(Warning: spoilers for the season finale ahead.)

My wife and I watched the finale of the first new season of Doctor Who in, what, a decade at least?

We have really loved this new version of Doctor Who, which was created by the BBC. It harkens back to the days of Tom Baker as the Doctor, and I couldn’t be more impressed. Really good and fun stories, a strong Doctor and companion, and, most importantly, special effect that were used to support the story, and not be the story themselves (like that horrid movie a few years ago).

The even revisited villains from earlier in the season, and earlier in the entire series. They explained what happened to the Time Lords and to the Daleks. They touched on the paradoxes of time travel. They discussed the redemption of evil, and the mistakes that good people can make.

The two part finale had us both very excited. Earth was being attacked by the Daleks, the Doctor’s companion, Rose, was sent back to her home time, and the Doctor could only stop the last of the Daleks by destroying everyone: him, the Daleks, and all life on Earth itself.

So, how did they resolve the dilemma? Rose comes back in the Tardis which provides her with superpowers, and she takes the need for a choice away from the Doctor by destroying the Daleks by herself, completely, without any harm to humans. Heck, she even brought one of the other companions back from the dead.

Feh. What a copout. Basically it was a Deux ex Machina. The writers for reasons unknown couldn’t figure out an interesting and plausible way of getting The Doctor and the human race out of their predicament, so they made Rose into a God through really no effort, and whoopee, there is a happy ending.

Why did they have to cop out like that? The Doctor should have thought his way out of the problem. Or at least made a lasting sacrifice. Something, anything! Not have someone come in and save the day through no effort at all.

Oh well, the rest of the season was good, and well worth watching. There will be a new Doctor next year. I greatly enjoyed Christopher Eccleston’s take on the Doctor. If he had lasted a few more years, he may have even become my favorite.

Even with the dud of an ending, I’m thrilled that Doctor Who is back. I hear there are at least two more seasons in the works, and I will be watching.

One of the traits that Jen has that I admire is her perseverance. She might not think she has this, but my observation is that she does, is spades.

From what I’ve seen, when she commits to something, she doesn’t give up. She’ll see it through, she’ll try to make things right, and she’ll not let go until it is finished, even if she is the last one there.

But also, I notice that she will ask for help and opinions. Most people who want to get things done insist on doing it completely by themselves. This means that half the time, they fail. Jen will not only accept help, she will ask for it when needed.

She is definitely someone to have on your team.

"To improve is to change. To be perfect is to change often."
-- Sir Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill

I was recently at a military conference when a General, who was one of the guest speakers, quoted Sir Winston and used this idea to support his case that the military must constantly change an adapt in order to meet new challenges.

I filed that away because I think I had a sort of epiphany and I wanted to think about that. It wasn’t a major one, but something I do try to puzzle out.

Perfection.

My interpretation of that word mainly came from religion. You know: God. At the risk of being misogynistic and avoiding typing he/she all the time (not to mention ‘it’), I’ll discuss God as a he. Or a she.

Wait, that isn’t what this essay is about. Never mind, back to my thoughts.

Perfection. According to religion, God is, by definition, perfect. I think it was Thomas Aquinas who postulated that only God can be perfect, so that if God created the universe, and everything God does is perfect, then the universe must be perfect too, which is a paradox, unless God is the universe.

Okay, that isn’t really the direction of what this is about either.

What is perfection? That is, what does it mean to be perfect? Even if one doesn’t go into the above paradox and just says “God is perfect,” in my mind perfection means unchanging.

A real definition is “the state of being without a flaw or defect,” which defines Elaine quite well, but doesn’t help me otherwise.

If something is without flaw or defect, or even an ideal instance, then there is no need for it to change, right? It must be static, immutable, well … unchanging. So if you have something that is perfect, that is it, it shouldn’t change, you can’t improve it, right?

But what did Churchill say: to be perfect is to change often. That never occurred to me before. Sure, I’ve always said that a marriage has to change in order to survive, but that was because I didn’t think it was possible to have a ‘perfect’ marriage. But maybe it is. Maybe it is just my definition of perfection that is wrong.

Maybe, in order to strive for perfection, one must be willing to embrace change, to grow and evolve.

Perhaps perfection is only valid for a certain instance. Because circumstances change, something that is perfect must be able to adapt to that change.

So just because things are fine the way they are now, doesn’t mean that change is the wrong answer, or that any change from what is considered normal is a negative thing.

For some reason that I can’t figure out, the idea of perfection is highly important to me. I need to think about this more.

Ice cream has to be the worst food ever created. A little bit will add tons of fat to your body. Eat it too fast and you'll get a brain freeze, which hurts like crazy.

But mostly, it causes arguments. No one can ever agree on what flavor they like, which makes it impossible to just bring home a half gallon of the crap for a group of friends. This is made worse by all the stupid flavors they've been coming out with lately. Really, what kind of flavor is Cherry Garcia or Chunky Monkey? Do they really dice up Monkeys and add chilled milk?

What's next: hey, get your earwax-and-used-diaper flavor ice cream!

This doesn't even mention the toppings. What idiot decided that ice cream should have nuts in it. I've seen people use ice cream as a means to shovel nuts and sprinkles and hot fudge into their mouth.

Here's a tip: if you put hot fudge on ice cream, all you'll get is melted ice cream and cold calamari-textured chocolate goo.

If I'd have my way, I'd ban ice cream from the face of the earth. Just give me some thing simple, like milk and cookies. Just don't make them monkey flavored.

My assignment for our Level 2 improv class was to pick something we love, and write a rant about it from the opposing point of view. I love ice cream, and the above is my anti-point-of-view rant.

It was fun to do, actually!

The other part of the homework assignment was to take a character that we were given from one of our classmates (out of the three total) and write a monologue from their point of view. We were given characters that were made to stretch us, and should be ones that might be impossible for us to do. This is one of the characters I was given, and also acted out on Saturday, so I know the most about him.

Orlando is a middle aged African American. His wife’s name is Bernadette. He likes Motown music and classic cars. He dislikes rap music and the youth of America. He’s very religious and soulful.

Here is the monologue:

Children today have a problem. It isn't drugs, it isn't gangs, and it isn't that awful rap music. Those are just symptoms.

The problem is that they are lost. Their only hope of finding their way is through God. But they aren't going to find the Lord by themselves. Jesus works through us, and that means that you, you parents, must show them the way.

You can't do that by just telling them to go to church and then drinking another beer. You have to be an example. Be a hero. Go to church yourself. Be honest and ethical. Show them the love of God by loving your children.

Put down the belt. Give them a hand. Try to be the person you wish you were; show them that trying is what a life of faith is all about. Respect yourself, and your children will respect you.

Let your life be your ministry. That is the only hope for our youth.

That should work. I don’t want him to be a caricature. I know people like him, and he seems real, to me. Which, actually, is what it is all about.

Oh, and the other two characters? One was a redneck, and the other was a small time bookie from Brooklyn.

Youse got a problem wit dat?

Ice cream has to be the worst food ever created. A little bit will add tons of fat to your body. Eat it to fast and you'll get a brain freeze, which hurts like crazy.

But mostly, it causes arguments. No one can ever agree on what flavor they like, which makes it impossible to just bring home a half gallon of the crap for a group of friends. This is made worse by all the stupid flavors they've been coming out with lately. Really, what kind of flavor is Cherry Garcia or Chunky Monkey? Do they really dice up Monkeys and add chilled milk?

What's next: hey, get your earwax-and-used-diaper flavor ice cream!

This doesn't even mention the toppings. What idiot decided that ice cream should have nuts in it. I've seen people use ice cream as a means to shovel nuts and sprinkles and hot fudge into their mouth.

Here's a tip: if you put hot fudge on ice cream, all you'll get is melted ice cream and cold calamari-textured chocolate goo.

If I'd have my way, I'd ban ice cream from the face of the earth. Just give me some thing simple, like milk and cookies. Just don't make them monkey flavored.

My assignment for our Level 2 improv class was to pick something we love, and write a rant about it from the opposing point of view. I love ice cream, and the above is my anti-point-of-view rant.

It was fun to do, actually!

The other part of the homework assignment was to take a character that we were given from one of our classmates (out of the three total) and write a monologue from their point of view. We were given characters that were made to stretch us, and should be ones that might be impossible for us to do. This is one of the characters I was given, and also acted out on Saturday, so I know the most about him.

Orlando is a middle aged African American. His wife’s name is Bernadette. He likes Motown music and classic cars. He dislikes rap music and the youth of America. He’s very religious and soulful.

Here is the monologue:

Children today have a problem. It isn't drugs, it isn't gangs, and it isn't that awful rap music. Those are just symptoms.

The problem is that they are lost. Their only hope of finding their way is through God. But they aren't going to find the Lord by themselves. Jesus works through us, and that means that you, you parents, must show them the way.

You can't do that by just telling them to go to church and then drinking another beer. You have to be an example. Be a hero. Go to church yourself. Be honest and ethical. Show them the love of God by loving your children.

Put down the belt. Give them a hand. Try to be the person you wish you were; show them that trying is what a life of faith is all about. Respect yourself, and your children will respect you.

Let your life be your ministry. That is the only hope for our youth.

That should work. I don’t want him to be a caricature. I know people like him, and he seems real, to me. Which, actually, is what it is all about.

Oh, and the other two characters? One was a redneck, and the other was a small time bookie from Brooklyn.

Youse got a problem wit dat?

This wasn’t my first Father’s Day. In point of fact, I think it was my third. The first two, oddly enough, didn’t have that much of an effect on me.

Sure, I was a daddy, but this was the first time that my son, my flesh and blood, wished me a Happy Father’s Day, and gave me a card. My outward response was joy. My son said something very nice to me, and I got another hug and kiss. Inwardly I felt the same, but I also felt…well…

I felt old.

See, for most of my life I celebrated Father’s Day with my father, who is, not surprisingly, older than me. So in my mind the person who is honored on this day is, by definition, old.

Or at least older than I am.

All that went through my brain in the span of a few seconds.

Then the positives came right back to me. For an old man, I still have an amazingly sexy and beautiful wife. I have two wonderful children and a very silly one-eyed cat. I have a family that loves me, and I love them.

Maybe I am now official and old man. I can deal with that. The alternative would be far worse.

Parsla and Mike got married this past weekend.

Mazeltov!

Let’s see, two categories of things I can talk about: things I found odd, and what I found really cool. I know, it wasn’t my wedding, but hey, I was there, and I have a brain, and this is my journal.

One thing I can’t talk about is how wonderful Parsla looked, because it isn’t right to think those thoughts when looking at a bride. I also had better not mention how hot the bridesmaids were. Hmmm, um…moving on to the first category.

I like the rituals that a Catholic ceremony has. I could do with it being shorter though! Most other services I know of take a half hour, tops. But two hours? Wow. I am so glad I grabbed a ton of food and ate it on the drive over. It would have been bad.

I found it very amusing when the Priest tried to speak Hebrew words. That was awesome. Painful, but a wonderful effort.

The “Speaker of Damocles” was exciting. High above the alter is a huge audio speaker suspended by four thin looking cables. All of us kept wondering who it would take out.

Why do people sing so lethargically in church? I think I’d enjoy going to a service where people were so excited by the songs that they shake the roof.

Second category.

Mike and Parsla hang out with some very cool people.

One of the best things was that, near the beginning of the ceremony, the Priest went being the bridal party into the congregation, and the bridal party turned and faced us. It was very beautiful the way everyone was arranged, and we could see their faces and hear their words during the entire ceremony. Awesome. We really were witnessing, and it felt like we were a part of it, and not just observing.

The live band at the reception was great. Actually, the reception was great. If we didn’t have to go home to be with our kids, we would have stayed longer. (And bringing them wouldn’t have helped, we would have left at the same time, probably, maybe sooner.) (And we don’t regret having to go home to our kids – it is just a fact that we did so, not a complaint.)

Magda’s cake was great as usual, and, in fact, all the food was.

I got to see some old rocket scientist friends I haven’t seen in a while.

Parsla had them take a picture of just me and her!

However, the very best thing from my geeky point of view was the boutonniere. Yes, the flowers on my lapel. I have no idea who attached it to the collar of my tuxedo. Looked great, but I noticed that the backing was this thick kind of large piece of metal. I couldn’t imagine the holes it put into my lapel.

When I got home and went to take it off, it just popped right out into my hand, and there were no holes anywhere! It was a magnet! Two magnets: one wrapped in with the stems, and the other put on the back of my lapel.

What a fantastic idea!

Magnets. What will they think of next?

If you don’t want me to write to you, then please be considerate and just tell me.

Don’t lead me on with false promises. Don’t pretend that you like to hear from me.

Most of all: don’t waste my time. There are plenty of other people I can write to, who are interested in what I have to say and treat me with respect.

Don’t make up things. If you aren’t going to read what I write, then just tell me and I’ll stop. Don’t pretend to understand what I write and then make blatant factual errors in your response. You don’t need to make up excuses if you want me to stop writing.

Just tell me.

Be honest.

If I am wasting your time, tell me. I’ll be happy to go elsewhere, so that we both can return to more productive activities. I can stop banging my head against the wall, and you can stop reinforcing the cracks.

We’ll both be happier that way.

(Obligatory notice: this posting has nothing to do with anyone who knows me personally. This is not about you.)

Yesterday I had to take Pythagoras to the vet. He needs his teeth cleaned more often than most cats. This is probably because when we try to clean his teeth, he will wiggle, squirm, zoom around the house, call a lawyer, and then appear on the episode of Jerry Springer entitled, “My owners stick horrid things in my mouth!”

Everything was fine. No teeth pulled and he did very well.

But when we arrived at home, he bolted out of the carrier and ran downstairs. We didn’t see him the rest of the night. Nor in the morning.

Nor during the day while Elaine was home.

We were very worried. Would our Pythagoras ever return?

When I came home I went downstairs to look for him, and he appeared. He hesitantly came upstairs with me for dinner.

But tonight, while taking a break from my exercises, he jumped on my lap and snuggled up and purred. He then settled down for a nice long snuggle nap.

So much for working out!

After a half hour he left to go upstairs to be with Elaine.

What a good boy.

Natalie remembers. I realize that is an odd thing to say about someone, but it is one of her wonderful positive attributes.

I’m not talking about remembering people’s birthdays and things, although she isn’t too bad at that. I’m talking about remembering aspects about people, their past, and, significantly, what is really important to them.

I think that this comes from how much she cares about people, and manifests into compassion and empathic support. A deep personal caring that makes her someone you’d be very lucky to know.

Natalie’s friends are very lucky.

Cassandra can now roll over, and suddenly she’s never where you think you put her.

Marcus knows the correct answer when we ask him, “What is your name?”

Pythagoras has started to sleep on my side of the bed.

Elaine gets more beautiful everyday.

I’ve started a new vice.

Life is good.

Our Hero enters the Sears store and talks to the Sales Lady.

OH: Excuse me, could you remove this tag? I bought this two days ago, and it wasn’t removed then with the others. If I remove it myself, ink will release. Here is my receipt.

SL: Do you have the bag?

OH: The what?

SL: The bag we gave you when you bought it.

OH: No, I threw that away. Here is the receipt.

SL: It needs to be in the bag you brought it in. [She takes the shirt and looks at it.]

OH: Why?

SL: Because that is how we are told to do it. May I at least see a receipt?

OH: You mean the one I showed you and put down on the counter?

SL: Yes, that one.

OH: There it is. [I hand it to her.]

SL: Thank you.

OH: So why do I need a bag?

SL: [She looks at the receipt.] If you have it in a bag, then we are sure you didn’t just take the shirt off the rack.

OH: Couldn’t I just take the shirt off and put in the bag anyway?

SL: [She gives me a confused look, then looks down at the receipt.] I need to compare the number on your receipt to the tag on the shirt.

OH: Of course, that is why I brought it. Could I have just brought the bag and not the receipt?

SL: Oh no, sir, the receipt is the most important thing.

OH: So I see.

SL: They match. Would you like me to remove the shoplifting sensor?

OH: Yes, please. [I’m trying to be patient.]

SL: I’ll tell you a secret. [What, that you take forever and can’t just remove a simple tag in less than ten minutes?] Those tags don’t really work anyway, and half the items down even have them.

OH: That’s nice. Look, I have a friend waiting for me. We need to get back to Subway and return a half eaten sandwich.

SL: Yes sir. [She takes the special tool and removes the tag. She goes to hand it to me then stops.] Oh, wait, let me put this in a bag for you.

[Later than evening.]

OH: And that, Your Honor, is when I shot her.

New drivers don’t mean to be rude when they aren’t driving. They don’t think they are better than the driver. They aren’t know it alls, or anal retentive.

What has happened is that they have learned a little about driving, and their perspective has changed.

Before, when the new driver was only a passenger, they enjoyed just going along for the ride. The front seat was more fun than the back, but they were still a passenger. They could watch the scenery go by, or even just read and sleep.

But when they learn to drive, even a little bit, that all changes. Now they get a feel for the road. They know all the rules, where to drive, what speed to go, and what is important to notice.

Actually, they don’t have that quite right. They notice everything, especially the dangers. They notice when the driver isn’t exactly in the center of the lane. They notice oncoming traffic and pedestrians.

The driver doesn’t drive like them, and that scares them to death because they aren’t in control.

They don’t know what to do.

They can’t get in the driver’s seat. All they can do is notice, and comment. Without any chance to get into that driver’s seat, they become back seat drivers, stuck in their own rut.

And eventually they realize that the driver has far more skill than they do. And they get confused and lost and feel despair.

They see exactly how to drive correctly, what everyone else is doing wrong, but when they get in the car themselves, their inexperience comes forward, and they crash. Or creep along, barely getting anywhere.

After that, getting behind the wheel becomes terrifying.

And so, they look longingly at the driver’s seat, wanting that skill, understanding the techniques, and forever just a passenger.