Virtue behind the fur

My dogs are virtuous. Smart? Not necessarily. But virtuous? Sure. If you own a dog, you know it, too. 

Just for fun, I'm going to trot out the 12 tenets of the Scout Law, which I grew up with as a Boy Scout. A virtuous person is "trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent."  Those 12 virtues are deeply embedded in my psyche ... forever tatooed in my brain.  

Interestingly, of these 12, most apply to the dogs I know and have known, and certainly our two -- Linus, the mutt-mix terrier on the right who is cute beyond belief; and Riley, our Golden Retriever, who is a bit spacy but loving and loyal both. (Click on the photo to catch Linus's eyes.) 

By my count, only three virtues generally don't apply.  

My dogs, indeed, are trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly and kind. (If you have slobbery dog, like Riley, you'll pass on "courteous." )

Obedient? Sure! (Mostly.) Cheerful? Absolutely. Thrifty? Nope ... they'll gobble food as fast as you give it. So that leaves Brave? Yep! Clean? Ha! Nope. Reverent? Well, I think so. You know ... all dogs go to heaven, etc. Certainly their spirits are righteous. Talk about all-forgiving! 

Nine out of 12 isn't bad. If only us humans could do as well. 

Good dogs! 

And no, it's not time for a biscuit.  

Ho (exhale!) ho

They were dark blue, polyester, with rocket ships, red Saturns, stars that glowed at night and, best of all, non-skid material on the bottom of the feet guaranteed to grip the slickest hardwood floor.

Cindy's were the same, though green with beige dinosaurs -- T-rex, triceratops, brachiosaurus, teradactyl ... all of the most popular dino species.

Problem was, these footed pajamas were a kid's size "10 to 12."

"You gotta go put them on," ordered daughter Meghan, who with son Zach had conspired to package up the garments and leave them at our bedside so that we'd have to open them first thing Christmas morning.

Turnabout is fair play, I guess. Cindy's been getting the kids new sets of sleepwear every Christmas since they were small, this year included.

Except the kids have always welcomed their new threads. Ours clearly were intended to embarrass. They were multiple sizes too small, plus ... rocket ships and dinosaurs?!

"Go put them on!" the kids repeated.

Actually, we were OK with this. We've pulled enough pranks on Meg and Zach that we welcomed the challenge. Plus both Cindy and I are fans of Project Runway. At worst, we could cut the things apart and somehow hook them back together.

I volunteered to go first. I headed to the bathroom, needing some privacy. I held the blue suit up, measured it by sight and thought that I might ... just might ... be able to squeeze into it.

The pajamas were cleverly designed. A zipper stretched from the neck all the way down to the bottom of the left leg. (The right-leg portion of it dangled on its own.) So, to do this right, you had to put your foot into the right leg, then put your foot into the left, then put your arms into the sleeves, then slowly stand up straight while pulling the zipper up to your neck.

I imagined this is what divers with wetsuits must face. Or, actually, those Olympics swimmers with those new $600 bodysuits designed by NASA that envelop you like a second set of skin and take two days to put on. (I'd love to try out one of those.)

But ... it wasn't working. I could only pull the zipper up so far before it threatened to derail, like a train at a fork in the road forced to go both directions. I figured in order to get my arms in the sleeves and the zipper pulled, I'd have to be six inches shorter, double-jointed, and exhale every last molecule of oxygen from my lungs. Oh, plus be severely dehydrated.

Academically, I've never been a "physics" kind of guy. But I've learned by doing enough home projects that everything comes down to spatial relationships.

In this case, I thought that a variation of Einstein's "space-time continuum" might be coming into play: the amount of space in the garment, divided by my body mass, multiplied by the time it would take to shoe-horn me into it, equals its potential to self-destruct in a flash of torn seams, gaping rips and embarrassing after-shocks.

I think on the chalkboard it'd be something like this:

SDp = (v/m) x (t/kaboom)

... though I think a pi sign needs to go in there somewhere.

Time? Certainly, time was short: I wanted breakfast.

But space was the bigger issue. And the solution was obvious: I needed more.

So I called for some scissors and, with two quick snips, lopped off the pajamas' toes. I pushed my own toes through; the pajama's feet slid up to mid-calf. Now the non-skid material looked like low-down, white tail lights. I put my arms in the sleeves, stretched upwards and pulled the zipper home.

It fit!!

Okay, I felt like a Slim Jim still in the wrapper. But there are worse feelings.

Cindy also did her deed, the details of which she'll share on her own terms. She and I, though, posed for photos afterwards, then quickly shed our duds for blue jeans.

After all, you can only be a sausage for so long.

But we'd met the challenge.

I suspect the kids will come up with another surprise next year. And that's absolutely okay.

Because we will, too.  Count on it. 

It's electric!

Okay, so we were out looking at Christmas-light displays and we stopped by Vince & Associates on Metcalf Avenue. The display is an eclectic, electric mix of trees, houses, penguins (huh?), shooting stars, wrapped packages, Santa (of course), snowflakes and wreaths. Check it out. I think it's over the top, but fun to watch once a year.

The best way to view it is by parking high atop the parking lot of Emmanuel Baptist Church, across the street.

You tune in your radio and watch the lights dance to the tunes. Most of the songs are from Mannheim Steamroller, as you'd expect. But there are some non-holiday numbers inserted, too, which is kind of cool. I, for one, was introduced to "Sandstorm" by Darude for the first time. (I know ... where have I been?) Check out the 7 minute remix version ... imagine the lights with this one. 

Happy New Year all!

Get smart

Charles, with pride, poses by his Smart car.

If you've been reading the blog, you know I have an affinity for cars. I especially like to talk about my Beetle.

A week ago Cindy and I dropped by my company's store in Prairie Village to see how it was doing. There, in front, sat a Smart car. It was red-orange, so very bright. Redder than a pumpkin, but not as red as a fire truck. Regardless of the hues, it grabbed your attention.

I guessed the car belonged to Charles Gusewelle, Kansas City Star columnist better known as C.W. Gusewelle. He and the book-publishing group I head, Kansas City Star Books, have had a long, strong relationship over the years. Charles writes the material, we publish his books. (Check out my favorites -- tales of his dog Rufus, tales of his many cats and, his latest, his time spent at an Ozarks cabin.)

He had been waiting for his new car for 16 months. Perhaps it had arrived.

I walked in, saw Charles sneaking a few samples of the toffee we sell -- he was there for a book signing -- and yelled hello.

"That your Smart car out front?" I asked, excited.

He reached into his pocket and, with one fluid motion, underhanded the keys to me. "Go take it for a spin."

We did just that. It was a glorious moment. Ever since gas prices had shot skyward, I'd been nagging Cindy about the need to buy a motor scooter to occasionally sub for my Beetle. Meghan nixed that idea for safety reasons. So I had turned to Smart cars as a green alternative.

Nevermind that gas prices have since turned south. (That won't last.) The idea of test-driving a Smart car that Saturday was nirvana.

We climbed in and marveled at the space inside. Despite the close proximity of the two seats, the vistas through the windows were wide; the sunroof above was huge. The storage area behind the seats was expansive.

First impressions? Good.

I turned the key and the motor rumbled to life. I put it in reverse, backed cautiously out of the parking spot, then headed east. I'd chosen the "automatic" mode, in which the car did the shifting on its own.

It was a tentative start, not like with my turbo Beetle that shoots out of the gate. No, this car befitted its name ... it smartly contemplated the shift from first to second, then debated the shift from second to third, then, finally, judged the shift from third to fourth as worthy and necessary. No rush; why rush?

We made our way around the block, methodically and with purpose. The drive was solid and sure-footed.

A quick note on the interior: It was well designed, befitting its Mercedes engineering. The modular lines were clean and very European; the seats were firm and comfortable. The stereo? Let's just say it was amped well.

We made it back, went inside and I handed the keys back to Charles. I loved it, I told him. And I thought: Officer Badge No. 3534, the subject of a previous post, would never, ever pull me and a Smart car over for speeding.

Which is an interesting notion: Do we speed because we have to, or because we can? I suspect the latter.

Charles and spouse Katie love their new friend, in part because of its economy.

"I got to a quarter tank on fuel, and I filled it up for just $6.75," Charles said, not so much boasting as marveling at the efficiency.

Okay, sure, there are issues of safety. A Smart car weighs 1,800 pounds. A typical SUV will be four times that. A semi truck? Don't ask. But then if you're smart, you'll not drive Smart cars near semis.

Ultimately, safety is relative. If we all downsized, would safety be compromised? No, not in the long term. And the long term is what we're about in this new Obama era. What changes can we make now to benefit us in the long term?

We like to pride ourselves on our American ways, of big cars, big appetites and big spending. The problem is, it's not always smart. We waste fuel, get fat and, lately, get poor.

Charles, wise because of his years, gets this.

Just watch.  So will the smart money on Wall Street.

Paste No. 49

Got my new Paste CD the other day and thought I'd share its bright spots. And there are a few ... always some pleasant surprises! I'll highlight three this month.

It's kind of arbitrary to pigeonhole songs into certain types, but inevitable given all the songs out there.

So maybe I'll offer my own categories. Here goes.

Best song that leaves you scratching your head but in wonder still: It's a tune called "The River" by the band Anathello. This Michigan group is officially classified in the so-called Progressive Art Rock genre. Which could be anything, of course.

But what you hear is both maddening and, eventually, extremely satisfying. There are a lot of ways to dissect this piece. Just know that it begins with so much syncopation and other musical fits and starts that you aren't sure what you're listening to. But soon it all coalesces into a very satisfying whole.

Quite remarkable, really.

Best lyric that smacks your brain and forces you to think deep thoughts: Joan Osborne, who has roots in country but clearly has branched out, recorded this haunting verse. But the song actually belongs to a '90s indie band now disbanded, called Jump, Little Children.

The song is titled "Cathedrals." The verse includes this line, repeated:

In the cathedrals of New York and Rome

There is a feeling that you should just go home

And spend a lifetime finding out just where that is.

What's the point? Maybe that those seeking salvation within a building -- only -- might better find it outside, in the world. But that's probably just me talking.

Regardless, both versions of the song are worth listening to:

• Joan sings.
  
• Jump, Little Children sings.
  

Best jingly tune that you still enjoy despite yourself: Denison Witmer, a Philly indie-rock guy, offers this up -- "Life Before Aesthetics" -- in his album "Carry the Weight."

Listen in. It grows on you.

Here's to waiting a month for more from Paste. (My subscription runs out soon ... time to re-up!)