least this way I am living my life at peace with myself and God. And that is so much better than how I'd been living.

When you're stuck in life

I'm writing this post for myself. I'm a writer and I'm stuck. I've tried everything to get unstuck and none of what I've tried has worked. I've tried everything from little mental tricks (sit in the chair for an hour and the writing will come) to sheer force of willpower. And nothing, nada, nyet, stugots has worked. But I think I found something that's promising. It's from the author Vernon Howard:

When you grow tired of a certain activity, it merely means you have temporarily used up that particular pool of energy. When this happens, you should simply go along with nature to a different activity which calls upon another pool, permitting the previous pool to refresh itself. When tired of mental work, do something physical. You won't need to think about changing an activity; it happens by itself whenever a pool is exhausted. Just be aware of the signal and follow it. (italics mine)

Simple, right? Not for me it isn't. I just keep banging my head against the same wall over and over again. I have to write my novel. To do anything else feels like a failure or a cop-out or a waste of time. My mind says, "This is what I should be doing. (And anything else won't do.)"

What's helped me is to see that what Howard suggests is a natural process. The pool of a particular activity gets used up. It make no sense trying to find water in that dry pool. Go on to a new pool. As Howard says, in the meantime, the previous pool will refresh itself.

Doing this blogpost was my first attempt at following Howard's advice, and honestly as of right now it feels pretty terrible. But at least I'm not banging my head against the wall anymore, so in that sense it's real progress right there.

I think the key for me is recognizing the signal that the pool is dry. Doing so is tricky because sometimes I am able to force my way into writing. It's just now I know if it's time and time again I can't write, I need to find something else to do.

After that, the writing will come. And I imagine the process isn't any different for any other life situation where I find myself stuck.

Will God bless cheapskates?

I attended a church service for the first time in six years and it reminded me very quickly why I stopped attending in the first place. The service started with good heartfelt worship music, which was great. Then the pastor took the stage. And went on a twenty minute rant about how the congregation should give more money. He said that "tithes (giving 10% of your pre-tax income) and offerings" should just be "the starting place" for giving. He said it was "okay" if you "just" gave the 10%, but really you should pray to see "if God wants you to give more." He said, "Did you ever notice that God really takes care of the people that give a lot?" Which is a thinly veiled way of preaching "the prosperity gospel," where you "give to get." (The prosperity gospel goes back all the way to Oral Roberts' "seed faith" ministry, which has you "planting the seed (money) of faith in the ground and when you do, God will grow it." Of course you're giving the money to Oral Roberts, not God. Which reminds me of the saying 'If someone is preaching about the joy of giving, you can be sure he wants to be on the receiving end.')

Years ago when I went to church regularly I was just scraping by financially. And I can't tell you how many services I sat through where the preaching was on giving. The most quoted Bible verse was 2 Corinthians 9:7 and it was "...for God loves a cheerful giver." The thing is the preachers always leave off the first part of the verse which is: "Each of you should give what you have decided in your heart to give, not reluctantly or under compulsion..." (italics mine) And the compulsion was abundant in those church services. If the "God loves a cheerful giver" verse didn't work, it would progress to verses like you were "robbing God" (Malachi 3:8). Specifically the verse says: "Will a man rob God? Yet you are robbing Me! But you say, 'How have we robbed You?' In tithes and offerings." And that verse was often used in variations like "That's God's (tithes) money!" 

So I sat there, a financial sinking ship, listening to all this, thinking, This isn't right. And, amongst other reasons, I haven't gone back until recently. Now, I never stopped believing, but yeah, I didn't need to hear this money grubbing preaching either. 

I was warned I'd never make it without being in a church. That the Devil works by isolating people and then he tears them apart. 

They didn't scare me. Maybe they were right; maybe they were wrong. I figured I'd find out for myself. 

And God blessed me. Financially and otherwise.

What a lousy God He would be if He only blessed the big bucks givers of the world. Or this notion of "robbing God." How utterly ridiculous. Like God needs to get better anti-virus software. 

Nope, God will bless you if you can't give, and He'll bless you even if you can and don't. 

He blesses everybody who sincerely seeks him. Everybody.

What's with all the 111111111s?

I'm seeing 111111s everywhere. Yesterday I looked at the number of downloads I had for one of my books and it was 1111. I went upstairs into my apartment and looked at the kitchen stove digital clock. It was 11:11 a.m. I got back to work for a couple of hours and the very next time I looked at a clock it was 1:11 p.m. Then after a long trying day I was writing in my journal in my bedroom and I looked at the clock there and, you guessed it, it was 11:11 p.m. Then I went into the kitchen (the clock in my bedroom is fast) and it was 11:11 p.m. on the kitchen stove clock and on an atomic wall clock.

And I'm writing this post on 11/1. (November First)

I've been seeing these ones for years. Once driving in my car, just driving, watching the road, I suddenly looked at the odometer. And at that exact moment it turned 11,111 and 1 block. 111111.

A friend of mine calls such things "God winks." I searched online and there are new age articles about vibrations and such. I'm not sure what they mean but they must mean something, right?