Washing Clothes, Reading History, and Rethinking the Constitution (REVIEW)

The Quartet: Orchestrating the Second American Revolution, 1783–1789
by Joseph J. Ellis

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

When I moved cross-country from Boise to Syracuse, I expected a few inconveniences—unpacking chaos, unfamiliar grocery stores, and adjusting to a colder, wetter climate. But I didn’t anticipate being without a washer and dryer for the first time in years. My appliances, loyal veterans of countless laundry days, were sitting in a storage unit across town. Which is how I found myself at the local laundromat one Saturday, armed with a basket of dirty clothes and a faint sense of nostalgia.

After jockeying for a dryer and realizing I’d forgotten both my Bounce sheets and my earbuds (rookie mistake), I did what any self-respecting person without a podcast would do: I wandered around the laundromat. That’s when I stumbled upon a weathered Little Free Library tucked beside the soda machine. Most of the offerings were exactly what you’d expect—Go Dog Go!, a few romance novels missing their covers, and Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover’s Soul. But sandwiched between them was something unexpected: The Quartet: Orchestrating the Second American Revolution by Joseph J. Ellis. I didn’t know if this was divine intervention or just a misplaced donation from a very patriotic cat lover, but I grabbed it. And as the spin cycle hummed behind me, I found myself drawn into a story about revolution, reinvention, and the stubborn art of keeping a country from falling apart.

In The Quartet, Ellis turns his considerable talents to the underexplored period between the end of the Revolutionary War and the ratification of the U.S. Constitution—a stretch of time often glossed over in high school textbooks. His thesis is simple but profound: that the true founding of the United States as a unified nation happened not in 1776, but between 1783 and 1789. And it wasn’t the result of some grand inevitability, but of the determined efforts of four key figures—George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and John Jay—who understood that liberty without structure was a recipe for collapse.

I studied The Federalist Papers and read Ketcham's The Anti-Federalist Papers and the Constitutional Convention Debates in college and have always considered myself fairly well-versed in the mechanics of the Constitutional Convention. I’ve even referenced Publius more than once in polite conversation—much to the confusion (and occasional concern) of friends. Yet what struck me most about Ellis’s narrative was how fresh and human the story felt. His account offered something different: a real sense of the urgency, messiness, and sheer improbability of what Washington, Hamilton, Madison, and Jay managed to pull off. These weren’t just abstract ideas being batted around in Philadelphia meeting rooms; these were strategic gambles, emotional appeals, and backroom compromises aimed at coaxing a fragmented confederation into becoming something that could survive.

Ellis presents these men not as marble-carved heroes, but as complex, occasionally conflicted individuals grappling with the chaos of post-war America. Washington’s quiet gravitas and personal restraint become political tools in their own right. Hamilton’s financial savvy and rhetorical firepower give backbone to the argument for federal authority. Madison, the book’s intellectual workhorse, emerges as a master strategist—crafting the Virginia Plan, writing the Federalist Papers, and shaping the very structure of the Constitution. And Jay, often the most overlooked of the four, plays a crucial role in diplomacy and consensus-building, bringing legitimacy to the process through his experience and careful words.

What’s most striking is how much of their work feels urgently relevant today. As I read Ellis’s account of political gridlock, fragile alliances, and public mistrust of centralized power, I couldn’t help but think about our current political climate. The rhetoric may be flashier now, and the internet has certainly raised the volume, but the underlying tensions—between state and federal power, between populism and pragmatism, between ideology and governance—remain stubbornly familiar. Ellis reminds us that our system was never designed for ease. It was built for negotiation, compromise, and above all, balance:

In the long run—and this was probably Madison’s most creative insight—the multiple ambiguities embedded in the Constitution made it an inherently “living” document. For it was designed not to offer clear answers…but instead to provide a political arena in which arguments about those contested issues could continue in a deliberate fashion. (Ellis, p.174) 

This idea—that the Constitution was never meant to be a static rulebook but a dynamic framework for ongoing debate—feels particularly resonant now, when so many of our most pressing challenges hinge on interpretation, intent, and the willingness to engage across divides.

The brilliance of The Quartet lies in its clarity. Ellis peels away the mythology surrounding the Constitution’s creation and exposes the deliberate, often messy reality underneath. This was not a moment of national consensus; it was a hard-fought campaign by a determined minority who believed the American experiment needed stronger scaffolding if it was to survive. The Articles of Confederation, noble in their idealism, had left the country vulnerable—economically unstable, diplomatically weak, and internally fragmented. These four men saw what others feared to admit: that revolution was not the end of the story, but the beginning of a new and equally complicated chapter.

Ellis walks us through the Philadelphia Convention, the state ratification battles, and the artful persuasion that made unity possible. He brings a historian’s rigor to the narrative but writes with the accessibility of someone who wants his work to be read on park benches, in coffee shops—and yes, even in laundromats. His focus on character-driven storytelling makes the political feel personal, which is a good reminder that it always has been.

Reading The Quartet while navigating a personal transition gave me a deeper appreciation for the kind of collective work that goes into building anything lasting—be it a new home, a new community, or a functioning republic. Moving to a new city, starting over in many ways, I found a surprising kinship in the story of four men trying to knit together a fledgling country from a patchwork of states that didn’t always like or trust each other. It reminded me that reinvention takes vision, patience, and a willingness to wrestle with uncomfortable truths.

In the end, The Quartet is a book about second chances—not just for the country, but for the idea of America itself. It challenges us to recognize that founding principles are only as strong as our ability to uphold them. And maybe, as we navigate our own uncertain political era, there’s something comforting in the reminder that we’ve faced this kind of instability before—and that good ideas, backed by hard work and a willingness to compromise, can still win the day.

So if you find a copy in a Little Free Library—or in your local bookstore—pick up The Quartet. It won’t just teach you about history. It might just remind you why it matters.

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"That Would Be Great"

Bridging Generations at Work with Pop Culture—and a Movie Lunch

There’s a moment in every professional’s life when they drop a perfectly timed pop culture reference into a meeting… and it lands with a thud. Blank stares. Polite smiles. Someone typing under the table (probably Googling what you just said). That moment happened to me for what felt like the hundredth time when I made a crack about a TPS report and “channeling my inner Lumbergh.” Crickets. That’s when I realized: my pop culture isn’t their pop culture.

Like many professionals of my generation, I’ve carried certain cultural touchstones with me throughout my career. One of my most well-worn references has long been the 1999 cult classic Office Space. It’s a workplace satire so spot-on, it almost feels like a documentary. Over the years, I’ve sprinkled quotes from it into emails, used it to lighten the mood in tense meetings, and joked about smashing a temperamental printer à la the movie’s infamous slo-mo baseball bat scene.

But my team—filled with bright, capable, mostly Millennial and Gen Z colleagues—often didn’t follow. To them, Office Space is a vaguely familiar title, a meme source at best, not the formative workplace gospel it was for Gen X and older Millennials. They didn’t know about flair. They’d never met Milton. They certainly didn’t grasp the life-affirming joy of a good case of “not gonna work here anymore.”

After yet another one of my Office Space references fell flat, one of my managers offered a helpful—and slightly daring—suggestion: why not turn one of our monthly team meetings into a lunch gathering and screen the movie? I decided it was time. We scheduled a (long) lunch hour, invited everyone to brown bag it, and turned our conference room into a makeshift movie theater. No slides, no updates, no agendas—just some popcorn, shared laughs, and 90 minutes of pure late-’90s corporate catharsis. It was a simple shift, but it created space for something we didn’t know we needed: a communal pause, a cultural reset, and a little bit of fun in the middle of a workday.

And something unexpected happened.

They loved it. They laughed. They exchanged “ohhhh, now I get it” glances during scenes they’d heard me reference countless times. More importantly, it became a shared experience. We started speaking the same language—not just mine, not just theirs, but something in between. It broke down barriers. Suddenly, jokes landed. Google Chat channels lit up with GIFs of Lumbergh and his coffee mug. We even started referring to standard daily and weekly reports as “TPS” reports.

But beyond the inside jokes, it created a subtle but powerful shift. We found common ground in a place none of us expected: a 25-year-old movie about cubicle life. It sparked conversations about how workplaces have changed (and how much they haven’t), what autonomy and burnout look like across generations, and how humor can be a survival tool in any era of work.

I don’t expect Office Space to become a required part of onboarding. And I still make a conscious effort to engage with the pop culture that resonates with my team today (yes, I know who Olivia Rodrigo is, and no, I don’t fully get TikTok). But sharing that piece of my own cultural foundation helped me show up as a more human version of “the boss.” And it helped my team see me as more than just the person who schedules meetings and signs off on budgets.

Pop culture can be a bridge—but only if we’re willing to build it together.

Not long after our movie lunch, I made the decision to step away from my role and begin a new chapter in my career. Even with that change on the horizon, I was grateful for the chance to create one more meaningful moment with my team. Watching them laugh, connect, and rally together reminded me of what’s most enduring in any workplace: relationships, shared experiences, and the small moments that bring people closer.

So if you're ever tempted to reference an old movie or a band you think “everyone” knows, pause for a moment. Better yet, invite your team to share in the experience. You might just find that a little bit of nostalgia—served with popcorn—can go a long way in building trust, camaraderie, and even a few inside jokes that live on long after you’ve moved on.

And if they still don’t get it?

Well, at least you tried. And that would be grreeeeat.

Review

Office Space
directed by Mike Judge

My rating 4½ of 5 stars

In the grand pantheon of movies about work, Office Space exists in a perfect little cubicle of its own—one where fluorescent lights hum, printers jam for sport, and the scent of burnt coffee hovers permanently in the breakroom. Directed by Mike Judge (yes, the Beavis and Butt-Head guy, but stay with me), this 1999 sleeper hit manages to turn the beige banality of office life into something surreal, absurd, and ultimately cathartic. The premise is simple: a burned-out programmer starts ignoring all the rules and somehow gets promoted for it. But beneath that surface-level rebellion lies a sharp, weirdly comforting look at how modern work quietly gnaws away at the soul.

Ron Livingston plays Peter Gibbons, a man so beaten down by memos, traffic, and middle management that even his therapist gives up on him (okay, technically it’s a hypnotherapist who dies mid-session, but you get the idea). I’ve liked Livingston ever since he showed up in HBO’s Band of Brothers as Captain Lewis Nixon—a performance layered with understated depth and a heavy pour of scotch. He played Nixon like a guy who’s seen too much and says too little, which—now that I think of it—isn’t a bad description of Peter Gibbons either. In Office Space, Livingston’s dry delivery and quiet exasperation make him the perfect everyman for a world where showing up five minutes late can trigger a full-scale HR intervention. He’s not flashy, and that’s exactly why he works—both as a character and as a stand-in for all of us who’ve ever contemplated setting our inboxes on fire.

Which brings me to the true villain of this movie: the report. Specifically, the TPS report, with its mandatory cover sheet and the looming specter of a passive-aggressive follow-up from eight different managers. The absurdity of this detail struck a familiar chord with me—and probably will for anyone who’s spent time navigating a sea of weekly status updates, productivity dashboards, or systems that require a password change every 11 days. I once wrote about my nostalgia for green-bar paper and fixed-pitch fonts on this very blog (here, for the curious). There was something wonderfully simple about those old-school reports—clunky, yes, but they didn’t pretend to be anything they weren’t. Today’s reports? They’re like soulless performance art, and Office Space captures that disconnect beautifully. It’s not just that the bureaucracy is overbearing—it’s that it’s completely detached from the reality of the work itself. And when Peter decides to opt out, it feels, for a brief, glorious moment, like he’s achieved workplace nirvana.

Of course, no discussion of Office Space would be complete without Milton—the stapler-obsessed, softly mumbling tragic hero played to perfection by Stephen Root. Or the Bobs, those interchangeable consultants with MBA smugness and bad intentions. Or the printer, whose ultimate fate remains one of the most satisfying acts of vigilante justice ever captured on film. Judge populates this universe with characters so exaggerated they shouldn’t feel real, but somehow do. Maybe because we’ve met them. Maybe because we’ve been them.

Office Space didn’t set the box office on fire in 1999, but it’s lived a rich second life as a cult favorite—passed around on DVD, quoted in breakrooms, referenced whenever someone mentions “flair” with a straight face. It’s a satire that’s both deeply specific and weirdly timeless. Corporate culture has evolved (sort of), but the core truth remains: people want their work to mean something, or at the very least, not to actively erode their will to live.

In short, if you’ve ever wanted to do a slow-motion beatdown of a malfunctioning printer in a field while Still by Geto Boys plays in the background, this one’s for you.

Liberty in Three Acts: My Fourth of July Tradition

There are fireworks, there are flags, and there's always something grilling on the Fourth of July—but for me, Independence Day wouldn't feel complete without a familiar duo of movie musicals, now made into a trio. Each year, like clockwork, I settle in for a binge that spans the centuries of American spirit and song: 1776, Yankee Doodle Dandy, and now, Hamilton.

It all starts with 1776, the spirited (and yes, dramatized) story of the Continental Congress and their march toward independence. I first saw the film in college, but its roots in my heart go back even further—to 1976, when I was in middle school and the country was awash in stars, stripes, and a very particular kind of patriotic fervor.

Living in Pennsylvania in 1976, I was surrounded by history—not just the kind in textbooks, but the kind etched into buildings, monuments, and local pride. That year, our social studies lessons were laser-focused on the Revolution. We didn’t just learn about 1776—we practically lived it. Our classroom projects involved hand-drawing the Declaration of Independence on parchment-style paper. We staged mock debates about taxation and liberty. Field trips took us to Independence Hall and Valley Forge, places that felt suddenly alive with meaning.

And it wasn't just school. The Bicentennial bled into pop culture and everyday life. Cereal boxes had red-white-and-blue logos. Gas stations handed out commemorative coins. ABC aired "Schoolhouse Rock" segments that made civics catchy, and I still remember the thrill of seeing the Liberty Bell featured in commercials and TV specials. Everywhere you turned, there was this sense that America was not just looking back, but trying to understand itself in real time.

That summer, parades were filled with fife and drum corps and colonial reenactors in full regalia. I remember feeling that I was witnessing something big—like history had its own gravity and I was standing in its pull. That Bicentennial year didn't just make me aware of America's founding; it made me curious. It made me care. And when I eventually discovered 1776 in college, it gave all those half-formed impressions a voice, a cast, and a score.

While no historian would recommend the film as a primary source, 1776 brought the story of independence to life. It showed me that history isn't made by marble statues, but by flawed, passionate people wrangling over ideals in hot rooms. Watching it each Fourth of July has become my own secular ritual—less barbecue, more parchment and powdered wigs. Even now, every time I hear the opening drumbeat and that call for "a resolution for independence," I'm that Bicentennial kid again, filled with curiosity, awe, and patriotic pride.

Then there's Yankee Doodle Dandy. Sure, it's a full-throated piece of WWII-era propaganda, but that's not all it is. In its own way, it's a tribute to a very American kind of optimism—the kind that sings and taps and waves a flag without irony. James Cagney's George M. Cohan is a showman's showman, full of brash energy and patriotic fervor. And somehow, despite the bombast, it always hits the right tone for the day. It's a celebration of performance and pride, and it reminds me that love of country doesn't have to be loud or naive—it can be knowing, complex, and deeply felt.

That’s part of what keeps me coming back to it year after year. But I think the deeper reason has more to do with how musical theater, in all its forms, became a language of connection in my life—first through my mom, and later, through my daughters.

My affection for musical theater didn't just materialize one Independence Day. It was passed down, the way the best traditions are. My mom was the one who first gave me an appreciation for musicals. She loved the genre—not just the catchy tunes and elaborate staging, but the way music could tell a story straight to your soul. While her talent for performance didn't quite make it to me (though it clearly resurfaced a generation later in Faith), I did my part in high school by working behind the scenes with the stage crew. Painting sets, running lights, helping with props—I may not have been center stage, but I was there in the wings, soaking up the energy, the teamwork, the transformation of a bare auditorium into a world of its own.

That experience, paired with a college course I took on the history of musical theater, helped me see the genre as more than just entertainment. Musicals, at their best, don't just reflect culture—they help define it. They distill big ideas into melody, character, and story. And in America, perhaps more than anywhere else, the musical has evolved as a uniquely democratic art form: built on collaboration, born from diverse influences, and often focused on who gets to tell the story of "us." That context helped me place Yankee Doodle Dandy, 1776, and Hamilton not just as three shows I love—but as touchstones of how Americans have chosen to remember, reimagine, and reclaim their history. 

Editor's Note: Here's a link to a post where I've written more about how these three films work together as a musical portrait of American identity.

Faith at the Hollywood Pantages
in December 2017 for Hamilton.

It was with this deeper appreciation for the form that I later found myself sharing these same passions with Faith. She's always been a theater kid through and through, with a deep appreciation for not just the story being told, but how it's told. So it was no surprise when she was captivated by Hamilton. Like so many in her generation, she was swept up by the phenomenon—listening to the cast album on repeat, quoting lyrics in everyday conversation, diving deep into the lives of the Founding Fathers. She knew every word, every harmony, every historical reference. Her passion was infectious, and soon I was listening too, hearing echoes of the same stories I'd grown up loving—but now pulsing with a fresh, urgent rhythm.

That Christmas in 2017, "Santa" delivered something extraordinary: two tickets to see the touring production of Hamilton in Los Angeles. She hadn't expected to actually get to see it live. The show was a cultural phenomenon and seats were hard to come by. So when she unwrapped that gift, the look on her face—part disbelief, part pure joy—was a highlight of the holiday season, and of fatherhood.

And then there was the afternoon itself. Sitting next to her in the darkened theater, watching the story unfold not just in song but in movement, light, and staging—it was electric. Even though she knew the entire score by heart, seeing how each song was brought to life within the full framework of the book gave her a deeper understanding of the story and its historical context. The choreography, the way scenes transitioned, the layering of narrative—she was fully immersed. And so was I.

Truth be told, I wasn't expecting Hamilton to hit me the way it did. Lin-Manuel Miranda's reimagining of the Founders, filtered through hip-hop, R&B, and unapologetic modernity, struck a chord I didn't know needed striking. It captured the ambition, contradiction, and grit of early America in a way that felt new and yet deeply familiar. It spoke to both our nation's promise and its imperfections. And that night, sharing the experience with Faith, I felt the beautiful convergence of our shared passions—for history, for storytelling, for truth told in harmony and rhythm.

So when Disney+ released the original cast recording, it wasn't even a question. Hamilton joined the July 4th lineup without hesitation.

Now, every Fourth, I travel through time—from 1776's congressional chambers, to Cagney's Vaudeville stage, and finally to the turntables and duels of Hamilton. It's a deeply personal tradition, stitched together from family, history, and a little Broadway sparkle. What began as a childhood fascination with the Bicentennial has evolved into a kind of secular ritual of its own—less about fireworks and more about reflection. A quiet act of remembrance, through song and story, of who we were, who we are, and who we still might become.

Each film reminds me that the American story isn't finished—it's still being shaped, sung, and rewritten by each generation.

It's a small tradition, but it connects me to family, to history, and to the imperfect, ongoing story of America itself.

The Vanishing Center: What The Right Answer Still Gets Right

The Right Answer: How We Can Unify Our Divided Nation
by John K. Delaney

My rating: 3½ of 5 stars

In December 2019, a friend gave me The Right Answer by John K. Delaney as a holiday gift. At the time, I was vaguely aware of Delaney as the first Democrat to enter the 2020 presidential race, but I hadn’t paid him much attention. The field was crowded with louder voices, flashier platforms, and sharper ideological lines. The gift felt like a gesture of quiet hopefulness—offering not just a book, but an invitation to consider what politics might look like if we chose construction over conflict. By the time I sat down to write this, Delaney’s campaign had long since ended—he suspended his bid in January 2020, before a single vote was cast. And yet, the book lingers—not as campaign literature, but as a thoughtful reflection on what our politics might be if we made more space for decency, data, and the discipline of governing.

I read The Right Answer that winter, noting passages that spoke to the civic impulses I still believe in: common ground, mutual responsibility, the hard but necessary work of listening. Delaney’s vision, laid out in earnest and unvarnished prose, wasn’t revolutionary—and that was precisely the point.

Delaney, a former congressman from Maryland and successful entrepreneur, brought a rare combination of business acumen and policy pragmatism to the national stage. Before entering politics, he co-founded two publicly traded companies focused on healthcare finance and lending to underserved communities—ventures that reflected his interest in both innovation and equity. Elected to Congress in 2012, he represented Maryland’s 6th District for three terms, earning a reputation as a pro-business Democrat who valued bipartisanship and data-driven legislation. His 2020 presidential bid was an extension of that philosophy: a campaign rooted in optimism, civility, and practical solutions—what he called “facts over fury.” He stood, in many ways, as the last echo of a brand of politics that once thrived in both parties but now seems dangerously close to extinction.

None of Delaney’s campaign was designed to set Twitter ablaze. All of it was grounded in the belief that Americans still wanted their government to function.

But The Right Answer arrived—and was largely ignored—at a time when the political center was already disintegrating. In the 2020 Democratic primaries, Delaney's moderation felt out of sync with a party energized by sweeping structural reforms and ideological purity. His voice was steady, not soaring; his appeal was to voters’ practical instincts, not their tribal loyalties.

Looking back, it’s clear Delaney wasn’t just running for office—he was submitting a kind of civic preservation report. His book reads like a blueprint for a governing philosophy built on what used to be bedrock: compromise, incremental progress, mutual respect. It now feels like a dispatch from a version of American politics we are dangerously close to forgetting altogether.

The erosion of the political center isn’t just about polls or party labels—it’s a slow unthreading of the civic fabric. We trade in the deliberative processes of governance for the dopamine hits of outrage. What once lived in Rotary halls and town meetings now festers in comment threads and curated feeds. The incentives are all wrong: media algorithms reward extremity, primary systems punish moderation, and fundraising emails raise more when they vilify than when they unify.

This isn't a plea for false balance or nostalgic centrism—but a recognition that without a stable center, democracy cannot hold. The center is where the work gets done: where laws are negotiated, budgets are passed, and citizens feel heard rather than herded. It’s where humility still has a seat at the table, and where policy is shaped not by purity tests but by lived experience. When we lose that space, we don’t just lose consensus—we lose the conditions necessary for pluralism to survive.

And so The Right Answer stays with me—not as a relic of a failed campaign, but as a reminder of what we still risk losing: the belief that governance is possible without vilification, that policy can be more than theater, that democracy is slow, communal, and—if we’re lucky—boring. But if the center fades at the top, it still flickers below. It’s in church basements, PTA meetings, Rotary clubs, volunteer fire departments, and union halls—places where Americans still come together not as partisans, but as neighbors.

Reviving the center doesn’t begin in think tanks or TV studios—it begins with regular people doing regular things with civic intent. Democrats and Republicans alike can help breathe life into the center by simply showing up: for school board elections, for community listening sessions, for city council public comment. We ask harder questions of our political leaders—about real solutions, not slogans—and support candidates who are willing to risk a primary loss to preserve their integrity. We reward bridge-building over brand-building and remember that pluralism isn’t a liability—it’s the heart of the American promise. The work ahead is ours. Civic strength doesn’t trickle down from elite circles; it bubbles up from participation, trust, and collective effort. The center doesn’t have to be mushy; it can be muscular—rooted in values, powered by engagement, and carried forward by people who understand that compromise is not capitulation, but courage.

I don’t know if John Delaney would have made a great president. But I do know he wrote a book full of humility and resolve, and I’m grateful someone thought to give it to me. Like reading real history or sorting laundry by hand, the work of democracy is quiet, deliberate, and unfashionable. But it’s still worth doing.

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This Year I am Thankful for an Empty Nest...and Zombieland

For the first time in my fifty-odd years, I celebrated Thanksgiving without my kids, without the comfort of my parents, or my siblings and their extended families. Here, at last, the dreaded empty nest... 

I won't be alone per se, but I also won't have what I have come to see as a "normal" Rockwell-esque Thanksgiving. But I did have some time to prepare for this eventuality...

Rockwell's Freedom from Want ©1943

My original plan, let's call it Plan A, for dealing with no one being home this year called for taking an extended Thanksgiving break from work, flying to the East Coast, and spending the holiday with my parents, sisters, and their families, and my son and his girlfriend. I'd have still missed my two girls who were off doing other things (one with her fiancé and the other with her mother), but still, I had hoped it would be one of those old-fashioned family get-togethers filled with great food, fun games, and the occasional family angst (that always comes when everyone is brought together in such close proximity).

You know, all the elements that make for cherished memories...

As is often the case, real life got in the way of my best-laid plans. The first SNAFU was financial. With my youngest a sophomore at a wonderful(ly expensive) private liberal arts college and my oldest getting married in the Spring, rubbing enough nickels together to pay for a transcontinental Thanksgiving flight would mean adding to my credit card debt. If I am being completely honest, I would have done it, but it wasn't the right thing. However, the second Horseman of the Apocalypse, work, reared its ugly head. Unexpectedly, my boss went on a lengthy medical leave. This meant cutting what I had planned to be a ten-day trip down to just four (and traveling on two of the busiest and most expensive days of the year). Before the last two horsemen appeared, as much as I longed for that Rockwell-esque holiday, I decided to reassess Plan A - it just wasn't in the cards this year.

I started to think of ways to spend my time differently this year; let's call this Plan B... Four days off work, no real responsibilities, and a very strong desire to avoid Black Friday at all costs. Meaning I could spend four days hiking around Southern California, footloose and fancy-free. Maybe my long-delayed hike of the La Jolla Canyon Loop in Ventura County or the Backbone Trail near Malibu. However, a quick peek showed that Southern California's last couple of fires and the follow-on rainy seasons had resulted in many trail closures in the Santa Monica Mountains.  Thinking less grandiose, living in the foothills means plenty of hikes much closer to home. My decision was made; I planned to strike out and hike the 'Glendale trifecta' (the Verdugo Mountain Peaks, Cherry Canyon-Cerro Negro Loop, and Mt. Lukens Loop). About twenty-five to thirty miles of mostly quiet hiking in my backyard. Ace the Wonder Dog and I were set for our very own Thanksgiving #optoutside adventure...

Alas, Plan B was dashed by Mother Nature. A series of Pacific storms decided to race down the California Coast, making this year's holiday one of the coldest and wettest Thanksgiving weekends in Los Angeles in the past 15 years. While the cold would have been manageable, washed-out and muddy trails (and a twenty-pound Scottish Terrier/Schnauzer), don't mix...

On to Plan C... a scaled-down, traditional Thanksgiving dinner, maybe a movie, and some much-needed rest. A wonderful lazy, long weekend...As those of you who have ever prepared a "traditional" family Thanksgiving know, just the food prep and cooking is an all-day affair (I even started the night before), not to mention the dreaded dishes! So much for relaxing!

But slave away in the kitchen, I did (but I got to watch Zombieland while cooking). The menu was mostly my Mom's traditional recipes, with a couple of my own additions. Everything was delicious, if I do say so myself. But even with my efforts to cut all the recipes in half, there were still tons of leftovers - but I'll return to food later... I can hear you, gentle reader asking a question... "Zombieland, why on earth watch Zombieland as a Thanksgiving movie?!" My answer was, "Why not?"

But really, I generally avoid horror movies, almost like I would a zombie-inducing plague. That said, a few days before, I stumbled upon a really well-written (and positive) review of the Zombieland sequel Zombieland: Double Tap. The author raved about how funny the sequel was (and how much they enjoyed the parody-esque original). The review was so gushing I decided to see the new movie over my newly freed-up long weekend. But before going to see Double Tap, I naturally decided I needed to watch the original movie first...hence my cooking companion for the day.

Review

Zombieland directed by Ruben Fleischer
My rating: 3½ of 5 stars

Let me say what a treat this 2009 movie was to watch. Clearly, my disdain for horror movies has been misplaced, at least for comedy/horror/romance movies. Like most really good movies, everything starts with the script. Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick's story is wry, witty, and has snappy dialog (the kind I narrate in my head during "real" conversations!). The story here is coupled with quick pacing, and interesting visual overlays, including the '31 Rules' and Zombie Kill of the Week cuts by director Ruben Fleischer (in his feature directorial debut). His direction seamlessly ties excellent performances by the cast (Jesse Eisenberg, Emma Stone, Woody Harrelson, and Abigail Breslin) into one funny (not-so-scary) little (81-minute) horror/comedy film that one professional reviewer called a "balls out the entertaining movie." The blood and gore are there, but not so overwhelming, and certainly not just for blood and gore's sake (which is probably why I like this movie - did I mention it was entertaining?).

The comedic timing of the actors and human relationship story elements make up for some questionable decisions the characters make (seriously, in a world infested with fast-moving, light and noise-sensitive, flesh-eating zombies, why would you turn on all the lights and music at an amusement park?!). But this is a horror/comedy, after all... I thoroughly enjoyed the production, the "surprise" cameo in the middle of the movie, and the slow-mo gory scenes, which ended up being really fun.

Completely not what I had expected..with a name like Zombieland!! It changed my mind completely about this sub-genre of honor films, and I'd rank it up there with some of my other favorite screwball comedies like Kelly's Heroes, Big Trouble in Little China, The Great Race, and Dr. Strangelove. So, bring on Shaun of the Dead and Warm Bodies!

I know, I know, this probably sounds like a terrible Thanksgiving to the more extroverted personality types in my family, the ones who thrive on social activity (you know who you are!), but an excellent dinner, a funny movie, and time to myself, really worked for me..but next year I will finish those hikes, or at least head back East for a Plan A vacation!

To that end, this year, I am grateful not only for my family and the blessings of years of special holiday memories but also for some serious time to decompress and hang out alone (with some canine companionship). No real expectations, no responsibilities, and no worries (well, at least not many). I'm also thankful for Zombieland and the broadening of my movie genre palate.

Epilogue - 'Twas the Night After Thanksgiving...

I mentioned the food earlier; despite dropping from a 23/24 pound turkey to a 15-pound bird this year, there were still plenty of leftovers. But most importantly, the turkey carcass. With extra time on my hands (with few family obligations), I decided to try my hand at one of my Mom's old favorites, Turkey Carcass Soup. All of (or perhaps any of) my culinary skills are largely due to my Mom (thank you, I love you), so in an effort to get as many family recipes documented as possible, here is my take on her original recipe:

Turkey Carcass and Vegetable Soup

Ingredients

1 turkey carcass
4 quarts water
2lbs little (baby) potatoes (halved or quartered)
16oz baby carrots, diced
4-6 stalks of celery, chopped
2 14.5oz cans of diced tomatoes (I prefer the ones seasoned with basil, garlic, & oregano)
1 10oz bag of frozen peas
1 10oz bag of frozen corn
48oz turkey bone broth (chicken stock can be substituted in a pinch) - optional
1 tablespoon of garlic salt
1½ tablespoons of onion powder (you can substitute 1 large diced onion)

Simmering the carcass

1 tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce
1½ teaspoons of kosher salt
1 teaspoon of dried parsley flakes
1 teaspoon of dried basil
1 bay leaf
½ teaspoon of granulated garlic
¼ teaspoon of cracked black pepper
¼ teaspoon of paprika
¼ teaspoon of poultry seasoning
1 pinch of dried thyme

Directions

1. Place the turkey carcass (I also included the turkey wings) in a large stock pot and add the water; bring to a boil, reduce heat to simmer, cover the pot, and cook the turkey frame until the remaining meat falls off the bones (at least 1 hour, but even better if it can simmer overnight).
2. Use a wire strainer to remove the turkey carcass bones and separate the meat. 
3. Chop the meat (and look for small bones, especially ribs).
4. Strain the broth through a mesh strainer into a clean soup pot and add the chopped turkey (sans bones) back into the broth. Depending on the length of time you simmered the carcass (and your personal preference for the liquidity of your soup, you may want to add the turkey bone broth at this time. Bring the mix to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer.
5. Stir in the potatoes, carrots, celery, tomatoes, Worcestershire sauce, and dry seasonings and simmer for an additional 30 minutes.
6. Add in the frozen corn and peas and simmer for a final 30 minutes (until all the vegetables are tender),
7. Remove the bay leaf, and the soup is ready to serve.

365 Thank Yous (REVIEW)

365 Thank Yous: The Year a Simple Act of Daily Gratitude Changed My Life
by John Kralik

My rating: 3½ of 5 stars

I first looked at this book in a college bookstore. It was on a shelf filled with books for graduates and students entering college. At first, I thought that perhaps it was a little out of place, immediately thinking it was a typical self-help book. I didn't buy the book then, but when I ran across it again at my local bookstore, I decided to pick it up based on the cover recommendation by The Last Lecture co-author Jeffrey Zaslow (whose NY Times column I frequently read).

Kralik's book is an accessible and easy read, and I was happy to find that it isn't really a self-help book at all; rather it is a personal memoir of a particular year or so in his life. It isn't great literature, nor is it a "step-by-step" guide to picking yourself up by the bootstraps—a Wayne Dyer-esque type book. 365 Thank Yous isn't really pop psychology, nor is it preachy... The crux of the book is Kralik's desire to try and look at his life through a different lens. Rather than continuing to be bitter and angst-ridden over all the problems in his life, Kralik sought to try and find things to be thankful for and to do so every day for a year.

As he goes through his thank you letter exercise, not only is Kralik able to gain a new (and better) perspective on his own life, he starts to equate the turn-around in his fortunes, as evidenced by some of the good things happening in his life, to his thank you letter writing campaign. Which not only reinforced his mission but recalled his earliest experience writing a thank you note to his grandfather:

He promised that if I wrote him a letter thanking him for this silver dollar, he would send another one. That was the way thank-you letters work, he told me.

I think that one of the reasons this book struck a chord with me is that I can recall being "chained" (figuratively, not literally) to my desk after my high school graduation, writing thank-you notes to all the people who sent me gifts. At the time, it was the last thing I wanted to do, but I remember my mother explaining that not only was it the right thing to do, but that good things would follow as a result...

As I read through the book, I found myself drawn closer and closer to Kralik's narrative. Initially, this had as much to do with our lives seeming eerily parallel. To begin with, we worked in the same part of town (at the same time he was going through his letter-writing campaign), and I've been to almost every place that he mentions in the book (in fact, we could have easily bumped into each other at any one of several local places). Our careers briefly intertwined when we worked for the same company in the early 1990s...

But most importantly, I can relate to how Kralik perceived himself in 2008. Like him, I had been through the divorce ringer; I wasn't happy with how my career was progressing and wasn't fulfilled by my work. On top of that, my personal relationships were at an all-time nadir.

Kralik's solution to these "problems" was to look for things to be thankful for (and to write his thank you notes). This is certainly a "therapy 101" solution to these kinds of challenges and isn't (or at least shouldn't be) an earth-shattering epiphany for most people. But for me, at least, reading Kralik's memoir has allowed me to look at my own life and consider all of the things in my life for which I am grateful, and if I choose to write a few more thank you notes as a result... then all the better.

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Morning Glory (REVIEW)

Morning Glory directed by Roger Michell
My rating: 3½ of 5 stars

Slowly, but surely, I find myself liking Rachel McAdams more and more. Her latest film, Morning Glory is the story of Becky Fuller an ambitious young producer who is, somewhat surprisingly, given the opportunity to resurrect the long-ailing, 40-year old network morning news program, "Daybreak."

Based on early promos, I had Morning Glory pegged as a typical chick flick, and went to see it with pretty low expectations. It is a good thing Mom taught me not to judge a book by its cover...because the good news is that while Morning Glory did make a nice date movie—it has a good story, a great cast, and a less-than-typical Hollywood comedy script, it really wasn't a chick flick and director Roger Michell and producer J.J. Abrams have put together an enjoyable film. Overall the movie works, so women shouldn't have a problem getting their men to watch it (once they get them to the theater).

The ensemble cast includes Diane Keaton as the show's co-anchor Colleen Peck. Keaton does good work as a spry, albeit aging, morning news personality willing to try almost anything to keep the jeopardized program afloat. Patrick Wilson is Adam (Becky's love interest), a story editor for a news magazine show. Becky clicks with Adam almost immediately but her devotion to her job interferes with her relationship throughout the film (in the romantic sub-plot). The romance between McAdams and Wilson isn't heavy-handed, and seems like mostly an afterthought—although McAdams does look great in the lingerie she wore for Adam in their second date scene (but that's neither here nor there).

Additional supporting cast include John Pankow, Jeff Goldblum, and Patti D'Arbanville who all deliver excellent supporting performances. But Harrison Ford playing the distinguished veteran newsman Michael Pomeroy headlines the ensemble. Pomeroy is an old school, serious news anchor, who maintains that the "news is a sacred temple" and that he is "too good" to stoop to doing fluff pieces, which happen to be the lifeblood of morning talk shows. Heroine Becky is able to finagle him into taking a co-anchor position across from Keaton's Peck, but neither woman can get him to warm up to the morning news routine...

I found myself laughing as writer Aline Brosh McKenna mocks the insipid jokes and fake laughs of the morning news shows that we see on camera, and more than once I wondered if the movie portrays what is really going on behind the scenes at the Today Show. Diane Keaton and Ford play off each other so well as enraged egomaniacs, their mutual upstaging and bickering, turned off just in time for the cameras to roll made me hope for more scenes of them together.

Regardless of the star power of the movie's supporting cast, Rachel McAdams is the focus of this movie. McAdams' Fuller has that schizophrenic quality that Hollywood (and to some extent our society) uses as shorthand for career-minded women. She obsesses over her work, she flits from idea to idea at an afternoon "first date" dinner (a date whom she manages to scare off in minutes), and can't quite decide when to silence her meandering babbles in front of anyone, let alone her future boss (Jeff Goldblum), a television executive who's not sure if he should take a chance on her.

I only recall seeing Rachel McAdams in Mean Girls and Sherlock Holmes prior to this movie. Playing the antagonist in Mean Girls, and she did a good job, but I really didn't realize what a very charming and talented actress she was, until Sherlock Holmes, where she played a wonderful foil to Robert Downey, Jr.'s Holmes. She more than carried her weight in that "buddy" adventure/thriller. Here, she proves to be a very good comedienne, and she is able to take Hollywood's contrived cliché of the talky, klutzy, heart of gold heroine, and turn in a performance that seems genuine and endearing. The more I see of McAdams' performances, the more I want to go see.

The real centerpieces of Morning Glory are the scenes between McAdams and Harrison Ford. At first, to me at least, Ford doesn't quite feel right as the self-important, somewhat arrogant, newsman Michael Pomeroy, who, as Becky is constantly reminded, is the "third worst person in the world." I just can't see Ford as a Cronkite, Brokaw or Rather. As the movie progresses, director Roger Michell is able take that "he doesn't quite fit" feeling and couple it with the star-power and weight that both Ford and Pomeroy posses – the weight to crush the plucky Becky (and McAdams).

What I found interesting, was how Michell controlled Ford's "star power" in much the same way a race car driver controls his speeding car to avoid crashing into the wall – a wall where the spectators/audience are watching and expecting, dare I say anticipating, a crash. Michell uses this as a Sword of Damocles. One that hangs over Becky/McAdams' head. Michell engages the audience with the star-power of Ford and moves forward the mentor/student-father/daughter relationship between Ford and McAdams' characters, all the while avoiding the crash.

These scenes, between these two principals, are each very good, pretty funny, and end up being some of my favorites scenes in the movie. From the hunting scene where they first meet, to the frittata scene at Pomeroy's apartment (foreshadowing the dénouement), Each scene is an excellent piece of the acting/directing craft.

Being a big Ford fan, I'm glad to say he did some really good work in this film, and despite my initial misgivings about him as an "elder statesman of news" Some of Pomeroy's sarcastic one-liners are simply laugh-out-loud funny. In the end I forget my initial misgivings and end up liking and identifying with his character as he warms up to McAdams.

What's not to like? Despite all of my praise for the actors, the main shortcoming of the film (for me) really has to do with the predictable, telegraphed, and underwhelming dénouement (where Becky finally gets the interview for her dream job at the Today Show, forcing her to choose between what she has created at "Daybreak" and her dream). Although we get a typical Hollywood ending, I didn't feel a sense of closure as the credits rolled. It could have been the editing, or the script itself, but it just fell flat... that said, if you are a Rachel McAdams or Harrison Ford fan, you'll enjoy this one, and I'm anxious to see McAdams' next film...

The Ugly American (REVIEW)

The Ugly American 

by William J. Lederer

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I first encountered this book as part of an undergraduate political science class on American politics. Among other long and dry reading assignments, I found myself thoroughly engaged in the book and looking forward to spending time reading Lederer and Burdick's work. In fact, I'd have to say that it has been my favorite book since that political science class almost 25 years ago.

I have read it at least 20 times in those 25 years (often as a source for a paper I was writing, but also for pleasure). While this is not a typical "beach read," I have re-read it while traveling and at the beach on several occasions. This past week, I was on a business trip and sleeping in a hotel room. This combination of factors is usually good for a bout of insomnia on my part, and this trip was no different. Lederer and Burdick came to my rescue yet again and provided a thoroughly enjoyable way to pass through several hours of insomnia.

The story(ies) centers on a fictional country in Southeast Asia named Sarkhan. The book's chapters compare and contrast the competence and incompetence on the part of the diplomats, politicos, military officers, and ex-pats in Sarkham. Heroes include Ambassador Gilbert McWhite, John Colvin, and Homer Atkins (THE ugly American) — all men who took the time to learn the culture in which they were being planted.

It is easy (now, with 20/20 hindsight) to see this book as a parable stemming from the Vietnam War. However, the book was written well before America stepped up its involvement in Vietnam (in 1958) and was purportedly read by President Eisenhower, and was responsible for many of the reforms that he introduced into America's foreign aid programs. The general thesis of the authors was that US diplomats (and other foreign station workers/advisors) who failed to study and adapt to the cultures they were entering were doomed to failure (or worse). Worse still, the American bureaucracy wasn't interested in the opinions of the Foreign Service staff who did study and understand the cultures into which they were placed.

Given that this book was written at the tail end of the McCarthy era, the insights of Lederer and Burdick are quite exceptional (if fact, some government agencies sought to ban the book in Asia and in many ways that (failed) effort can be seen as one of the last "scenes" of the McCarthy era). Burdick and Lederer are at once tongue-in-cheek, cynical, and satirical in their views of American foreign policy

Every time I read this book, I can't put it down. Despite its age, it is still a fine read and certainly has additional significance in today's world as the U.S. fights wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Although some parts of the book are antiquated (in particular the parochial way the authors treat the few female characters -- especially the Marie MacIntosh character), that small niggle can be forgiven to a book that retains its readability and relevance 50 years after it was first published.

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Stranger in a Strange Land (REVIEW)

Stranger in a Strange Land 

by Robert A. Heinlein

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I remember reading _Stranger In A Strange Land_ as a young high school student in the late 70s. At the time, the story appealed to my changing state (as an adult, I think I can finally admit that the adolescent young man who read this book the first time, did so because my friends told me it was filled with lots of sex scenes). I also remember that despite Heinlein's writing found it a difficult book to read as a result I "skipped" around looking for the "good" parts (which are all in the second half of the book).

However some (other) passages in the book did leave an impression on me during that first read. Heinlein's railing against the parochialism of the Church (and the Catholic Church in particular) was certainly instrumental in shaping my views on religion and partially contributed to some of my more existential leanings (I'd also note that the criticism leveled at Heinlein for passing off his impressions/views/ideas as fact is certainly warranted).

So, when I found myself stuck in the Charlotte, NC airport for 5 hours this weekend (awaiting a 5 hour flight home to LA) I surprised myself by deciding to buy the Ace (trade paperback) version of Stranger In A Strange Land and re-read it -- in retrospect, I am ambivalent that I took the time to re-read the book.

The protagonist, Valentine Michael Smith, is a child born on Mars to two of the crew of the first human expedition to that planet; he is raised by the Martians when a catastrophe wipes out the adults of the expedition. Years later, another expedition to Mars results in contact with the Martians and Michael's return to Earth, completely innocent of knowledge about the planet. The greater part of the novel details his attempts to understand human nature from his Martian philosophical perspective (which is rather like that of Eastern philosophy); these end in his foundation of a new religion to help human beings achieve their full potential, which hitherto has been impossible because of the straitjacket of human culture.

The book makes me think, which now (that I am considerably past my adolescence) I appreciate much more. It can be slow in parts (most of the book is dialogue with very little or no action), but (and I'm not sure if it is my age, or the fact that Ace added back in 30,000 words to this edition that weren't in the copy I read 30 years ago) much more readable than the first time through.

Some parts, especially in the second half of the text, result in disturbing thought patterns, even now. The concept that all human morals are arbitrary (which is how the "Martian" Valentine Michael Smith views them) and that anything that leads one to "grow closer" is good -- also leads down a slippery slope where moral objections to murder, and other heinous things, can be downplayed (in the name of the collective growing closer). While these attacks on Western culture don't seem quite as shocking as they must have been back in the 1960s, other parts of the book are just preachy and long-winded. The international intrigue and world government sub-plot of the first half of the book are more interesting to me now than they were on my first read (but ultimately unfulfilled as Valentine Michael Smith escapes to become the messiah like character of the second half of the book).

It would be easy to write this classic of science fiction off as a novel of the hippie era and relegate it to the dustbin (and history could still do that). However, the somewhat unique premise of analyzing human culture from an alien point of view, as well as the fact that the novel forever broke (maybe bridged) the barrier between science fiction and mainstream literature, put it into the classic (must-read at least once) category. By all means, read it and form your own opinion. Or better yet, (re)read Starship Troopers!

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An Army at Dawn (REVIEW)

An Army at Dawn: The War in Africa, 1942-1943 

by Rick Atkinson

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This book is the first of Atkinson's three-book "Liberation Trilogy" series, which provides an overview of the campaigns that eventually led to the liberation of Western Europe from Nazi occupation.

Above all else, the book's historical narrative is so well written that it simply refuses to let the reader loose from its pages. It will be hard to put it down until the job is finished and the book is completed. Atkinson's writing is very well executed and, unlike many books covering military operations, the story he weaves is consistent, clear, and a pleasure to read.

This title covers the North African theater from Operation Torch in 1942 until the last German and Italian troops were evacuated or captured in Tunisia in 1943. The North African campaign is frequently seen as a backwater and doesn't receive the attention of the later Italian, Normandy, and Bulge campaigns. However, Atkinson's thesis is that every subsequent Allied (or at least the U.S. Army) victory would not have been possible if the Allies had not attacked North Africa first.

The author shows the US Army's maturation as the crucible of battle transforms the men of the raw American war machine from a gang of inexperienced citizen-soldiers into a highly effective, efficient, and well-led army that led the defeat of Germany's vaunted Wehrmacht in Western Europe.

Covering the North African campaign at the operational and strategic levels, Atkinson's text does a terrific job illustrating the leadership problems of coalition armies. Showing that the Allies did not just "click" because they were united in opposition to Hitler's Axis powers. The text discusses the tensions that existed between the American and British leadership and does a good job of giving General Eisenhower "his due" as the right man, in the right place, at the right time (albeit one who had to learn his job and role). That Atkinson does so, with such a wealth of intimate detail, is clearly the result of many hours of research into contemporary first-person resources -- as evidenced by the hefty section of notes found at the end of the book.

My only criticism of the book is that the graphics (maps and illustrations) are a little sparse (in particular, the maps), and while they do an adequate job of illustrating the text, I wish they were more detailed. However, Atkinson's book is absolutely a recommended read, so get a good atlas and dig right in.

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