Whose Party Is This Anyway?

I didn’t know until the announcement of his death on January 10, that David Bowie (RIP) shared the same birthday as Elvis and me; January 8th.

Yes, that’s my way of saying that I just had a birthday (in case you didn’t read my last post on January 8, my birthday).

On January 9, the day after my birthday, we visited Shawnee, Oklahoma, the home of the Grand-Girls. Karlee the oldest was serving as a “ballgirl” at the OBU Lady Bison basketball game. Turns out, it was sort of an honorary title, but she performed wonderfully.

We met at the OBU fieldhouse and Harper, the middle Grand-Girl, came running to me and said, “Happy Birthday yesterday Pops! Why didn’t I get to come to your birthday party?!”

Not wanting her to feel bad for missing it, “It wasn’t much of a party,” I explained. She wanted to know “why not?” “It was just me, Mimi and some friends. We went out to eat at a restaurant, and that was all.”

“You didn’t have inflatables?” she asked with obvious shock and a bit of pity.

You need to know that Harper has a “good friend” named Lilly, and Lilly’s dad owns an inflatables company, not balloons, but big bouncy houses, climbing walls, etc. So it is not unusual, or unduly priviliged of Harper to assume that every birthday party will have inflatables.

karlee at her Fifth Birthday. When It's your birthday and you have inflatables you don't care if it's a giant football.

But there’s a bigger, deeper issue here than inflatables. It took a four year-old to help me see it. When I tried to explain, unconvincingly, that I’m too old for inflatables, she taught me this lesson: “Well, maybe your friends would have liked them.”

I suppose I had learned the narcissistic view of parties listening to my cousin Beth Ann’s 45 RPM record of Leslie Gore singing, “It’s My Party And I’ll Cry If I Want To”.

Maybe if Leslie had had inflatables at her party, Johnny wouldn’t have left with Judy. And even if he did, and they came back later with Judy wearing his ring and struttin’ like a queen with her king, maybe Leslie would have been having so much fun because her other friends were having fun that she wouldn’t even have noticed them, and maybe she would have realized that maybe Johnny’s a loser and Judy’s a slut. Maybe she would have learned Harper’s lesson that sometimes the party may be our birthday, but it’s not just for us, but for the friends who want to celebrate with us too.

So if you like a good party — SAVE THE DATE — JANUARY 8, 2017. Harper will be planning the party and there’s a good chance there will be inflatables, and cupcakes, orange sherbet and Cheetos, and an equally strong chance it will have a “Frozen” theme.

Check out this groovy video of Leslie. If ever there was a party that could have used inflatables… (No wonder adults in the 60s were convinced the wheels were coming off.)

A Little Fun With Vintage Christmas Ads

“Really! You’re wearing that to the Pepsi party?” he thought to himself, as he smiled disdainfully.

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“I sure would appreciate your vote in 1980. Love, Ronnie.”

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She’s probably thinking, “He sure knows his electrical stuff!”
He’s probably thinking, “I’ll stay here until I check every bulb.”

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“I’m 18, and for Christmas I got a senior ring and a Red Rider BB gun like Lil Dweeb and Lil Dweebier. What should I shoot first?”

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Prancer and Santa act like this, and the other reindeer laughed and called Rudolph names?! 

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I wish I could read her mind, but I’m a guy, so… A guy who once bought his Amazing-Missus a mixer for Christmas. In my defense, it was a KitchenAid Professional Stand Mixer, and she uses it lot.

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No thank you. I’m on the cauliflower-pea-and-pinkish-meat-free diet.

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This still doesn’t answer the big question about Santa. Boxers or briefs?

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Oats 'n' Beans

MY FRESHMAN YEAR OF COLLEGE was at a Baptist university in Oklahoma. I won’t mention the name of it because my son teaches there now, and I wouldn’t want to embarrass him or the school. As a PK (preacher’s kid), I might have had a bag or two of wild oats to sew, and the freedom of being away at college seemed to be fallow ground. Thankfully though, my choices didn’t result in excommunication, disownment, shunning, or arrest.

Well, as it turns out, there are appartently a few oats left in my bag. I sowed a few this morning.

As I’ve mentioned before, I grew up in a Southern Baptist tradition. And while at times it seemed that fun in any form was frowned upon, I value those times. If the old axiom, “Boys will be boys,” is true, then it is also true that Baptist Boys will be too.

One of my first nights at the Baptist university, I heard a student come in to the dorm late one night singing at the top of his lungs, “I was sinking deep in sin. Wheeeee!” It dawned on me: you get a bunch of preacher’s kids, deacon’s kids, and missionary’s kids together, you might just have a bumper wild oat crop.

While the “sins” of my 60s are less daring and thrilling than those in the 60s, they are there nonetheless. Thankfully they are still forgiven—at least by God; hopefully also by those who have been hurt by my selfishness.

So today’s oats were sewn over a cup of coffee. Starbucks Coffee. I know, I know. Here’s the deal though: I will not let paranoid, fundamentalists shame me for drinking the only adult beverage I can enjoy guilt free.

Coffee is too important to American Christianity to slow its flow in any way. You want to see a church split and a pastor fired, try removing the coffee pot from the fellowship hall. You know that glimpse we get in the Bible of Jesus at the wedding feast? The only thing that would make Baptists love that story more is if Jesus had turned the water into a hot, never-ending urn of Folger’s coffee.

So, call me a rebel if you must, but I will dring deep from my dark roast Starbucks. I will drink it from a white cup or I will dring it from a red cup. I will drink it black and I will drink it up. I will not feel guilt, I will not feel shame, I will not boycot the Starbucks name. I totally agree it cost to much, but I don’t spend much on treats and such. So here’s to you my christian friend. Let’s raise our red cups, amen? Amen!

Going Up or Down?

IN ONE OF THE BUILDINGS where I work there is an elevator. The building has two floors. For some reason the control panel on the inside of the elevator has a button that says “1” and a button that says “2”. It really bothers me. It is a choice that promises options, but there is only one way you can go, up or down, depending on what floor you are on. Why not just have one button that says, “Go”!

I feel suddenly old. This feeling (reality) was brought on by an event that has made age more apparent to me than any passing birthday ever has. I signed up for Medicare.

I didn’t want to do it. I plan to work for several more years and have health coverage at work, but Big Brother sent me an ominous warning that if I didn’t sign up NOW, I “c(w)ould” be penalized with higher premiums for the rest of my days here on earth.

There was a questionnaire. Best I can remember the questions went something like this. I’m paraphrasing because I don’t actually remember the questions. I was under a dark and ominous cloud as I was reading it. The answers seemed to be like the buttons on our elevator—promising options but really only having one choice.

___YES: You freely admit to your government that you are elderly?
___YES: You understand that you have no choice but to nuzzle up to the teet of Uncle Sam’s big ol’ sow (mother pig)?
___YES: Aren’t you glad now you paid all those taxes?
___YES: You do realize and acknowledge that the actual dollars you and your employers have coughed up over the years are actually vapor, your government may or may not have saved your money on your behalf?
___YES: You understand that the Republicans could kill the fatted sow (mother pig) with the next election if the Democrats don’t drain her dry first.

Maybe I’m sounding a little bitter and cynical. Get over it. I’m old. It’s my right. Satire is fun, isn’t it? Or is it (satire)?