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Life Update #2

I have come to realize that when we accomplish something, great or small, we do so not merely by our own effort, merit, or power. We do so with the help of so many others, both in very significant ways and small ways. And those small ways at the time might even become significant later. That is what this is about. Each morning one of the things I do is write thoughts of gratitude in a journal. The following thoughts came from this practice.

On April 1 I was informed by the California Commission on Teacher Credentialing that after much time, study, substitute teaching, tons of paperwork, etc., I officially received my California teaching credential. As soon as an elementary teaching position is available (most likely for the upcoming 2022-23 school year), I can apply for it. I will confess that I may have shed a tear or seven upon receiving this news. 

But here is the deal. As mentioned earlier, without the help of so many, this would not have happened. I need to thank these people. Here they are:

Dr. Deana Porterfield, president of Roberts Wesleyan College. You plucked Jen and me from SoCal and we moved for Jen’s career. We are back in SoCal and many might think moving to New York was a mistake. It was not. Deana asking Jen to join your crew there was the catalyst that moved me toward the direction of teaching. And you lead the college that taught me so many things. Deana, thank you!

Cohort 16 (this is often yelled loudly by me) at Robert Wesleyan College. These are my classmates as I joined the Pathway to Teaching program. It was a blast to be a part of and without them there, making this achievement would have been exceedingly more difficult. I have some amazing memories with this crew and I find myself missing being with them. Lyndsay, Lynn, Bethany, Chris, Tessa, Rachel, Stephanie, Joe, Nick, Carrie, Elaine, Allicia (with an ‘i’), Raff, Tangela, Denisha, Brad, and Alysha (with a ‘y’), thank you!

The education teachers at Roberts. Not only are they loaded with knowledge about education, almost every one of them had years and years of experience in the field. They brought “real-life” training into our classrooms. Roberts teachers, thank you!

Renee Frazee. I showed up at West Ridge Elementary School in the Greece school district to volunteer for a summer reading camp (part of the classroom hours I needed). There, I was paired up with an amazing teacher with decades of experience named Renee Frazee (pronounced like ‘crazy’). Her joy bubbled through her the entire time and I simply learned by watching. I also enjoyed some pretty funny memories with her during that summer camp: Aubrey farting in the peace circle. Robert going on a rant about chaos that sounded like an African-American preacher. So many memories in a very short month. She then got me into her school, Craig Hill Elementary School, as a one-to-one in a self-contained special ed classroom, my first full-time job in a real school. (It was also during this time that as a teacher I would say sentences I never thought I would say such as “Braden, stop giving Bobby titty-twisters!”) And there at Craig Hill, Renee was a constant rock of support. Renee, thank you!

The other teachers I met at Craig Hill, specifically David Capizzi. David lives the quote I love: “There is no plan B, YOU are plan A.” David was poised to do something else in his life but circumstances changed things. He became a teacher and realized that this was/is his calling. And he is phenomenal in the classroom! Craig Hill teachers, David, thank you!

Team GPS, room 3510. “What?” you ask. Well, this is a team of three people I met and became friends with when I did my student teaching in a 6th-grade class at Churchville-Chili Middle School who called themselves Team GPS. Here they are:

G: Ashley Guarino, my master teacher for my student teaching. I don’t know why she said yes but she did. If I can be one-tenth as good of a teacher as she is I would consider myself successful. I told many people and continue to do so that “she is a ROCK STAR!” She took the stuff I learned and helped me apply it to the classroom. She gently watched me fumble through observed lessons and gave me notes of her own that I still have. Brilliant notes. (She never even chastised me when I said, “I would love to live in the down-below (instead of the down-under) because even though it smells like low tide I can clean it up.”) These notes were beyond encouraging words. And for some reason, she trusted me to be a sub in her room after I graduated. Ashley, thank you!

P: Melinda “Grammar Queen” Pier, the special ed teacher. She came into room 3510 regularly to work with some students and be an ELA teacher, thus the “Grammar Queen” moniker. Melinda showed me very real methods to help students who have different ways of learning. She ALSO trusted me as a sub later on. Melinda, thank you!

S. Lisa Sheible, T.A. for room 3510. I sat at the back table with Lisa during many hours of student teaching. (We laughed pretty hard a LOT.) I watched the way she lovingly helped to manage the classroom. I watched her love students and practically become a parent to them. And she gets my humor. While being observed doing a math lesson, I was a French chef teaching fractions. I did the math wrong on the board. Lisa cracked up, which actually helped my nerves. At the end of the lesson when I tried to tell students to “do your work on a separate sheet of paper,” my awful French accent made it come out as “do your work on a separate shit of paper.” I believe that Lisa almost fell on the floor. If you think that laughing at this made me feel bad, then you don’t know me. It was the best thing she could have done. Lisa, thank you!

BTW, I still have my “Team GPS” tee shirt and wear it often. And I still to this day consider room 3510 to be my homeroom, even though we now live 2,300 miles away from there as the crow flies.

The 6th-grade students in the class where I did my student teaching. They took in this old fart student-teacher and treated me with respect and love far beyond what I could have ever imagined. I can still see the faces of every one of them. I can still hear their voices. I visited their room for a few hours near the last day of school, which I knew would be the last time I would get to be with them. Toward the end of the day, I didn’t want to be a distraction so I left quietly so that they wouldn’t know I’d gone, and then wept in the car. They made a notebook for me where they all said some amazing things. They all signed the book Oh, the Places You’ll Go and I still look at those names. Students of room 3510, thank you!

The many teachers in the Churchville-Chili school system in New York. I subbed there seventy-nine days in 2021 and learned so many things from them along the way. Again, real-life things. CCCUSD teachers, thank you!

Beth Chamberlain, who helped me navigate the complex credentialing system of California that operates at geological speed. Your experience, wisdom, and contacts were so helpful. Beth, thank you!

To so many friends who were so supportive of me when I made this decision to become a teacher. It was quite overwhelming to see the outpouring. You have no idea how encouraging this was and still is. There are too many to even mention, but to you, thank you!

And, Jen. All along the way, Jen was there all along heaping loads of encouragement throughout the thick and thin of this process. And Jen had also helped me discover the current direction of teaching that I am now going, never doubting me for a second…a New York second even! Jen, I love you so much…thank you!!!

I know that I’ve left people out of this list because there are too many. I could not have accomplished this on my own. I am so blessed by all of you.

A Dad’s Surprise

I met Katerina when she was four years old. Kat is Jennifer’s daughter. When Jennifer and I got married I said some vows to Katerina. In those vows, I told her that I didn’t want to take over the role of her biological father, George Davidovich, but that I would do my very best to always love her as my daughter. The word always was important in those vows. (George is a putz, by the way, and out of the picture since Kat was about eight. But that is another discussion.)

A few months later we were all in the same house. It was night and I couldn’t sleep. Jen was fast asleep next to me and Kat was fast asleep in her bedroom, and I was lying there wide awake with my mind wandering about. I had this sudden notion, really more of a flooding realization. I imagined some awful person entering our home and me needing to make the immediate decision of that person killing Kat or killing me. The choice came to me without me making the choice. I think I may have even said “What???” out loud. Not because I thought that giving up my life was the incorrect option. It was that it came to me at light-speed, almost involuntarily. I know I would have voluntarily made the “right” decision, but this was overwhelming. I didn’t have the opportunity to be with Kat on the day of her birth, or to see her first steps or hear her first words. I missed out on her first four-and-a-half years of life. Yet there I was feeling a sense of love I’d never known before. I knew I loved Kat because I believe that love is a decision and it is revealed in our actions toward each other. But this? 

A few years later Jen and I were on a “panel” at church with two or three other married couples in front of the church high school group. One of the students asked me a question that was something like “have you ever wanted a child of your own?” Now, I knew what they meant. But the answer that came out of me was so easy because it came from that love that I have for Kat. I did have a child of my own. Kat was my child. I won’t give you the complete history leading up to now but only will say that this love for Kat has not diminished. It has continued to increase. Fast-forward to present-day…

A few weeks ago Jen and I had a chance to make a visit to California to see Kat and some friends. At dinner, Kat said to me, “I got you a present.” She handed me a piece of paper that just looked like a legal document. “What is it?” I asked. “Just read it,” she replied.

It was a legal document stating that Kat was having her last name changed to Moore. I had to leave the room because it is embarrassing to sob, not cry, sob in front of friends and family. And…I’m starting to cry again right now.

Let me be clear. Kat could have gone the rest of her life keeping Davidovich as her last name. My love for her would never diminish. And my love for her has not increased based upon the fact that I needed my daughter to have my last name. What was incredibly special was her act of love towards me. I suppose when I really think about it the three of us having the same last name is pretty cool. I’m honestly happy about that. But I am really happy about how much my daughter loves me and thought of this gift to give me. Yeah, love is a decision and it is revealed by our actions toward each other. This decision that Kat made was amazingly special.

Life Update

“My mission is to live each day as an expression of loving God and humanity, and to treat each day as a gift and an opportunity to help make a small part of the world in which I live better”

That, my friends, is the mission statement for my life. A while back my friend Bill Stewart gave a talk encouraging all of us to create a mission statement for our lives. I did, and that is it.

I believe that I can work almost anywhere and make efforts to fulfill this mission statement. Including UPS, which I have tried to do each day.

We moved to the Rochester area about two-and-a-half years ago. We had a few hopes and ideas for what I would be doing and none of those really panned out. Understand this, and I’ve said this before, I’m not a “plan B” kind of guy. We each have this singular life that is made up of moments and each moment is given to us once only. Each moment is “plan A” for me. But, what am I supposed to do? UPS has been fun and challenging to be sure. But the peak holiday deliveries have dried up.

God bless Jeremy Kelly, lead pastor at Eastside Church! In October he brought me on as a part-time pastor of worship arts, a 25-year career that I ended when moving here. I did NOT realize how much I missed it! And yet, I am absolutely loving this part-time aspect to the job.

About a year-and-a-half ago Jen asked me, “Have you thought about teaching?” And I have off and on, not knowing what this would mean, what age group, what subject, etc.
Then over the course of the past four weeks things began to unfold, a haze began to lift and the oddest set of circumstances occurred. I first felt like this whole teaching thing might be a good fit for me at this time in my life. Then I realized that I wanted to teach elementary age students. Then I met with Kristen Nielsen (Enrollment Outreach Manager for Teacher Education at Roberts) and discovered that I was an excellent fit for their Pathway to Teaching program. I applied, and on February 4 I was accepted. I will be a student again for the next two years, along with spending many hours in classrooms throughout various districts in this area.

Strangely enough, today I was helping Nate at Hale auditorium for an orchestra concert at 10:00am, not knowing who it was for. It was for about 800 fourth graders. It was delightful!

So, at the age of 57+ (when I finish the program) I will BEGIN the career of teaching. There. I said it.



When the weather in the east
decides once again that it is going to make another attempt
to wipe us out, or at least hurt us
Barbara Walton calls me

She is out west languishing
with no teeth in a nursing home
with no more of her precious cats
with no more husband
with no more family
with no one near her most of the time

But with a television that tells her
that the eastern weather is once again irate
And she can still use her phone

“That storm is about 500 miles away from us, Barbara,” I say with a smile

I smile because I know she
just wants to talk
And I want to talk with her, and we talk
with great amounts of humor
with musings of the past
with mourning of severed companionship
with long stories, sagas of yesteryear
with tales that are more present

“Goodbye! I’ll talk to you soon!”

The weather stomped its feet once again
with temper flared, pounded its chest
there was wide open mouth screaming
with uvula flapping
and it beat us with its fists

But now Barbara Walton is gone

Do your worst, weather
Because when you do
I smile
and remember my friend

The White Solution

There has been a lot of talk about the white supremacist movement as of late. Of course this is due to the “protests” in Virginia. And this has seemed to ignite those folks across our country of similar beliefs. I am not one who likes to pigeonhole a group of people who don’t agree with my set of beliefs, but perhaps I need to think of a way to help them in their plight. The white supremacists want whites to be large and in charge. I don’t think many of them want people who have darker skin than them to even be in this country.

Unfortunately for this group, that fight is a futile one. The last time we went to real loggerheads about this would have been the Civil War. Yes, it was about slavery, but the subtext (perhaps there wasn’t anything “subby” about it) was the dominance of white people over people of color, and the belief that the white folks are simply genetically superior. Well my friends, you can’t un-ring that bell. That was a losing effort and I’m pretty sure 99.999999% of our country does NOT want that to happen again.

I might have an idea for this woeful group of white people. Their own state!!!

Yes, we have large portions of our country that are vast and open. Let’s take a huge swath of land and let them have it as their own. Hey, this is not really unprecedented. We already gifted the Navajo, Sioux, Cherokee, etc. nations their plots of land. Let’s continue the love! We’ll have to name the state something. For this little piece I shall name it Ignorance.

Yes, the State of Ignorance.

However, there must be a set of caveats in place to be a resident of this state.

First and foremost, to be permitted to take up residency in the State of Ignorance, thorough DNA testing has to happen. If said applicant has ANYTHING resembling non-white in their body, no admittance. Imagine Eugene’s surprise when he realizes that his great-great-great granddaddy had relations with one of the house slaves back in the day, and he was a distant by-product of that child! Yer out, Eugene!

Secondly, nothing of any other culture than white culture will be permitted. Jazz, of course, is right out. Also, rock and roll since it has its roots in jazz. Classical music is fine, except for Mendelssohn et al. And food, let’s not forget food. Oh my. No Italian food shall be allowed within the borders of Ignorance. Along with anything southern fried that has its roots in the black traditions going back to the days of slavery. No Japanese, no Chinese, no Mexican, no Phở. You get the point.

Thirdly, you’ll end up having professional sports teams. You can’t be bringing in anyone of color for your teams. When your NBA team heads out to play the Cavs, Warriors, Celtics, etc., you’ll be sending a lily-white group of players into that action. And football, and baseball. You should be good with pro hockey, though remember that there are a scant handful of black hockey players in the NHL, yet with so few numbers, one of them is a complete all-star. (PK Subban.) Oh, and you can’t have any home games. Whites only in the State of Ignorance.

Fourth caveat: no imports of anything made by anyone of color. The Chinese connection is gone. You’re genetically superior to every other people group so I’m sure you can make a shirt better than some Chinese kid earning fourteen cents a day. Check your cars as well. Years ago I visited a Shimano plant in California. This is a Japanese-owned company. I was told that Saturn bought parts from them to put in their cars. Saturn…the car company that prided itself in being 100% American. Any cars with parts from countries where the people are of a darker skin tone? Nope.

Fifth caveat: You can’t leave the United States. Though the majority of the country vehemently disagrees with your way of thinking, we still are compelled to protect you. If not, at some point Germany might say, “Dude, we already got it wrong in the ’30’s and ’40’s. We can’t let you do this, so we’re attacking you.”

There are probably a few other rules and regulations that would be applicable, but this might be a good start.

Of course if you ever want to leave this state and drop its ideology, the rest of us will take you in with open arms. Well, most of us. You see, we accept you and really want you to join us in a united and diverse society.

Ya’ll should be glad…

Ya’ll should be glad…that I am not Jesus!

I woke up early on this Easter Sunday and decided to read chapters 19 through 21 of the Gospel of John. You know, a proper Good Friday through Easter Sunday reading and I thought to myself, “If I were Jesus, I think I would have done things a little differently.”

If I woke up as Jesus that morning, the first item on my agenda would be a visit to Pilate. I would have mosied right into his bedroom, right beside his bed, and gently given him a wake-up slap on the forehead. When his bleary eyes finally focused on me, I would yell, “Hey! Remember me, you moron? Yeah, that’s right! You found me INNOCENT, but you decided to listen to those idiot religious leaders who stirred up an unknowing mob of sheep! You had me flogged…FLOGGED! Do you know what that feels like??? (Meanwhile, Pilate’s wife wakes up and is a bit startled.) I would point to her and continue my diatribe. “You should have listened to your wife! In fact, let this be your mantra until you are dead: ‘I will listen to my wife. I will listen to my wife. I will listen to my wife.’ I cannot BELIEVE your lunacy!!!”

I would continue my lecture for some time. But then I’d be sauntering right on over to Herod’s palace and give him a what-for. I’d visit each house of each Roman soldier that participated in my torture and death. Maybe I’d head over to Rome and pound on the door of Caesar’s castle. “Hey Caesar! Don’t get too high and mighty. There will be a fast food pizza place named after you in a couple thousand years!”

I’d save my last visit for that lying sack of compost named Caiaphas. Oh man, would I lay into him. “You’re not worthy to be wearing those priestly clothes!” And I’d be stripping all of them off of him until he was naked. “That’s called being naked! That’s what you did to me along with other things!!! How’d you like that rip down the middle of your sacred curtain in the temple? Yeah, I did that!”

But that isn’t the story. Here’s the first sentence recorded by Jesus in John’s account after his resurrection: “Woman, why are you weeping?” Yes, that’s right. His first act was to comfort a grieving person. Then he says, “Mary.” Sheesh! If that was me in Mary’s place and Jesus said, “Dude, why are you weeping?” and “Perry,” I wouldn’t even have words to describe my thoughts or feelings!

It doesn’t end there. Jesus keeps on moving through the ranks of followers over the next few days. “Peace” and “believe” and “feed my sheep” and other things like that. (I don’t think he used the word ‘moron’ one time.) Comfort, encouragement, commissioning to do good. Yeah, his decision was probably a better move than what I would have done.

Maybe I think in my heart that vengeance is the better way to go. Maybe I believe strongly that people getting their “comeuppance” should be life’s greater policy, that Karma is king. Turns out, Jesus’ retaliation was love and forgiveness and commissioning. Man, that’s hard for me! Well, I’ll keep making the effort. I don’t really have that much faith in myself, but I have faith in Jesus. At least that is a decent starting place.

Happy Easter!

National Women’s Day

I rolled out of bed this morning and was informed by the news that today is National Women’s Day. I pondered this off and on. Jen (my spouse) hopped out of bed about an hour later and began to get ready for work. Then I heard that some were encouraging women to not go to work or shop on this day. I heard this while saying goodbye to Jen as she left for her workplace.

At this point I felt very thankful that she was headed to a place that valued her immensely. Not always the case. Jen worked for an organization that will remain nameless at this time. She was in management for years. Then another management position opened in that organization because the person who was doing that job was failing miserably. That person was a man. Jen interviewed and was happily chosen for this position. She was more qualified than her predecessor, had more experience, more education, etc…then was offered about $15,000 less a year than he made.

Fast forward a couple of years. Jen needed to hire someone to fill a position that had been vacated. She sought after someone she knew would be good. The interview happened and he was offered the job. Human Resources told Jen the salary range, which was decent, and she was able to present a good offer. He then declined. She searched and found someone out of the blue who had become available. Equally qualified. The person, a woman, interviewed and was offered the job.

Human Resources then told Jen the salary range: $10,000 a year less than the man’s offer.

OK, this is an anecdotal piece of evidence. But I urge you to go ahead and look at the national statistics of pay for women vs. men for the same jobs.

It’s is the 21st century. Isn’t it time we pulled our heads out of wherever they might be and address this? All of us? Yes, all of us. That’s all I have for today.

Black Lives Matter?

A number of years ago a friend of mine had a buddy who happened to be black. That man was also a professional trumpet player. He was driving through Pasadena, California, obeying every traffic law, but was pulled over. Two officers approached him and made him get out of the car and stand with them behind his car. One officer looked into the car and saw the trumpet case. He asked the man what it was and the man told him. The officers looked at each other, discussing the fact that they thought he was lying to them. They said they needed him to prove it wasn’t stolen and that he could play. They got the trumpet out and handed it to him. But first, so he wouldn’t try to run away, they made him pull down his pants to his ankles. There he was, pants bunched around his feet, playing the trumpet while cars passed, and while the two police officers laughed at him.

Another friend of mine runs a program that mentors kids in poorer areas of Pasadena and Los Angeles. He helps them graduate high school and gets them into colleges. He had one student who has to regularly drive through San Marino to get to art school. He’s black. Every time he gets pulled over, most likely because the police officer says, “you match the description of someone we’re looking for,” he puts a notch on his dashboard. The last I heard the count was up over thirty-five.

My friend, James, who happens to be black and I were talking. I asked him how many times he’d been pulled over for no reason. He lost count.

My friend Byron, who happens to be black, received a phone call on his cell phone. Obeying the law, he pulled to the side, put the car in park, and answered the phone. A police officer yanked his cruiser in behind Byron, leaped out, and yelled at him, asking him why he pulled the car over when he saw a police car.

Another friend of mine who wished to remain anonymous worked at a large, influential church. This was a relatively multi-ethnic church, but primarily white. My friend is black. He pulled his car into the church parking lot and was checking his text before joining the others inside. Three police cars screamed in all around him, made him get out of the car, turned him around against his car, and handcuffed him. After he finally convinced him that he wasn’t the person “who matched the description of someone they were looking for” they let him go without an apology.

These are five situations. I’ve been pulled over a few times in my life and every single time except for one I deserved to be pulled over. I’ve never been stopped and told that I matched the description of someone they were looking for.

Now, please hear me out on this one, especially if you are a police officer. I believe in the work of the police. I believe that across this amazing country we have thousands of police officers who, while placing their lives at risk every single day, are trying their best to do the job they were called to do in a manner that is worthy of the badge they wear. Seriously. There is simply a handful who, for whatever reason, carry something inside them that lessens the value of a person of color. 

That being said, I have some advice for white people. Please give some grace to the Black Lives Matter movement. Sure, they may not be doing everything right as you see it. Sure, things are often said that may cause you anger or concern. But we have a beautiful set of people in our society who genuinely feel hurt. Anger is a responsive byproduct emotion that has its roots in feeling hurt. So many of our brothers and sisters who have darker skin have felt constant fear when around our police officers, in spite of there being no need for concern the majority of the time. When the killings continue I think these good people simply had had enough.

One more thing. When we white folks hear “Black Lives Matter” and immediately shoot back with “ALL LIVES MATTER,” I’m quite sure this does nothing to help the situation. I’m also quite sure that the black community understands and agrees with the fact that all lives matter. Why don’t we just let them express their frustration and maybe see what we can do to help things?

As with any advice, feel free to take it or leave it. If you disagree with me, that’s OK. But maybe just think a little more. Maybe offer a little grace. I come from a Christian ilk and I believe it is a Christian thing to try and understand a group of people who feel marginalized from time to time…or a lot of the time.

Addendum: Since George Floyd’s death we have seen murder again. I was driving alone in my car the other day thinking about this and suddenly yelled at the top of my lungs to nobody in particular, “This has GOT to end!!!” Total and complete reform of our law enforcement agencies must happen, and I believe it finally…might.

What Might It Take?

What might it take to lay down my sword?
   When I’ve finished the cutting and slashing,
   or been slashed a bunch?
   When I’ve laid lots of waste and my soul is sated?
   Or when I lift my eyes and see
   I am in a vast rubble pile?

What might it take to lay down my sword?
   When I see that all your supporters and cronies are finally gone,
   leaving you to fend solo, in a corner, a caged animal?
   Or when I am the soloist in the only solitary cave I can find?
   When the avalanche of death is on you with
   sickle-man at the head of the rubble on a spree?
   Or rather charging at me…or both as much?

What might it take to lay down my sword?
   Maybe when we both are barely standing,
     sweat pouring,
       lungs heaving in violent hurricane waves,
          leaning hard on said swords.

We stare, we stagger, swagger gone
Perhaps we should have thought this through
Maybe now is the right time
I’ll lose my head, but I’ve lost it already

Presidential Letters

I was stretched out in bed the other night with the gift of sleep evading my every notion. For some strange reason I began thinking of the U. S. presidents. I ran through the names that I remembered, those being surprisingly more than I thought I could remember. The first few that stumbled into recent memory were the “famous” ones as well as the ones during my lifetime: Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Roosevelt, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Bush, Obama. Then a strange notion crept into my skull. Of those aforementioned fourteen, seven ended with the letter ‘n.’ Half! I had to look into this!

The following morning I awakened and sprinted (exaggeration: stumbled to get some coffee, fed the cats, etc.,) to the computer. I made a list of the presidents and examined them with my expert eye. Here’s what I discovered.

Of the last names of our forty-four presidents, sixteen ended with the letter ‘n!’ What does this mean? I suppose our country has an affinity for that letter closing out a name. Perhaps that changes the odds for the 2016 election. Hillary has a much greater advantage in sealing the Democrat nomination given these scientific results that have just been set before you. Come to think of it Joe Biden also has a chance, but he’s getting a little long in the tooth these days. But then again, Reagan was no spring chicken.

The Republicans have their selection. John Bolton (former U.N. ambassador among other things), Dr. Ben Carson (though I’m not sure America would elect someone who is as smart as a neurosurgeon, which is what he is), and Mark Everson (the former IRS Commissioner!!! Oy vay!) Do we rule out Sarah Palin?

What if I simply slapped an ‘n’ at the end of my name? Nope. Too closely related to “moron” I suppose. However, it could be argued that the American people have elected a moron or two to that esteemed office.

What’s also strange is that of the five presidents with last names ending in a vowel: Monroe, Fillmore, Pierce, Coolidge, and Obama, there is only one that isn’t silent. Obama. The others simply have an ‘e’ hanging on doing nothing except take up space. I’m actually in the same boat on that one. If this short trend continues, Mike Huckabee might have a chance. Or maybe George Pataki. Or even Marco Rubio who boldly pronounces BOTH first and last name ending vowels. What courage! Chris Christie doesn’t count. He couldn’t leave the ‘i’ well enough alone.

I’ll stop now because none of this matters. If you read this entire “piece,” I’m so sorry.