Je Suis Charlie Hebdo. Mon Cœur Est Français.

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I will admit, I used Google Translate to make sure I got it right. I knew all the words, but my French is rusty. It was obtained on the fly travelling through that country in the 80’s, and mostly confined to hotel rooms, hot food, beer, and the beach. My name is French, my soul is American. Today, my heart is French as well. I hope yours is with France today in the wake of the attacks against the innocent writers at Charlie Hebdo in Paris on Wednesday.

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I have a spot in that heart that swells with pride when I listen to La Marseillaise played during the movie “Casablanca.” The French were some of our earliest allies as a nation. I’m not naive, I still think that going to war without the French is like going deer hunting without an accordion, but they have some troops that are among the best in the world. And nice submarines.

Most of all, they are in a struggle against the poison that is Islam. For those of you now holding your noses and starting to click away, I’d like to point out a fundamental difference between Christianity and Islam: If you are true to the followings of Jesus Christ, you will do all you can to love your fellow man and ease their place in life, hoping and praying that they will follow your example on the road to redemption and eternal life. If you are true to the teachings of Mohammed, you will conquer your enemies and force them to convert to Islam, be heavily taxed, or be put to death. Wednesday, in Paris, the terrorists enforced this and put the cartoonists and writers to death for offending Mohammed. Can you imagine doing that for Jesus? Not in the modern era.

Well, they asked for it by bearding the lion. Yeah. That’s how some think of it. I think Charlie Hebdo managed to offend pretty much everyone over the last few decades and a think skinned group of killers murdered them for their “offense.”

I’d like to remind you, dear reader, that this is not unexpected. It is the normal course of events for those that follow the teachings of Mohammed to the letter. Can it happen here? Let’s see… New York and Washington D.C. on September 11, 2001 ring a bell. Or, perhaps, London, England in 2005? Spain in… well, you get the point. It’s a definite pattern.

We have a choice: submit or fight back.

You choose. I already have. It’s at the top corner of my blog and as much a part of my heart as my French heritage: I’m a Christian. I will not submit. And I’ll protect you if need be, as I’m a sheepdog as well.

This is not the end. It will happen again. And George Bush had nothing to do with it in any way.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

Lunch With Roy

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The brittle cold outside vanished as I walked through the giant/wheelchair sized revolving door at the Veterans Affairs Medical Center in Minneapolis. It was so cold out that there wasn’t a single wheelchair occupant with an oxygen tank taking a smoke break. (Grim humor, but a good weather indicator: those guys are out for their smoke in most weather.)

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I had some time to kill so I wandered around doing my appointment making. Everyone was uniformly helpful, pleasant, even eager to serve. I got it done in record time. The next time someone badmouths the VA please remember that it was the administrators, political appointees, that killed veterans with their schemes to get bonuses. The average employee is a veteran, or at a minimum, helpful to veterans. They have my admiration. They remember the maxim that nobody is shouting from blocked freeways: “Veterans’ Lives Matter!” Over 1,000 vets were likely to have died because of neglect in the last decade. Why aren’t there riots over this?

But I digress. Once the paperwork was done, appointments set, I headed to the cafeteria. This is not an event to be cherished in most hospitals. But since they craft the menu for cranky old people like me, I like this place. Starting with the fudge/donut/coffee bar as you walk in the entry. Let’s get things started out right!

The smell today was amazingly enticing. Monte Christo sandwiches were the featured item. I’ve made no secret of my love for that item, but today I had a lunch date after I got done at the hospital, so I settled for a Diet Dr. Pepper.

Drink in hand, I approached the cash register. Dead ahead, right in the middle of the channel, was an old, bent, arthritic man with a walker trying to juggle a tray with a cheeseburger.

I’m no fool. I’m at the VA today for treatment. They will be taking care of me if I reach the age of this man. He is me in forty years. I offered to carry his tray to the register. Deaf as a post, just like me, he needed two tries to get the message. The smile was beautiful. My heart and head agreed that this would be our good deed for the day.

I picked up the tab for lunch and grabbed cups of condiments for him. After setting down the tray, he very graciously thanked me like I was a long-lost son. Moved. Seriously moved that someone would be so grateful over such a small thing.

Once he was seated, I asked if I could join him. Turns out his name is Roy, he was a Chief Petty Officer during WWII and served in all sorts of interesting places. Instantly he was Chief to me. We had a great conversation for the next thirty minutes. It covered everything from technology to randy Yeomen that we had known.

Roy was a brother, even though he’s four decades older than I am. In his eyes I saw not the scars of age, but the dancing orbs of a young man doing important things for the war effort seventy years ago. Seventy. He’s been married for 67 years to his bride, an English girl. Roy didn’t want to have her be a war bride, so they agreed to wait until she could come to the United States after the war. Married to the same love ever since.

Someday, soon, I’ll be the old man with the walker. Some kid who served in Afghanistan will be carrying my tray to the table. And when we sit down to talk, he’ll be my brother as well. He’s already Roy’s brother. There may be seventy years between them, but under the skin we’re all brothers and sisters.

I’m proud to be a vet. I’m proud to have Roy, and that young one from Afghanistan, as my brothers. Extends to my sisters as well. Got a big, big family that I’m so blessed to be a part of in my time.

So, carry a tray for an older person this week. You might just hear some fabulous tales about drinking Triple Sec in the back of a truck as it bounces across Morocco and Algeria. I did.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

Cleaning Up The Sleigh

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The fat guy in the red suit is back in the closet for a while after 35 events in 25 days. How long until he’s back? Never know, so I always have a suit ready to go on a one-hour notice. But as of a few days ago, all the thank-you notes had been sent. The schedule for 2015 is up at www.santajoe.com.

Yes, I am booked years in advance, and if I don’t get it published right away there are people wondering if I’ve forgotten them. If you are looking for a Santa in the Twin Cities, hit the schedule and see if I’m available. Just remember: If I’m out performing I’ve left a heavily armed Sheltie behind a ring a of steel and an alarm system. Did I mention most of my neighbors are armed and nosy?

Please follow me on Twitter, and “Like” the Facebook author page. Don’t forget to subscribe (the box is on the right side of the page) to be eligible for free e-books and other benefits!

Every year since I became Santa the amount of baggage has shifted and changed. It started with one suit and a green bag. Then came stockings that I stuffed with chocolates and toys for the children I visited.

A second suit was acquired, along with another bag. The annual candy purchases got out of control as I grew the business. You had to have spares because when Mom said there’d be 14 kids at the party, it failed to take into account the two nephews and the neighbor girl who were invited at the last minute. I don’t know about you, but handing out gifts to 14 of 17 children at a Christmas gathering wasn’t going to cut it for me. I was burned once and then started bringing spares.

That meant I needed more stockings, and a couple of Santa hats for the people serving as my helpers. Naturally I needed a couple of story books to read, eventually adding a Bible. You find very quickly that the attention span of tired children is incredibly short, and the best stories are a bit long. So you start reading “Santa Mouse” (a personal favorite) to the younger set, and save “How The Grinch Stole Christmas” for the six year olds who truly appreciate the fact that Santa can do all the voices and read the book upside down.

(*Personal Trivia Warning: I own a copy of “How The Grinch Stole Christmas” in Latin. The French and Spanish editions are in the mail. The German version is over $100. So if any of you are in Germany, or traveling there, I’ll gladly buy a copy through you if you’d be so kind. Flat fee of $25.00 to cover the book and a schnapps at the airport. Contac me via email if you’re interested.)

In the last 15 years I’ve grown the pile of Santa stuff to the point where I have a full photo studio that can travel, 11 Santa Suits (used to be 12, gave one as a starter to a good friend who’d finally grown a good beard,) two pairs of boots, six santa bags, innumerable hats, antlers, bells, appropriate under shirts (must be red, found out white shows through on some of the older suits,) and a really great belt and buckle.

This means that my house needs help after the season. Last year one suit was hanging in the spare bedroom “airing” for the full year. Stuff on the floor, etc. My wife was kind about not setting me on fire in my sleep. I just didn’t get around to properly stowing it all.

This year was different. I spent four hours shining belts and buckles, packing up spare fur and Velcro (suit repair material,) and sorting out suits. They are now hung in a logical order in two different armoires. The one in the spare bedroom is dedicated to Saint Nicholas. That one has neatly rolled Santa bags on the top shelf. They are next to the hats and the belt. The buckle is in a soft bag so it won’t scratch.

Next to the bells/buckles/belts/hats is a stack of Christmas books. They wear out eventually. But more importantly, if a youngster helps me out by flipping pages well they get the book as a souvenir. I write a nice note in the front before they go in the bag. Talk about a keepsake! Some of those books were discovered on Friday as I put things away in the attic. I found two containers full of toys, stockings, hats, and books. And another bag of fur.

Fur is what makes the suit look good. I change fur on the suits once they’re dirty. I designed the suits to make it easy. But good fur isn’t always on the market. I went a few years with some really crappy stuff, but that’s all that the big stores were stocking. No longer an issue, I bought two bolts of the good stuff last year. In a reminder of my mortality, I figure that will last me until the end of my days.

The closet also holds my nebulizer for those days when the asthma is too much to cope with. Great, a guy who flies at altitudes more fitting for reconnaissance aircraft has cold weather asthma. Another reminder of God having an expiration date on this model.

Last, but not least, there’s a blue hat in that closet full of Santa stuff. I bought it over thirty years ago when I was in basic training in San Diego. It says “Cryptologic Technician” on the front. I was not allowed to wear it until I’d finished training. I don’t think I’ve worn it more than five times in thirty years. But it’s every bit as much how I think of myself as when I see pictures of me as Santa.

Some core items truly form us. I started out my final identity as a police officer. Moved on to spook, and now I’m a jolly old Santa. Not a bad transition. The three of them all live inside of me. They get along. All are protectors of the weak.

Most of all, and this is where this whole thing started out, the house looks good. All the things that don’t belong are put where they do. Like us: each of us has parts of our identity that don’t come out often, stored away for when we need them.

I count that as a blessing. So does my wife: she can finally get to the back bookshelf in that room.

Happy New Year!

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

My Apologies

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A draft from quite some time ago got released into the universe instead of deleted. Please ignore it as it’s old and no longer germane.

Only my subscribers will get a copy of it, and if they like it they’ll also note that it’s not edited nor does it have any tags.It was like a lab rat that escaped.

Carry on.

2014 Ends On A Personal High Note. It Extends To You.

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My year end wrap up is sparse this year. I made it through, no major hospital stays. A few injuries and boo-boos that linger. Santa made it to all his gigs. My agents kept me busy with auditions and voice over work. My literary agent got me a contract, let me reject the contract, helped me find two more publishers who are interested. My dog loves me more every day and my wife hasn’t locked me out of the house on purpose. All good things.

Please follow me on Twitter, and “Like” the Facebook author page. Don’t forget to subscribe (the box is on the right side of the page) to be eligible for free e-books and other benefits!

That’s kind of how the nation wraps up 2014 as well. No big devastation. No plague – well, other than Ebola. But we’re promised that can’t be a problem. Trust them, they’re from the government.

I have a personal take on how 2014 wraps and 2015 begins. Read it below, think on it, and pray for it.

Oscar is The United States of America. So is Metaka. Throw in Mark, and Svetlana. They’re the crew at my local Sam’s club. All sorts of races, all sorts of religions. All sorts of different histories. But all of them working hard to serve the customer. They don’t care if that customer is a guy who came on a boat from Vietnam in 1977, or if he’s the 17th generation in this country. They don’t care if you drive a Ford or a Volvo, only that you drive it to their store.

This crew gave me hope for our country on Monday. They hustled, found product that I’d missed, fed me a soda, and thanked me for my service. They all smiled: genuine smiles, not that fakey one I give coworkers when I wish they’d go into the cornfield. None of them seemed to mind taking orders from, or giving orders to, another coworker of a different gender/race/socio-economic class/religion/hair color, or sexual orientation. That’s how I remember my place in this joint: I’m just another guy.

There is a push to divide us in this country. Since I’m a straight, white, male I am supposed to oppress and hate others. Nah. It’s way more fun being friends with them. I like other people’s food, clothing styles, accents (I’m a linguist – I love accents) and perceptions. If you take the time to listen to, and look at, the people you deal with in your day you might just find something nice to take home with you. Good restaurant names, new ways to cook that turkey, or just a picture of their children playing some game you never saw before.

Americans are the best people in the world. Yes, we are better than all the others. Why? Because we’re the ones who got kidnapped from our ancestral homes, got booted out of places where we were riff-raff, escaped starvation and fled here on the hope we might improve our lot in life, and managed to do it with people so different from us that it boggles the mind. We invented/perfected aviation, telephony, military weaponry, stable farming and food supplies, roads second to none, education that still manages to give everyone the basics (ok, if you go to a charter school or are home schooled in some places,) and a government that knows it’s in trouble with its bosses.

We’ve managed to do that for over 200 years without any coups, no political assassinations by competing politicians, and a modicum of civility compared to others. I don’t leave the house in the morning wondering if the other tribe in my city will attack my home with machetes while I’m at work.

We have it good in The United States. But we have to keep working on it every day.

For 2015, remember that. Quit your whining. Quit assessing blame for your failings on others. Try harder to see the other side. Give a little when it doesn’t matter so that all of us win. Educate the young on how to be a productive member of this club. Love your mother.

The list goes on from there, almost to infinity. But if you just remember to work with each other like Oscar, Metaka, and Svetlana we’ll be fine down the road. Put down that rock, pick up that shovel. Let’s improve the neighborhood.

I’ve been blessed to grow this blog by a huge amount this year. I would ask that in 2015 you share it on Facebook, tell your friends at work about it, and subscribe. I’d like to reach more people this year. The growth is wonderful, but with your help my messages will go mainstream. Don’t you think that might help in our world.

Meantime, Thanks, Oscar, for great leadership at the checkouts on Monday. You gave me hope.

Happy New Year!