In highly educated circles there is a political, economic, and all things above my big head author named Kevin Phillips. If you're Pushing 50 or beyond, you probably know about him.

If you happen to see him today, have him call me, please? Tell him it's his name buddy and I have this question for him...

...from a front page article in today’s (2-26-09) Dallas Morning News regarding the latest arm of the stimulus/recovery effort:

That tax relief, the administration will argue, will offset households' higher costs for utilities and other products and services from businesses passing on their permit expenses.

Hey Kevin,

Okay, and I hope I simply missed something here. It’s possible; I only enjoyed one full year of college and it featured a single economics class where I rocked a grade that I like to call a solid, solid D (highlighted by the first college midterm I ever took; froze up like…like…ah, fill in your own cliché’. They’ll all apply). Either way, let’s follow along.

We will sell permits to companies to allow them to pollute (that’s called being ‘environmentally responsible,’ btw), they’ll pass the cost along to us in the form of higher prices, and Uncle Sam will hook us up with some tax relief so we can pay those hire prices – did I get that right?

One more time: your company will be charged $10 for a pollute permit, you’ll charge me $10 more for the widgets you make, and my Uncle will give me just about $10 to pay you what you are now charging me $10 more for, which covers the increase that our Uncle charged you to pollute in order to make those widgets. That you’re charging me $10 more for. Got it.

I believe this is a financial model loosely based on the “HUH?” economic theory, but again, this from a guy who got that D in Macro Economics 101. I'm thinking someone else got a D in that class. Or worse.  Anyway, hook me up with an answer when you get a chance, sir.

Thanks Kevin,

Kevin to the J

I believe it was her first observation of my sensitive side that struck the spark to our relationship. Sensitive as her arm was from me squeezing it with one hand, that is. The other hand was doing that peek-through-the-fingers thing. Maybe it was a traumatic experience for me (the tremendous love I felt blossoming in my heart, I mean) but I've been sensitive to scares of all types ever since. Like the other day.

I'm in our bathroom, drying off after a nice, hot shower. Deep in thought about important things like what the heck I was looking for earlier, dodging blame for anything in an empty nest, and drop D tuning, I don't hear the just WD40’d bathroom door open.

This silent door, by the way, is the one I have my backside to as I dry off. This silent door has a doorknob that is, oh, about the same distance from the ground as my wallet would be in my back pocket; but I don't have a wallet or a back pocket...drying off after a shower, right?

Isn't it funny how we use names of animals as verbs and adjectives to describe things that happen to us? "I was outfoxed," or, "quit dogging it," and even, "I chickened out." There is a particular type of fowl that applies to my story above. If you guessed "goose," you win.

It was the best vertical leap I ever made. Funny how cold a doorknob can be even in a steamy bathroom.

When he was ten, my son could scare the tar out of anyone and usually did. He "booed" with such an absence of malice, however, that you had to laugh with him after he did his deed. He was really very good at it and seldom failed to get his desired reaction. Mostly from me.

The other day he came over before I got home, and just for old time’s sake, hid in the laundry room. I came home, went into my bedroom to change and then it went like this:

Here I come out of my bedroom. There he is, an eyelash away from the corner of the wall. Out he jumps, with a little smile, a little "boo," and a whole lot of satisfaction. And "Whoaunngh!" or something close to that is the noise you make when someone scares you that badly.

Well, I do anyway.

The picture you see is of the clock I bought for my office, probably a year ago. It fit the three things a Pushing 50 man measures stuff by.

1. Does it do what its name implies?

2. Does it seem to work?

3. Is it cheap as all get-out?

Let me explain.

Brother (that’s my son, btw), wants, no, is obsessed with getting an IPhone.

“Why?” I ask him, and with great flair and enthusiasm he launches into the why. Except he doesn’t really tell me why, and we come back to the original question.

“Brother,” I say, “it’s a phone, and yeah, it’s so much more, but it’s a phone. So just get a phone; you don’t NEED all the other applications. Yes, I know you’ll be giddy to click this and that and learn where to get the best Italian food in Richardson, or…” and I hold my hand out for him to continue on the path he knows I’m going.

“…or the best place for sushi on Uranus. I know Dad. But that’s not the point.”

But it is the point and all I can say – with much love – is that it points directly to the fact that he’s not Pushing 50; he is twenty-two from head to toe. If it’s called an IPHONE, then it should be a phone and nothing more. Like my office clock. Here, let’s put it to the measure:

1. It’s a Clock. It keeps time. Questions? Good, let’s move on.

2. One AA battery brought the small motor to life, and the second hand lurched from three towards four and so on. Been doing a fine job ever since. It seems to work.

3. Finally, it cost me less than $6 at The Store. If you’re new to this blog, I’ll tell you about The Store. It’s the place that runs like a good drug dealer – If you sign up for their credit card you get huge dollars off and when combined with the coupons they mail out often, you can buy several trillion dollars worth of clothes, pillows, and knick knacks for about…oh…$125.67. Soon enough, you look for -  then jones for - those coupons and you get your friends involved in sharing the ultimate Maui Wowie 30% coupon.

Anyway, I paid less than six for it…it’s a clock…and it’s done a good job keeping time. Oh, one more thing – it is ugly as sin. I mean no one would ever buy it for their house and the missus nearly swallowed her teeth and tongue when I brought it home.

“Putting it in my office,” I said, and for a brief, horrific moment she thought I meant my little office at the house. Once the EMT’s left and she seemed stable, I made sure she understood it was for my work office that no one but me and Mike see.

She buys me this shirt I'd only get if there was gun to my head but it’s “fashionable.” It sits in my closet – pretty darn dusty, I might add – and though she bought it a few years ago, I must tell you, I ain't ever wearing it.

Linen-like, long sleeved, intricate designs in both the sleeves and a way-too big and pointy collar. That’s not a very good description but the more I think about it, well…I have a pretty easy-to-fire gag reflex so I’m gonna quit here.

Let’s just say if I was a long and lean 23 year old, it may look spiffy. As it goes today, if I put it on and stood next to a sobbing Richard Simmons, he’d look like Rob Zombie compared to me in that shirt.

She buys me something ugly and it's the shiz. I buy something ugly and she nearly keels over. But mine works.

My IClock.

Sorry, 'www.menopausehelpforpushing50husbands.com' does not exist or is not available.

 (She's laughing, right?  Tell me she's laughing.)