Uncle Mick: An Encomium

On the thirteenth of November last year, a retired successful and wealthy businessman and entrepreneur, by the name of Michael Lampkin, passed away at his home in El Dorado Hills, California, after a long bout with leukemia. He was eighty-seven years old, surrounded by his five children, and the sounds of Neil Diamond's greatest hits.

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The first time I met Uncle Mick, he wasn't my uncle yet. My Aunt Shirley brought him to our house on Christmas Eve in 1960. I was only in kindergarten, but Mick sat down with me, and together we speculated how long it would take for Santa Claus to deliver his goods. According to the math (in some detail for a five-year-old), the United States alone would take the entire year.

Mick married my Aunt Shirley the following year, and Mick became Uncle Mick.

He always called me "Rocky." I had no idea why. He was different from all the other uncles. He was educated, sophisticated without the attitude, and didn't treat me like a little kid. Most people did, because that's what I was. And it was small wonder. I was also a bit of a nuisance. Today, they would have said I was “on the spectrum” and put me on Ritalin for life. But to him, I was more. One time I went with him to a baseball game, and he explained the players, the strategy, everything, in detail. That was unusual in the world of an obnoxious little boy. Obnoxious little boys could only be taken in small doses.

He owned a Volkswagen "Beetle." No one I knew owned anything but an American car. But he wasn't like anyone else I knew. It was small, it was cramped in the back seat, but none of that mattered. Everything looked different; the knobs, the buttons, the arrangement, all so ... European. Imagine something that exotic, that unique, in a world of plain vanilla and white bread.

Eventually, he took his wife and five children from their home in Cincinnati, to the city of Winchester, in Virginia. He left a promising career at Procter and Gamble, for an even more promising career at Rubbermaid.

This was 1968. Virginia was in the South, and the South in those days was still very much ... well, the South. Interracial marriage ceased to be illegal in Virginia and other southern states only in the previous year, but other things took longer. It seemed that there were "no public schools" in that part of the country, only private non-sectarian schools. Only years later did I learn that racial integration was still several years away, not because of the law, but because of hearts and minds. Uncle Mick never explained why there were "no public schools" there, but on the front window by the door was a sticker that said "Open Housing Is Morally Right."

Maybe some things never needed explaining.

One night while we were staying at the house, I woke him up in the middle of the night, and asked him what he did for a living. I had little in the way of social cues back then. But instead of yelling at me to go to sleep, he stayed awake and explained to me what he did for a living. I understood little of it, but what mattered was that I mattered enought that he would stay awake long enough to explain.
Virginia was a great place to visit. I learned to play tennis that summer from the kid across the street. I listend to the radio at night, but WINC-AM, and listend to reports of riots in Chicago, and the Russians invading Prague. I couldn't imagine living in Virginia. Not yet anyway.

After a few years, Virginia wasn't enough for Uncle Mick either. He took his family and moved once again to ... Seattle, Washington! Clear across the country, to take ownership of an office supply company named Ruggles, Inc. Seattle was even farhter away. I knew nothing would be the same; not us, not him, not his family.

I was crushed.

The years went by, as they usually do. The next time I saw him was in 1986, when he and the Lampkins came by the house. I was with my first wife then, and Paul was just a baby. We sat in the living room. Well, most of us did. He was upstairs on the phone. Something was up, and there was no rest for the weary, the indispensible man. Eventually he came down and apologized for it. He was different somehow; too busy, too ... let's just settle for "different." It was a difference that affected their marriage, and after twenty-two years, Uncle Mick and Aunt Shirley divorced. Eventually the marriage was declared null and void by the Church, which left them both free to marry again.

I stayed in touch with Aunt Shirley for many years, especially during my divorce in the early 1990s. She understood me and what I endured. It was only in recent years that I renewed my contact with Uncle Mick.

As far as I was concerned, he was still my uncle. He remarried and was living in northern California. He continued to work into his seventies, possibly because he had to, but definitely because he loved his work. Not every man can say the latter, but he could, and so could I. In nearly half a century of my career, I wouldn't have settled for less.

But this love of his work was tempered in later years by regret. He wished he hadn't been quite as driven, that he spent more time with his family. His final years were not only a time of healing between himself and the children from his first marriage, but an admission that, even the breakup of a marriage declared null and void was "the biggest mistake I ever made."

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My uncle Mick taught me that I did not have to settle for less. "1) Decide what you want in life. 2) Decide what you're willing to give up for it. 3) Go for it." It was a three-step plan that made for my best and brightest moments. It was how I became an Eagle Scout even after my father was unfairly kicked out of the troop. It was how I completed my internship in spite of gross mismanagement by the "career counselors." It was how I left the complacency of Cincinnati for a steady job in Washington. Finally, it was how I was practically alone in a room with men and women apointed by the President, and being taken seriously, of earning their respect. There were always my parents behind all this, of course, but there was still room on that short list for Uncle Mick.

As this is published, there is a "celebration of life" happening in Seattle. I was supposed to be there, until I was (shall we say?) taken over by events. But wherever he is now, he knows I was there in spirit.

He was then, and will always be, my Crackin' Rosie, my Song Sung Blue, my Sweet ... uh, you get the idea.

Return To Seattle: Postlude

I've been back for a few days now, and still have that dry cough I picked up on Mount Rainier.

If I had to do it again, I would:

• Use a major airline to go both ways, as opposed to a "budget" carrier, for about the same price.

• Consider flying first class for at least the long part of the trip, especially if flying at night.

• Pack more judiciously.

• Consider taking my traveling guitar, checking at the airline desk the day before to ensure that I could carry it on.

• Stay for two weeks instead of just one.

• Get a better deal on a car rental, and carry my proof of insurance and one utility bill. (Geez, like they really couldn't just look it up.)

• Lose at least ten more pounds before taking on Mount Rainier again.

• Check the weather at Mount Rainier online.

• Take even better photographs of Mount Rainier.

• Maybe go to Mount Olympia instead of Mount Rainier, for once.

• Go dancing in Seattle at least once, maybe.

• Visit all of my cousins while I'm there.

• Go kayaking.

One thing I would not necessarily do:

• Go up the Space Needle for the first time. The admission is twenty bucks, and the dinner up there isn't exactly cheap either.

Well, that about wraps it up. Now, I hear New England is lovely in the fall ...
 

Return To Seattle: Day 7

I went through Kayak.com to make my flight reservations. It was AirTran on the way to Seattle, United on the way back. The difference was night and day.

I use a walking cane to go any great distance, or when taking public transportation, due to a minor back injury a year ago. Upon seeing my cane, AirTran was forced to remove me from a window seat that had extra room, because it was near an exit. All well and good, as I made an error in seat choices, don't ask me how. I just thought I needed the room, and was sure I had reserved an aisle seat. But they put me in a cramped window seat elsewhere (NOT an aisle seat), such that I could barely move. The second leg of the trip was a mild improvement. I had to pay a fee for wireless as before, but no meal was served.

United served meals. United let me board first for even a mild disability. United didn't pressure me to check my luggage at the gate because they were fully booked, while letting other passengers who did NOT meet the carry-on requirements get off easily. United also sold meals on the plane.

Next time I'm trying to avoid small carriers,especially for trips of more than two hours, and/or which are not non-stop. I don't know about anyone else's experience, but there was little difference in the price between the two airlines. I'm going to keep that in mind.

I may also start taking my traveling guitar again. One person took theirs on the plane with United, without a case. They actually tried to accommodate them. Maybe they remember what happened when they didn't.

So now I'm home, one hour after touching down, which was fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. More thoughts on savvy traveling later ...
 

Return To Seattle: Day 6

We didn't read the news today, oh boy. There were other things to do.

I went to visit Paul at the studio where he is interning. There they were, all in the conference room, having lunch. (Me: "Hey, guys." Them in unison: "Hey, Dad.") The two of us went out for Vietnamese, and then I came home, returned the rental, and came home again.

Of course, I ran late the whole day, all for the sake of a catnap in mid-morning. Truth is, I haven't gotten a decent night's sleep since I arrived. Can't really explain why. But tomorrow morning I get up at about 2:30, to catch a 5:50 flight on United. Then I'll change planes in Houston (hopefully not on the other side of the airport), and proceed to Washington National, where I'll arrive at 5:00 pm local time.

If I had to do it again, I would have stayed for two weeks instead of just one. I also would have bought sleeping aids over the counter. As it is now, I'll write the entry for Day 7 when I get home (the real one), then crash for about 24 hours, which is why I took Wednesday off.

It is quiet here at the house on East Louisa Street. I start packing already. It won't be long now ...
 

Return To Seattle: Day 5

The morning began, of course, with Sunday Mass.

Usually, when I travel, I look for either an Eastern Rite Catholic church, or a Roman church that offers the Traditional Latin Mass (TLM). It may be a sign of getting on in years that I have lost any patience with novelty in Catholic worship. If some twit pastor wants to make the Sunday experience akin to watching a game show, and if his lackeys that pass for parishioners cannot get enough of it -- well, I have had enough of it, so they can have the rest.

The Seattle area is served by the Priestly Fraternity of Saint Peter (FSSP), which administers North American Martyrs Parish, using the physical plant belonging to Saint Alphonsus Parish in Ballard. They give the choir the summer off, and the High Mass becomes a Low Mass. Personally, I could have done without the organist; not because they played an instrumental during the Offertory, but because they kept it up through the Preface, the Sanctus, and up until the Hanc Igitur (shortly before the Consecration). This made it difficult to follow the liturgical action from a distance, by obscuring any distinction amidst the various parts, thus impeding even interior participation.

Aunt Shirley decided it wasn't her cup of tea. I cannot say that I blame her if that was her re-introduction to it, but it's still mine. I had heard that these people were real tight-asses about anyone in the pews responding to anything, but those reports are somewhat exaggerated. And the people we met after Mass, who drove for over an hour with their six children, were very nice.

There was more writing during the afternoon, and in the evening, Paul let me take him to this great Japanese restaurant in the International District. This is a shot of the feast of the evening, followed by a lively discussion of Paul Ryan, the health care mandate, the origins of the power to regulate interstate commerce, the difficult choices in balancing the Federal budget, the pros and cons of tort reform, and why Obama is a big disappointment even for many liberals.

Who knew?
 

Return To Seattle: Day 4

On a clear day, you can see Mount Rainier from the house on East Louisa Street -- except there's a big-ass tree in the way. Paul and I made a road trip out of getting around it.

I had spent yesterday getting ready. While shopping downtown, I made my obligatory stop at one of the finest hatters in the northwest, namely Bernie Utz Hats on Union Street. I had bought one there back in 2002, an olive green outback (similar to a fedora, with a broader brim, but not quite cowboy), with built-in ear flaps. I usually reserve it for the winter. Most of my regular headgear has definitely seen better days, and must be replaced every five or six years, so I got two news ones, tan and black, both made of wool felt. Today I was sporting the tan hat, which usually replaces my signature color during the summer.

Getting to Mount Rainier National Park was the (relatively) easy part. Waiting an hour to be admitted through the gate was only the beginning. But it seems that the temperature in the subalpine region is not always thirty to forty degrees cooler than at the low ground. With not a cloud in the sky, it was more like ten degrees cooler, if that. So my son Paul ended up carrying my safari vest for about half the trip.

It was clear that I am not as young as I was nine years ago. Treatment a year ago for a herniated disk, not to mention an additional ten to twenty pounds, didn't help much either. But the walking cane did help; in fact, it made the trip possible. So we took the low road instead of the high road around First Burroughs and Second Burroughs Mountains this time.

There are always other things to see, like snow in the middle of August.

The snow that remains near or above the tree line feed the streams that venture down the slopes, increasing in size as they go along. These two gentlemen discovered the effects of the frozen layer at the base of the snow, in the form of a ravine which they said went back about "five to seven feet." There were other children about, sliding down the hill in the snow.

They were having too much fun to notice how the snow feeds the streams that start near the top of the surrounding mountains, making their way from about 6500 feet about sea level to the rivers in the valleys over 2000 feet below. From here, we see how the Ice Age formed the hills and valleys over the vast ages of time, beginning with a trickle, and transforming ever so gradually into a stream. One is tempted to drink from these streams, but there are others that depend on them. Wild animals feed from these streams, and the lakes that are formed by them on the high level grounds, and they leave fecal matter and other impurities behind. A portable water purifier can make it potable, and we found at least one experienced hiker doing just that.

There were other effects of the Ice Age as well. The glaciers would push tons of rock off to the side as they made their way from the north, leaving behind layers of shale that were upended from their original state. These were formed over thousands of years, centuries before the first Amerindians made their way across the Bering Strait into and across the Americas.

Since our last visit nine years ago, Paul has become an avid student of the sciences in his spare time. (An argument with him over quantum physics is not for the squeamish.) Here he is now, having "blinded me with science" during a brief interlude.

We found lush green meadows all along the trail, ablaze with flora that is unique to this mountain range. Among the most common of the many varieties at the subalpine level were mountain aster (aster lepophyllus), lupine (lupinus latifolius), as well as arnica (arnica latifolia), which is used for a homeopathic remedy. But even in the sandy ground among the rock formations, nature found its way to triumph over the elements, as seen with these two buds of magenta paintbrush (castilleja parviflora oreopola). At the same time, this triumph is the result of a delicate balance that must be maintained, especially given the popularity of national park lands, as there were frequent reminders to remain on the trails, and avoid areas under "meadow repair."

One cannot leave this wonderland without observing the awesome view of Mount Rainier itself, and the surrounding mountains, towering over the valleys below. If you look at the lower left of this photo (made easier by enlarging it), you will find a turquoise-colored area. That is a lake covered with algae, which takes on that blue-green shade when at near freezing temperatures. We remembered that lake, and a closer view thereof, from our last visit. We remembered how it took our breaths away, just staring at the majestic peak presiding over the magnitude of scenery below.

It was hard to leave, even after over three hours, even after I was exhausted, and Paul was starving. It was good to know that vegetarian burgers are now offered at the dining hall. We made our way home, vowing one day to return. The Sunrise Visitor Center is located at the eastern slope, and is where we have visited so far. If I ever bring Sal with me, we will probably stay at the popular Paradise Inn, located on the southern slope. It is high enough in elevation (5400 feet above sea level, as opposed to Sunrise at 6400 feet), but it will be yet another exciting chapter of the American experience.

One might suppose that the place will be here for awhile, don't you think?

Or don't you?
 

Return To Seattle: Day 3

Today I returned to the Pike Place Market for a closer look.

The Pike Place Fish Market was first opened in 1930, and has become a legend both within and without the market. This notoriety happened after nearing bankruptcy in 1986, when the owner decided that the only way to save the business was to become "world famous." And so, as many as 10,000 visitors a day come to the Fish Market to watch the fishmongers throwing fish that customers have purchased, from the far end about twenty-five feet to the cashier, where they are caught by another fish guy carrying open newsprint in his arms, to catch the goods and quickly wrap it.

The above simply isn't the same as seeing it, so we found this 2008 video. Calamari, anyone?

I was ready to purchase one of their dried smoked salmon boxes, when one of the staff recommended I go down to "Yuri" at the other end and try the real thing. It was good alright, but the smoked variety with pepper and garlic seasoning was even better. So I had them shrink a one-pound piece of one of those puppies for dinner tonight.

Then I went down to one of the produce markets, where it happens that a number of laid-off game developers and programmers were moonlighting. While talking shop on behalf of Paul, I picked up a pound of cherry-sized potatoes in three different colors; I have no idea what they're actually called.

I rummaged through Capitol Hill for awhile, stopping at a favorite thrift store and finding nothing, including my reading glasses which I always kept in that one special pocket. (Grrrr!) On the way to catching the bus, I found an Enterprise car rental outlet. This should save me some trouble, I thought. But like most people, I carry my official proof of insurance in my car, not on my person. They wouldn't even call my agent to verify it. That was odd, since my carrier does business with that company. It cost me an addition to my deposit, which I'll get back anyway. But I drove away with a Toyota Corolla (which has a good history in my family, if not with me personally), ready for the trip to Mount Rainier tomorrow.

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Today, all of Christendom, both East and West, celebrates the Feast of Saint Lawrence, Deacon and Martyr, and the patron saint of yours truly. We found this poem to mark the occasion.

Today is the feast of Saint Larry
who towards death did not tarry
in his memory we grill
and merrily trill
"it's done on that side" as was Saint Larry!

Tomorrow's the feast of Saint Clare
who led a life quite austere
by Saint Francis sent
to found a convent
of simplicity exceedingly rare.

August is a Marian time
The Assumption a feast sublime
Saint Bernard praised her deeds
and Saint Dom prayed her beads
and Saint Max ... wait, I've run out of rhyme.

(H/T to Kate at Peace and Pekoe. Adapted for the present circumstances without permission or shame.)

Now be sure and go outside tonight, if it's a clear night, and watch the remainder of "Saint Lawrence's tears" in the form of a meteor shower.

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By now you've all heard of Secretary of State Hilary Clinton's night on the town in Colombia earlier this year. Well, she's taking it to the next level in South Africa.

Brace yourselves, 'cuz here it is, your Moment of Whimsy.

By the way, the salmon was to die for!
 

Return To Seattle: Day 2

Those of you who are familiar with Seattle would know of Interstate 5 leading north from downtown, with State Route 520 making its own way to the west, across Portage Bay. Over a narrow water passage linking it to Union Bay known as the "Montlake Cut," there crosses overhead Montlake Boulevard, which links the University District to the north, to the Montlake neighborhood to the south. Getting off 520 and going south, the boulevard becomes 24th Avenue East.

Just to the right at the juncture of the name change is East Louisa Street, where halfway up the hill on the right is a Tudor-style house, the home of a distinguished professor of physiology, who still goes to work on his bicycle for twelve-hour days at the age of eighty-two. His wife is my Aunt Shirley, still very spry at seventy-two. For the next week, I have the couch.

When it comes to either public or private transportation, there is no better place to be.

In the morning, you can take the bus from the end of the street, as it ventures down 24th Avenue, then over to 23rd. As it turns down East Madison Street, the downtown area comes into sight, as one is surrounded by all manner of retail establishments, enough of which are to remind you that this is the West and not the East Coast. At the bottom of the hill, at the end of the line, there it is.

Pike Place Market was first opened in 1907, and is one of the oldest continually operated public farmers' markets in the USA. Many small farmers, craftsmen, and other purveyors of local goods make this their home. This writer wasn't there for very long today, but several of the photos shown here in the days to come were taken at the Market earlier today.

I also took a photograph of these guys, but none could do justice to this video. I listened to The Millionaires' Club for three minutes, which was all the convincing I needed to "give some of that energy back" and buy the CD. Their brand of classic jazz and early swing, with no small amount of that jug band jive, was the kind of music my Dad used to love.

I caught the bus to Capitol Hill (not to be confused with the one in the other Washington), and walked a mile or so to the house where Paul was staying. After lunch at the Vietnamese place, we engaged in a lively discussion of the gaming industry and his future prospects, which evolved into a debate over quantum physics, the theory of evolution, and the yeas and nays of the Uncreated Creator vis-a-vis the Big Bang Theory. (It was a draw, for the moment.)

Upon leaving, Paul showed me how to use the iPhone to get a bus home. I knew that Google Maps could give me directions, but I had no idea it could find the proper bus route and schedule for the user. I could get used to this century.

More about the Pike Place Market tomorrow (which is also my feast day, and it makes me wanna cry).
 

Return To Seattle: Day 1

As this is published, I am on an AirTran flight to Milwaukee. It is expected to be somewhat hectic due to road construction at a nearly interstate. After a two-hour layover and switching planes, I will depart for Seattle, where I expect to arrive by 11:10 pm west coast time, which is 2:10 am east coast time. Hopefully my anxiety disorder will keep me alert enough to catch the right bus to Aunt Shirley's house.

It helps to see the good in everything, don't you think?

Or don't you?
 

Return To Seattle: Prelude

Tomorrow in the late afternoon, I will board an AirTran flight out of Washington National Airport. After changing planes and laying over in Milwaukee for two hours (which has to beat the hell out of Chicago O'Hare), I will head over the prairies and the mountains (in that order) to Seattle, Washington. Longtime readers of this venue may remember two earlier trips there, the first in December of 2002, the second in the summer of 2003. To those who are convinced it will rain every day of my visit, you should know that late July and early August is the best time to avoid the weather that made the city infamous, and the landscaping so incredibly green.

But the main reason for the trip is to visit my son Paul, who is interning at an up-and-coming game design studio. I will be staying with my Aunt Shirley, who lives just south of the University District, so I'll be relatively convenient to everything. Paul and I will go to an IMAX movie, shop at a thrift store, visit the Pike Street Market, that special tea shop uptown that I visited the last time I was there, dine at the Space Needle (no, haven't been up there yet), and return to Mount Rainier, for another five-mile hike in the wilderness.

This is my first time flying since January of 2005, during which time there have been a few changes. The restrictions on carry-on luggage are even tighter than before. I can't take my guitar with me this time, not even the traveling model, so I'm going to try and fit the ukulele in my carry-on bag (the smaller of the two). It's made by a French company, and the body is not as deep as most such instruments, which makes it ideal for packing, if it comes to that. My other bag will contain a laptop, so I can stay connected under any and all circumstances. Even with a US Government ID, which identifies me as having already passed a low-level security clearance, the idea of a guy being allowed to rifle through my luggage because it pays better guard duty at the mall, to the detriment of the Fourth Amendment, doesn't sit well.

But really, what could go wrong?

From Wednesday the 8th until my return (flying the "friendly" skies of United) on Tuesday the 14th, our regularly scheduled programming will be suspended. Certain features in this venue require more advanced preparation, and there will be little time for that. The main feature will be a daily journal, not only of my own comings and goings, but other stuff that occurs to me in the course of the trip. And if pictures of the journey are not to be found here, there's always Facebook or Tumblr.

And with that, stay tuned, and stay in touch.
 

Harry Truman Was Right

“If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.”

This quotation has been attributed to the 34th President of the United States (although there is some doubt as to whether he actually said it, but we don't care right now). Come this December, I will have lived in the Washington area for thirty-two years. I have made a lot of friends over the years, but very few good ones. I can count them on one hand. And when I say "friend," I don't mean it as they do on Facebook, a medium which, for all its benefits, tends to redice the very notion of friendship to the superficial (as one of their early employees will attest).

There are those who say that the closest friendships we have are those from childhood. That may be true, even though I had a rather difficult time making friends in those days. You wouldn't know it when I go back home today, or to a high school reunion. And it's where the bonds of camaraderie already exist, that Facebook works to an advantage. Right now I belong to a group called "You know you're from Milford, Ohio, if ..."I grew up with and/or went to school with most of the people signed up for it. We look at old photographs of what the town once looked like, including this one from the early 1960s of a drive-in restaurant down the street from my house (courtesy of Susan Terrell Kupka) in the "new" part of town, where you could actually be served while staying in your car.

Sal has a lot of friends. She has two things going for her which I do not. She is a Filipina, and I am not. She is also very warm and personable, while I am a curmudgeon-in-the-making. Filipinos are a very clannish people by nature, and if enough of them live within driving distance, they're all in each other's lives. This is especially true for those in the caregivers' industry. She is constantly on the phone with her kababayans, whether from here or overseas, while I'm lucky if the best friends I ever made in Washington return my call the same day (and that's when they need ME for something).

Washington has some things going against it. It is a very transient city, with few people actually being from around here. It is a very multicultural city, with most neighbors not getting to know one another if they look or talk a little too different. It is also a very self-important city. A know quite a few people whose egos could well afford to be brought down a notch or two. And these are the nice ones. The not-so-nice ones don't really make friends, so much as they form alliances. Alas, science has found no cure for them.

That said, I am occasionally surprised. Yesterday I stood in the parking lot and spoke for at least five minutes with a nodding acquaintance. We talked about family, about work, about our plans to leave town in the next few days, stuff like that. The fact that he just happened to be an associate justice of the Nation's highest court was of little consequence at the time. What was of more consequence is that I've had friends who don't give me that much time. (After all, there's a world out there to be saved, and if they don't ...)

If it sounds pathetic, it is. I had a lot of "fair weather friends" in my old dance hall days, in the 90s and the early 00s. They're a million miles away. There have been two occasions in my life when I was "one of the gang." That was one of them. The other was when I was with the shows department at Kings Island in the early 70s. But those things don't last. All of us are on our own journey homeward. We take a step, we turn a corner, we look around to see who's there -- and they're not. Those days don't come back. We can't wish them back.

I just did an internet search for zydeco dancing in Seattle, and found something that's actually current. I had a great time at their dances ten years ago. I might go to one this time. They probably don't even remember me. Then again, what if they do?

They say you can't go home again, especially if it never was.
 

Life After Chick-Fil-A

There was scheduled, as we reported here last week, a national "same-sex kiss day" to take place at Chick-Fil-A restaurants this past Friday, sponsored not the the restaurant (obviously), but the Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD). ABC News made no mention whatsoever of the event that day. In fact, it is likely that more was made in the mainstream media of the unprecedented patronizing of Chick-Fil-A establishments this past Wednesday, than of the ridiculous protest on Friday.

At the end of the day, the only "haters" were the people accusing others of "hate," and the only victims of "defamation" were the walls of those restaurants to spray-painting.

There is coverage throughout the Catholic blogosphere on the aftermath of the event(s), and this writer will likely visit such establishments again. Meanwhile, go to Big Pulpit and visit the usual suspects. Here at Chez Alexandre, there are more pressing matters.

Like packing for Seattle.
 

Big Pulpit(s) Revisited

We here at man with black hat want to welcome those who found us via Big Pulpit. Effective today, their link went from this ...

http://thepulp.it

... to this:

http://bigpulpit.com

They feature the best and the brightest in the Catholic blogosphere. Occasionally that includes ...

And speaking of me, one has to admit that this blog isn't one of "the usual suspects" in the Catholic blogosphere, but we have managed to cultivate a small yet dedicated following over the last decade by, among other things, publishing that which (in all humility) you won't find anywhere else in the aforementioned Catholic blogosphere ... like, for example, this.

Meanwhile, our Friday piece entitled "Nihil" generated over two hundred visitors on a Saturday. Around here, that's a lot for a weekday, never mind the weekend.

Not that we're complaining.

In fact, my son wrote back about it, and we're preparing for a lively, no-holds-barred, last-man-standing, take-no-damn-prisoners debate on free will versus determinism, when I go to visit him in Seattle next month. It's gonna be a barnbuster, and the highlights (and low blows) will be featured in this venue, during our daily journal of the trip.

Y'all come back now, ya hear?
 

“Sittin’ by the dock of the (other) bay ...”

My son Paul (shown here during one of his Otis Redding moments) arrived safely in Seattle to begin his two-month internship. Becoming quite the savvy traveler, more so than his old man at the same age, he finds ways to amuse himself during layovers.

Boston Airport. Only 8 zillion more miles to Seattle!
Mon 02 Jul 18:26

Fun thing to do in Boston airport: ask people to say "Balsamic" and "malt vinegar" over and over.
Mon 02 Jul 19:41

Thank you JetBlue for providing me with the 6 solid hours of Guy Fieri programming I obviously needed to get me through this flight.
Tue 03 Jul 03:02

So tell me again, how many thousands of miles did you roam, just to make this other dock your home?