A Thanksgiving Carol

When Standish awoke, it was so dark he could scarcely see the figure sitting at the foot of his bed. The figure seemed insubstantial, as if it was more phantom than man. “I am Myles Standish, militia captain of Plymouth Colony, and I know you not Spirit, so identify yourself!” Myles cried out.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, in a story yet to be written by a man named Dickens, where I do a lot of ominous finger-pointing but don’t have any good lines,” the Spirit said. “But my Christmas gig doesn’t start until next week, so I thought I’d drop by and show you a glimpse of a Thanksgiving Eve yet to come.”

“Lead on,” Myles said. “Lead on, for the night is waning fast and tomorrow is our harvest feast, which sounds suspiciously like this Thanksgiving you speak of.”

“You’re much quicker on the uptake than Scrooge, I’ll grant you that,” the Specter said. “Prepare yourself Myles Standish, for I am about to take you hundreds of years into the future, to the morning of the day before Thanksgiving, to show you the many blessings enjoyed by the people of that time.”

Suddenly a town named Danvers, Massachusetts sprang up around them, as if the land had recently and unexpectedly been zoned for commercial use. “This is the year of our Lord 2007, and we are standing only 40 miles from your Plymouth settlement,” the Spirit said.

“What is this vast field we stand within?” Myles asked. “The plots for the crops are well defined by the white stripes, but digging here would be nigh impossible, for the ground is like a sea of rock!”

“This field is called a parking lot, and will soon be filled with small ships that move across the land without the need of wind,” the Ghost predicted. Sure enough, within a few minutes a bright red vessel appeared and docked itself neatly between two of the white lines.

“What magic allows these land-ships to move so freely?” Myles asked.

“A liquid named gasoline, which may be purchased there,” the Spirit said, gesturing with his spectral hand to a strange looking structure with a roof but no walls. “Once the vessel’s pilot has paid for the liquid, it flows through that hollow black rope into a barrel within his land-ship. The vessel then moves until its barrel is empty.”

“How far can the vessel travel on one barrel?” asked Myles.

“Some may go as far as 350 miles, which usually takes about five hours,” the Spirit replied.

“350 miles in five hours?!” Myles cried. “It took us 66 days to travel from England to Plymouth Rock! With one of these fantastic vessels we could have made our journey in less than two days… surely the people of 2007 must be grateful for such a blessing!”

“Their land vessels are expensive to purchase Myles, and the magical liquid is a precious commodity worth nearly its weight in gold. Truthfully, these people of 2007 complain endlessly about the cost of their gasoline, and I should also tell you that while their land-ships cannot float, the people of this age can FLY from England to the Colonies in airships in only a few hours should they choose to do so, depending on the airline they select.”

“These airlines you speak of sound like the work of the Devil,” Myles said. The Spirit nodded.
“Many of these people say that very same thing, Myles Standish. Now, let me show you ‘The Costco’.”

Myles and the Spirit approached a vast structure. “You’re not a member, are you Myles?” the Ghost asked, with a spectral grin. “But I am Spirit, for I signed the Mayflower Compact!” Standish replied hotly.

“Never mind Myles, I will use a Jedi mind trick I learned from George Lucas on this Costco gatekeeper,” said the Specter. “No need to ask for their Costco I.D., these guys check out,” the Ghost said. “No need to ask for I.D., these guys check out,” repeated the gatekeeper in an strangely parroted reply, blankly waiving the pair into a cavernous building filled to the rafters with all kinds of goods-- food, clothes, tools and many other things Myles couldn’t identify.

“This is a huge structure, Spirit,” Myles observed. “Nearly 500 feet across… You could fit 100 Mayflowers within this space!”

Myles and the Ghost entered The Costco and immediately saw dozens of paintings that moved magically within their frames. “What manner of sorcery is this?” Myles shouted. “Relax, Standish, it’s what people of this age use for entertainment. Look, ‘Survivor’ is on!”The pair stood transfixed as several highly defined and nearly naked people played a game of sorts, attempting to survive in the wilderness on meager rations for a short period of time to win a million dollars.

“What think you of this game they play?” the Ghost asked.

“Well, Spirit, of the 102 of us that landed at Plymouth Rock, half of us died after the first winter including my wife. None of us really have much time for fun right now since we are all trying to ACTUALLY survive-- so I can’t say that I like this form of entertainment very much,” Myles said. “But the picture quality is truly awesome.”

The Spirit pointed toward the Large Appliance area of The Costco. “Here are the devices that the people of 2007 use to keep their food fresh, to cook their food, to clean their dishes and to wash and dry their clothes. “What do you think of these marvelous devices, Myles Standish?” asked the Spirit.“

We had very little food left by the time we landed,” Myles said quietly. “Then we had to hunt and grub for our meals. Thank God for our new friends the Wampanoag Indians, who have showed us how to cultivate simple crops and harvest from the sea. We cook over open fires and wash our dishes and our clothes by hand. Surely the people of 2007 must be very grateful for these wonderful devices that make their lives so much easier!”

“Those who live in this age pretty much take these devices for granted,” the Ghost admitted, slightly embarrassed for the people who were now streaming into The Costco. “But look, Myles, here are the tools of today,” the Spirit exclaimed. “Most of them run on electricity instead of Pilgrim-power!”

“What is this electricity you speak of?” Standish asked

It’s like the magical liquid gasoline, but drier,” the Ghost said. “Electricity makes the picture devices work, it lights the lamps above us and even allows these saws to cut wood with incredible ease. Why, with these saws you could cut down hundreds of trees before lunch and not break a sweat!”

“It seems wrong to fell a tree without working hard,” muttered Standish. “It takes a tree years to grow tall enough to harvest. We honor the blessing God gave us when He provided the trees by breaking a sweat when we cut one of them down.”

“I’m not making much progress with this Pilgrim,” the Spirit thought to himself as they entered the Food Section.

By now The Costco was full of people shopping for their Thanksgiving feast. Myles and the Ghost were surrounded by men and women who jostled each other while they piled their carts high with food and spirits: Turkeys, meat, fish, cheese, pies, cakes, beer and wine. Bigger carts moved about, constantly replenishing the supplies. Myles Standish dropped to his knees and sobbed. “I have never seen so much food in my life,” he whispered to the Spirit. How grateful the people of the year 2007 must be for these incredible blessings!”

“You better get up Myles or they’ll run you down like a squirrel in the road,” advised the Ghost. “It’s time to check out now, Pilgrim.” On their way to the check-out, Myles and the Spirit passed many artificial Christmas trees and Christmas displays and all manner of Christmas-oriented merchandise.

Why are these Christmas things being sold before the people have given thanks for their blessings?” asked Standish.

"Beats me bub,” said the Specter, glancing at his watch. The lines at the check-out were long and the people there had the lethargic look of hogs that had eaten too much slop, Myles thought. The Costco’s cashiers frantically tallied cart after cart, barely keeping up with the crowd. Beyond the check-out, several people were eating and drinking in a food court, apparently exhausted by their shopping efforts.

“Spirit, return me to my own time,” Standish begged. “These people have much, I grant you, but they still seem unsatisfied. Please take me back to Plymouth, so I can celebrate a humble day of thanksgiving with my brothers and sisters and our new friends the Wampanoags, where we all are grateful for having just enough.”

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come finished the hot dog he had just purchased in the food court and snapped his fingers. Myles Standish was instantly returned to his bed in Plymouth, where he awoke the next day, counted his blessings, and promptly gave the most sincere thanks of his life.

Just Say "Non!"

We should pause today and observe a moment of silence to honor the great Marcel Marceau, a man whose fame was based on not saying anything. In remembering him we should acknowledge not only his achievements as a mime, but also this strange irony: Sometimes the quietest people still say the most important things.

In the too infrequent words of Marcel Marceau, “Do not the most moving moments of our lives find us without words?”

Had Marceau talked more, we might have learned sooner that he was a French Jew who narrowly escaped the genocidal madness of the Holocaust, and that his father Charles, who gave to his son a love of theater and music, was murdered at Auschwitz along with more than a million other human beings.

Marceau didn’t say much about his father’s death. Here is what he did say though about the children who were killed at Auschwitz: "Among those kids was maybe an Einstein, a Mozart, somebody who (would have) found a cancer drug," he told reporters in 2000."That is why we have a great responsibility. Let us love one another."

“Let us love one another.” When, if ever, do we hear those words spoken by our celebrities, our politicians, or even amongst ourselves? Those five simple words should pass our lips every day to counter the malicious intent of those who have dedicated themselves to hatred and intolerance.

Marcel Marceau worked with the French Resistance during World War II to help protect Jewish children. Later he was recruited to work as a liaison officer with Gen. George S. Patton’s army because he (Marceau, not Patton) spoke passable English. When he was offstage though, Marceau loved to chat: “Never get a mime talking. He won’t stop.”

(Patton probably replied “Shut up, Marceau-- and quit miming Eisenhower, you know how I hate that).

As a child, Marceau loved the films of Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and the Marx Brothers. One would guess that his favorite Marx brother was probably Harpo, who only spoke in the language of music. Many years later, Marcel said that “Music conveys moods and images. Even in opera, where plots deal with the structure of destiny, it’s music, not words, that provides power.”

In many ways, our world now resembles a Marx Brothers production: Increasingly noisy, frantically paced, and crazy. We should all remember the advice of that famously silent man, Marcel Marceau: “It’s good to shut up sometimes.” If Groucho and Chico could occasionally be quiet, we can too.

Sometimes, though, it is not so good to shut up. In the paraphrased words attributed to many, including Pastor Martin Niemoller (Who refused to shut up and was imprisoned at both the Sachsenhausen and Dachau concentration camps) here are some very good words about silence, and the ramifications of silence, which are inscribed at the United States Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C.:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out-
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out-
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out-
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me- and there was no one left to speak for me.

In Mel Brooks’ classic “Silent Movie,” only one word was spoken, and it was uttered by the great Marceau. It was the single word “Non!” which is the very best word for courageous people to use when confronted by social injustice, religious intolerance and bigotry. Think of it as a kind of spiritual weed-killer to use against hatred.

If you and I will just say “Non,” the bright red flower that blossomed from the hat of the world’s greatest mime will live forever.

To Lose a Mockingbird

Perhaps literature’s most famous paternal advice was given in Maycomb County by a lawyer named Atticus to his young son Jem: “Shoot all the bluejays you want, but always remember that it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.” As Miss Maudie later explained to Scout, and we were sadly reminded today “Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy; they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us.”

Luciano Pavarotti’s great heart has now been stilled, his soaring voice silenced. Even now, experts and pundits are scrambling to explain the historical impact of Pavarotti's career. My advice to them, on behalf of a world largely comprised of music aficionados with no formal training or skill is; please don’t bother. Like former Attorney General Ed Meese, who knew pornography when he saw it, most of us know good music when we hear it-- and we didn’t need to be opera experts to know we were hearing something special when Pavarotti sang it.

Our dad’s idea of a perfect Saturday was to work in his shop while listening to opera. (In our family, dad’s workshop was analogous to what most of you know as the garage, since his shop usually held a partially constructed airplane instead of the family car).

“Hey, take this bucking bar and crawl back into the fuselage and hold it against the rivets for me.” (Most kids mowed the lawn; we bucked rivets for our old man while he built his plane). The noise produced by riveting is loud enough from outside a hollow metal chamber, let alone the inside. Between rivets I became dimly aware of a beautiful sound emanating from dad’s cherished radio, which he’d proudly purchased on the Reader’s Digest Easy Payment Plan of $5 a month.

“Hey dad,” I yelled, “Who’s that singing?”

“That’s Pavarotti!” BRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP!

So, my appreciation for opera was born between rivets-- although “La Boheme” is much prettier when your ears aren’t ringing. In a world full of raucous birds that eat our gardens and nest in our corncribs, the mockingbirds are few and far between. When we lose them, their absence is like the silence that follows a thunderstorm, or a rivet bucking session.

“Nessun Dorma” is the famous aria from Puccini’s opera “Turandot” and was Pavarotti’s signature piece. Nessun dorma, “Let no one sleep,” was the order of Princess Turandot, as she proclaimed that all should spend the night searching for the name of the unknown prince.

Tonight, Turandot’s prince sleeps amongst the angels, his aria finished, the curtain lowered one last time.

Bravo, Luciano, bravissimo!

To Spin, Or To Solve

Today’s headlines brought sad news of the passing of Merv Griffin, crooner turned host and game show mogul. It was Merv who developed Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune; it was Merv who conceived the daily double wager and the classic conundrum, “To spin, or to solve?”

Merv was on my mind today as I recalled last night’s interruption of our usual Saturday routine: dinner with Alex Trebek followed by dessert with Vanna. Since Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune had been pre-empted by local programming, we were forced to eat our meal without the thrill of final jeopardization or the vicarious relief of just missing bankruptcy. Alas, even “The Singing Bee” was pre-empted. We were experiencing serious game show withdrawal, but salvation arrived in the unlikely form of Drew Carey and a new program called “The Power of Ten.”

Ten minutes into “The Power of Ten,” and with game show endorphins finally flowing I marveled that CBS management dodged a bullet and hired Carey instead of Rosie O’Donnell to succeed Bob Barker on “The Price is Right.” Well, they say even a blind squirrel can find an occasional nut, and although network television executives are about as bright as squirrels they definitely found the right nut in Carey. Drew is everything Rosie is not: funny, personable and unlikely to induce nausea. Affability is the most highly prized trait of a successful television host. Drew has it, Merv Griffin had it, and Rosie O’Donnell lacks it.

On the premier episode of “The Power of Ten,” a sharp but slightly rumpled nineteen year-old named Jaime matched wits and quips with Carey and went on to win a million dollars by successfully guessing (among other strange scenarios) the percentage of Americans who said that in a duel with Dick Cheney they would probably get shot by the vice-president instead of the other way around. This is a show worthy of your attention, if only for its surreal questions and hysterical comebacks: when Jaime said he planned to buy a car with his winnings, Drew looked at the young millionaire’s wrinkled shirt and said “Why doncha buy yourself an iron, first?”

Now Merv has gone on to join the legendary television hosts of television in what a friend of mine likes to call “eternal syndication.” Maybe tonight Merv is reminiscing with Groucho Marx, who, while not being the most affable game show host, was certainly the funniest during his stint on “You Bet Your Life.” (Groucho once told a contestant who had birthed 27 children and claimed she did it because she loved her husband that he loved his cigar too, but that he took it out of his mouth occasionally).

“Groucho (I imagine Merv saying) things aren’t so bad down there, even on nights when my old show Jeopardy’s being pre-empted. They’ve still got some pretty decent programs, and a funny kid named Drew Carey is hosting two of them. I bet you'd like him... but not on my life!”

Good Dog, Bad Quarterback

Every few weeks we include a trip to Jim’s Puppy World in our errands. While we aren’t in the market for a puppy just now, and we buy most of our pet supplies elsewhere, we’re still drawn to a quant neighborhood “mom and pop puppy shop” a couple of times every month. Sometimes Jim himself is there. He has a flowing white beard and is constantly remodeling his store, wielding his hammer and saw like a modern-day Noah, hopefully awaiting a flood of new business. We usually trickle in with a few other customers, but Jim is nonplussed. He hammers away like he knows something we don’t-- which is kind of unsettling.

Our ritual is always the same. First we visit Babe the parrot, who will bite if you’re dumb enough to offer her your finger. Like people, Babe doesn’t want to be poked at. We tell her she’s very beautiful, which apparently pleases her, and then we move on to the canaries. By inference I’ve deduced that all male canaries hate each other, since Jim carefully shields their cages from one another with sheets of paper clipped to each side. I’m not sure why Jim doesn’t just arrange the canary cages boy/girl/boy/girl-- but he has his system; who am I to suggest improvements in his ark?

Next are the chinchillas, gerbils, hamsters and rats. I always thought chinchillas were relatively placid animals until one day when I stuck my finger in the chinchilla cage and made a low chucking sound which apparently meant “Red Alert Chinchilla Disaster.” I’m ashamed to say that my startled reaction when the chinchilla went berserk and rocketed around his cage is not suitable for young ears.

The puppies at Jim’s Puppy World are the big draw and every week there are new and interesting combinations. Jim doesn’t deal in purebreds, so there are always strange mixes to pick from. Once there was a cross between a beagle and a pug- a Bug. My wife was alarmed when I expressed enthusiastic interest in the homely Bug, going so far to name him “My Bug” and vowing to bring him home the following week if nobody took him yet. Well, someone else got My Bug, and I hope they’re treating him right.

Many times there are mixes that include Bull Terriers, Rottweilers and Dobermans, and I always ask them the same thing I asked My Bug and the countless other hopeful puppies who look at us, hoping for a home and loving family: “Who wants to be in a dog pack?” Invariably they all cock their heads and give you us a look that says “I do,” and I know that’s anthropomorphizing at its worst… so sue me.

Today, dog-fighting is in the news and Michael Vick suddenly finds himself playing defense instead of offense. Our legal system will provide Vick with every opportunity to prove his innocence. I sincerely hope he had nothing to do with cruelty to animals since America is suffering right now from a world-wide perception that we’re all a bunch of violently swaggering lunatics. It would really be a shame if someone from the NFL contributed to this misconception, since most of us normal folks adhere to our charge to rule over and care for all the living things that move along the ground.

And if Jim starts pairing up his canaries and chinchillas, I’ll let you know so you can all head for the hills.

TV Dads and Our Fathers

The 1950s were great years for TV dads. If you liked them earnest but clueless you probably watched Ozzie Nelson on the “Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet.” For those who preferred a more autocratic approach there was Jim Anderson on “Father Knows Best.” TV consoles back then were bigger, screens were smaller, and channel changing was simpler. Dads watching at home just grunted “Channel Seven,” and their kids jumped right up and changed the channel if they knew what was good for them.

Isn’t it ironic that now, our children are the only ones who understand how to use the remote control?

Sitcoms in the 50’s portrayed family life from an adult’s perspective until two writers named Joe Connelly and Bob Mosher came along. Joe and Bob had a crazy notion that children should not only be seen AND heard, but actually listened to. The father of six kids, Connelly chose two of his own boys as the inspiration for the iconic TV sons we all know today as Wally and Beaver. The Cleaver boys needed someone to “lay down the law,” so Joe and Bob dreamed up Ward, the TV dad all Babyboomer fathers are measured against, and June, who set Women’s Lib back a few years by vacuuming their house in an elegant dress and high heels.

Ward always gave his sons simple rules to keep them out of trouble, but in almost every episode his boys disobeyed him-- usually with catastrophic results. Often the boys were tempted into waywardness by Eddie Haskell, the serpent in the Middle Class Garden of Eden known as Mayfield. But no matter how badly his children screwed up, Ward always loved them, patiently reminding his sons again and again that the rules he laid down were for their own good.

Leave it to Beaver was less a TV show than an ongoing morality play. Themes included obey your parents, tell the truth, and treat others with respect. While nobody ever accused Joe or Bob of plagiarism, they clearly weren’t above using a commandment or two for inspiration. (If thou MUST steal, steal from the best).

TV families have changed a lot since the days of the Beave. The black and white ethics of Mayfield have been replaced by the garish cynicism of Springfield, home of the dysfunctional Simpson family and their oafish father, Homer. Even now, several U.S. cities named Springfield are shamelessly competing to be declared the “real” Springfield, hoping to win a special premiere of the upcoming Simpsons movie and lay claim to a civic legacy of pollution, bad schools and nuclear meltdowns. At the risk of sounding like a Ned Flanders, Ward’s fatherly advice was clearly superior to Homer’s, whose less-offensive quotes include: “Well, it’s 1:00 a.m. Better go home and spend some quality time with the kids!” and “You tried your best and failed miserably. The lesson is, never try.” D’oh!

Of course the real world is neither black and white, nor predominantly yellow. Real dads are often not as good as the best TV dads, but mostly we’re better than the worst. We blow our stacks too frequently, and many times we lecture when we should listen, but we try to be encouraging and we even say we’re sorry when we’re wrong-- although that rarely happens. While our quality time usually occurs at a more reasonable hour than 1:00 a.m., it never lasts as long as it should, and most of us eat too many donuts. Still, as fathers, we all hope we’re more like Ward Cleaver than Homer Simpson, and only a fool would prefer a son like Bart over The Beave.

In a classic “Leave it to Beaver episode” (Hey, they ALL were classics) Beaver was assigned to write about the most interesting character he’d ever known. He chose his dad, but since his first draft lacked excitement, Wally helped punch it up:

The most interesting character I ever knew is my father, Mr. Ward Cleaver. He was born at the mouth of the Amazon, which is a river, and when he was a baby, he was stolen out of his crib by a crocodile, and in the nick of time, he was saved by a friendly headhunter with a blow gun. During the war, he was a secret general, where he had many interesting experiences. Now he has a job in an office, but he really works for the FBI. On Sundays, he goes to the beach and saves a lot of people from drowning.

Of course, by the end of the show Beaver re-writes his assignment, and Ward reads it aloud as the “Leave it to Beaver” string quartet plays and everyone gets all verklempt:

“The most interesting character I ever knew is my father, Mr. Ward Cleaver. He does not have an interesting job; he just works hard, and takes care of the rest of us…” The paper continues in a similar vein and everyone chokes up accordingly. So in the spirit of Ward and his son the Beaver, here’s my most interesting person:

The most interesting character I ever knew is my father, Mr. John Kerr. He does not have a job anymore on account of he is a retired teacher who taught thousands of kids how to make real stuff like airplanes you can actually fly in and even how to make telescopes. Then he became a vice-principal and suspended a bunch of kids so he could make more money for our family. Only now do I understand that sometimes fathers have to do stuff they’d rather not do so their families can be more comfortable.

Once, when my dad didn’t know I was in his shop he used several words I’d never heard before. When I tried them out myself, he gave me a really good lecture on profanity which came in handy later, when I became a father and my daughter Christa asked me one day “Dad, what the bleep are you doing?”

When I was sick on my eighth birthday my dad stopped on his way home from work and bought me a hockey game with little metal players on rods and a ball-bearing puck. He helped me set it up and played several rounds with me even though he didn’t like hockey. Then he told me I had a fever and should go back to bed.

In the ninth grade when I was taking metal shop from my dad’s colleague Mr. Scanlon and there were too many kids in our class for me to practice welding, so my dad spent an entire day teaching me how to weld. (We had an arc welder in our garage; you think your COMED bill is high?) Mr. Scanlon took one look at my welds and asked if my dad had done them. I said “No sir, that’s my work.” He nodded and gave me an “A.” Only later did I realize Mr. Scanlon was grading three different things: The skill of my father as an instructor, my talent as a welder, and my integrity.

Later in life I was lucky enough to have some professional mentors and other swell guys come along who could be called father figures. My own dad’s a fine teacher, but he knew he couldn’t teach me everything I needed to know.

I’m grateful that my stepsons have grown to love me. While I’ve never taught them how to weld, I still will if they want me to and we can afford the electricity. I see at least a few of my good traits in Alex and Dave and none of my faults and no “real” father could ask for anything more. I hope and pray today that everyone honors not only their own dads, but all good men who’ve devoted themselves to helping children find their way in the journey of life.

Writing this has reminded me how much I hope Christa, Alex and Dave feel the same way about me that I feel about my dad. Everything I’ve done right as a father I owe to John Kerr… and everything I’ve screwed up I blame on Homer Simpson.

The End

So Long, Frank

Frank Lloyd Wright would never have lasted in today’s world. By now he would have broken his T-square over the head of some building department official and retired to milk cows in Wisconsin or to pound sand in Arizona since architecture today is so very frustrating.

One of my clients has a “quick serve” restaurant. As part of a proposed remodel he wants to relocate his drive-thru menu board to face away from an adjacent residential neighborhood. While sound transmission isn’t my usual area of expertise (I’m an architect, Jim, not an acoustical engineer) I can tell you that pointing a drive-thru speaker AWAY from ax-grinding homeowners will probably make them happier.

With this faultless logic I confidently presented our variance request in a recent planning commission hearing and promptly ran into a buzz-saw of complaints about my client’s deficiencies as both a human being and a donut seller.

Construction projects today can’t commence without several acts of submission and contrition. First, you must notify everyone surrounding your site of your folly. Just because you own a building and pay taxes on it doesn’t mean your neighbors shouldn’t be given every opportunity to tell you what color they think you should paint it or what types of bushes you should plant around it or what kind of food they think you should serve inside it. It’s truly a mad, mad world.

Generally you must invite (by certified mail) all property owners within a radius of a thousand feet to attend a public hearing about your proposed project- which is a lot like being forced to carry the rope to your own hanging. When you cast such a large net many ugly things can be dredged up:

“Your delivery drivers honk at 4:00 a.m. to be let into your store.”

“Every morning at 6:00 your trash is picked up-- can’t you make it later?”

“You should have to build a fence.”

“Your donuts are stale.”

Boy did I screw up. Blithely thinking that re-directing the menu board away from the angry rabble would placate them, I was forced instead to account for transgressions previously unknown. Because I thought our proposal would be a slam dunk, my donut client was not in attendance. I was on my own, and there was nothing left to do but grovel:

“We’ll do anything you want; please just give us a permit.”

Since then, we’ve addressed the concerns of the neighbors. Delivery drivers have been instructed not to honk. Trash pick-up has been re-scheduled for later in the morning. We promised to build a new fence, the donuts are fresher, and up until this morning everything was looking good because two days ago the planning commission voted to recommend to the city council that they approve our variance request.

In a truly magnanimous gesture, I called the most vociferous complainer this morning to thank her for her concerns and express my subservient gratitude for her participation in civic government. Here’s what she said to me:

“Last night at 3:00 a.m. my husband called the police because one of your employees was singing what appeared to be an Indian love song over your drive-thru speaker. It sounded like Sanjaya Malakar on American Idol, but worse. Our dog wouldn’t stop barking.”

Oh well, back to the drawing board.

And pass me your T-square Frank; I may just need it.