Flying High

Flying always seems to get the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up. This is very unfortunate considering the frequency of my air travel, but nonetheless it provides me with constant fuel for my various rants.

Yesterday I was struck by delays and cramped seating, oversold flights and cranky fellow travelers. Topping that off, when we finally landed in Philadelphia, after what had been a long layover in Cincinnati, our gate was occupied by another plane and we had to sit on the runway for over thirty minutes, staring at the dozen or so empty gates that surrounded our final destination. Obviously, the decision makers at the airport had no idea the stew of frustration and anger already boiling inside our metal tube.

Taking up the entire row behind me, window to window, were three women who I will politely refer to as “classless rednecks.” Two sat in the seats directly behind me, and the third lady, rather wide in the hip area, sat in the two seats across from them. Undeterred by the loud hum of the jet engines, nor the fact that they were surrounded by fellow travelers who were trying to read, sleep or carry on their own quiet conversations, they bellowed across the aisle to each other.

I’m not sure how they had spent all their time in the Cincinnati airport, but I’d wager everything I own that a good portion of it had been in a bar. Although I am fairly confident that they were relatively obnoxious when sober, the intake of alcohol had given them the added delusion that they were sexy, funny and the only people on the plane.

Throughout the flight these three conversed loudly on a variety of subjects; anything from one’s lack of texting skills to another’s irritable bowel syndrome. Apparently the one named Ann had a husband named Ray who didn’t pay her a lot of attention. She seemed fine with that however, and stated clearly that she intended to find someone who would, hopefully at their hotel bar that very evening.

One commented on the fact that her daughter had developed quite a “potty mouth,” and then proceeded to prove that the fruit did not fall far from the tree. In fact, all three sounded like they had just come ashore from a six month tour of duty, where they likely terrorized their fellow sailors with their obnoxious behavior and crass language.

I realized through their incessant chatter that none of the three had flown before, but I also had to wonder if they had ever been out in public. I only hoped that where ever they came from, it was neither Tennessee nor Kentucky. Holding claims to both states as home, I would have been very embarrassed.

Ann complained for most of the flight about her ears hurting. At one point, and I swear I am not making this up, she actually said, “Why do these damn planes have to fly so high?” The woman in the seat next to me looked up from her book when she heard that nugget of genius and glanced at me as if to say “did I just hear her say that?”

Of course, when it was finally time to leave the plane, they did not follow the rules. Pushing their way forward, they muttered “’scuse me” and elbowed people back into their seats to clear a path. I heard one cackle throatily over her shoulder to her friends, “Why are they all in such a damn hurry?”

I can walk pretty fast when I want to, so inside the terminal, I got away from them as fast as my legs would go, but could still hear their throaty horse laughs echoing down the corridors, frightening small children and peeling paint off the walls. I have no idea where they were going or in what hotel they were staying. I prayed that it was not mine, and I also said a little prayer for the unsuspecting fellow who would cross their path later that evening in a hotel bar. I hoped that he would not be so drunk that he would fall into their grasp, or if he did, that he would be too drunk to remember.

A Noble Attempt

It’s been fascinating to watch the reaction today to the announcement that Barack Obama has been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. There is a considerable amount of shock, which is understandable, especially since Obama has only been in office for nine months and his legacy has barely been sketched, let alone carved into monument. The view that this prize might be a tad pre-mature is reasonable, but the more base reactions of the American public might also give more credence as to why he actually got the award.

He survived a fairly vicious presidential campaign with his dignity intact. He maintained a level of civilized behavior despite personal attacks and a barrage of misinformation. He has since withstood ridiculous accusations that he is not an American citizen, is a socialist, and been compared to Hitler and the master criminal, The Joker. Louder and louder screams from some factions of our nation have yelled, essentially from day one of his Presidency, that he will destroy our country and should be impeached. I would assume that some of these concerns are sincere, while others are based on blind ignorance or even worse, racism.

Throughout all these attacks, he has remained calm, dignified and respectful to others. I don’t know if I would have done that. If someone calls me a liar in the capital of our country in front of the entire nation (at least those who cared enough to watch the speech), I think I wouldn’t have been very quick to accept his weak, forced apology. Obama did and tried to put the outburst behind him.

What I’m trying to say, and probably not very well (not that it matters, because those who hate him will continue hating him, even if they don’t know why), is that Obama just might have gotten the Nobel Peace Prize for not quitting his job already or slapping someone in the face.

Most of us who work are protected by various legalities. If I go to work and my co-workers or bosses give me too hard a time, I can go to Human Resources or hire a lawyer. I can fight back against working in a “hostile” work environment. The President of the United States doesn’t really have anywhere to go! He’s been called names, threatened and disrespected. There was a teenager recently who started a Facebook survey to ask whether someone should kill the President! I don’t know about you, but if I were Obama, I’d have been on the phone to some secret CIA group right away and that kid would have disappeared off the face of the earth. But that might be why I will never receive the Nobel Peace Prize.

Seriously though, it’s pretty sad how much hate there is in this country right now. There is no consideration that the world outside our borders might be looking upon us in a new, more hopeful light right now. There is no thought that this prize might not be for just Obama alone, but for the powerful democracy that elected him. They recognize this, even if we do not.

Despite our childish arguing and posturing, our stubborn grandstanding and belligerent bellowing, the world is looking at us for the first time in a long time as a nation capable of great things. One hundred and fifty-five years ago…barely four generations…we were fighting amongst ourselves to abolish slavery. Fifty years ago we were still segregated…and this year we inaugurated our first black President. I don’t care if you don’t like him or his politics, that’s pretty amazing.


I know it’s hard to see past our own front doors and porches. It’s almost impossible to see past our own cities, towns and states. Imagining the expansiveness of the world, and the diversity of thought it contains, usually escapes us all. Today, we received a wake-up call from the world. They are watching. They are waiting for us to live up to our promise and potential…and unlike many of us…they think we can do it.

Getting away (part one)

It’s nice to get away sometimes. I highly recommend it. I know that sounds strange for someone who travels for a living, but there’s a big difference between “going away” for work and “getting away.”

Connie and I have been trying for a while to take a little trip. It didn’t matter too much where, just somewhere different and somewhere quiet. Between my work schedule and the responsibilities of family and kids, we had not had a lot of luck. But then things suddenly fell into place.

It took some careful planning, and I had to build our “get away” around a work meeting, but somehow we made it happen. Last Thursday afternoon we packed our bags and headed Northeast, arriving that evening in Roanoke, Virginia where we had a nice dinner at a local diner and then a wonderful visit with our niece Angela and her adorable newborn son, Noah.

Our timing was perfect. Noah had been born on Monday and had only been home from the hospital for one day when our little adventure brought us right by their door. His grandparents, Connie’s sister Sally and husband Dan were there, glowing in pride, and it was great to see them too, although the focus of everyone’s attention was on the baby.

Angela’s husband Jeff staggered through with the weary, happy, slightly overwhelmed look I knew and understood well. It doesn’t matter how many parenting books you read or how many videos you watch trying to get ready, nothing prepares you for the massive amount of stuff you have to do as a new parent. Every waking minute seems to revolve around doing the right thing in the right way for the baby. It’s exhausting.

Friday morning we got on the Blue Ridge Parkway and headed north. We had debated taking our convertible, thinking the wind in our hair on a beautiful fall day would be great, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to put 1500 miles of wear and tear on our car and ended up convincing Connie that the “logical” thing to do was to get a rental. Amazingly, it turned out to be a good idea.

I doubt we would have had our top down for more than five minutes during the entire trip. The average temperature across the parkway and Shenandoah’s Skyline Drive was probably no more than 55 degrees, but with fierce gusts of wind that came along about every two minutes and drove the temperature down to near freezing.

When we stopped at overlooks to take pictures, Connie would hop out, snap a few with her camera and then jump back in the car, where she would wrap herself in a blanket and shiver. I did not mind the cold so much, being fairly well insulated from years of macaroni and cheese, hot wings and lack of exercise. While Connie’s teeth chattered and she feared that she might get frostbite, I stood proudly on the mountaintops in my short sleeve shirt and khaki shorts, throwing a few more calories into my internal furnace that runs a few degrees higher than the average person anyway.

Despite the cold, and the fact that it was a little cloudy that day, it was still amazingly beautiful. It was my third trip along Skyline Drive and it was still as awe-inspiring as my first time. Riding across the crest of ridges with expansive valleys sprawled out on either side, you are tempted to stop at each of the many overlooks, just to take the time to breathe it in.

After two hundred miles of peaceful, scenic driving, we reached Front Royal and merged with the heavy highway traffic heading north to Winchester, Virginia. Being tired and a little too reliant on Interstate signs, I did not reach for my printed Google map directions and quickly realized that I had missed the exit to our hotel. I took the next Winchester exit and in a brief moment of reasoning that somehow ignored my miserable history in terms of navigation, I decided that rather than turn around and go back the way we knew would get us there, I instead would blaze my own path across back roads and alleyways to what must logically be the location of our bed for the night.

We had a thorough tour of Winchester. I’m sure those who live there think it is a lovely town. I hope they are happy and that their children live in peace and prosperity. I also wish to never visit that flaming pit of despair again.

You never fully realize how tired you are until you are ready to be where you want to go and just can’t seem to get there. We were tired and hungry, and all we wanted to do was get to the hotel, drop off our stuff, freshen up and then get a nice dinner at one of the restaurants that invariably cluster nearby. It was a simple plan, but nothing about it seemed to work.


First, of course, I had gotten us lost. This was frustrating for us both. I don’t like being an idiot and Connie does not particularly enjoy being married to one, so the rising tension in the car as we seemed to drive further and further toward a final destination of nowhere was getting uncomfortable. Stupidly, as I took another random turn, I would say, “this has to be it,” and then moments later, after turning around in any available driveway or wide spot in the road, I would say, “it must have been that other way.”

For lovers of apple sauce and other apple products, we did learn that Winchester, Virginia is the home of White House Foods. We also learned that their dock areas are very busy and if you sit still for very long looking at a map, they will attempt to load your vehicle onto an outgoing rail car.

Oddly, we also learned that Winchester has two roads by the same name which run through town in various mis-directions and for no apparent reason (and no warning by way of signage) become other road names entirely. I’m sure that if you grew up there and worked in the Apple canning facility all of your adult life, you’d know how to get from point A to point B without the use of street signs, but for visitors and those who are not blessed with magical intuition, a clear and obvious street sign would be NICE!

When we finally stumbled upon our hotel for the night, we were surprised to see that it was a practically new facility and had obviously been built on the promise of future development in the area. With the exception of a gas station across the road, there were no restaurants within sight. The friendly front desk clerk pulled out a map when I asked for potential eating establishments and pointed to a small dot on the far side of a white expanse. “This is where we are,” he said. “You can go here,” and pointed to a group of dots on the far side of the map, “or here,” designating another grouping farther up the page.

“How far are they?” I asked.

“Oh,” he cocked his head to the side and thought a minute, “it’s only about five to seven miles to any of them.”

I was not looking forward to another visit through the tangled streets of town, so we chose to stay on the road that led back to the Interstate and the exit that I had previously missed. By now it was dark and our exhaustion and hunger was getting the better of us. We normally like to find restaurants that we don’t have in the Knoxville/Oak Ridge area. We can eat at Outback anytime.

My preference is usually for small, local, home-style diners and café’s. I especially like the notion of a family run business. I imagine Momma in the back frying chicken, baking biscuits and pies. Dad doing dishes and checking the ovens while the kids serve the yummy goodness with a friendly smile and a refill on sweet tea. It’s part of that Mayberry utopian existence that floats around in my brain.

Our options for local goodness seemed limited in Winchester. There was a steak and seafood place that had a promising name, but when we started to turn by the sign we realized that it was located in a Holiday Inn. I don’t eat at hotels located next to an interstate. That’s just a rule that has served me well. No offense meant.

There were a few Mexican restaurants that appeared to be housed in converted bank branches, and a promise of the best fried chicken “you’ll ever eat” at a place which also sold gas. We ended up at Golden Corral, if for no other reason than I was about to run out of fuel, and Connie out of patience. At that point, our hunger was not willing to wait for a server to take our order and prepare it as requested. We just wanted a plate and anything that was grilled, fried or sautéed. Fortunately, there was an abundance of all.

Back at our hotel, collapsing on the couch in exhaustion (and a bit of buffet regret), we ended up laughing about how such a wonderful day in the mountains had ended so ridiculously. Despite our frustration at being lost and trying to find a good meal, it had still been a great day. Even our mutual dislike for this small apple town in Virginia would only add to the warm memories of our trip, which had barely even begun.

A Simple Smile

I saw a woman at the Raceway last week. We were both filling our cars with gas. I wouldn’t have noticed her at all, and she was making every effort not to be noticed, but like a person who draws attention to themselves with a bright, shining smile, she caught my eye because of her overwhelming sadness. Her head was sunk low, hanging heavily off her stooped shoulders. She leaned against her car, her body language speaking volumes about how she felt.

I had never seen her before and would likely never see her again. Still, she broke my heart. No one should walk around looking so sad. I couldn’t help but wonder what was haunting her so deeply. She was younger than me, probably by a good fifteen years, but she carried a lifetime of unresolved problems in her shy, hurting eyes. I wondered who her father was and how he would feel to see his daughter look so beaten down. I thought of my own daughters and hoped that they never, ever looked that way.

My fuel tank filled and the pump turned off, and I was soon sitting in my car, ready to leave. I glanced in my side mirror and took one long last look at the young woman. It crossed my mind to get out and offer her a friendly word. I wondered if one smile from a stranger might offer a slight lift to her gloom. Probably not, I thought, certainly not from me. Who did I think I was? I debated long enough that she finished and got in her car, driving away to whatever in her life was making her look so somber.

The moment had passed. I could not go back. If there had been a slight chance that I could have offered a moment of kindness to someone who seemed to desperately need it, I had let it slip through my fingers. I will never know if it would have made a difference.

I pulled away from the pumps and turned back toward home. I felt pretty fortunate…and more than a little ashamed that I so easily take my own happiness for granted.

Happy Campers

Like most parents, I want my kids to be happy. I look back on my childhood and remember good times and feeling safe and loved. I hope my kids will feel the same when they are my age. Memories are the warm blanket we pull out on days that give us a chill. When work is a little too frustrating, or money causes too much stress, it’s nice to think back to simpler times, when I didn’t have to be responsible.

I know that there a lot of kids who didn’t have that luxury. I was fortunate. I did not have to experience a parent’s death or a divorce. No abuse, no addictions. I never even saw them fight. They were stable. I had no idea at the time what a rarity I was experiencing.

My kids have not been quite as fortunate. I’m not nearly as stable as my parents. I think I’m a little more fun, but that may not always be a good thing. Sometimes kids don’t need a comedian, they need a father. I’m not sure I’ve balanced that as well as I could have.

Still, Connie and I have tried hard to give the kids a relatively stable home life. We do a lot of things together as a family, and I’m both thrilled and proud that Shelby still seems to enjoy being with us all, despite the fact that since she will soon be turning nineteen she has plenty of other options. We like picnics and parks and hiking and movies. Not every minute is whistling and holding hands, but I think we enjoy each other’s company.

As fall approaches, our thoughts turn to camping. Some of my favorite memories with my kids have been sitting around the campfire, watching them roast marshmallows and seeing them laugh in the orange glow of the flickering flames.




Last year was disappointing. Due to my work schedule, weather and other factors, we did not get to camp at all. It frustrated each of us, as if our year was somehow not complete without the frigid chill of sleeping in a tent and the unmistakable sound of zipper flaps opening and closing.

We didn’t camp a lot when I was a kid. I only remember once, sleeping in a big, green, canvas Army tent my Dad had procured and when we woke up the next morning, any part of our bodies that had touched the fabric had turned a dull shade of asparagus. I looked like Kermit the frog.

It was fun though, and another of those childhood memories I cherish. The next time I camped I was newly married, and our pup tent was cozy and romantic (admittedly, when you are newly married, you pretty much find everything romantic).

Before the kids were born, Connie and I camped a few times with our young married group at Robertsville Baptist Church, which culminated in the legendary night when all the husbands stood around the campfire taking a bite from their hot dog and then a bite from a large onion. The first to finish their onion was the winner (I don’t believe there was an actual prize other than bragging rights). Needless to say, there was not a lot of romance that evening.

At some point someone told us about a campground in Wartburg, TN which was about twenty-five minutes from our home. Frozen Head State Park is situated at the base of a wooded ridge in the Cumberland Mountains, two miles from the Morgan County Correctional Facility for Men and about five miles (as the crow flies) over the hill from Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary. With armed guards protecting us on both sides, we decided the area had to be safe. That's important to responsible parents.

The park itself has great hiking and a nice secluded, natural feel. The campground is lush, by campground standards. Raised, gravel tent platforms, with large metal fire rings and dry wood available at a central shed. Sturdy, clean picnic tables, charcoal grills and plenty of trash receptacles spread around. Best of all, the large bathroom facility was heated and had hot water for morning showers.

Now, I love camping, and can “rough it” if I need to, but I’ve tried it both ways and I have to tell you: getting up to a hot shower is a great thing on a cold fall morning. That shower, more than anything, makes Frozen Head my favorite place to camp. It spoiled me.

When the kids were very young, we left them with family when we camped. It’s too hard to keep them away from the danger of the fire and keep them quiet in the tent. We learned this lesson the hard way with Shelby when I spent most of one long, cold night sitting in the car, hoping that the windows and metal would keep her cries from waking other campers. It was miserable and one of our worst camping experiences.

Not THE worst, however. I will write about the night that my buddy Thaddeus kept us awake all night, but not today. (I’m also open to a bribe if he would prefer that story remain unwritten. College is expensive).

As soon as they could handle the camping experience (usually around age three), we started taking the girls with us. Frozen Head became known as the place with the “big rock,” because of a large boulder that sat across from the bathrooms. Close to ten feet high at its summit and nearly thirty feet long, the girls learned that they could climb the rock and view the entire campground. As usual, I believe it was Ashlyn who first made the attempt. Even at a young age she was fearless and scrambled up the rock like a little monkey. Shelby, who inherited my desperate hesitation for all things precarious, followed soon after, but much more slowly, exact with each hand grip and foot hold.

We always gathered plenty of wood and at night we sat around the fire, laughing and telling stories, but also just enjoying the escape from technology and the world. I loved to watch the girls slow down, sitting in our folding chairs or on a log and staring quietly into the crackling embers. They never once complained that they were bored.

Many times we found ourselves camping in the month of October, on or near Halloween. The girls would carve pumpkins on the table in the afternoon and then put candles in them at night so that we could ward off the spooky spirits of the woods. One year, while camping with friends, a jack-o-lantern was placed in the basket of a bicycle, and as it was ridden through the campground in the dark of the night, it looked like it was floating; the dancing flame inside making the cracked grin and pointy eyes visible and haunting from a long ways off.

I am always the first to get up when we camp, starting the fire again and heating water for coffee. I don’t mind though, it’s a Dad thing. I do most of the cooking, and I enjoy that too. Breakfast in the outdoors is special. There is nothing like the smell of bacon frying over an open fire. Of course, it’s usually so cold that be the time we eat, both the bacon and the eggs have some frost on them, but it’s all a part of the experience.

I am looking forward to camping this Fall. We are going to make it happen. It’s a priority for us. I’ve got room for a lot more memories in my blanket.

Our Little Universe

It can be a little overwhelming when you think about how many people there are in this world. True, most of us don’t think about it all. We’re pretty busy just thinking about ourselves most of the time. If we were honest, truly honest, we’d admit that our thoughts and concerns are primarily consumed with just our own little world and that’s it. By that I mean those things that we see and know on a regular basis: our family…our friends…our co-workers…our jobs…our health. Even this much smaller personal universe is usually narrowed down, moment by moment, based on what we are seeing or doing at any particular time.

I deal with this issue quite a bit. Spending so many weeks on the road, it’s common to feel myself being distanced from others, even my wife and kids. It’s not that I don’t think about them, because I do quite a bit. I worry, I miss them, I pray and I wonder what they are doing when I’m not there.

Still, I don’t think about them twenty-four hours a day. I don’t even think about them sixteen hours a day (that’s if I was lucky enough to actually sleep for eight hours). No, there are too many diversions. The work I am doing on that particular trip, the television show I am watching in the evening as I relax, the minutiae of day to day life. All these things are a distraction from those I care most about.

I am also 100% certain that the same goes for them. I would expect no less. They have other things going on. They don’t sit around all day long looking at my photo, crying for me to be there.


That’s not evil, cold or shallow. That’s just life.

We only see, hear and know what we experience ourselves. We have our own beliefs and thoughts. We do not share the same space at any given time, so our view on the world is always changing and always different. We are like snowflakes. No two humans are alike.

Every experience affects us in some way, changes our perception. We comprehend things differently. Take any ten people to an art museum to look at an abstract painting and they will give you different opinions. Some percentage of the group might come to a general consensus, but no doubt the particular descriptions will be slightly to very different.

People say they know each other. Husbands and wives, parents and children, even best friends…they say things like “no one knows them like I do.” That may well be true, but you don’t know them like they know themselves. Contrary to the popular myth of complete and total disclosure in a relationship, we don’t tell each other everything. We keep some opinions to ourselves…and that’s a good thing.

I know what you’re thinking. I’m being paranoid. Just because I have things in my head that I don’t tell anyone, doesn’t mean everyone else is so sneaky. I t’s probably just me.

If that’s what you are thinking, you’re missing my point. I’m not talking about deep, dark, dirty secrets (although a good number of people have those). I’m talking about the fact that there is no way we could possibly share every thought we have with others.

First, there are just too many (at least I would hope so…thinking is kind of important). Second, we don’t believe anyone else would care about some of our random thoughts and opinions (and that is almost definitely true). Third, we generally don’t like arguments or disagreements. (I said “generally,” because some of us love to be argumentative. It’s kind of a hobby).

Even in the best relationships, there are moments. If you are married, you’ve had them (and don’t lie and say you haven’t). It’s that moment when your spouse does something, even a minor something, that just hits you the wrong way. You look at them and for a brief second think, “who is this person?”


Of course, five minutes later you look at them and fall in love all over again (at least hopefully), but the inescapable fact is that it’s part of being human to be different. We aren’t supposed to agree all the time. We get on each other’s nerves. We are individuals.

There are lots of shades of gray in life. Most serious issues can’t be decided with a simple “yes” or “no” answer (despite the fact that we desperately try to do that). We think every peg should fit in the round hole; every decision should be “one size fits all.”


Despite the individuality of our thoughts, and the uniqueness of our personalities, most of us have religious, political and ethical views based in some part on what our parents or relatives taught us growing up. There’s a good chance that if your parents were Catholic or Baptist, Atheist or Muslim; that’s what you will believe too.

Every family does things a little differently in their own homes. Some families are “ketchup on scrambled eggs” people. Others make their beds every day or sleep in pajamas and socks. There’s a joke about a young wife who started to cook a ham and cut the ends off before she put in the oven. Her husband asked why she did it like that and she said that was the way her mother cooked ham. When they spoke to the mother later, they asked why she did it that way and she said that it was the way her mother had cooked ham. The curiosity was too much for them, so they called the great-grandmother to ask why she did it that way. She said, “My baking dish was short.”

Ugly traits get passed down as well, like bigotry, racism, abuse, and male pattern baldness. We may think for ourselves, but we were probably nudged strongly in a particular direction by someone at some point. We aren’t forced to take that path, but if the trail has been blazed already, it’s much easier to follow.

Last year during the presidential election, I found it interesting that my fifth grade daughter came in from school talking about politics. Some of the kids in her class had discussed who they wanted to be President. They had a very heated discussion, and all believed that they were right because their parents were for that person or political party. Talking about the kids who differed from her opinion (and her opinion was my opinion), my daughter even said “how can they be so stupid?” I imagined the same conversation was going on all over West Oak Ridge, and in many of those homes we were the ones being described as “stupid.”

It’s amazing our arrogance. Anyone who doesn’t believe like we do must be “stupid.” We can’t usually agree with our spouse or friends about where we want to go for dinner, or what movie we want to see, but we feel we have the intelligence, logic and justification to force our political, religious and world views on everyone else. That’s a scary thing.

How do we find that perfect balance between confidence in our own personal beliefs and mutual respect for others who feel differently? Humanity has not done well with this in the past. Some of the most dangerous people in history were usually zealots; obsessed with their own superiority and usually deluded by a perceived “greater calling” in the name of God or some higher power. Both Hitler and the Ku Klux Klan used God as justification for their atrocities. The American government and religious leaders decimated entire tribes of Native American’s for their “heathen” lifestyle. Indian children were taken from their parents so they could be educated in the proper Christian way. It was considered the “white man’s burden.”


What’s sometimes hard for us to comprehend, at least if we take the time to think about it, is that none of the people who did these terrible things thought that what they were doing was wrong. In fact, they probably thought that they had done the right thing until the day they died. Today, as we live under the continued threat of terror attacks, we believe our enemies to be pure evil, while they think that they are doing the will of God.

Stand around any school playground for a while and you’ll probably see a fight breakout. They might not even remember what it was all about an hour later, but at the time each kid is sure of one thing; they are right and the other is wrong. Same goes for almost any divorce, argument between friends, or disagreement in a boardroom. Somebody is right and somebody is wrong.

Sadly, no voice from the heavens booms down to tell us which is which. No magical halo appears over the good guy; no devil horns for the bad. Both sides will likely walk away still believing in their own unquestionable veracity.

It comes down to the fact that we each live in our own little universe. We see what we want and hear what we want. We view the world through eyes clouded by personal perceptions.

Am I saying that we shouldn’t stand up for what we believe in? Absolutely not. If we don’t voice our opinions, nothing would ever get done. Society would stagnate without change. The difference is between having a mutual, informed, respectful debate and a stubborn, angry standoff which will likely lead to escalating violence.

Respecting other people, even when we feel that they are wrong, is one of the hardest things we have to do as humans. So hard, in fact, that we simply don’t try very hard.

It’s just so much easier to call them “stupid.”

Remote Controlled

Hello, I’m Bruce and I’m a media junkie.

It probably started when I was a kid, sitting in front of the big black and white console television that was the focal point of our den, watching repeats of shows that were new to me and building a pop culture catalog in my head that provided a wealth of useless trivia and future party tricks. I was friends with Theodore Cleaver, Opie Taylor and Gilligan. I had a crush on Marcia Brady and the Bionic Woman. In the one vital question that faced American males in the last half of the twentieth century, my choice was unequivocal: Mary Ann, not Ginger.

I loved television. The Rockford Files, Starsky and Hutch, Cannon and McCloud. Gunsmoke, The Rifleman, Happy Days and Emergency. In my backyard, I pretended to run in slow motion (which for me was called “normal”) and called myself Steve Austin, a man who had been barely alive; rebuilt and better than he was. Better…stronger…faster. I jumped off of picnic tables and over short shrubbery, making a strange clicking noise in my throat and imaging that I was leaping over cars and saving the world. I was the Six Million Dollar Boy.

It’s amazing what you can learn when you don’t have sports and social activities to waste your time. I learned about the Korean War from M.A.S.H., and the inner workings of a television newsroom from Mary Tyler Moore. I learned about life in the ghetto from Jimmy Walker in Good Times, and frontier life from Laura Ingalls in Little House on the Prairie. I learned to appreciate sarcasm from the twisted mind of young Danny Partridge. The education broadcast from the flickering tube was as complete as that which I received in the classroom.

I could turn off the television too, finding escape in books and magazines. I read the Hardy Boys and the Three Investigators growing up, imagining myself a young detective, solving murders and robberies that confounded the ordinary mind. As I grew older, I enjoyed the classics, particularly the gruff prose of Hemingway. I found a special place in my heart for Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. I loved the book long before I saw the movie…and after I saw the movie, I loved them both even more.

I was haunted by A Death in the Family, by James Agee, and had no idea, as I lay reading in my bed that I would one day move to the Knoxville area where the novel takes place. It was that novel that made me fall in love with the written word, and the power that it can have in transporting you to other places and into other people’s feelings.

In high school I started working at the Public Library, which did wonders for my social life. No girl can resist a guy who works at the library.

I was put in charge of the Periodical Room, and soon became enthralled by the depth of articles in Time, Newsweek, Life and U.S. News and World Report magazines. I realized that there was a lot more to the news than the brief clips and sound bites allotted during the 30 minutes Walter Cronkite delivered each evening. Once again the written word broadened my mind and gave me a deeper appreciation for research and investigative journalism.

I read more than the news, quickly browsing through People magazine to see how the stars lived and Reader’s Digest for the jokes and Drama in Real Life stories. When no one was looking, I read articles in Glamour and Cosmopolitan that talked about what women wanted (and didn’t want) in a man. This was quite and education for my seventeen year old mind. I didn’t understand everything they wrote about, but since I was in a library, I could look it up (and I did).

At the suggestion of our head librarian, I read my first Stephen King novel, Salem’s Lot, finishing it in less than twenty-four hours and feeling a bit like a vampire myself by the time I was done. That night, as I read by the dim lamplight beside my bed, I literally could not put the book down. When I finally fell asleep, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, I continued the story in my dreams. When I went back to work that afternoon, I scooped up another King novel, eventually working my way through all of his books. My favorite King novel was and still is The Stand, with scenes that are still fresh in my mind almost 30 years after I first read it.

With the job at the Library and my own disposable income, I was able to expand my media addiction to movies. My buddy Rodney and I would drive to the Louisville Showcase Cinema’s and often sat through two movies in a night; as if we were trying to catch up on all the movies we never saw when we were kids. I remember one magical night in late December 1982, when I saw a double feature of 48 Hours and Tootsie. Both are still among my all time favorite movies.

**Let me digress for a moment and speak of 1982. The year I graduated High School may be one of the greatest years for movies since 1939. Here’s just a partial list of movies released that amazing year:

E.T. the Extra-terrestrial, Ghandi, Tootsie, 48 hours, Poltergeist, John Carpenter’s The Thing, An Officer and a Gentleman, Porky’s, Star Trek ll: the Wrath of Khan, Sophie’s Choice, Blade Runner, Conan the Barbarian, Missing, Diner, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, My Favorite Year, Tron, and The World According to Garp.

There are more films on that list that I love than almost any other year in cinema history (and no, Porky’s is not one of them).

My love for movies, TV and books continued even after I married, and my wonderful wife indulged and continues to indulge me in my obsessive media interests as long as I occasionally take her to the mountains for some fresh air and walk in the woods. Our first year together, we experienced the joy of Top Gun on the big screen (actually seeing it three times before it was officially released…which I am sure is some kind of record), as well as Stand By Me, Aliens and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. It was a very good year.

We cuddled on the couch, watching all eight hours of Lonesome Dove, crying together at the death of Gus McCrae and realizing even then that we would probably never see a better mini-series on television. We were right.

Like a lot of us, our dates were often sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. We loved Hill Street Blues, L.A. Law, Cheers, and The Cosby Show. More alternative entertainment took some work, so like a drug dealer whispering through the fence at a schoolyard, I eventually got Connie hooked on Quantum Leap, Star Trek: the Next Generation and The X-Files. Surprisingly, it wasn’t all that hard. She won’t admit it, but she’s a junkie like me.

My wife and kids get aggravated at me when I stay too long on a news channel or choose a History Channel documentary over a repeat episode of Full House, but I enjoy learning new things. The kids are junkies too, but their addiction is mainly television and the movie/book universe of the Harry Potter and Twilight series. Ashlyn is reading the Harry Potter books for a second time right now, and although I would prefer she broaden her mind with other literature, I’m simply glad that she is reading. Too many young people let others visualize the world for them, when only the written word puts their own mind to work making it real.

The Internet opened new doors for my pop culture fanaticism. Now I had a massive library of useless information at my fingertips, and if I could only find the right query word, the answers would be mine. Everything seemed to be on the World Wide Web; good, bad, disturbing…inspiring, educational, and conflicting. Time wastes at a rapid pace in the blue glow of the computer screen. One click leads to ten which leads to a thousand, and soon a few years have passed.

With the click of my mouse and a few pecks on the keyboard I have learned things I never knew, viewed things I might have never seen (including a few things I wish I had never looked at). It is an incredible tool; an encyclopedia of humanity that lives and breathes, growing with each passing moment as new information on our very existence is added. Like most things, it can be used for both good and evil, capable of helping or hurting; informing with an expanse of knowledge never available before. Like most things that we are addicted to (whether we know we are or not), the ability to turn it off is there, but often not the will.

As I travel, my laptop has become my outlet and my friend. In my hotel room late last night, I sat on my bed and read news stories and blogs, checked my email and clicked on Facebook to see what my “friends” were doing. Meanwhile, the television whispered to me from across the room and the book about depression era gangsters lay next to me, waiting its turn to take me back in time and eventually into slumber.

I am a media junkie. I just don’t know if it’s a problem, or who I was always meant to be.