Tue, 30 Apr 2024 16:04:51 -0700WeeblySun, 14 Mar 2021 19:19:30 GMThttp://martyroppelt.com/the-fritzburg-blog/its-been-a-while-i-guessWell, I had no idea my last post was in 2017, and that it involved Kim Kardshian -- or, at least, some of her. It may be my imagination, or maybe I'm out of touch. But I'm happy to believe our culture has finally moved on.

I'm not happy to see that it's been nearly as long since I began working on my new novel. And I don't understand why. I love to write. So what's the hold-up?

In a word, life happens...

And that might come off as a cop-out. I've often wondered how some authors crank out a five hundred page novel every year. Granted, they might be of varying quality, but that's not my point. I don't want to be a one-off author. I have plans for two more novels after the current project. But plodding along at my current pace, they won't be  written until I hit senility, at which point I can predict their quality.

Blaming the onset of life under the cloud of COVID definitely qualifies as a dodge. If anything, as far as writing goes, the virus presents an opportunity. Don't misunderstand. I'm not diminishing the incredible, negative impact on just about everything. But with more time spent sheltered at home, more time to write became available.

Didn't happen.

More recently, my wife Becky and I have been tending to our fur-baby Fritz, who is in the end stages of cancer. We're spending as much time with him as possible. We do our best to make him comfortable and make sure he knows how much we love him. That being said, I'm writing this right now with him snuggling with Becky nearby. So, that's not it.

I am happy to say, though, that I'm more focused lately on my work. The story presents what I used to look at as "problems," but now consider "challenges." The molding of characters stokes my creativity. As this is a prequel to Mortal Foe, making those characters behave in ways that both make sense to readers and still surprise them is a challenge I'm embracing more.

To coin an old cliche, the creative juices are flowing again. Now I just have to find a way to keep that tap open.




]]>Tue, 04 Jul 2017 16:31:43 GMThttp://martyroppelt.com/the-fritzburg-blog/kim-kardashians-butt-uh-no-thanksKim Kardashian’s butt—more accurately, our culture’s fascination with it—is one of the main reasons I no longer write for Inquisitr.

Okay, let me clear something up. Inquisitr wasn’t requiring me, or even asking me, to get to the bottom of Ms. Kardashian’s, uh, bottom.

Shoving Ms. Kardashian’s butt aside for a moment, I should explain first what Inquisitr does: The on-line magazine’s journalists scour the internet for breaking news items they believe the public will be interested in. Then, the writers craft articles on those stories.

All things Kardashian, and other celebrity marriages and divorces, are apparently a lot more important to today’s readers than killer wildfires, terrorist attacks, or presidential candidate debates. I have a different view of “news” than most folks do, I guess.

I did get some traction out of a couple of stories about Kate Middleton, the Duchess of Cambridge. Was she pregnant, as per some swirling rumors? My Duchess stories got readers well into the thousands. I was amazed and baffled. It seemed to me that folks confuse rumor, gossip, and speculation, with news these days.

Because Kim Kardashian somehow mesmerizes so many, I had a running joke with Effie Orfanides, my mentor at Inquisitr.

"No Kardashian posterior posts," I told Effie. "I won’t write any."

I knew I was at the end of my short stint at inquisitr one slow news day when I had trouble finding an item that was interesting to the public, but that I could write about and live with. So, for laughs, I Googled “Kim Kardashian.” The first link that popped up, and therefore, the most popular, was this—and I swear, this is a quote:

Kim Kardashian’s Next Project Involves Her Bare Butt

I gave Inquisitr two weeks notice an hour or so later.

No, I’m not blind to the irony here. I have, in this Fritzburg post, given exposure to a subject I vowed never to write about. But Pastor Dan Weyerhauser stirred this up in my head with his sermon last Sunday.

Pastor Dan said God didn’t tell us not to murder because not murdering would ruin our day, or not to chase after another man’s wife because that would spoil our fun. He gave us instructions to keep us from hurting ourselves, or getting hurt, or hurting others.

When we give celebrities, ball players, any public or even private figures too much of our attention or admiration, we are worshiping idols.

Don’t believe it? I do. I’ve been just as guilty of idol worship as anyone else; it can be a tricky, insidious thing. I especially have to watch myself during football season… well, as a Cleveland Browns fan, more so in the past than now. I got distracted by football in the 1980’s, and by other things. I also got married in 1990 and divorced in 1995, and lived almost two decades I am not at all proud of.

Here’s the bottom line: Idol worship, in any form, is an insult to our Creator. It’s also, at the very least, a distraction from the truly important things in life.

Don’t believe that, either? After watching the last U.S. election process, the more-blatant-than-ever muddying of every puddle in sight, the uncovering and spreading of mountains of fertilizer, the protests and counter-protests, how could you not? So many moving parts demanded our immediate and undivided attention that we had to divide our attention immediately. The distractions, and the aftermath, have made strange times even stranger.

And darker.

Who knew Kim Kardashian’s butt could be so dangerous? Or so famous? Let’s face it—as far as we as a nation are concerned, she has no other known, tangible assets.





]]>Mon, 25 May 2015 17:07:07 GMThttp://martyroppelt.com/the-fritzburg-blog/galloping-charlie I love YouTube. Hard to find videos and films stream there. Sure, many of them are hard to find for good reason, and should maybe stay that way. You can probably find whatever footage you're looking for, though – good, bad, or ugly.

I tracked down The Lost Battalion, a 2001 made for cable movie, on YouTube. The story of the 307th and 308th Battalions of the 77th Infantry Division in World War 1 gets the Saving Private Ryan cinematic treatment. It's not a great film, but a very good one. I remembered seeing part of it on cable years ago. This was before I'd dug into the true history of the unit and its commander, Major Charles W. Whittlesey.

Briefly, nine combined companies of the 77th advanced into the Argonne Forest. The French and American divisions on their flanks fell back, and the enemy surrounded Whittlesey and his men. They fought, isolated and pretty much on their own, for nearly a week.

The focal character of this story is Whittlesey. “Galloping Charlie” got his nickname from his too long legs, which gave him the running gait of a startled ostrich. He was a lawyer by profession, not a soldier. Before the war, he advocated President Woodrow Wilson's mindset of staying out of the war. Eventually, though, the U.S. went Over There. So did Whittlesey.

The movie does a good job recreating the desperate battle. A few well-written lines stand out amongst the almost constant action. At one point, realizing the battalion is surrounded and without much hope of survival, a captain and Whittlesey share this exchange:

“You don't think we should be here, do you?” the captain asks.

“No,” Whittlesey answers.

“Well, given that's the way you feel, why are you here?”

“Life would be a lot simpler if we could choose our duties and our obligations. But we can't. We shouldn't. That's why I'm here.”

I'll get back to that dialogue in a sec.

Whittlesey's stand made a difference in that war. The cost was high. Of the 554 men he led into the Argonne Forest, only 194 walked out. Some folks, mostly Englishmen and Frenchmen, dispute the impact of the battle in the Argonne. The fact remains, though, that the American and French forces repeatedly attacked to relieve the surrounded battalion. And though the 77th did not win the war by themselves, as critics of the movie point out, the Armistice was signed five weeks later.

Coincidence? Uh, no.

Whittlesey left the Argonne, but was a walking casualty. Traumatized by the loss of so many of his men, he committed suicide by jumping off the side of a cruise ship three years after the war. Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome – known then as Shell Shock – was not only misunderstood, it carried the stigma of cowardice.

What did the sensitive and, ultimately, brittle lawyer suffer every waking hour and every restless night of those last three years? Plenty of living combat vets could tell you. Few can bring themselves to talk about it, though.

Okay, the movie has a script, and the conversation between Whittlesey and his captain might be speculative fiction. The major's answer to the “why are you here” question haunts me, though. The American “doughboys” got a heroes' welcome home. The soldiers who went to Viet Nam – who also did not choose their duties and obligations – were protested and spat on when they got back.

But every man and woman who dons a uniform, no matter what duty or obligation is thrust on them by our nation's leaders, ultimately fights for one thing in the end. They ensure a nation where we can disagree, where we can choose to cheer or jeer, where we can re-elect or roust the folks who send them into battle. We can protest, unlike Tienanmen Square, China, or (fill-in-the-blank) Russia. We can, for the moment, worship as we choose.

To Major Charles White Whittlesey, and to every man and woman who gave the last full measure of devotion to this country, I give my thanks.

]]>Mon, 30 Mar 2015 15:31:38 GMThttp://martyroppelt.com/the-fritzburg-blog/artistic-license-to-kill Last month, Becky and I watched “Sons of Liberty,” a three-part mini series on the History Channel. I've rarely laughed so hard.

Once I composed myself – this took a couple of weeks – I re-examined the experience. “Sons,” about the birth of the American Revolution, is well acted and directed. The cinematography is first rate, the production values are high. It's a fine bit of entertainment.

My main, and growing, problem with this HISTORY Channel show is the emphasis on entertainment rather than history. They should have called it “Super Sam Adams and a Few Buddies Create a Nation,” or “Sons of Taking Liberties.”

Ben Barnes plays Samuel Adams, the focal character. Barnes is a handsome, fit (chiseled, for you ladies) 30-ish actor. The real Samuel Adams was nearing 50 at the time of the Revolution, paunchy (beer gut?), double chinned... What would be the direct opposite of “glamorous?” That would be Sam Adams. Look at this portrait of him, done in 1770, the time of the Revolution. Compare it with this one of Barnes. The miscast Barnes makes Adams – who seems to be everywhere, running everything, all at once – come off more like a morose frat boy run amok than a leader of a revolt.

And yet, the truth might fall somewhere between Adonis and Double Chin. We may never know for sure. The events dramatized took place nearly 250 years ago. The lapse of time isn't the issue, though. Marketing is.

Shelby Foote, author, historian and contributer to Ken Burns' “The Civil War,” made an interesting comment in the documentary. Americans, he said, love elevating our historical figures into legends. We believe our generals are the greatest generals of all time, and that we fought the greatest battles of all time, whether true or not.

We've always over-hyped our heroes, especially in our popular culture. Take John Wayne's film, “The Alamo.” He got his source material from respected historians. Then he exercised artistic license, re-writing the script until the historians demanded their names be removed from the credits as “advisors.” And Custer, at Little Big Horn? Modern battlefield forensics strongly suggest a story quite different from the one his widow championed for the rest of her life – the relentlessly heroic one the movies always depict. Mrs. Custer lived to market her scalped hubby's image. Hollywood bought in, and so did the audiences.

Shelby Foote said this hero hyping is “very American.” He was right, but not entirely. The play and film “Amadeus” is pure speculation about Wolfgang Mozart, one of the greatest composers of all time. Written by an Englishman, about an Austrian, it's wonderful entertainment, but don't take it too seriously – it's heavily fictionalized.

Don't get me wrong. I love movies, always have. Entertainment interests the masses more than enlightenment. Filmmakers, playwrights, actors and artists are no different in that regard than their audiences.

What's the big deal?

Entertainment is not a means for learning the truth. If we believe everything that claims to be “historical” on cable TV, movies, and the internet, we leave ourselves at the mercy of the folks who provide the content. The History Channel, seriously? How long will it be before our ability to recognize truth is killed by artistic license? Satan, the father of all lies, would love that. Truth tainted with a lie is no longer truth.

Go ahead, market fiction as such. I write fiction myself. No problem – I never try to pass it off as historical truth. But to me, lies masquerading as truth are not entertaining at all.

]]>Sun, 22 Feb 2015 00:41:06 GMThttp://martyroppelt.com/the-fritzburg-blog/celebrating-our-faith February 17, 2015, a frigid gray morning, got colder and grayer for Becky and me around noon. We took our ailing 23 year old cat, Faith, to the vet.

We did not take her back home with us.

This post isn't merely a eulogy. Faith wasn't merely a cat. She was the embodiment of her name.

“Faith” has several definitions: Confidence or trust in a person or thing, belief that is not based on proof, and belief in God, to name a few.

Here's how I believe God used a lowly cat to teach us about real faith.

November, 1992. Becky and her first husband owned a house in North Olmsted, Ohio. They already had three cats living with them. So, Becky was a little stunned when a long-haired calico stray marched from the street, across the yard and, uninvited, through her house's open front door.

I'd bet the other cats were stunned, too. The newcomer chose for herself a home (theirs) and a Human (ditto). The little creature – full grown, but just six-and-a-half pounds – trusted the already settled cats to accept her.

More to the point, she trusted Becky, a stranger of another species twenty times her size. Chew on that for a minute. How much faith would a human put in a rhinoceros? Would we snuggle up to a rhino and hope for both acceptance and petting? Yet, the little cat behaved as though she believed everything would turn out all right, despite no proof to support her belief.

What to name the newcomer? The little Beastie enjoyed climbing the Christmas tree that first Yuletide. Inspired, Becky named her Faith.“The name sounded Christmas-y,” she once told me. Becky's family scoffed at God – Christmas was ironically secular to them. Though not yet committed to seeking Him, however, Becky was more open and curious.

Then Faith got hit by a car.

Becky hurried her to the vet. The collision shattered Faith's hips and broke her tail at the base. The vet recommended putting the wounded cat down.

Becky refused, of course. She put her faith in... well, in what she did not know at the time. She believed her little Girlie would pull through and be all right, a belief based on something other than proof.

She nursed Faith back to health. The tail stayed crooked, and arthritis hindered the hips in later years. But in spite of expert advice, Becky kept the necessary faith.

We each, Becky and I, went through dark times over the years, which included our divorces. Once we married, she began seeking God, walking His path and growing in the faith. Credit for Becky's journey towards God goes to Him, though. Faith stirred in her long before she even knew it, with the arrival of a special creature sent to show her what the word really meant. We both believe God loves all His creation, and so believe that when “the lion shall lie down with the lamb,” there will be a special place for our little girl.

Until that time, although we don't see her around us, we are never without our Faith.

]]>Sun, 01 Feb 2015 22:01:31 GMThttp://martyroppelt.com/the-fritzburg-blog/not-so-super-gates Super Bowl Sunday, the merciful end of two weeks of hype, is here.

Seriously. Most fans don't need – or want – to know every waking thought of every player and coach. They just want to see the game... and the cool commercials.

We can't escape Deflate-Gate, though. Yeah, the caper's been written about ad nauseum. But Deflate-Gate is important – not the act itself as much as the mentality behind it.

First, a question: What's up with the Gate?

Old Timers like me remember how someone broke into and bugged the Democratic National Committee's headquarters at the Watergate Hotel in 1972 (Wow! So long ago...). Someone leaked the story later. The Nixon administration denied any involvement or knowledge. American scandals have tended to get a Gate in the name ever since.

Fast forward to 2015. Someone doctors footballs to give his team an edge over the competition. News of the cheating leaks out. Team leaders deny any involvement or knowledge.

Sound familiar?

Why cheat, though?

Without getting into too much football-speak (I can do that; it's an addiction), the New England Patriots didn't need an extra edge two weeks ago against the Indianapolis Colts. No offense meant, Indy fans. The Colts are undeniably an excellent team, Division Champions.

I believe the Patriots are the better team right now, however. They didn't need to risk this mess. Here they are nonetheless, wriggling and dancing, and offering ridiculous explanations, in an attempt to diffuse their own bomb. Worse, they still haven't distanced themselves from another recent scandal – the 2007 videotaping of opponents' practices, dubbed Spy-Gate.

Some folks (Patriots fans, mostly) might call these behaviors “competitiveness.” Really? More like “insecurity,” with a capital “I.” The Patriots' quarterback, a first-ballot Hall of Famer, and his coach already own three Super Bowl rings. This year's Patriots team isn't as talented as past squads, but they're still Conference Champions. And yet, someone in the organization thought it necessary to break rules.

Someone with the Patriots, like the Nixon administration, cheated... for the team. Somebody higher up knew about it but, like Watergate, nobody admits anything.

Fear drives this runaway bus. Fear of losing. Win at all costs no matter what it takes, because winning is the only thing.

Fear. Whose fear? Can a whole team be insecure? Sure. A wise young friend of mine believes institutional insecurity starts at the top and filters down throughout the organization. A look back through history, at other institutions and even entire countries, proves him right.

Whether New England wins their fourth Super Bowl ring today or not, football fans will remember their insecurity, their fear, and how they chose to handle it. I doubt the Patriots want to be remembered with controversy and doubt smeared across their names. Too bad they didn't think it through.

What we all do now, and how we do it, matters later.

]]>Tue, 11 Nov 2014 17:51:36 GMThttp://martyroppelt.com/the-fritzburg-blog/veterans-day-the-great-warriors First and foremost to every American vet, I give you my respect and thanks.

Few Americans know our mid November remembrance, Veterans Day, was called Armistice Day for generations. The day once served to honor only those who fought in World War 1, the “Great War.” WW1 ended, officially, at the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month, 1918.

Americans set other dates aside for the veterans of World War 2. We no longer observe V-E or V-J Days (Victory in Europe and Victory in Japan, respectively). Our Korean War and Vietnam vets got left off our calendars. That was wrong.

My dad made a cursory attempt, during my teens, to convince me nothing molded a man like service in the peacetime military. We discussed it back in the late 1970's. His timing suffered. I had seen the films The Deer Hunter and Apocalypse Now. The military held little appeal for me after those movie experiences.

I still think about those conversations with Dad, though. His comment about the “peacetime” military lingers with me like mustard gas in a shell hole. What, in the 20th Century, was “peacetime?” The U.S. started the 1900's by winding up involvement in two separate but simultaneous wars, the Philippine-American War and the Chinese Boxer Rebellion. Sixteen years later, American soldiers slogged through the mud of France and Belgium. Pearl Harbor exploded twenty three years after.

A quick note – WW2 was no more than a continuation of WW1, with a pause to rearm. Anyone with a brain who read the terms of the Treaty of Versailles knew what was coming.

Korea followed WW2 within five years, Vietnam less than a generation later. Other conflicts followed, in Grenada, Panama, the Persian Gulf, and Bosnia.

Nothing has changed. We've been at war the whole of this new century, too.

It takes a special person to don a uniform. Sgt. Henry Gunther, a German-American, was one such special person. He and his family endured growing anti-German sentiment leading up to his service. In spite of the civilian hatred, or perhaps because of it, Gunther went to France to fight for his country, for his freedom. German machine gunners pinned Sgt. Gunther and his men down at war's end. The sergeant fixed his bayonet and charged the machine gun nest, alone, at 10:59 November 11, 1918. Gen. John J. Pershing designated Gunther the last American soldier killed in the Great War.

The likelihood of today's Sgt. Gunthers being sent to a foreign field has grown over the years, not shrunk.

Once again, they command my respect, both the living and the lost. Thank you, veterans.

]]>Sun, 15 Jun 2014 17:32:28 GMThttp://martyroppelt.com/the-fritzburg-blog/the-fathers-day-tie Groucho Marx commented, during his 1972 Carnegie Hall appearance, on Father's Day and on the differences between songs written about mothers, and those about fathers. Composers have written many songs giving moms tender love. Dads have gotten the short end. Songs about fathers, according to Groucho, included “Pop Goes the Weasel,” and “Oh, What A Crumb Was My Old Man.”

He also sang this song. I don't remember the title or the composer, but the lyrics stuck with me:

Today, father, is Father's Day,

And we're giving you a tie.

It's not much at all, it is just our way of showing you,

We think you're a “regular guy.”

You say that it was nice of us to bother,

But it really was a pleasure to fuss.

For according to our mother, you're our father,

And that's good enough for us.

I sometimes wonder how important Father's Day is to dads. No fancy buffets at expensive restaurants for them. In fact, the extravagance might make them squirm a little. Moms don't squirm at restaurants on Mother's Day. I'll bet if rain doesn't flood the barbecue, and dads can man the grill with one eye or ear catching the ball game and one hand wrapped around a beer, they've got everything they want.

My dad didn't fire up the grill every summer weekend. Father's Day was a good, if unnecessary, excuse. We'd retire to the basement after eating, and drink Canadian whiskey, by the shot. I'd chase them with beer, Dad with wine. We'd talk for hours, and watch some TV together.

Dad passed on a dozen years ago. I don't remember what we said during those Father's Day conversations. The subject matter strikes me as unimportant now. I treasure the time we spent together, the connection, the bond itself. He didn't say as much, but I think – I hope – he treasured it, too....

Our bond, and his new tie.

]]>Sat, 19 Apr 2014 02:32:02 GMThttp://martyroppelt.com/the-fritzburg-blog/perfect-love Fritz gets shortchanged on time alone with me, his chosen Human. I admit my failings in that area. We'd have no issue if he got along with Faith, the Upstairs Princess. He wants to kill her instead. Oh, well. Fritzburg, his domain, is not such a bad place. He likes it.

I usually give him a few hours a day of petting and play time, when I feed him and whenever else I can. I'll split this time around my work schedule. Sometimes he gets more time before my work shift, sometimes after I get home. In any case, he prefers the TV on.

Snow fell here a few days ago, at the start of Holy Week. Blizzards are nothing new around the Great Lakes in April, so I gave the white stuff no real thought other than it being a good reason to dye Easter eggs. How cruel, to send kids out into the yard to find white eggs in the snow! Unless parents just need to get them out of the house for a couple of hours... or weeks...

Anyway, a day or so after the snowfall, I searched the internet for a Fritz-y distraction – we've gotten rid of expensive cable TV. I found a little something I thought might be amusing given the recent weather: Winter Wonderland for Your Home, Snowy Scenery.

I turned turned the program on for laughs. I got an epiphany instead.

Music accompanied the video of snow falling on already covered pine trees, creek banks, and mountains. The pictures were beautiful.

The tunes were Christmas music.

At first, I thought listening to Christmas music in mid April felt odd. The first song was We Wish You a Merry Christmas. I expected stuff like Let It Snow, Sleigh Ride and the like, to follow. I realized as I listened, though, that only two of the nearly dozen tunes were secular.

All the rest were songs of the Christian faith.

Joy To the World, Hark! The Herald Angels Sing, O Come All Ye Faithful – songs of hope, anticipation and exaltation washed over me. I embraced the Christmastime bliss of the coming of the Lord. At the same time I was keenly mindful of the gravity of His hanging on the cross on Good Friday.

I was struck – not for the first time, but more powerfully than ever – by how much God loves us. He sent His own Son here for us. He sacrificed His Son for us. He didn't have to do these things; He could have left us to the worst of fates.

I tried all week to wrap my head around this kind of love. I can't, of course. My head is not perfect. His love for us is. The word Gratitude falls so comically short. But I am grateful to Him. I give Him thanks not only for sending us Christ Jesus. I give Him thanks for being Him, for being the Father who loves us with such an intense, perfect love.

May He bless you this Easter, and always.

]]>Fri, 11 Apr 2014 22:23:16 GMThttp://martyroppelt.com/the-fritzburg-blog/somethin-to-squawk-about Connecting with any number of people on any level means fielding complaints. Lots of them. Every day. The uncontrollable urge to wail seems to be standard equipment, a natural part of each of us, like arms and legs. It must be in our collective DNA.

Disagree? Try tending bar, or working at a coffee shop or restaurant, just for a month. Trust me, you'll get your fill.

Bellyaching is nothing new. The Israelites moaned about captivity in Egypt 3000 years ago... then about freedom in the desert, then about the manna God sent to feed them. But they were far from the first or the last to voice dissatisfaction over their lot.

Complaints come in an astounding variety, both in the kind of complaint and the reasons for them. We've all heard grumbles from our parents, siblings, and spouses, about everything from the crashing economy to the dishes not yet washed and put away. This type of gripe is personal, one on one.

Mass protests are also a way of complaining, albeit for sometimes good reasons. Those who weren't born yet or who were too young to remember have probably seen footage of Viet Nam War and Equal Rights protests from the '60's and '70's. The recent Occupy (Fill-In-The-Blank) Movement(s) wanted to be like the iconic American protests of the past, but the Occu-protesters missed an important point: the Equal Rights protests were about equal rights. The Viet Nam War protests were about the Viet Nam War. The Occupy protests were about a multitude of things at once.

Because of their lack of focus they came off as, well, complainers, more so than as crusaders.

I often field complaints about something those complaints can't change – the weather. I won't get into global warming here, and about how if each of us just would do this or that the polar ice caps won't melt and we could save the world, etc. I don't mean to be flippant. The sad fact is, we won't all pull together. Too many people will do what they want to do no matter who it effects. That's in our collective DNA, too.

No, I love the folks who grouse every year about the winters here in northern Illinois. This winter was particularly long and cold, true. But for over a century, ever since 1913 when Henry Ford began mass production of the Model T, we have been an almost completely mobile nation. That means if you don't like the weather where you are, you can climb into your auto-MOBILE, and drive to a place that suits you better. Moaning won't change the weather, but the moaner can change his locale.

Impractical? Sure, but possible. In other words, stop kvetsching about the weather. It's above everyone's pay grade. If you're really serious, find a way to bug out of town.

And now, acknowledging the irony of it all, I am done complaining about complainers....

That is, until summer. The first person to gripe to me about the heat might just get an earful.

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