Target missed the mark. Again.

Being a human comes with certain responsibilities: caring for yourself, securing shelter, providing for those entrusted to your care and contributing something of value to society.   Men hold a certain unspoken place in society.  Protector. Warrior. Provider. Hunter. Gatherer. Protector of masculinity.  Fundamentally, I believe a man has a responsibility to exercise self-mastery. 

 Men are susceptible to the same temptations as anyone else—the perversions of the mind and the flesh, destructive impulses, and choices that can harm both ourselves and others. A true man must learn to tame the demons in his mind and guard his essence against becoming something destructive. Self-control is not oppression. It is civilization.

Retailer Target has always been a liberal outpost.  Gender-neutral restrooms, pride month promotions and controversial products marketed around gender identity.  All above have all contributed to that perception.  Their previous controversies included tuck-friendly swimwear and pride merch marketed to children.  Whether one celebrates those choices or opposes them, they are undeniably  statements of values. 

Just when I thought it was safe to shop at Target again, I quickly discovered that while the headlines have faded, the underlying ethos still exists. 

The store is clean and for the most part well kept.  I entered and went down the main aisle.  I look up and see what I initially thought was a man with long dreadlocks.  What I realized was a man with a beard.  Wearing lipstick.  And blush.  Effeminate men have always existed.  Masculine women have, too. What is not new is not their existence but society’s insistence that these struggles, identities and expressions must be celebrated and affirmed as unquestionably good.  That is where I part company with modern culture.

I do not believe every internal feeling or impulse requires external affirmation.  I do not believe every struggle should become an unquestionable identity.  Modern culture increasingly treats self-expression as the highest virtue.  I argue self-mastery deserves greater consideration. 

Part of my discomfort stems from what I can only describe as mental friction—the disconnect between what my eyes perceive and what society asks me to affirm simultaneously. Everyone experiences some version of this phenomenon. We all live with tensions between reality, perception, and belief. I simply have enough tensions of my own without asking to participate in someone else's.

Jamie Lee Curtis has a "sis" daughter and a "trans" daughter.  She has repeatedly remarked that people would be unable to distinguish her trans child from a lineup of 19 other women.   Perhaps that is simply a mother’s love speaking.  Parents will almost always choose love over an ideology when speaking about their children.

I don't know whether she sees this as something to celebrate, something to accept, or merely something to love despite the complexity. Frankly, it isn't my business.

History will ultimately decide how this period of cultural conflict is remembered. Universities will advocate one set of ideas. Public intellectuals such as Jordan Peterson, Ben Shapiro, and Matt Walsh will advocate another. Some churches will emphasize radical acceptance and love. Others will insist that God does not make mistakes and that contemporary understandings of gender represent profound confusion rather than liberation.

Whatever the case may be, my openness to giving Target a second chance was short lived.  Corporations are free to choose the values they wish to communicate, and consumers are equally free to decide whether those values align with their own.

Once, shame on you.  Twice, shame on me. 

Once is ignorant.  Twice is stupid. 

Thanks for playing.  Never again.

Wholesale Club Pricing

I dig the prices of toilet paper and toothpaste at the wholesale club stores. They're the only retail concept I can think of where you're asked to pay for the privilege of shopping there. Membership fees are essentially pure profit. A plastic card at a retail country club.

When we moved our son to another state, we did what habit told us to do. We went to Costco and bought the giant package of toilet paper and the bulk toothpaste.

Then we carried it into the house.

It suddenly occurred to me: How long is it going to take one person to use all of this? Does he really need that much of his money sitting on a shelf in inventory dedicated to wiping his butt and brushing his teeth?

We returned it and bought smaller quantities instead.

Yes, the price per roll and per tube was higher, but he didn't need nine months' worth of toilet paper tying up cash sitting in his 1 bedroom bunker.  Besides, who knows? Maybe after enough time Charmin dries out and turns into sandpaper.

The wholesale club reveals an interesting economic truth: it takes money to save money.

Someone living paycheck to paycheck may understand the value of buying in bulk better than anyone. They just may not have the cash available to do it.

I think about gasoline, too. Why does it often seem more expensive in poorer neighborhoods than in wealthier ones? I'm not qualified to answer that question, and I don't care enough to research it.

But the pattern is difficult to ignore.

Being poor often comes with a premium.

Deep Wounds

Deep wounds.  No matter how much time passes or work is done in therapy, some wounds don’t fully heal; for they run deep, penetrated into bone.  They still hurt when touched. 

I have childhood trauma from an experience where the pastor (PG) aka “the butcher” of our church played my dad like a fiddle every time there was an opportunity to dig his meat hooks in further.  My Dad’s dad died from cancer in 1979.  At every peak emotional experience, the reverend would exploit the vulnerability.  Wreck the moment by telling my father how much he is loved by god and too bad he wasn’t there to experience this.  They’d cry.  They’d hug.  They sang kumb-by-ya.  Over time the manipulation became the push of a button to activate emotional trauma where closure hadn’t been fully reconciled. 

My mom was a hoarder.  The house always looked like a literal war zone.  Jump to a time when my dad was at work. I was about 10 years old.  The reverend came to church with one of his friends to show him an elaborate electric train layout my dad had since he was a small boy.  My mom refused entry.  PG essentially ignored my mom’s boundary and barged in right past her.  My mom was crying.  My sister was crying.  I was crying.  And this monster went to the playroom and showed the train off like it was his.  I don’t know if my dad ever knew what happened.  If he did, he never did anything about it because he was ‘hooked.’

When I was a teenager going through confirmation, PG always wanted acolytes and crucifers for the morning service.  He would recruit someone from Sunday School to do it.  Sometimes a week in advance so the names could be printed in the bulletin.  If there was no one, he’d lean on the parents.  My dad was an easy target.  Next thing you know I was roped-in to doing it more than I wanted.  I was furious.  Every time I turned around I was stuck dawning a robe and being PGs puppet.  My Dad was too weak to honor my boundary because he was hooked.  By the butcher.

Eventually allegations of an associate pastor groping women surfaced and PG was ousted from the church for not taking appropriate action.  He was paterno’d except it was women instead of young boys.  The controlling synod fired PG and a restraining order was fired.  A dear family friend was taken out for collateral damage.  It’s par for the course when PG was using people to serve his needs instead of serving God. 

My Mom died and we had a funeral service at a parlor.  A close family friend who is still close friends with PG was assisting with funeral as was his wife.  While planning, I told everyone in the room if PG made an appearance at the funeral, I would deny him entry unleashing all the fury, anger and hurt I’ve carried since I was a child.  No one gets to celebrate my Mom when they abused her.  NO ONE.

A situation came up where my wound was pressed with a branding iron.  The emotion, anger, resentment, hurt and disappointment over the monster rose from deep within with the fury of an internal stalled out hurricane.  My dad wanted to show me video of PG working a funeral.  I was flaming angry.  My emotions devouring my ability to respond rationally.  I was bent for 18 hours.  Discombobulated.  A rage held at boiling point.  Eventually the intensity subsided.  I phoned my Dad and asked him what his intent was to have me watch the funeral.  He didn’t even know the lady being mourned.  He wanted to show me a song sung; I Only Imagine by MercyMe.  Sung by a choral master at a Lutheran church.  It was like watching a cracker break dance.  It was awful. 

I then told my Dad I was upset because he knows the wounds I carry from being abused by a person in power.  I told my Dad if PG was sitting across the table from me, it would take every bit of restraint for me not to reach across the table and strangle him with by bare hands.   My Dad apologized.  I appreciated his acknowledgement of the lapse in judgement.  He said he would be more diligent about not poking my deep wound.

Then I told my Dad that if PG is now going to be active and/or participating in worship services that he would have to make other arrangements to be transported.  I am no longer willing to open those wounds or have anything to do with PG.  I apologized.  He said he understood. 

It felt good to reconcile my feelings and let my Dad know I was hurt.  Surprised a 40-year-old wound hurts even more today than it did when it happened.  I guess that’s what happened when it wasn’t just hurt.  It was hurt with trauma.  Feel good I was able to have the conversation to share the hurt with my dad and the profound effect seeing PG again had on me.  Glad I waited and didn’t say something that would have damaged our relationship and hurt him.  Restraint.  Process.  Response.  Sharing.  Forgiveness.  Some of that happened today.  There’s still work to do.  It may only be resolved when either PG or my Dad cross the time space dimension and we all go our separate ways.

Deep wounds don't always stop hurting. Sometimes healing is learning which hands are allowed to touch them.

Trippin' Excited!

Went to the biggest Half Price Books in the world while visiting family in Dallas. It's as big as a grocery store. My brother-in-law and I decided it might be interesting. We ended up spending nearly three hours wandering the store.

First stop, the CDs. While they had plenty of them, there wasn't anything I've been patiently looking for. No real bargains either. As a matter of fact, the discs were more expensive than other locations. I don't know if that's because it's in the DFW metroplex or if the prices are market driven. At any rate, there was nothing of interest and nothing my perpetual radar scans for when browsing.

Books, on the other hand, were quite interesting.

I found myself in the business section. Plenty of business biographies (one of my favorite genres) and leadership books. Books on Disney, Toyota, and the one from the captain of that battleship that was popular a decade ago. Leadership books are also a favorite. The Five Dysfunctions of a Team, Keys to the Kingdom (a good read about Michael Eisner's fall from grace), and quite a few interesting titles by Napoleon Hill, Stephen Covey, and others.

While the titles caught my attention, the prices caught my attention because they're far too high.

I was particularly interested in a title penned by the mayor of LinkedIn, Simon Sinek: The Infinite Game. Reading a few random pages, it resonated with me as it probes capitalism's purpose. To some, capitalism exists for the sole purpose of extracting maximum profit, with all resources and means justifying the end. Sinek takes capitalism to another level—an infinite purpose to build strong, innovative, and inspiring organizations. Organizations with a purpose deeper than making money.

The book was fourteen dollars. List price was twenty-nine. I looked on Amazon and one could be had for six dollar fifty cent. While tempting for the now factor, I couldn't justify spending fourteen dollars on a book I could get for less than half that price.

I remember back in the day Half Price Books was more like Quarter Price Books for older, used titles. The Infinite Game was published in 2019. I would think seven years is long enough for a book to be priced below half price.

Not anymore.

Somehow I found my way into the brain section. A plethora of titles about memory, cognition, consciousness, and the like. After reading Dan Brown's Secret of Secrets, I find consciousness to be an interesting topic—especially in the context of halos, angels, coincidence and how intelligence works. The entire premise of the book is that there is an entire consciousness that exists that we cannot see. At the same time, we have the ability to tap into consciousness by aligning or calibrating our receivers—our brains—to receive the signal.

And just like that, I stumbled upon How to Change Your Mind by Michael Pollan.

I was attracted to the premise like a moth to a light. It felt a bit like holding forbidden fruit in my hands.  The same way a terrorist feels while holding The Anarchy Cookbook  

LSD.

Steve Jobs spoke of his experiences with LSD as profound and influential to his creativity. Bill Gates has described his experimentation as exhilarating. Anthony Bourdain spoke openly about experiences he had during his youth. Jerry Garcia described an LSD trip that changed everything.

Ever since reading about Steve Jobs' experience with psychedelics, I've been curious about them—but never curious enough to try them. Curiosity and conviction have comfortably occupied the same space for a very long time. I don't want to cause permanent damage or have an undesirable outcome.

But this?

This I can hold in my hand. A book described as "a brilliant, brave, and personal investigation into the medical and scientific revolution taking place around psychedelic drugs." I read a few snippets and I was hooked. 

I've heard good things about Michael Pollan. I don't remember who from, but I know his books are well written and thought provoking. I can't wait to dig in and learn about something I've been curious about for a very long time.  A book described by the New York Times as one of the 10 best books of 2018 has to be good, right?

Funny how a trip to Half Price Books turned into a trip through leadership, capitalism, consciousness, intelligence, and psychedelics without ever leaving the store.

I can already hear my wife when she discovers the book sitting in the living room.

"You're not going to try that are you?"

"Of course not."

"Then why are you reading it?"

"It's interesting."

"What do you mean it's interesting?"

Never mind.

"You're not going to try that are you?"

Maybe?

Dear Leader's Judgement

I question the judgment of a man who accepts an old cargo freighter as a gift and has it converted into a substandard Flying Fortress as the symbol of the most powerful nation on Earth. A supposed beacon of hope. 

Most old, worn-out passenger planes are converted to cargo planes to extend their useful lives. Most cargo planes are twice the age of passenger planes. Most old cargo planes are eventually sent to the scrapyard. 

But not that one. 

It's apparently more fun to be braggadocios about questionable decisions: putting lipstick on a pig, hosting a cage fight in the front yard, commissioning a $15 million substandard paint job on the bottom of a reflecting pool, treating the East Wing of the White House like a sun room while simultaneously Jonesing for a monumental view of the golden arches outside the window. That'll probably be the equivalent of putting a G-scale train prop on an HO layout and wondering why it doesn't look quite right. 

Our leader is not well. Perhaps he needs his own flag—a giant rainbow windsock. With A giant golden T with a spotlight; rotating in the wind as Kidd Rock's All Summer Long plays. At least then we'd know which way the wind is blowing.

"We were trying different things

We were smoking funny things.

Making love out by the lake to our favorite song

Sipping whiskey out the bottle, not thinking 'bout tomorrow." 

JTW - Discovery Day

Disclosure Day 2026:  The moment John Williams not only inspired the force, he became The Force. 

At 94 years of age Maestro Williams may have written his best work yet. 

John Williams consistently composes with technical brilliance and emotional resonance; capturing perfect sound to the moments our heart feels.  Better at it than anyone else.  A Giant among Greats.

I have never been particularly interested in the movie experience when it comes to John Williams. The music stands independently on its own merit. It always has. 

At first listen my response was 'This is some of John Williams' best work.  Almost as though John Williams goes to church.  There are Bits and pieces of the force, The Patriot, E.T., Warhorse, Monsignor and others like Jurassic Park and Close Encounters throughout.  While his stylistic nature is usually easy to recognize, I didn't immediately recognize Disclosure Day as his work.  Rather, he slowly reveals himself in this one.

Then my thoughts evolved. "John Williams became a classically trained Hans Zimmer with impeccable use of musical devices and technical grammar."

Finally, I settled on something much simpler.

"John Williams at his best!" 

Best, however is an evolution.  More precisely it is a consistently met standard reaching new heights without discounting any of the work that came before it.  

Over time his work has evolved.  The latest incarnation of John Williams comes with incredible aural textures not heard before.  There is more detailed technical articulation in the upper strings and more cohesive integration of electronics into the orchestra.  There is the discovery allowing more than one emotion sitting in the same piece of music at the same time - one moving forward while another quietly recedes.   an unfamiliar yet refined motion in the orchestra's sound and instrumental timbre that feels simultaneously new and unmistakably his. 

Disclosure Day isn't something you leave the theatre humming.  It's a work that rewards attentive listening and aural processing free from distraction.  

If this piece ultimately bookends a 75 year career, it does so at a new peak.  There are very few artists who spend a lifetime pursuing excellence.  Fewer still who continue discovering new heights.  

At 94 years old, John Williams remains one of them.

He continues delivering excellence and truth. 

Aging Like a Fine Wine

I saw Christopher Nolan's The Odyssey. One thing stood out. Charlize Theron.  She's aging more gracefully than anyone in Hollywood.

Coming from a guy who doesn't keep track of and largely despises the entire premise of celebrityism in our culture, that's saying something.

I don't know whether she's had work done to improve her appearance. Nor do I particularly care. The roles I've seen her inhabit are interesting and the work she does is consistent high quality.

Not a debate. Not a declaration. An observation.

Perhaps her journey can resonate through her actions for more women approaching the second half of their fifty years on planet Earth. Aging is natural. It can be graceful. It can be elegant. It can be authentically lived.

Not fighting age with beauty, but discovering beauty through age.

That's HOT!