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Sex and the Logger

Here I am sitting at a fancy Stowe, Vt., sandwich shop-the kind with WiFi and $5 a cup coffee-typing my weekly column on a sleek, silver laptop.

Normally, I do my work at my home, but this time my appointments-which start with the funeral of a friend's mother-are scattered in such a "spray" as to not allow me to return home until past midnight. So, I've thrown in the towel and joined the in-crowd by doing my personal work in front of strangers.

It feels funny, stupid-even elitist-to be engrossed in my own little world at a shop counter blasting the keyboard in a way that implies I'm getting something important done; something much more important than eating.

In many towns in Vermont these days, paths of life lead us to stand-up ordering overpriced hummus-stuffed Falafels. One could say $9 organic pulled-pork wraps are nothing more than a sign of the trendy times. But if my dad (pre-dementia) were to come down from heaven and see me typing on this electronic metal tablet, he wouldn't recognize me. It would be the thought of the Logger stepping foot into one of these pannini boutique food shops that would get me laughed out of town-but it doesn't.

I'm bemused-and maybe more to the point: insecure-knowing the Lord designed and built my mind and body to do physical work, not namby pamby typing, dreaming, and thinking-type work.

Physical work would require that I eat at places designed for the common man: places that cook with Crisco not Orzo. Places where everybody knows your name (and not so much your alma mater).

My job is evidence that I've let the Lord, and myself down; but still I rest well knowing that if my job doesn't require me to heavy lift, I've certainly worked hard at intending it to uplift.

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