I like to watch boxing when I can. Yes, it’s both violent and dangerous, but it’s not called the “sweet science” for nothing. You better be in shape and at your best when get you in that squared circle, because there is just no place to hide.

In fact, my father and I never had much in common other than being related — not books, music, TV, most sports, or really anything. But one thing we both liked was “Friday Night Fights” when that was a regular thing. I really looked forward to spending some quality time with my dad watching something that we both enjoyed immensely. Good times.

So the other night, I’m watching some boxing. The match had just started. Every match is different because each bout pitches two unique individual styles, experiences, and levels of conditioning against each other. You truly never know what’s going to happen in a boxing match.

Then the commentator said this: “It all starts with the left hand.”

He of course was referring to what’s known as the “jab,” which for a right-handed boxer is when you use your left hand to set up your right, your power punch, if you have one (and hopefully you do or it might not be a good night). But I got that phrase “it all starts with the left hand” stuck in my head and then it occurred to me that commentator might be on to something.

I’m right handed, and when I went to grade school we spent a lot of time on cursive writing and penmanship. That’s why it kills me to think that this skill is no longer being taught in some schools. You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s fundamental!

But anyway, when I was taught penmanship it was my left hand that held the paper so my right hand could make decent, legible cursive script (not now unfortunately that doesn’t happen unless I go very slowly). In fact, without the left hand, I couldn’t have written a thing.

One of the Jack Reacher books features a beautiful female agent practicing at the shooting range. In one of the classic man-teaching-a-sexy-woman-something moves, he slides up behind her and shows her how to take all the weight of the gun in her left hand, using her right only to pull the trigger. Of course, it works great. I haven’t shot in a long time, but it totally makes sense to me to do it that way.

If you work with tools, you know the left hand, for righties like me, is very important. How could you saw or drill if you didn’t hold the work piece in your left hand? Even with clamps, it’s still good to use the left hand for added support. It just makes you feel that much more in control, which is always a good thing when working with tools, especially power tools, which can be very dangerous.

I spend a good part of my day at a keyboard, for better or worse. While many people think desk jobs are cushy, it turns out sedentary work is terrible for your body in many ways (loss of flexibility, muscle tone, and aerobic conditioning for starters).

Often at the keyboard I have to use my right hand to click the mouse for something or other, but many times I can use my left hand for a quick keyboard shortcut that saves a lot of time. These really do work, and keep your hands by the keyboard where they can stay busy. In fact, many computer pros rarely use the mouse at all because they get so good with the keyboard shortcuts.

Of course, if you’ve ever made good Italian sauce from scratch, you know you taste with the small spoon in your right hand while stirring with the big spoon in your left hand. Keep stirring and tasting, stirring and tasting. It’s a tough job but somebodys gotta do it.

If you ride a motorcycle, you know the throttle is controlled by the right hand. Vroom-vroom; it’s the right hand that makes you go. But if you ride, you most certainly know that twisting the throttle is the easy part. The left hand controls the clutch, and it’s the smooth operation of the gears and the clutch that separates the good riders from the great riders.

There are some riders who can shift gears so well it’s almost like they have an automatic transmission. That’s how skilled they are, and efficient clutch control with the left hand is a huge part of that.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a car making out with someone, but that left hand comes in really important during those intimate moments, let me tell you. In fact, I think they hire special testers to make bra clasps very hard to unhook with one hand

Been like that forever and I doubt it will ever change. If there was ever a rite of passage for a man’s left hand, that was it for sure. Only Fonzie from TV’s “Happy Days” could do it perfectly every time, and that’s why they call it fiction.

If you should ever be so fortunate to do extensive travel and find yourself in an Arab country or around Arab people, be especially careful with your left hand. In those societies. the left hand is considered unclean and should never touch food, shake hands, or even wave.

This is a very big taboo within this culture — the left hand is used for personal functions only. Being that we have so many ethnic restaurants now, even in the Capital District, this is a really good tip to know. Just remember: Your left hand remains in your lap while dining.

Maybe that boxing announcer, when he said, “It all starts with the left hand,” was truly on to something. Of course, if you want to give me a “left-handed compliment” for this column I totally understand.

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Hamilton Union Presbyterian Church in Guilderland has blue hymnals in all the pews. If you open one of these and turn to Number 372 you’ll find one entitled “Lord, I want to be a Christian.”

Look closer, right under the title, and you’ll see “I want to be a Christian” is printed again, with the word “irregular” next to it. My lovely church-organist, choir-director, piano-teacher wife, Charlotte, tells me irregular in this context means the “time signature” is different in different parts of the hymn.

That’s all fine and dandy, especially if you’re a musician and even know what she’s talking about. What I did instead was string all the words together, which makes it “I want to be a Christian irregular.” As it turns out that just about describes me perfectly.

You see, there is something called the “religious right” and “evangelicals” and all that. They believe in Jesus Christ, of course, but some of the other things they espouse are just anathema to me.

For example, take the concept of “biblical inerrancy.” This is where you get “creationists” who believe in “intelligent design,” with the Earth being only about 5,000 years old and our ancestors riding around on dinosaurs like horses.

Then you have so-called evangelists who traipse into some jungle somewhere and find people who have never even seen a white person not to mention electricity, plumbing, etc., and try to “convert” them. Things like that keep me out of the religious right.

I think I need to be in the religious left, if there is such a thing. I guess that’s why “I want to be a Christian irregular” works so well for me. It’s perfect.

For one thing, go out on your front lawn and pick up a stone. That sucker is many thousands if not millions of years old. The age of rocks is determined by science, specifically “carbon dating.” Look it up.

For another thing, instead of trying to “convert” anyone, how about helping them with farming, irrigation, and basic medical needs? Once they see you are out to help them — that your intentions are unselfish and true — you will have led them by example, just as Jesus himself did two thousand years ago.

Then there will be no need to convert anyone; when you tell them it’s the love of Jesus Christ that makes it all possible, they’ll get it. Radical concept for many, I know, but love always works.

I actually had a very conservative relative say to me once, with a straight face: “The problem with this country is the separation of church and state.” Hello?

We have a thing called the First Amendment, which clearly states: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

The whole point of the American Experiment is people fleeing from persecution and being able to follow any faith they want or no faith at all. That’s what makes us great. Don’t ever forget this!

I consider myself a science-based guy. Maybe there really was a Garden of Eden, or maybe the Adam and Eve story is just one of many “creation myths” that so many religions have. The thing is, the theory of evolution works, and to ignore it or trivialize it is just plain foolish.

I’m not saying we’re necessarily descended from apes, but the evidence for evolution is strong and can be tested even more as time goes on. When that deer runs out of the way of your car, he or she reproduces and creates more deer that run away from cars. That’s evolution. Survival of the fittest. It makes sense.

Here’s another touchy one. Who am I to tell a woman who was raped, or been a victim of incest, or is told she may die if she continues a pregnancy, that she has to deliver to term? Are you kidding me?

Within reason — by reason I mean very early — you have to let her have an abortion if she wants one. Anything else is just adding insult to injury.

Of course, if you give women that power, they must use it responsibly. Abortion is not birth control. No one wants to see actual babies with beating hearts killed. Conversely, no one wants to see women in back alleys getting unsafe abortions, either.

I know this is sensitive and causes endless debate and often violence, which is reprehensible. Still, within reason, women have to have the right to control their own bodies. I know if I were a woman, I’d expect nothing less.

Just be glad I’m not a woman because shaving my face on a regular basis is tedious enough so I’d be walking around with hairy legs all the time and you wouldn’t want to see that I’m sure.

You see why “I want to be a Christian irregular” works for me? With those last few paragraphs, I just got myself kicked out of many if not most churches and places of worship. Good thing I have a thick skin. Many say I have a thick skull as well. They’re probably right.

For me, it’s like this: If you believe Jesus Christ is the son of God who died for our sins, you believe he represents universal love and salvation. He loves everyone created in God’s image, and that indeed means everyone, no matter their race, gender, creed, or sexual orientation.

He’s not going to separate children from their parents at the border, because that’s just cruel. He’s not going to say a woman pastor can’t preach to men because that makes no sense.

When they asked Jesus what’s the one rule above all others, he said, “Love your neighbor.” He didn’t qualify what kind of neighbor, either. I’m totally down with that, unless my neighbor is playing drums at 3 a.m. and I have to work the next day, haha.

One big reason why “I want to be a Christian irregular” works so well for me is that I will never pull one line out of the Bible and use it as an excuse to ostracize or alienate anyone or anything. You see this kind of thing in all religions, unfortunately.

Again, it’s all about Jesus Christ. “What would Jesus do?” is kind of a cliché at this point, but it basically says it all. He would always act with love, care, wisdom, and respect — period. Everything else flows from that basic premise.

One time I went to a church that was having a celebration of their brand-new outdoor pavilion. It was a beautiful structure and you could tell the church was going to make great use of it.

As I ambled around just admiring the whole thing, I came across a sign with a bunch of “no”s listed. Most of them were things you’d expect: no smoking, no drinking, no skateboarding — standard things like that.

But the very last one shocked me, because it said “No dancing.” Why no dancing? Dance is one of the crowning achievements of the human condition.

Go to the New York City Ballet next time they’re in Saratoga and see the true joy in motion that these artists/athletes achieve. And when did slow dancing with your spouse at some kind of celebration, like a wedding, become a bad thing? The only reason I don’t dance more is because I’m really bad at it, but someday, with any luck at all, I do hope to learn.

You see why I need to be in the “religious left?” I have the crazy idea there’s nothing wrong with dancing:

Call me a heathen,

I don’t care,

‘cause someday I’ll dance,

like Fred Astaire.

All kidding aside, “I want to be a Christian irregular” is now my personal slogan. If you’ve read this far, you’re welcome to use it as well. Good old Hymn number 372 – gotta love it.

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If you’re like me, you can’t help but be worried about the state of the world these days. Everywhere you turn, it seems there’s animosity, upheaval, and some kind of trouble.

Just watching the evening news or reading the paper can give you a massive headache. What makes it worse is it’s so hard for everyday folk like us to do anything concrete that really makes a difference.

Yes, we vote but don’t you wish there was a way to make a real impact?

Well, we may not be able to do anything really big and bad, but I know three guys who can, and they’re all named Jack: Jack Reacher, Jack Ryan, and Jack Bauer. These three fictional dynamos can really get the job done, and done well.

The three Jacks, as I call them, were all born out of frustration with the many thorny problems in the world and how to fix them, but not just fix them — to crush them. The fact that they’re all fictional heroes named Jack – tough guys that pack a punch and then some – should tell you all you need to know about how frustrated we all are today.

The three Jacks would never have become the huge mega-stars they all are if we all weren’t living vicariously through them. You can bet your bippy on that.

Jack Reacher

Let’s start with Jack Reacher, the ex-military nomadic wanderer brainchild of author Lee Child. From the very first page of the very first book, you know right away you are dealing with a man of action, a man who likes things settled quickly and effectively.

No waiting for new legislation to be enacted with Jack Reacher: Why wait for politics to help when a chop on some bad guy’s noggin is so much faster?

The Jack Reacher novels are quick and breathtaking reads; every time, Child reels you in with an intriguing premise, and then the action is non-stop for the remainder of the book. The sentences, especially the dialogue, are all short, crisp, and to the point; no excess filler or big words to slow you down.

Very Raymond Chandler-esque (think of his legendary pulp-fiction style detective, Philip Marlowe, complete with overcoat, hat, strong whiskey, and beautiful dames). That’s why the Jack Reacher novels are such fun to read.

For once, there’s a guy that can just handle problems, take care of business, and get things done. There are no gray areas with Jack Reacher — if you’re a bad guy, you’re going down. No two ways about it. Very satisfying, to say the least.

If you’ve been reading my column for a while, you know that while I like movies, I love books. The Jack Reacher novels are one great example why.

On page one of the very first Jack Reacher novel, “Killing Floor,” we’re told that he stands 6 feet, 5 and weighs 250. So guess who got to play him in the movies? All of 5 foot, 7 Tom Cruise!

It’s some kind of a terrible Hollywood joke is what it is. Just awful. Always go to the book first, you’ll be very glad you did.

Jack Ryan

Next we have Jack Ryan, from the many Tom Clancy books and movies. Though Clancy died a long time ago, Jack Ryan lives on as a huge money-making franchise with several other authors doing him justice.

Like Jack Reacher, Jack Ryan is an ex-military man, but where Reacher is the quintessential loner, Ryan is much more organizational savvy. He even becomes director of the CIA and the president as the books and movies go on.

Of course, Ryan can kick your butt with a chop or a kick like Reacher, but he’s much more likely to use his deductive reasoning skills to unravel some global terrorist plot that threatens his country and, many times, his family at the same time.

Jack Ryan books and movies are for the real military intelligence and hardware geeks. Clancy’s deep knowledge of military procedures, weapons systems, and inter-agency politics was so vast and detailed, many in the military read him for tips and tricks.

If you like really intricate spy stories with complex plots and a lot of action, you can’t go wrong with Jack Ryan. The books are all great, and, unlike with Reacher, the three actors chosen to play Ryan — Alec Baldwin, Harrison Ford, and Ben Affleck — are very believable as this smart, strong, and dynamic character. Too bad Jack Reacher didn’t get so lucky.

Jack Bauer

Finally we have Jack Bauer, the star of the TV series “24.” It’s rare for me to get excited about something not based on a good book, but the premise of “24” — each episode shot supposedly in real time — was too interesting to pass up.

Jack Bauer is a member of the fictional Counter Terrorism Unit (CTU), and as such the writers had him involved with many fast-paced, multi-layered story lines (bombings, pandemics, nuclear threats, etc.) taken straight from the headlines.

Like the other two Jacks, Bauer is a man of action. No pussy-footing around with him. He gets to the gist of the problem quickly and then gets to fixing it straight away. In fact, he gets so much done in 24 hours, he never even has time to go to the bathroom, sleep, or eat.

The thing about Jack Bauer, probably because his character is written for TV as opposed to the other two who are mostly literary, is you get to see all his violence and depravity up close, and often in excruciating detail.

My lovely wife started to watch “24” with me but then had to quit when it got too graphic for her. Jack Bauer has no problem hooking up electric wires to your delicate parts, or drilling into your head with a power drill, or tweaking any number of body parts with pliers, if it gets him closer to the truth or the bad guy.

It’s one thing to read about this stuff, but it’s another to have it go on in all its gory detail right on the screen in your living room. Still, Jack Bauer is a great character, and “24” always took you for a rollicking ride that you never wanted to stop.

Macho name

So there you have it. Three dynamic heroes, all named Jack, and don’t think it’s happenstance they are all named Jack, either. Jack is such a macho name, straight and to the point.

You can feel the testosterone oozing if you say it the right way. If you’re old enough, you may even remember Jack LaLanne, the exercise guru from the fifties, who was arguably the fittest guy on the planet for decades.

All I know is I went on and on about all three Jacks for so long and with so much enthusiasm that my new grandson got named Jackson, or “Action Jackson,” as I like to call him. Coincidence? I think not.

You take any of the three Jacks — Jack Reacher, Jack Ryan, or Jack Bauer — and add in the fourth Jack, Jack Daniels (try to find the green label, it’s much smoother) and you’re in for a fun night in the easy chair for sure.

Just relax and enjoy the ride, because it’s bound to be a good one.

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The other day while I was out running, I saw the front lawn of a neighbor’s house all dug up to replace the main plumbing pipe to the street. There was a backhoe sitting on the lawn. Even in the dead of winter, that job had to be done and it got done by, who else, A Guy with a Backhoe.

Yes, A Guy with a Backhoe is the man to call when tough stuff needs to be done. You know how hard the frozen ground is in winter? It’s like stone. Yet A Guy with a Backhoe handled it with aplomb. I wish all professionals were as capable as A Guy with a Backhoe.

We all know A Guy with a Backhoe can do all the tough jobs, but he can do so much more. Say you have a problem with your ex who is trashing you on Facebook. Just call A Guy with a Backhoe. In no time flat, A Guy with a Backhoe can rip up your ex’s perennial garden so it’ll look like there never was a garden in the first place. Your ex will think twice about dissing you online after that!

Or say you have a very high tax assessment and you don’t know what to do. You’ve submitted papers before but nothing happened. The thing is, you didn’t use A Guy with a Backhoe.

Just give your reassessment papers to A Guy with a Backhoe and watch what happens. There’s nothing civil servants fear more than A Guy with a Backhoe heading straight toward Town Hall. By the time he’s 50 feet away from the building, someone will come out and, just like that, your reassessment application will be at the top of the stack.

That’s how powerful A Guy with a Backhoe is. It sure pays to be friendly with A Guy with a Backhoe!

Don’t think A Guy with a Backhoe is all about serious business, though. You can be sure he likes to have some fun, too.

Next time your kid has a birthday, consider hiring A Guy with a Backhoe to provide the entertainment. He’ll stick your kid and all the rest of the party-goers right in the bucket and ride them all ’round and ’round the backyard.

Now that’s what I call good, clean fun. Talk about “dumping” the kids after school; well, now you really can. Thank you, A Guy with a Backhoe!

Now you might be wondering how much it costs to hire A Guy with a Backhoe. Well, like anything quality investment, A Guy with a Backhoe doesn’t come cheap.

They say you should allocate two months’ salary when you buy a wedding ring. Hiring A Guy with a Backhoe can cost almost that much, but hey, just like when you need a root canal, you need a root canal, when you need A Guy with a Backhoe, you need A Guy with a Backhoe, cost be damned.

So just pay up and be happy that A Guy with a Backhoe is there for you when you need him. Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll throw in a bright yellow hard hat as well.

So hiring A Guy with a Backhoe can be a little costly, I’ll admit that. But who says you can’t negotiate with A Guy with a Backhoe?

Negotiation is A Guy with a Backhoe’s middle name. Start with offering him some Bud Lite and some gooey, cheesy nachos. A Guy with a Backhoe may not be a huge fan of immigration, legal or otherwise, but he sure does loves Mexican food. Arriba!

There’s one thing you always want to avoid when dealing with A Guy with a Backhoe. He of course likes a good drink now and then, but don’t give him anything to drink while he’s working.

If you do, you might just see A Guy with a Backhoe driving down Main Street with an American flag bungeed to the seat, wearing his Dallas Cowboys hat, his “Dale Jr.” NASCAR T-shirt, and drinking a Bud Lite. A Guy with a Backhoe is nothing but patriotic, so be sure to only start the party after he’s finished working for the day.

Let’s say you’re out snow-blowing the driveway. You’ve just finished an hour of back-breaking work, you’re bushed, and ready to call it a day. Then the town plow comes by and plows you right back in.

Instead of going into a red-faced rage, consider: A lot of the town plow drivers actually drive backhoes when it’s not winter. So don’t get mad, just give a friendly wave, because that plow driver might actually be A Guy with a Backhoe.

Suppose you’ve been married for decades like me and you literally have run out of ideas for Christmas presents. Is there any chance your spouse would like a new pool? If there is, consider hiring A Guy with a Backhoe to dig that hole for you. You’ll get a great rate because it’s off season, and you’ll finally have the perfect Christmas present. Ho-ho-ho from A Guy with a backhoe!

As you by now no doubt realize, A Guy with a Backhoe is really important to have around. In fact, if you’ve just gotten married, I say you should take A Guy with a Backhoe with you on your honeymoon.

“But Frank,” you ask, “on a honeymoon two’s company and three’s a crowd, right?”

True, and that’s why you should not only bring A Guy with a Backhoe along with you on your honeymoon, but bring along his wife as well, A Woman Who Sells Amway. Between A Guy with a Backhoe and A Woman Who Sells Amway, your new marriage will be off to a great start, as just about all your needs for years and years to come will be covered. Woohoo!

So where can you find A Guy with a Backhoe when you need him? Plenty of places: at the bar after work, at the bowling alley on Thursday nights, playing poker on Friday nights, out fishing on Saturday, and at church on Sunday. A Guy with a Backhoe is always ready and waiting for your call. So don’t wait, call A Guy with a Backhoe today. Tell him I sent you.

Location:

Reverend Iris Godfrey

You would think that 12 years of Catholic school would have grounded me with Bible knowledge, but you’d be wrong. What I remember from those years is a lot of ritual — attending Mass, going to confession, sitting with my class in church — but no real in-depth analysis and study of the actual Word.

As I’ve mentioned in these pages before, working toward a basic understanding of the Christian Bible is key to understanding Western literature, and by extension movies, TV, music, and art. So many themes used by all the great masters — Shakespeare, Michelangelo, Beethoven, and even Dan Brown (“The Da Vinci Code”) to use a more recent reference — are so fundamentally biblically based, it’s just unreal. When you start to understand this, you can more easily enjoy the material as it was meant to be enjoyed.

There are many ways to get to know the Bible better. Of course you can just read it by yourself but depending on which translation you use that can be quite difficult. Before you know it, you’re so lost in all the “begats,” the strange names, and the endless animal sacrifices that you wind up more frustrated than enlightened.

There are plenty of college courses and books available and, if you can find a church with a great pastor who treats a sermon like a real teaching moment (they are out there), lucky you. Another alternative is to attend a Bible study group, often right in someone’s home, which is what I did recently.

What happened was a friend invited my lovely wife and me to attend a Bible study session at her house. Sounded good, but the thing is everyone there except me knew a real lot about the Bible before we even started, so much so that they were way beyond the kind of high-level introduction I was looking for.

What they would do was focus on one paragraph — sometimes even just one sentence out of that one paragraph — for almost the entire 90 minutes. This worked for them because they wanted to deepen their already thorough understanding, but for a newcomer to Bible study like me it was just too detailed to really be helpful. It was like learning how to rebuild an engine before learning how to remove the engine from the vehicle, just not the right fit for me at that particular time.

Then I was able to find a Bible study group for absolute beginners being offered at a local church. This was much more attractive as a form of introductory Bible study to me, since I’d be with my own kind, so to speak.

You have to walk before you can run, right? So I signed up for this one. It was very interesting, and that’s putting it mildly, as you’ll soon find out.

The pastor who taught the course was very friendly, knowledgeable, and accommodating. No question went unanswered, and I had lots of them, believe me. He really went out of his way to make sure everyone felt accepted and welcome.

Even though he’s probably taught this material many, many times over the years, we got the feeling that he really wanted us to learn and grow from it. When you can find a teacher like that in any field, consider yourself lucky. Truly, an excited and motivated teacher is one of the best parts of society.

We had workbooks with assignments due for the weekly lessons, and they provided huge illustrated study Bibles as well. Everyone showed up with their homework done each week.

By and by, the mysteries of the Bible became clearer, with the extended reading and discussion of the weekly themes helping greatly. All was going swimmingly until we got to the part where it said that women could never teach men.

“Hold up,” as they say in the ’hood.

It turns out there is one word that is used only once in the entire Bible (the verb “authenteo,” literally “have authority over”) and, depending on which dialect of Greek you use to translate it, you can interpret it as men should never be taught by women in church. They can do other things — sing, organize, prepare meals, etc. — but not teach men. Upon hearing this I had the following dialogue with the pastor:

“You mean to tell me if a woman attends seminary, spending thousands of dollars and working countless hours to obtain a Doctor of Divinity degree, and writes books on Christianity while becoming an acknowledged scholar of the Bible, she’s still not allowed to teach men?”

“That’s correct.”

“OK, let’s say Mother Teresa herself, as God-like and worthy of a woman who has ever lived, wanted to teach men, you mean to tell me she couldn’t teach either?”

“Yes, and if she really knew the Bible, she wouldn’t even want to.”

Well, let’s just say that, after that exchange, I kind of tuned out for the rest of the lessons. Don’t get me wrong, I showed up each week, did all my homework, and participated freely.

It’s just that the whole thing about women not being able to teach men made it lose its luster for me. I mean, we’re living in the time of the “#MeToo” movement, with powerful men being brought down almost every day for their horrible behavior toward women.

Also I have two daughters whom I love and I know they can do anything they set their minds to. Women rock! So what if, in some translations of the Bible, you can infer that the women of that time couldn’t teach the men of that time, for whatever reason? I don’t get how that is relevant today.

I’m married to a church organist and I’ve been with her to many different churches over the decades we’ve been together. During that time, I’ve heard many female pastors. Most have have been good. Some have been great.

One in particular is phenomenal. She’s had her own radio and TV shows and a YouTube channel among other things (this would be Rev. Iris Godfrey at psalm19.org). I relish the time I get to hear her speak, and I only wish I lived closer to her. She’s that good. A good teacher is a good teacher, period. Gender does not come into it at all.

It’s kind of like the Constitutional originalists with the Second Amendment and the right to bear arms. There is no way the founding fathers could ever have envisioned every Tom, Dick, and Harry being able to buy military-grade assault weapons with thousands of rounds of ammunition for private use wherever and whenever they choose.

Similarly, how could Jesus Christ himself have a problem with a woman sharing his message of universal love, forgiveness, and salvation? I know in my heart he would embrace it wholeheartedly.

“Samson and Delilah,” “Jonah and the Whale,” “David and Goliath,” “Wise King Solomon,” and so many more rich stories with timeless themes about good versus evil and epic quests of redemption that appear in popular culture come straight from the Bible. The more you look, the more you find. It’s just so eye-opening to realize where so many of the great writers, poets, artists, and composers got their inspiration from.

If you can find a good Bible teacher, even if it’s a woman — and especially if it’s a dynamic, intelligent, and perceptive woman like Rev. Godfrey — taking the time to learn about the Bible, without doubt a foundational pillar of Western society, can be a very fulfilling and rewarding experience.

Location:

Reverend Iris Godfrey

You would think that 12 years of Catholic school would have grounded me with Bible knowledge, but you’d be wrong. What I remember from those years is a lot of ritual — attending Mass, going to confession, sitting with my class in church — but no real in-depth analysis and study of the actual Word.

As I’ve mentioned in these pages before, working toward a basic understanding of the Christian Bible is key to understanding Western literature, and by extension movies, TV, music, and art. So many themes used by all the great masters — Shakespeare, Michelangelo, Beethoven, and even Dan Brown (“The Da Vinci Code”) to use a more recent reference — are so fundamentally biblically based, it’s just unreal. When you start to understand this, you can more easily enjoy the material as it was meant to be enjoyed.

There are many ways to get to know the Bible better. Of course you can just read it by yourself but depending on which translation you use that can be quite difficult. Before you know it, you’re so lost in all the “begats,” the strange names, and the endless animal sacrifices that you wind up more frustrated than enlightened.

There are plenty of college courses and books available and, if you can find a church with a great pastor who treats a sermon like a real teaching moment (they are out there), lucky you. Another alternative is to attend a Bible study group, often right in someone’s home, which is what I did recently.

What happened was a friend invited my lovely wife and me to attend a Bible study session at her house. Sounded good, but the thing is everyone there except me knew a real lot about the Bible before we even started, so much so that they were way beyond the kind of high-level introduction I was looking for.

What they would do was focus on one paragraph — sometimes even just one sentence out of that one paragraph — for almost the entire 90 minutes. This worked for them because they wanted to deepen their already thorough understanding, but for a newcomer to Bible study like me it was just too detailed to really be helpful. It was like learning how to rebuild an engine before learning how to remove the engine from the vehicle, just not the right fit for me at that particular time.

Then I was able to find a Bible study group for absolute beginners being offered at a local church. This was much more attractive as a form of introductory Bible study to me, since I’d be with my own kind, so to speak.

You have to walk before you can run, right? So I signed up for this one. It was very interesting, and that’s putting it mildly, as you’ll soon find out.

The pastor who taught the course was very friendly, knowledgeable, and accommodating. No question went unanswered, and I had lots of them, believe me. He really went out of his way to make sure everyone felt accepted and welcome.

Even though he’s probably taught this material many, many times over the years, we got the feeling that he really wanted us to learn and grow from it. When you can find a teacher like that in any field, consider yourself lucky. Truly, an excited and motivated teacher is one of the best parts of society.

We had workbooks with assignments due for the weekly lessons, and they provided huge illustrated study Bibles as well. Everyone showed up with their homework done each week.

By and by, the mysteries of the Bible became clearer, with the extended reading and discussion of the weekly themes helping greatly. All was going swimmingly until we got to the part where it said that women could never teach men.

“Hold up,” as they say in the ’hood.

It turns out there is one word that is used only once in the entire Bible (the verb “authenteo,” literally “have authority over”) and, depending on which dialect of Greek you use to translate it, you can interpret it as men should never be taught by women in church. They can do other things — sing, organize, prepare meals, etc. — but not teach men. Upon hearing this I had the following dialogue with the pastor:

“You mean to tell me if a woman attends seminary, spending thousands of dollars and working countless hours to obtain a Doctor of Divinity degree, and writes books on Christianity while becoming an acknowledged scholar of the Bible, she’s still not allowed to teach men?”

“That’s correct.”

“OK, let’s say Mother Teresa herself, as God-like and worthy of a woman who has ever lived, wanted to teach men, you mean to tell me she couldn’t teach either?”

“Yes, and if she really knew the Bible, she wouldn’t even want to.”

Well, let’s just say that, after that exchange, I kind of tuned out for the rest of the lessons. Don’t get me wrong, I showed up each week, did all my homework, and participated freely.

It’s just that the whole thing about women not being able to teach men made it lose its luster for me. I mean, we’re living in the time of the “#MeToo” movement, with powerful men being brought down almost every day for their horrible behavior toward women.

Also I have two daughters whom I love and I know they can do anything they set their minds to. Women rock! So what if, in some translations of the Bible, you can infer that the women of that time couldn’t teach the men of that time, for whatever reason? I don’t get how that is relevant today.

I’m married to a church organist and I’ve been with her to many different churches over the decades we’ve been together. During that time, I’ve heard many female pastors. Most have have been good. Some have been great.

One in particular is phenomenal. She’s had her own radio and TV shows and a YouTube channel among other things (this would be Rev. Iris Godfrey at psalm19.org). I relish the time I get to hear her speak, and I only wish I lived closer to her. She’s that good. A good teacher is a good teacher, period. Gender does not come into it at all.

It’s kind of like the Constitutional originalists with the Second Amendment and the right to bear arms. There is no way the founding fathers could ever have envisioned every Tom, Dick, and Harry being able to buy military-grade assault weapons with thousands of rounds of ammunition for private use wherever and whenever they choose.

Similarly, how could Jesus Christ himself have a problem with a woman sharing his message of universal love, forgiveness, and salvation? I know in my heart he would embrace it wholeheartedly.

“Samson and Delilah,” “Jonah and the Whale,” “David and Goliath,” “Wise King Solomon,” and so many more rich stories with timeless themes about good versus evil and epic quests of redemption that appear in popular culture come straight from the Bible. The more you look, the more you find. It’s just so eye-opening to realize where so many of the great writers, poets, artists, and composers got their inspiration from.

If you can find a good Bible teacher, even if it’s a woman — and especially if it’s a dynamic, intelligent, and perceptive woman like Rev. Godfrey — taking the time to learn about the Bible, without doubt a foundational pillar of Western society, can be a very fulfilling and rewarding experience.

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I saw in the paper the other day that a guy died while working on his car when it slipped off the jack stands and killed him. As a guy that regularly works underneath cars supported on jack stands, this kind of thing always catches my attention.

Let’s face it, accidents happen. The only way to be totally safe is to do nothing at all, but even then a meteor can come crashing through your roof and conk you on the head so even the couch is not totally safe when you really think about it.

Another one that happens all too often is a guy working out with a barbell and getting killed when it crashes down on his neck. I work out with weights too and I have a bench with support racks but I still get nervous.

What if the rack breaks? Exercise is supposed to be good for you, not kill you. Yet people even die while running when their heart suddenly goes. There’s always something to worry about, it seems.

Tools are another potentially disastrous thing I deal with on a regular basis. If you’ve ever worked with a bench grinder you know it can shoot things straight at your face if you’re not careful. It’s also easy to have it pull in your hair or your shirt sleeve if you’re not paying attention.

That’s the key right there, paying attention. It’s so easy to let your mind wander or to just get lazy.

I read all the manuals for everything I buy including tools. They always say to tie back your hair, roll up your sleeves, and don’t wear jewelry.

Yet you look around and people are drinking beer while riding lawn mowers, smoking cigarettes while working on engines, hammering away at anything and everything without wearing safety glasses, etc. It would be comical if it weren’t so sad. We are so often our own worst enemies.

I’ve been woodworking forever, yet I still have all my fingers, knock on wood. The closest call I ever had was almost taking off a thumb when I was too lazy to walk down to the basement to use the table saw and instead tried to cut a small piece of wood held in my hand with a circular saw. That was a close one.

Hint: Don’t be lazy any time you’re working with tools. Take the walk to the basement if that’s what needs to be done. Much better than almost losing a thumb.

Sometimes I see roofers hanging right over the edge of the roof, working on the lower course of shingles or on the gutters, one leg swinging freely right out in the air. When I see that, I get a physical sensation of dread that is totally unsettling.

There are safety harnesses available, but these young, strong guys are invincible at that age, just like we all were when we were that young. When I think back to all the trees and roofs I used to climb with my buddies (we once even climbed up onto an elevated subway platform, from the street), I can’t believe how stupid I was. Boy, hard to believe I did all that and got away with it, looking back now.

I’m lucky to have a beautiful new grandson to play with, which is great. It’ll be interesting to see and assist his parents as he gets into one potentially dangerous situation after another.

This from a guy who as a kid stuck a bare wire into an electric outlet just to see what would happen. They say there are folks who have to pee on the electric fence just to make sure it’s really on. Yikes! Let’s hope my little grandson is not that type.

Of course these days danger is not limited to working on cars, lifting weights, and using tools. If you click on the wrong link or open the wrong file attachment, your computer can be taken over by bad guys who will then attempt to get mucho dinero from you to unlock it.

The takeaway here is there is computing and then there is safe computing. It’s incumbent on you to practice safe computing if you don’t want this kind of problem.

Yes, it involves an investment of time to learn what to do and, more importantly, what not to do, but that’s the price we pay to be on a worldwide computer network in the kind of world that we live in. It just comes with the territory.

Let’s wrap this up with a true story. One time, a friend from Canada was visiting with his wife and toddler. I had a pot of pasta that was just about done on the stove. I removed the colander so the pasta could drain. Then I picked up the pot of boiling water and headed toward the sink to drain it.

As I turned from the stove with the pot of boiling water in my hands, I felt something and the toddler, out of nowhere, was tangled up right in my feet. To this day, I honestly don’t know how I didn’t drop that pot of scalding hot water on myself and on that baby.

Gives me chills just thinking about it. What’s the saying? “God takes care of fools and babies.” He certainly took care of both of us that day.

Better safe than sorry. Words to live by.

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I work with a guy whose name is, for the sake of this story, Art. Many years ago, Art and I had a lot of common work-related projects, so we’d be in meetings together quite often. Then, as the years went on and our responsibilities no longer overlapped as much, I might only meet with Art once or twice a year.

At some point, Art and I no longer had any meetings together anymore, but I’d still see him around every now and then. Just another work acquaintance like we all have.

One day, I was walking around the hallways after not seeing Art for many years when he showed up just like that, so I said hello. He gave me a big smile as usual, then looked me straight in the eye and shouted out, “Hi, Joe!”

At first, I thought he must be talking to someone behind me but I looked around and there was no one there, so I just laughed. Now, to this day, every time he sees me he calls me Joe.

This is a little odd, especially when others are around that know both of us. He probably forgot who I was after so many years, but not all the way, and then somehow associated my face with the name Joe for some reason. Who knows why he did it, but I never correct him because, quite frankly (no pun intended), I get a kick out of it.

In my normal life as Frank, I continue on as just another average guy who works in a Dilbert-like office complete with cubicle and pictures of the wife and kids on the walls — yet another working stiff with a family and all the responsibilities that come with that.

Very plain-vanilla I must admit — just another average Joe, haha. So whenever Art calls me Joe, for that brief little time, I imagine that I really am Joe, and I have such a good time with it, it’s unbelievable.

In my Joe persona, I’m no longer stuck at a keyboard all day. As Joe, I’m either a roofer, carpenter, electrician, or auto mechanic, depending on my mood. The good thing is: As Joe, I go out and Get Things Done — real, tangible things that anyone can look at and see, not like the ethereal software that I normally create and maintain.

As Joe, I have a much more physical presence in the world. When I’m Joe, I can grunt and really mean it.

As Joe, when the day is over, I get home, and there’s a happy wife and a hot meal waiting for me always. In my mind, all the hard-working blue-collar Joes of the world get that as a matter of course.

Then, depending on the night, I’d do what all good Joes do: crack open a six-pack and watch the Yankees, or go out and play in the bowling league, or attend the poker game. Of course, if it’s the weekend, there’s lawn-mowing and barbecuing one day, then fishing and family time the next.

Joe doesn’t do a lot of different things but the things he does he just loves and does them as often and as heartily as he can. Joe is all about the flag, baseball, and apple pie. Nothing wrong with that. Good for him.

I sometimes imagine what it would have been like if Art had called me another name instead of Joe, like Sergio. Now there’s a good name. Think of great shoes, a nice sport coat, a flashy silk shirt, and of course a dark tan and great hair.

As Sergio, I’d be so good-looking and full of confidence the ladies would really notice. Then again my lovely wife wouldn’t be so happy with that, I’m sure. Maybe it’s a good thing Art called me Joe instead of Sergio. I don’t need any more problems; I have enough already, thank you very much.

This whole thing about being called Joe instead of Frank has given me another idea. You know when you go to an event and they give you a peel-off label that you’re supposed to write your name on and then stick on your shirt? Who says you have to put your real name on there, anyway?

Maybe I should write Joe on there next time, or maybe Morris or Sheldon. I know Morris and Sheldon aren’t sexy like Sergio, but with a name like Morris or Sheldon I might finally have the discipline to forgo immediate pleasure and sit down and write the next great phone app. There’s a reason why great coders are often named Morris or Sheldon.

Now that I think of it, as much fun as it is being Joe every now and then, what if I’ve been mistakenly calling someone by the wrong name all these years? Hey, if it can happen to Art, it can happen to me. We’re about the same age after all.

Maybe this would help explain the weird stares and nervous laughs I get all the time. Or maybe it’s just my personality. Let’s face it, it could be that very easily. Gulp.

If you hear someone call me Joe, don’t say anything. Just go along with it. Why spoil it after all these years?

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You often see sentinels on the side of the road, sad reminders of a tearful tragedy, on a busy street corner in the city, or out in the middle of nowhere. There might be a display of flowers, maybe with ribbons and bows. Sometimes it’s just a lonely cross stuck in the ground.

The memorials that stand out the most are the so-called “ghost bicycles,” often with flat tires because they’ve been there so long. These somber remembrances are placed by grieving relatives or friends of a cyclist who died in a traffic accident, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to them.

My cousin lives on a corner in a busy Queens neighborhood. There was an accident there where someone died. A memorial was placed on the corner — lots of flowers and a cross.

Then once a week relatives and friends would come to visit and have a little service. Mind you, this is right out on the street in front of my cousin’s house. After a while, getting to see that over and over again, no matter how good the intentions, just gets old. Cemeteries exist for a reason, after all.

There are two main routes that I take to work. For many years, there was a ghost bicycle on the corner by a gas station where a young lady got killed while riding her bike. The accident was tragic no doubt, as she was young, beautiful, full of energy, and a well-respected small-business owner.

But, twice a day, five days a week, I had to be reminded of her untimely death. That got depressing after a while.

That ghost bike is gone now, thankfully, but another one has appeared on the other main drag that I use almost every day. This one was also a bicycle accident. (See a pattern here?) So now, again, I’m reminded of death oftentimes twice a day, when all I’m trying to do is commute back and forth to work. As if commuting needed something else to make it even worse.

If you’re like me, busy just about all the time, you probably don’t think about death too often in your daily routine. You know it’s going to happen eventually but you don’t dwell on it.

In my case, once I hit age 50, I can honestly say I don’t even fear it any more. The idea of resting peacefully for a long time after a full and active life actually sounds pretty good in many ways.

The thing is, I normally don’t think about it, but then I see the flowers, the crosses, and the ghost bicycles — and I get sad. It’s not good to be reminded of death all the time. Had I wanted that, I would have gone into the very lucrative undertaker business.

I don’t know if there are any laws against creating your own public memorial at crash sites. Even if there are, it would not be fun telling a victim’s relatives their memorial is not welcome.

Though the intention is honorable, the practice of making memorials in public places just doesn’t sit right with me. We already have cemeteries. I know people are grieving, but why do we need to be reminded of it, often twice a day, every day? It sure is a bummer, I can tell you that.

My dear departed mom is buried about an hour from my home. I visit her grave maybe two or three times a year. I don’t need to place a cross outside the apartment where she last lived. I don’t need to place flowers outside the hospital where she finally died.

I don’t need to visit here grave weekly or even daily like I know many grieving relatives do. I just know that she lives on in my heart and I think about her all the time. I’m sure she’d be happy knowing that.

A friend of mine who, like me, was a huge Minnesota Vikings died recently. I just heard that his lovely wife drove all the way out to Minnesota to sprinkle his ashes at the new stadium. I have to say that’s pretty cool, and I’m sure Bill would have loved that.

I’ve instructed my wife and my friend to put some of my ashes in the gas tank of my motorcycle when I die, and then to have them ride the bike up my favorite road, Route 30, north into the Adirondacks when I die. What a nice way to have one last motorcycle ride. I just hope the fuel filter doesn’t get clogged.

Note that, in each of these cases of final memorials with ashes that I just described, there is no permanent display left to sadden any commuters or any residents who happen to live where something bad happened. I think this is appropriate.

In fact, I’ll go one step further — make sure you tell the people you love most how you feel about them while they’re still around to hear it. It’s much better for them then a cross on the side of the road or a ghost bicycle with flat tires sitting chained to a pole somewhere.

Speaking of ghost bicycles left as memorials — how about, instead of letting a perfectly good bike sit outside to rust, try cleaning it up and donating it to the City Mission or the Salvation Army? Letting a kid use it for what it was meant to be used for is much better, I think. I’ll bet the poor accident victim would feel the same way.

We all grieve in different ways, no doubt about it, but when your grief has to cause poor commuting working stiffs to feel sad twice a day, maybe there’s a better way to grieve.

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Living in the Capital District is heaven if you’re a motorcyclist (except for when they salt the roads). There’s nothing like cruising on the many curvy back roads and enjoying the wondrous scenery to make your senses come alive.

Often when I’m riding I'll pass what seems like acres and acres of treed lots, with not a structure in view, where the only thing spoiling the pristine glory of nature is the myriad red or yellow “Posted” signs nailed into some poor random tree like a stab in the heart. I know what “posted” signs mean —  private property so keep out — but a recent confluence of events caused me to look at them in a different light.

The first thing that happened was a visit to Newport, Rhode Island to tour the Gilded Age mansions. These are the huge, no-expense-spared palaces built, right on the ocean, by the railroad, oil, and precious-metal tycoons before the government even had an income tax.

Think of families like the Vanderbilts and the Morgans. These icons of industry and ruthless business dealings had so much money they literally couldn't spend it fast enough. Many of the mansions that resulted, complete with full butler, maid, and groundskeeping staff and adorned with lustrous gardens and landscaping, are still standing and available to tour so you can see how opulently the rich and famous lived.

When I tour these mansions, I do it simply to enjoy and marvel at the amazing architecture, the often exquisite building materials, and the engineering and construction details. I have absolutely zero interest in how the rich people that lived there spent their days.

For example, the well-heeled ladies of Newport society changed their outfits up to seven times a day, and, if you were seen in the same outfit more than twice in a season, you were considered low rent if not outright insulting.

Who wants to live like that? I'm just glad that there is a preservation society working hard to preserve these grand, beautiful structures so we can marvel at what our most talented architects and designers can do when money is no object.

The most extravagant of these mansions are right on the ocean, with unobstructed views of majestic rolling blue waves as far as the eye can see. However, between the mansions and the ocean is a public walkway that anyone can use both to enjoy the ocean view and see the mansions.

This is surely a great thing. Why? So that normal folks like us can enjoy the ocean views that otherwise would be locked behind some private property or “keep out” signs; there are no “posted” signs behind the mansions, thank goodness.

What a great way to allow both the rich and regular folks to share the wealth (the views, in this case). There are beautiful public beaches in Newport and the surrounding areas as well. You have to love that. Ocean access should be a public right for all of us, not just the super rich.

“The Power Broker”

The second thing that happened was my finally taking the huge, Pulitzer Prize-winning book “The Power Broker” by noted author Robert Caro out of the library. This massive tome, which Caro almost went broke writing during during the seven years it took to research it, is the story of Robert Moses.

You may have heard that name before, especially if you are from or have visited Long Island, but if you are a New Yorker you certainly have been directly affected by him every time you visit a park, a beach, or drive over a bridge or on a parkway in this great state.

Robert Moses, while never having been elected to any public office (and never even learning how to drive), did more to influence the physical reality of New York State than anyone. Jones Beach, Robert Moses State Park (of course), Sunken Meadow State Park, the Northern State Parkway, the Southern State Parkway, and so much more infrastructure including many bridges and tunnels and even Lincoln Center, all directly exist because of Robert Moses (and in our area, securing the land for Thacher Park and much of the state land around Lake George were Moses projects).

While he has his critics — he favored the automobile over public transportation way too much, most notably — every time you visit a public park or beach anywhere in New York chances are you have Robert Moses to thank for it. What he did in New York was so innovative and transformative it was copied by virtually every other state in the nation, for better or worse.

A lifelong New Yorker, Robert Moses grew up in the city in a family with money. After a fine education at Oxford he dedicated himself to public service and trying to clean up corruption in government (think Tammany Hall).

Soon he realized that it was one thing to have dreams of public parks shared by all, but quite another to actually have the power to make those dreams happen. He gradually learned how to play the system — you could even say he invented the system — and that's why now we can go to someplace wonderful like Jones beach, which otherwise would most certainly have become a bunch of rich guys’ private backyards.

Those same billionaires who owned the mansions in Newport also owned all the prime property on the north shore of Long Island. Even with the power of Robert Moses, his plan for the Northern State Parkway had to be greatly altered due to the pushback from the lords of the manor, bypassing their estates, golf courses, and even entire towns.

Caro points out in the book that, because of the rerouting of the parkway, endless more commuting hours, additional fuel use, and more pollution are in place in perpetuity. That’s what the power of rich guys with money can do, and what Robert Moses devoted his early life to rail against.

He did much better with the Southern State Parkway and the south shore of Long Island. When you drive to the beach, you don’t think too much about where the roads came from, but landowners never want to give up land without a good payoff.

Moses was able figure out how to do it, “by hook or by crook,” as the saying goes. You may not agree with his methods, which often included back-door deals in smoke-filled rooms and all that, but he knew his way around a bill in Albany, and he knew how to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s so that he (and really us, when you think about it) got his way in the end.

I mean, somebody had to stop the super-rich people from keeping the best of everything for themselves. If Robert Moses didn’t do it, who would have?

Moses’s legacy is far from perfect: The myriad roadways and bridges he built destroyed many old, existing neighborhoods (just like the Empire State Plaza forever changed downtown Albany by razing it’s poor Italian neighborhoods). His car-first priority resulted in eyesores like I-787, where prime downtown scenic city river access is covered or blocked.

He favored his “friends” over others like so many politicians do. He let his brother, a talented engineer in his own right, live in relative squalor, even preventing him from getting gainful employment. He was used to being treated royally, including being driven around in a limo all the time.

Basically, it got to the point where he was so used to getting his own way that he forgot or ignored what his decisions and policies did to others. His endless bridge-building phase destroyed entire, thriving neighborhoods, helping to create the blight-filled ghettos that are unfortunately so commonplace in urban areas.

Some even say he was racist: It’s said that he kept bridge overpasses on the parkways going to Long Island low so that buses from the city couldn’t pass, and that he kept the water in his city-based public pools intentionally cool so that black people wouldn’t use them.

I don't know about all that, but I've been going to Jones Beach all my life and I’ve always seen the same thing: Right before the entrance to Jones Beach, which costs $10 to park, is the entrance to Captree State Park, which is free to park.

So most if not all of the minorities go to Captree and most if not all of the white people go to Jones. As I said, I’ve been going there for decades and it’s always been like this. Did Moses do this intentionally? Only he knows and he’s not around anymore to tell us.

The complete life story of Robert Moses is much too big to recount here. If you;re not enamored enough to tackle the 1,200 pages of “The Power Broker,” I’d urge you at a minimum to look him up on Wikipedia.

In fact, his effect on the lives of all New Yorker is so important, even to this day, that I really believe his story should be taught in all the schools in this state. Remember, he started out as a reformer, and only after accumulating great power (more than even the mayors and governors he reported to had) did he become so full of himself that it became “his way or the highway,” so to speak and no pun intended.

It’s the classic tale of absolute power corrupts absolutely, truly a lesson that never gets old.

Moon for sale

Did you know there is a company that accepts money for lots on the moon? Apparently, some guy believes that he found a legal loophole allowing him to “claim” the moon as his, and he has been “selling” lots there for decades.

This is totally true — many famous people have “purchased” huge tracts of the moon already. So someday, when our great-great-great grandkids get ready to build their dream house next to a big crater on the moon, there may be many “Posted” signs already there and waiting for them. Sigh.

“Posted” signs have a purpose — to keep people off of private property. But when I’m riding my motorcycle through richly forested areas on a bright, sunny day and see animals roaming freely where I’m not even allowed to tread, it somehow makes me feel sad. I’m sure Robert Moses would have felt the exact same way.

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