Peasant Feast

It's been a simple, ordinary way for me, despite my possibly vain imagining that my life will turn out quite different: more active, unconventional or writerly, death or life by adventure or courageous choices. There are no great achievements that I can confidently embrace as "great achievements."

Some write brilliant novels, all the while worshiped in life and then death, their remains a whisper in the minds of their friends, family, fans and followers, a David Foster Wallace signature tattooed onto the heart. Wild bunches of marauders in faraway places run for their lives with their borgnine-faced buds, facing death at every turn of the horse.

I've had moments of joy, rather than expressions of major achievement, and I don't know how much of that joy manifested into other's hearts. Usually in going through life you want to achieve something great, or bring joy to others, if not both, receiving your own joy as byproduct.

Below are a few moments that brought me joy, among many that I will recount later if I am not too bogged down by laziness (ah, perhaps that explains the achievement thing).

Charlene lived on the 6th floor or so of our twenty story building, one of four buildings that surrounded the playground, red rink, and "country club" in the rapidly changing Lefrak City. She was also in one of my classes. We boys went through a S.W.AT. phase, recreating the police show by making our own little training obstacle run as we scrambled to be first and thus chief badass. (We didn't use words like "badass" back then, despite already having learned a shady little rhyme that involved the name of Batman as chorus and the body progressing from "taking to the movies" to various sexual activities and eventual pregnancy).

On another floor the girlfriend of my best friend's older brother would blast the theme song and off we went, running up a short wall topped by a fence, dashing through a parking lot and around, returning to the fence and leaping down, then through the playground (up the monkey bars), and then down and across to another short fence where we bent over and grabbed the other side, lifting our legs into the air to fly over; the weaker ones among us climbed over traditional style, losing much time.

I was never last, and occasionally near first. Charlene stood on her balcony with little boxes of cereal, flinging them down. It didn't fully occur to us that her dad probably thought better than to allow his very young white daughter to hang downstairs with a largely black and largely male group of kids. We were in the same class, likely second grade because we moved right after that year. Looking back, and looking at kids today, it's hard to fathom half the stuff we were allowed to do, and half the stuff we did.

Eventually my father joined in the Jewish flight, we left Egypt and moved further east to Fresh Meadows, the mere name of which signified upwards and onwards.  But seeing my favorite Charlene toss down boxes of my favorite cereals made S.W.A.T. worth it.  I be remiss if I neglected to mention the bologna and American cheese sandwiches my mother made for lunch each day. Some simple things are quite memorable. These will be warm memories on a future deathbed.

From the time I first realized super heroes were real (yea they are!), Batman was my ideal. He was a real man, without ridiculous powers, able to be defeated if not careful. He was mere man with money and training, so quite replicable by us all, versus someone like Aquaman where moving to the sea and learning to communicate with moron animals seemed more implausible than attaining money, training and awesome crime fighting technology.

Back then I watched Adam West and Burt Ward in the comic Batman television show every day after school, same time and channel, perking in excitement when I realized that it was the day for the second half of the cliffhanger. Better yet was when Batman arrived at my house in doll form, and not even for a birthday or Christmas!!!! (Exclamation points provided by 6 year old me).

The euphoria was almost impossible to contain and the son of my mother's best friend got a Robin doll, though it was hard to make him do my bidding, Kevin being spoiled and a bit too competitive to play the proper subordinate role.

At that time I had two sidekicks myself; there was Jason, a timid (meaning more respectful of all our parents) Korean kid and Robert, christened "Robert the Snobbert" by his own older brother due to his constantly running nose, the contents of which often decorated the sleeves of his shirts and jackets  in gauzy wet/dry fashion. They followed instructions and I sometimes led them from the shadows into evil (teasing others, stealing, kid mayhem), never getting caught myself. This would be President Obama's "lead from behind," accept for nefarious purposes. Sidekicks are awesome, as are superheroes. They are glorified good friends, and I remember warmly all those who were loyal till life forced us in different directions.

Much later I worked at a Christian family summer camp, after staying as a guest for several summers with my mom and sister. On occasion my dad would come, but generally he considered most of their weekly visiting ministers mere babes in the Christian woods and not worthy of him taking off from his financial firm employment.

The reason I took the job at all was that my best friend at the time worked/hung out there each summer, but also, I wanted to reconnect with a tall attractive wide faced girl named Debbie. We spent the year before the work year writing innocent letters back and forth, though she was not particularly focused on me in any romantic sense. When I met her I was eighteen, too shy to have meaningfully extended conversations with her or any female, yet well aware I was not her type beyond being an okay, respectful kind of guy that enough people seemed to know and like.

The beginning of our work year began with delight at the sight of her and the beginning of some timid, casual conversations. I tried to bump into her during every free moment and my heart would shake the cage with both hands at the sight of her approach. Of course that lasted about a week into the summer schedule.

I found out that she was in fact really interested, like really, really, interested, in my roommate Brett. He was from Ohio, a great athlete, rosy cheeked and tall. He had a swagger, as did his father, both sharing commanding mustaches, blond and black respectively. It occurred to me that I would never sway her heart away from his Rhett Butler Brett head. That was the sensible pessimistic half of my brain. The optimistic half that woke up each morning believing I could have any woman on earth told me she was still winnable.

A couple of weeks of living with Brett made me realize that he was not so bright, and further, that he was in a tight relationship--parent approved and waiting for engagement--with a girl back home. Me and my buddy stepped in to remind him of Christian principles like duty, honor, loyalty and the always handy what will your parents and coreligionists think. The task was to make him conflicted over any type of summer indulgences with my Debbie. We knew his mind was not capable of handling too much disapproval from his folks and that his emotional facilities lacked the mechanics for creative and morally nuanced thinking regarding summer fun.

Despite these efforts, he and Debbie seemed to be hitting it off, sending my emotions downhill. What was worse, it was not just Brett. Down near the waterhole a hippie type older guy with a ridiculously melodious guitar style managed to lure single, wide eyed women to his tent. Debbie was one of them.

She and a friend asked a couple of us staff guys if we wanted to go down to the river to hear this man. I declined, then showed up briefly, mentally spewed at the sight of everyone fawning over his fingerstylings, and promptly left after a due effort of five minutes or so. They begged me to stay, but I determined it was a pity or sympathy beg, or, a "we better cover our butts by having male staff here" beg. The senior staff would not have been thrilled at a couple of its female youngsters down by the lake on their own with a grown male guest. Frankly I suspected he was a bucket of seething inappropriate lust, penis larger than his Christianity and smoother than his guitar playing. I was not in entirely rational mode, given the many other families camping out nearby, but it was night, and night makes anything possible (ask Batman).

Somewhere near that time I ended up in my duplex (before they moved all us guys in together), lights out, crying and talking to God, begging him to make Debbie "into me".  I really laid out a framework, with a bit of pleading, and a bit of promising. That very night my buddy came around and mentioned that he thought Debbie was looking for me. Later she appeared and we chatted. She gave me a note of vague affection and smiled shyly. Then off she went to the female dorms and I tucked into the bed, tears again rolling down my face and thanking God for having my back. It was a pure moment of heaven, if not really an actual romantic achievement.

As these things turn out, just as she seemed to warm to me a little, and as Brett was cooling to her with each call from his faraway girlfriend (and the arrival of his parents), it occurred to me that Brett and Debbie were exactly matched in mental telepathy. And by that I don't mean the Star Trek style of silently communicating, but rather, their intellects and simplistic views of things seemed to work in trivial lockstep. Me and Debbie had nothing to talk about once we started actually trying to talk. I was soon giving her Brett advice, alternating between sabotage, good advice, and encouragement depending on my daily heart flickerings. For while I realized she was not interesting, she was still sweet, and I often debated whether sending her into Brett's romantic mustache was really doing her any good, or if urging her away was doing her some evil.

Eventually too, someone else started attracting my attention, and a couple of other females started stalking me. The manager's underage daughter started appearing everywhere I happened to be, and asking me questions about why I thought Debbie, or this new girl were so special. She eventually stole some jewelry from me, which her mother found when the wash was done. "You were probably looking for this," she said with a smile in front of most of the staff that was hanging out in front of the ice cream shop.

"How did she get that?" I asked incredulously and her mother said, "Oh don't worry, she has her ways and we had a little chat with her." My other stalker was a guest and between working, playing sports, avoiding the stalkers and chatting up the new girl, my interest in Debbie's romantic outcomes wavered to disinterest. Brett eventually abandoned ship as well when his own parents called in his girlfriend to the scene.

But that night when Debbie suddenly appeared out of the blue, seemingly affirmed and transported there by God himself, that was golden despite my eventual lack of enthusiasm. Sometimes God seems to give you what you think you want, so you can enlighten yourself to the reality of the opposite.

When all four of us guys moved into the same suite we made an awesome time of it. The television in the room my buddy and I shared even had cable remaining from the previous staff occupant. That was eventually and mysteriously turned off.  I devoted my third week's paycheck (somewhere around $65) to visiting the local rural supermarket and buying steaks, spaghetti, cake supplies, and homemade tomato sauce ingredients so that we could have an all guy staff feast... no females allowed.

We allowed Joe from the permanent staff to take a plate to his wife, but mainly because he was such a cool guy and reliable to show up at volleyball and basketball games.  Others got "to-go" plates as well, which we knew they would give to the wives back in their units. Word had gotten around about our discriminatory manfest and eventually the woman followed up with their own (Debbie brought us plates).

That event (along with the reciprocation) spread conversation and joy.  I was actually too stressed at the time, knowing nothing about how to cook a good steak and wondering why the well done had turned into dry as a dead well. Growing up in my household, rare or medium steaks were like "Whah?"

With food and a mock battle of the sexes, everyone seemed to have a great time and the memory makes my brain smile.

There are other moments in my life that serve as giant adventures in terms of the affect on my daily happiness, although largely duplicated as small insignificant happenings in the lives of millions of others who go on to have great small moments AND huge achievements, like building Apple computer or becoming president or being the first person to jump the farthest from space to earth.  I've had moments of pure happiness, but I don't know that I've achieved anything substantive, or at minimum dumped a worthy amount of joy and memory into others.

I like to think that I've left some joy and memories, and that if I were to die young without my adventures, I will be buried by weeping minds (mostly female) filled with a pleasant remembrance.

(Note: I often post at first draft, under night fog, and double back later to correct grammar, typos or structure. So if something reads odd, feel free to mentally adjust it and jump to what you think I was trying to say.)

Newt Wants Cars Big Enough For Your Gun Rack

Newt Energy Policy

Newt Gingrich, the Republican presidential candidate and proxy deep thinker, arrived at Oral Roberts University's Maybee Center on February 20th  to speak to a crowd of enthusiastic students and supporters. The very school I wanted to attend back in the day was probably a good choice for him, given that the entire evangelical world has lost its moorings, substituting a stale and immoral rhetorical politics for the love and concern that a supposed follower of Christ is supposed to show.

Newt began by contrasting economic numbers when he left office with those of today, absent any clarification regarding inflation, the changing world, contributions by Democrats or fiscal destruction by Republicans.

Newt went on to divide the world in two and without nuance: un-American liberals on one side, and morally focused constitutionally loyal conservatives on the other.  He mentions American Exceptionalism, and goes on to suggest that a secular Obama is waging an unconstitutional war on religion. Newt barges forward, saying that he will undue every act of religious bigotry by the President, who is essentially labeled a hedonist, a religious bigot, and a radical. Newt is a master at associative name calling, where he tosses out negative imagery in one sentence and Obama's name in separate sentence, letting your mind do the mental link and subsequent evil thinking.

He goes on. "Arrogant Obama" is trying to redistribute and portion out the pursuit of happiness.  The President's energy policy is anti-American and best defined by his suggestion that we buy smaller cars. Newt draws a huge laugh, from Christians, about the inability to fit one's shotguns inside a small vehicle.  We can thus reduce Newt's own reductions down to "Energy big enough for your car and its gun rack."

According to Maureen Dowd of the N.Y. Times, Newt goes on to declare Obama "the most dangerous president in modern American history." Coming from someone outside of Osama Bin Laden's family, or the random Aghani, such hyperbole borders on

But I didn't listen that far. Because I got lost at the point where an audience of ostensible Christians took moral advice and flagrant distortion with equal vigor, and from a man who is as marginal a Christian as he is presidential material. Not that I think Obama is anything more than casual, cultural Christian himself. But Obama is not out pontificating on morality as much as he is out there pushing policy remedies for difficult problems.

I am of late confounded by the fact that the very same school that produced Michelle Bachmann and that blindly supports every word that flows from the mouth of Gingrich, is a school I was accepted into and eagerly hoping to attend. It was the Wall Street and big city inspired belligerence of my father that led him to refuse my request to attend. Back then he said, "Nobody will respect your degree, and Wall Street certainly won't."  (He had already mapped out my career in his head, and fortunately he is not alive to see how far I am from his life's goals for me.)

While my father migh have overstated his disdain--for ORU has produced many talented, hardworking and capable grads-- I am saddened that the idea of a degree from O.R.U. now brings me a certain amount of disgust.

Big Girls, Little Kids, and Men Who Don't Love Them

We live in a relatively free country, where the state rarely imposes in a way that interferes with the day to day of our lives, and despite what various online malcontents (aka Ron Paul supporters) suggest. It amazes that people get all worked up over policies like NDAA, the National Defense Authorization Act (and its detainee provisions), while people ignore larger trends and choices that can destabilize the country or people's lives.

It always amazes what we work ourselves into a frenzy over, substituting unlikelihoods for clear and present dangers. We see the speck, while ignoring the monsoon. We see this even in the immediate societal conclusion that raising kids without the direct input of both sexes won't, years from now, turn out to be a massive boon of instability and confusion and misbegotten social aims.

The New York Times has a short piece about the rise of unwed mothers among the under-30 female set, with the number of children being born to that group rising to 50%.

Further:

"73 percent of black children are born outside marriage, compared with 53 percent of Latinos and 29 percent of whites. And educational differences are growing. About 92 percent of college-educated women are married when they give birth, compared with 62 percent of women with some post-secondary schooling and 43 percent of women with a high school diploma or less"

(N.Y. Times)

While some of these kids do have males in the home, often it's a temporary presence.  Many of the women don't seem compelled or able to marry. This situation poses both present and future costs. Present costs when women mask their household income and remain single in order to obtain benefits from the government, and future costs when these children fail to prosper in the way that those kids in stable homes do.

And yet, we are quite free to replicate this activity over and over. Woe to those who come down on anyone for being shortsighted or selfish. We could blame men for their hand in this, and they are surely worthy of blame, but ultimately children don't grow in everyone's internals. Women's priorities and ability to assess situations are wanting.

***

In a distantly related matter, a female and I began watching a movie on BET, a station I normally won't go near. But I was trying to get more involved in women's television and be supportive. It was the story of a fat woman who wants a man, goes to Africa with a friend and cousin, and finds a model gorgeous man who accepts her as she is. In the process of rediscovering her own inner fat beauty, she comes up with a clothing line for fat women that is instantly a worldwide success. She also learns to accept that she too is worthy of the love of a model gorgeous man because she is beautiful. (Using no known set of measurable and objective parameters).

What was laughable to me was the ability of the movie to affirm one message (of accepting your own fat self as is, flaws and all), while simultaneously reaffirming to women that they could have it all, including thin, buff, model status men with abs of steel and cheekbones constructed by Michelangelo.

"Where are the fat guys who they should be going out with, lessons having been learned that all are worthy of love, including guys with beer bellies or fat heads?"

Near the end of the film, but before the return to Africa where the Nigerian stud (doctor stud at that) proposes marriage, the three women end up in a club where two relatively attractive and thin women refer to them as "fat bitches".  The main character turns around and dismisses their diss with her new found positive identity and suggests that those women need to bring others down in order for them to feel good. Everyone in the club applauds her moxie and sides and dances with the fat girls.

While taking a rest from the dance floor, a new set of guys, all thin and good looking, offer the women free drinks.

I told the woman next to me that it was absurd. She said, in response, "Oh no, that happens. When guys  see you all positive and putting out positive energy, they get attracted to that."

"That's nonsense," I said.

I started to elaborate, but then otherwise. A strikingly beautiful man, or any man, will hook up with an overweight woman, to the extent her face is cute, her butt is round and big (if he is a butt man), or she has breasts that are not merely due to weight and will retain size after she loses. And, if by way of the physical attributes, she also has a decent personality, he may... MAY, take a gander. He may sleep with her, or he may make her his friend.  He may remotely go beyond that, but there must be some inherent and "typical" feature that excites him, beyond fat and her new found "I am a Queen" confidence.

In this movie, the central character had no figure and was quite flat chested, unlike her less plump, but plump and bookish friend who was rocking a chest.

The point here though, is that women delude themselves. They carry a great amount of power in terms of the men they date, or even the children they decide to have or not have. Society has changed and granted freedom.

Unfortunately wisdom is not being doled out by God or the government, and women remain in difficult situations when they fail to take into account that men are vastly different in how they process things, and what they value.

Arizona White Women Go Black to Obama

God is Love

It's January. Normally we like to come up with some predictions about the year, but we are not going to bother this time around, other than to say that President Obama will win in November.

It's a political year, and the Republicans are busy fighting it out over irrelevancies. Newt Gingrich, the come from behind triple divorce threat (and time will get him to that third one), has proposed rebuilding the moon in our own image, without exactly saying how he would finance such hubris.

The establishment leader, Mitt Romney, is between a rock (Mormonism) and a hard place (massive amounts of wealth) that make it rather difficult for him to know which way to pivot each day in order to get the support of the massively poorer Christian conservatives he so needs during the primary season.

Meanwhile President Obama continues on, proposing ideas that will go nowhere. He knows that they will be shot down, but puts up the good frontal effort. In his mind he has probably written off getting anything done this year that involves congressional support. He will legislate from the White House, and largely focus on political issues.

God is Love

Nevertheless, he can never escape the pointed fingers of his enemies, who like to use every instance to frame him in a way that defies reality. In this case it's Governor Jan Brewer of Arizona (our beloved Gov) doing the framing. She confronted him over something, handed him an envelope, and pointed a lot, and otherwise used the President's visit as an opportunity to inflame her supporters and pump up meager book sales. She went on to tell people that she felt threatened by the President.

We contrast that close face to face with another face to face moment during the President's State of the Union address the night before. Gabby Giffords was on hand to spend her last moment in Congress before a hopefully temporary retirement, where she will work on recovering from the wounds she received at the hands of a gunman. She embraced the President warmly.

Which leaves us all confused. Two Arizona women. Both politicians. One black man. President. Two completely different encounters.  One encounter will be used to spread the lie, to slander, to bear false witness. And some conservative Christians will join in this, or let it stand, or make room for the lie. The other encounter shouts back at the lie, speaking truth.

Mel Gibson Brutally Robbed by Housewife

Mel Gibson spent the last two years working out the details of his divorce with his former wife of 28 years. With a fortune measured at around $850 million, she ended up with half. His interim woman also received a settlement when he fathered a child with her.

I debated the merits of this settlement with a female, who took the wife's position. The argument went along the usual lines: That the wife spent years of her life both supporting his career, submerging her own life, and becoming accustomed to a certain lifestyle in the process. So why not give her half for her 28 years of support.

But this is nonsense. Giving a wife half of a man's money assumes a number of things. It assumes that the talent or skill that the one party has would not exist on the same scales, sans the other party. In other words, Mel Gibson would not have acted in The Road Warrior or directed Apocalypto without the support of his ex.

The split in the settlement essentially pins personal property, creativity and ambition against the wall and shoots. The bottom line assumption is that without a wife, Mel Gibson would not have been able to do all he has done. "Who would take care of the many kids while he is off making movies?" some say, supporting the wife. Hmmm, let's see how that works. Take the wife away, and how many kids does he have? Yea, no wife, no kids, no household duties to add to life's complexity.

Ambitious men tend to get prenuptial agreements but that is usually only after they have begun to taste the fruits of their own labor. Mel Gibson married early in the process of his own career, with his wife along for most of that ride. It would have been difficult to bring up a legal document five or ten years into a marriage when you both started from scratch. Indeed that would be inappropriate.

But the fact that she was "there" does not automatically imply equal achievement on her part or some moral equivalence in economic outcome. It's kind of like the argument you hear around Columbus Day, where the detractors of European discovery of the Americas assert, "Well the Native Americans already knew where they were, ha ha." This dubious statement is made in response to the fact that European explorers got their directions wrong, and reached places in the world they were not originally trying to reach, as in looking for India, but finding America.

But the critique is absurd. European explorers had the curiosity, the science, and the ambition to document the world beyond where they lived. That is an achievement undiminished by the fact that they may not have known where they were going. The knowledge gained through their curiosity created a better understanding of the world, versus a population--Native Americans in the United States--who might have just stayed put roaming the plains, and not seeking to understand the world beyond their immediate needs or document it.

The Gibson settlement is saying, "She was there, so she deserved equal reward." But she was the observer. You might be able to argue that her housework was equivalent to his outside work, and thus was the offset making her deserving of a payday. That is true to a point. But was her performance of housework the equivalent in quality with his execution of creating massive income with his skills? By all indicators Mel Gibson is outstanding at his job,when you consider the universe of actors who largely struggle. Was his wife the Van Gogh of housework? Was her housekeeping or child rearing on the level of a paid professional?

And while she was not rewarded with salary for keeping the household, she was rewarded with free rent, food, and support in ever escalating levels of quality. She likely got money and rewards along the way and received far more than her talents and career as a nurse would have rewarded her. One can also assume that any perk the Mel enjoyed, she enjoyed. One can also assume that if we grant her 50% of the fruit of Mel's work, Mel in turn should be rewarded 50% of the fruit of her work.

So if you could put a value on her work, and have Mel Gibson pay her, then fully half of that should come back to him. So let's say it's $50K a year for a top nanny, another $50K for a top housekeeper, and another $50K a year for the services of an escort. Right there you have the basic functions of a wife, and you can purchase top versions of those functions for about $150,000 a year. Over 10 years you are paying $1.5 million. Over 30 years you are paying $4.5 million.

See how that works? The high end commercial value of her work over a period of 30 years is $5 million tops. You could even add in another $30 million for intangibles--a million for each year. (And realizing that for $1 million a year you could hire a staff of 4 to 8 people easily).

Now having valued her work, does Mel Gibson get a share of half of that $35 million, leaving her with a more than adequate $17.5 million? If we assume she had a hand in half of Mel's success, did he not have a hand in half her success? Did not his millions make her job so much easier? She was not raising his many sons in a ghetto or struggling with them on the bus, or worrying where the clothing money would come from. She didn't have to do what many mothers do, and also work in order to create a two income household. At a certain point her life got really easy. Maybe that was in year two, or year 5, and certainly by year ten.

And yet, at the end of the day, Mel Gibson's wife gets half, or $425 million, for being there.

Saveur Magazine Serves Up Holiday Wampum

One of my guilty pleasures is reading Saveur magazine. In my mind it is one of the best produced food magazines around, filled with lengthy centerpiece articles, beautiful photos and a fair amount of recipes. I don't actually cook all that much, so I don't get it for the recipes. I get it more for articles that usually drop you in the middle of some region or culture, highlighting the unique facets of their relationship with all things food.

And of course, I look forward to the holiday issues, even though the pantheon of holiday food is pretty set and there are only so many ways to cook a turkey or make mashed potatoes stand out. But I was not ready for my November and December issues, where Saveur editors opted to be decidedly agnostic as far as any sort of holiday fair. Not completely agnostic, but indifferent enough to the specifics of American Thanksgiving to render the issues a complete letdown.

The November issue does have "28 Great Holiday Sides" splashed across the front, but not much else to give the meat loving festive person a spark. The December issue gives us "Italian Christmas" with pasta on the cover; it's less a about Italians and Christmas than it is a retrospective of the influence of Italian cooking across the United States. The other main article "Puerto Rican Feast" sort of fits the bill, but the pictures lack any true festive appearance. No families round the dinner table, no tables, no Christmas lights, no Jesus, no religion at all.

Apparently the lead editor must have hit a severe patch of holiday blues and political expediency, deciding to forgo any traditional imagery or foods in both issues.  I don't really read Saveur to get my longings for standard American fare continually reaffirmed, but you do like to see a spot of the familiar mixed in with articles about how "other people do it" or, don't do it, during the holidays.

In place of my turkey or how to make a killer stuffing, and pictures of same, I get a vegetarian who has decided in this issue, MY ISSUE, that she will not even allow her guests to bring the turkey they usually offer to bring. Her ethics are her hero and my bane as she slips us wheat berry pilaf (in place of stuffing) and autumn vegetable patties (in place of meat).

I actually have no problem with that. It makes for interesting reading to see how other people eat and live and adapt a tradition to fit their own style. But when I am offered nothing else, and thus forced to dine on peas with orange and mint, sans turkey, ham, roast beef, or anything remotely familiar like baked mac and cheese, sweet potato pie or mashed potatoes, well, I get a bit peeved. You can't exclude the majority while including the minority as some project in equality or mind control.

It's disconcerting. I don't like all my holidays "disappeared" and replaced by meaningless otherness and commercial considerations. Thanksgiving itself is being sacrificed itself to corporate interests, with Black Friday dominating the news, while we are encouraged to give thanks to the Native Americans. There is so little now that is fun or authentically focused on the holiday's original intent.

I sat through the Thanksgiving Day parade in general annoyance and horror. The two hosts blabbed on and on, as the child who was watching the parade with me asked, "When is the news going off?". I told her "This is the parade, and those are the hosts."

There was more focus on those hosts and boring guests than on the parade itself.  Even the balloons were no treat, flying lower each year to avoid liability should a wind come and make things interesting. And at the very end, right before Santa, we had a Native American float called, "The True Spirit of Thanksgiving," because apparently for all these years we have all been getting it completely wrong.

Oh Saveur, how I know thee not, this holiday season. I don't want yuppie totalitarian vegetarians from comfortable Lawrenceville, New Jersey standing in for actual Thanksgiving. Take thy literary food wampom elsewhere, and given me something true.

Steve Jobs, the Rich Life, and Fresh & Easy

I was riding home when I got a brief announcement of His death via National Public Radio. I was on my way to Fresh & Easy for sausages and cranberry orange scones. "An icon. A modern day Edison," said the voice over the radio.

My mind drifted back. Back a few days. He was born on May 19th, 1964 and now he was dead. I remember the television being on late nights, flicking through channels,  and landing on the smiling, animated face of Don Lapre.  America produces great businessmen and entrepreneurs, and Lapre will not go down in history as one of them. He was a scam artist, preying on people's hopes of making outsized amounts of money with little effort. But oh his enthusiasm as he urged people that the road to great riches could be had by placing tiny little advertisements in newspapers.

Jump back to today. The reverent voice on the radio announced that Steve Jobs was dead. He was a man of unique vision who managed to transform the way society entertains itself and communicates. By all accounts he was a difficult person, but brilliance is often like that, lest some scully of a soul come along and mess up your vision. He created Apple Computer and Pixar Studios, among other endeavors, but will be known for his creativity.

In this great country we often have multiple paths we can choose. We are all gifted in certain ways, and we can use our gifts, our powers, toward transformation or destruction. Don Lapre was a man of talent, in that he could pitch a product enthusiastically, even though the products were junk. According to Wikipedia, he bilked over 200,000 people out of some $50 million plus dollars. He had an ability to make people--likely desperate or gullible or hopeful folks--perk up in the middle of the night and think that they too could live the good life. He could make people believe, but trashed their faith.

Steven Jobs literally gave us the good life. I've never had an Apple product and avoid them in part because of the trendy factor and not wanting to join "the cult." But my android touch screen is a derivative of his genius. And despite my fickle posturing, his products have rolled across society transforming how we listen to music, learn, read, watch video, talk, and process data. He lead in so many areas, leaving his competitors to follow in haphazard, not quite Apple, fashion. We are blessed by his focused vision, and by those who worked with him to carry out, refine, enhance, and build those ideas into physical products.

Lapre was indicted this year, and arrested in a gym in Tempe with wounds from suicide attempts. When he died earlier this week on October 2nd, it was from a suicide in police custody.  Steve Jobs died today, three days after Dupre, from pancreatic cancer. Lapre took himself out in a cowardly desperate act, avoiding responsibility. Circumstances beyond his control took Steve Jobs out, and away. But he leaves us with the example and products of his unique vision, and every area of life is left with his handprint.

Oddly I am saddened by both deaths. Between the two men is the spectrum of American life and achievement. We all have daily choices we can make where we can ask ourselves about the quality of our pursuit of happiness, and whether that pursuit is inclusive of those around us. Are we in it just to transform our own personal situation and get the rich life quick, or, are we in it because we believe in a vision that can bring a rich life to everyone else.

Life is so short. So short. Then we fade. "What are you doing?" I thought to myself again, as that thought pops into my head whenever someone dies. "Well, I am coming home from work, driving down a street in Phoenix, headed to Fresh & Easy for sausages and some cranberry and orange scones, and maybe some Coke Zero, and I don't know that I've touched anyone at all."

Would that we all bless someone while we have the time. Thank you Steve Jobs, and may heaven and grace exist for all.

Chaz Bono Changes the Nature of Dancing On TV

I went to school with Chaz Bono. That was in Manhattan, at LaGuardia High School of Music and the Arts across from Lincoln Center. Back then she was Chastity. She she was chubby and schlubby, and not too far from my own chubby and shlubby appearance. She was also very unhappy looking. My fellow students whispered about her those first few days in the class we shared, commenting on the contrast between Chastity and her mom. They seemed disappointed. People would point in her general direction saying, "There, there she is" and the other person would be confused, saying, "Where? Where?", expecting a younger version of Cher. When someone has a flamboyant mom like Cher, you imagine the offspring to be well on their way to matching that spark in their own way. She was quiet, and looked miserable, friendless even. (But I never talked to her, so who knows what was really going on. In high school I liked to imagine that everyone was as socially inept as I was).

Now Chastity has retrofitted herself to a male personae in the form of Chaz. She will appear on "Dancing with the Stars," dancing with a female, and people have taken sides. If you are not in favor, and highly supportive, then you are invariably some variation of bigot. That's the going line. Even if you have religious reasons, and you are religious by virtue of really believing that God is alive and watches these things we do, you are still expected to chuck all aside and come to the conclusion that she is a he, and a brave he at that.

Kiri Blackeley in Forbes casually scolds the critics, asking them why they are critiquing Chaz's alterations of a supposed God's inspired natural order, when so many others have made basic changes to themselves without an outcry. She writes:

The typical argument is framed like this one, which was posted on the show’s board: “I choose not to endorse ABC’s decision to have Chaz Bono dancing on the show. We will no longer be watching ABC. For Chaz Bono to change her sex is her saying that God made a mistake by creating her female and God does NOT make mistakes.” Fair enough. 

But this reasoning leaves me wondering where the furor was when Pamela Anderson was on the show last year. Anderson, for instance, was not born blonde, nor was she born with size 38 double D breasts. The same could be said for former cast members and Playboy mansion habitués Holly Madison and Kendra Wilkinson.  

Jennifer Grey, who won the 2010 season, was by her own admission not born with the nose you see on her face. I do not recall any ruckus about her. In fact, she was an audience favorite.

(Forbes)

This is probably not the most convincing critique of the critics. Changing your body even in small ways is often frowned upon in Christian circles, the mass sheepish herd of people--religious or otherwise-getting tattoos notwithstanding. When Jesus talks of the body as a temple or house of God, we hardly imagine that it begins with knocking down the house, ripping up the moorings, and installing some marble counter tops and stainless steel appliances. The premise of Jesus, and Christianity, is not necessarily changing the physical, or governments, but changing hearts.

Then too, transgendering yourself goes way beyond merely getting some casual physical surgery, which is why doctors and psychologists prep you for your many transitions. Even after it's done, and you have your new better self, there is no assurance that you will function or feel better. It's an assumption backed by not a shred of deep, long term scientific study.

Kiri manages to frame the entire issue in the most idiotic manner, ignoring any number of important issues in an effort to be supportive. And while some liberals actively applaud these social changes, supporting them in film and the media, the other side actively dumps their energy and effort into the political process. The mechanics of how this works is that you end up with everything your liberal heart desires on the telly, while ruled from Washington by people much farther to the right of that little heart.

That's how you end up with the Palins and the Bachmanns garnering more support than reasonable people like Jon Huntsman.

The higher that the monkey can climb

The more he shows his tail

Call no man happy 'til he dies

There's no milk at the bottom of the pail

God builds a church

The devil builds a chapel

Like the thistles that are growing

'round the thrunk of a tree

All the good in the world

You can put inside a thimble

And still have room for you and me

If there's one thing you can say

About Mankind

There's nothing kind about man

You can drive out nature with a pitch fork

But it always comes roaring back again

(Tom Waits)

Finn Talks Super 8 and Tree of Life

I finally got around to seeing Super 8, which was well worth the $5 I spent to see it, and in part because I also saw Horrible Bosses on the same budget; the erratic quality of both films combined to create a sum greater than my expenditure, if we leave out the cost of popcorn and beverage. (I like to pretend that snacks are off budget, and fungible, and that the snacks eaten at the movies would have been eaten elsewhere in another form anyway, and thus, no net increase in costs).

My main thoughts center around Super 8, a predictably retro alien movie, but let me just drop a pet peeve before continuing.

Horrible Bosses had a good premise, but was ultimately ruined by the outlandishness of the script, which called for multiple attempted murders, thus leaving a great cast to wallow in absurdities.  And when not also wallowing in a certain amount of deviance. Like Cedar Rapids, which I caught via Amazon stream, Horrible Bosses attempted to amuse us with certain bizarre sexual acts, and I've grown really tired of Hollywood writers who think that shock value can substitute for true humor. How many times do we have to see the otherwise straight laced main characters accidentally get snozzed with coke, provoking frenzy and mayhem? Lacking the courage to make a character an actual drug enthusiast, with all the life cratering sludge that would follow, we are left with the accidental dope usage and asked to laugh at the hi-jinks. It's tired and boring. But I digress in the wrong direction.

Super 8 was entertaining but left me feeling like I had seen it all before. Which, I probably have. It seemed to borrow from every alien movie of the past, giving us an alien who wants to eat us, but only some of us, and only as a snack while rebuilding his aircraft and figuring a way back home.  Set back in the 1980's, we get a bunch of kids who are into filmmaking, though lacking the conveniences of our current era where you can turn out a masterpiece that nobody wants to see on YouTube via your Android or Apple.

The story itself is pretty toss-able. Alien arrives, government somehow captures and captivates (literally) super strong and highly advanced alien, alien frees itself via scripted unlikelihood, alien gets chased and kills a few unworthies, kids run around without parents, parents run around somewhat oblivious as to where kids are until scripted moment of reflection, kids encounter alien, two species communicate via meaningful eye contact, alien creates spaceship out of crap and scriptural magic, spaceship flies off, humans look up in awe, credits.

But it was a captivating film, meaning, I didn't start feeling sleepy, or sit thinking, "Uhm, okay" like I did through certain parts of another film I saw recently. The Tree of Life was playing at my local arsty theater in Scottsdale and darned if I was not going to see it on opening day. While it carried big name stars, like Brad Pitt and a muted Sean Penn, I was more interested in whatever pretensions the director was trying to pull off. For that first half hour I sat watching an almost silent film that was infused with flecks of prehistoric imagery: volcanoes, flashes, stuff rushing around, dinosaurs, the stars of the film not actually saying anything we could hear.

I stared at the screen and stayed awake through that opening onslaught because I knew it was supposed to be some deep foundation upon which the rest of the film would build, and if you are asleep, how deep and intellectual can you appear to your fellow moviegoers? It's just not proper to fall asleep during moments like this, so you put on your introspective face and just stare at the screen like you are taking it all in and getting every nuance. (Sometimes you bring your hand up to your chin and finger your beard so that people down the row will think you are totally understanding some hidden modality they are missing). Thankfully my patience was rewarded with a heartwarming and carefully scripted and acted film that tracked the life of a family, and the relationship of a son with his father.

Which brings me back to J. J. Abram's Super 8. (Thought I got off point, didn't you?)  Super 8 is less a film about aliens than it is a study of kids and it is their interaction with each other that carries us forward and keeps it interesting.  That works out well enough, but the kids we are given strike that deja vu spot in the brain where you imagine that you have seen them before, maybe in Goonies or E.T. or some other Hollywood kid concoction from years gone by. That is, each kid is a type. We have a fat kid, we have a timid kid, we have the primary kid (as usual missing a parent) who gets the girl, we have the blond girl, we have the crazy kid who likes explosives. Each is a stereotype made to fit together in a motley crew upon which the director can hang plot points.

Heck, without the blond female, with lovingly long hair, are you really gonna run off after a creature from another planet who you have just seen kill and eat people? Of course not. In the Hollywood way of lensing the world, only a blond girl in trouble is gonna motivate you to do stupid stuff like confront aliens, or encourage your mousy explosives loving friend to create a decoy to "distract" the alien. (Apparently this was pre-bros before ho's).

While the acting was sufficient, and the faces relatively new and authentic, you still got the feeling that this was a Hollywood construct. There were moments of overacting, or moments of predictability that were glaring. They didn't seem so much to be real kids, as real kids acting in a movie, and with all that implies.  You imagined some stage mother saying, "You need to be better than the fat kid in Stand By Me".

Which is also why I loved The Tree of Life, and offer it as contrast. You will sleep or curse through whole elements of the film because director Terrence Malick sometimes assumes that visuals in themselves convey deep meaning. Often they don't, and sticking such visuals into a family drama is a risky endeavor. Not that it can't be done, it's just that he does not do it exceedingly well. If God created the world in six days, certainly Malick could have created his more philosophical imagery in mere minutes of time, instead of long moments that caused extra popcorn indulgence.

That said, Malick nails it with his choice of child actors and their direction. There are entire scenes between brothers, between father and son(s), between friends, that thoroughly pull you in and make you feel like you are watching real lives and real relatives. The child actors don't seem to be acting, or overacting, or even aware of what they are doing. They don't pop out of the context of the script in words, actions, visuals or deed. Even the way they walk strikes authentic.

The Tree of Life has probably some of the best acting by young people I've seen on screen. There is one scene where the brothers and their friends are walking through the neighborhood, drifting aimlessly, pausing here and there to poke at this, look at that, and culminating in the breaking of a window. It's entirely authentic and reminds me of my own wanderings with friends, no destination in sight, nothing to do, nothing that had to be done, just drifting, walking, seeing what might turn up around the next corner.

That's what you want in a movie, the unexpected around the corner.

Hmmm

American Dream Team

Twitter: Diversifying and Expanding Communication with a Vengeance

In a stab for greater diversity, Twitter hires more guys in plaid shirts, and a few less people in open collared button-ups. According to national statistics, the unemployment rate for plaid shirt wearing Americans approaches 16%, and they are often the last hired and first fired. Kudos to Twitter, at the cutting edge of communication. "It's just the right thing to do," said Dick Costolo, the current CEO.

Beware the Ides of March, in May

I barely made my way out into the Phoenix evening heat, leaving work at 5:30 after a new "imposed from on high" four day work week consisting of 600 minutes. The extra hours, when actually in them, are not too bad and pass briskly, but over the course of the day, the clock on the computer ticks slower, then stops for a break, refusing to budge.

I am two and a half weeks now out of the hospital. First there was a strong dose of gout that shocked my knee, keeping me off my feet from May 8th to May 12. There was a brief interlude, on Friday the 13th, of visiting the cardiologist. My PCP had urged me a year ago to get my ECG (or EKG if you are feeling Germanic) checked due to the rather gapping spaces in the squiggly line that indicated a left bundle branch block. "Hmmm," I thought at the time, looking deeply concerned, before going on to spend 2010 losing my job and insurance and neglecting any follow-ups with the PCP or specialist.

So after a week of beggary for meds to knock out my gout, by the 13th I could hobble well enough to the cardiologist, where he promptly reproduced the results of the year before. Unfortunately (for me), he was more concerned with my racing pulse. "You need to go to emergency," he said. I argued the point, doubting his expertise, figuring that an overweight guy off his feet for a week and hobbling with a cane across a ginormous office is unlikely to have a normal pulse. I agreed to go, and he called to give them a heads up.

Upon leaving, I decided my own judgment was superior. I picked up a pulse meter at Walgreens, went home, and chilled. The next morning I planned to see Thor with the girlfriend. I arose early, headed to the rest room, and passed out on the loo. I was awakened by my dear mother, who found me curled up with my head resting on the garbage can like a pillow, and snoring. I was actually dreaming a quite vivid dream, and upon waking, reached around to find my underwear firmly around my buttox. Somewhere between falling off the toilet and hitting the ground and drifting into pleasant sleep, one of my more responsible hands had the good sense to reach around and pull up the Fruit of the Looms.

I kind of crawled into my room to get dressed. I was sitting on my floor pantless, head drifting. I had moved in the previous year as a means of saving money so that I could make some major life changes.  I had saved zero funds so far, so mostly I was getting all the aggravation of living with a parent, with no accumulating collateral benefits (well... aside from free rent and plenty of unasked for scriptural instruction).

As I pulled on the first leg of pants, I awoke to find myself tipped over and still unpantsed. I called out to my mom suggesting it might be a good idea to call 911 after all. It seemed a bad idea to be hauled out of the house by firemen naked, so I quickly pulled on some clothes and walked bent and carrying sneakers to a chair in the living room. "I'll just put my sneakers on my feet and that way I can walk out instead of being carried," I said to myself, before tipping over as I bent down to put the first shoe on. I awoke to see about four fireman plugging my arm with a needle, with questions of "Do you know where you are?" and "Do you know who you are?" and "Do you know where you are going to, and do you like the things that life is showing you?" It at first seemed like blurry deities were getting me acclimated to the afterlife, before I realized, "Oh yea, the fire guys are taking me to the hospital." I vaguely wondered if their expertise was greater in fire or emergency medicine.

They took me to my PCP's hospital, conveniently five minutes away. I chatted a bit on the ambulance, though I really think the guy was not listening, all focused on vital statistics and not accidentally killing me. We arrived, and I was wheeled into Emergency. March 14th. Uhm, beware the Ides of March, in May.

After a bit of routine experimentation in Emergency--blood tests, IV attachment, assorted pills, blood pressure and a certain amount of "I hear you but I am not really hearing you" on my part- they moved me upstairs. But not before I passed out on return from the bathroom. (I awoke greatly relieved that some bodily functions were out of the way and I could proceed with hearing any dreadful news without worries of assisted bathroom usage).

The immediate concern seemed to be my heart and dehydration. They kept asking do I feel any pain, or was I having breathing problems, and I assured them I was fine, except for when I moved, in which I case I wasn't fine. They gave me some solution that was plumping my innards with liquid. They thought that might do the trick. Various nurses and doctors revolved through, and each time I told the story of my passing out, and that I felt fine, and about Thor, and about the wrongheaded cardiologist. I stressed to them that being off your feet for five days with gout probably had an effect on something.

Eventually one doctor came to the conclusion that perhaps, just maybe, the gout in my leg created a blood clot, and that the clot might have traveled.

"I will give you this one test and it will tell us with 99% accuracy if you have a clot."
"Sounds good. And then?"
"And if you have a clot, then we will run an MRI and see what the deal is."

I was expecting a blow by blow. Some sort of update with someone telling me, "Indeed, the test shows a clot and this is a grave concern for us all, even... the world". I mean after all, the nurses had a hard enough time--all seven of them--finding a vein to draw blood and an update on the success of that effort would have been nice. Instead they suddenly reappeared to move me down to the section of the hospital where they ran most of their machine tests.

I was wheeled in, and they were about to combine powers (Wonder Twins...form of "six of us", shape of "wish he was not as heavy as he is") to kind of flip roll me over, but I assured them I could do it on my own. "May I just hit the restroom first?" I asked and they said sure. I shuffled in, had another moment of urination, reminding myself that it was necessary to take moments in the bathroom on my own while I had strength, lest I end up in some messy bed pan moment during visiting hours when all fifty of my future roommates relatives were on hand to lend moral support to his hole in the heart. (I had started off in my own room, but apparently my importance was downgraded).

I walked out of the bathroom and could feel things starting to lose focus. I tried to prop myself on the MRI table, and then.... fade, then awake, then struggle. Three people were on each side of me trying to hold me as I flailed. I was gasping for air and they propped me up, but I was using considerable energy of my own to stay in that position.

"Let me lay down. I can't breath. I need to lay back. I'm...using... energy...holding myself up". I had to repeat that before they felt comfortable letting me down. They slapped an oxygen mask on me, gathered on each side and tried to push and shove my body into the correct position. The franticity was overwhelming.

"Wait... wait. Just wait a second. Let me relax just a second. Let me breath. I'm okay. Just a minute to relax," I begged; their bellies near my head on each side of me were making me claustrophobic. They relented, I relaxed and then they loaded me in. My concern was not about this big magnet, or the warm flushed feeling in my body, but rather, that during the struggle I could have sworn I was losing my bowels, and that the moment I feared most, an embarrassing bathroom moment, had occurred. Indeed 90% of my stress centered around whether I would ultimately need assistance going to the bathroom. Mercifully, the gods intervened and one nurse later informed me that, "Oh no, you just let out a lot of bad gas." Thank you nurse; sometimes honesty is unwarranted even if I did bring up the subject of my rectal fears.

They moved me to an intensive care unit for people with heart issues.A battalion of nurses gathered to hook me up and get me situated as the new guy. Then from Mt. Olympus it was ordered that the lung specialist likes all his people up on the 11th floor. All the heart nurses promptly disappeared. "False alarm, he's not one of us," I could hear their disappearance saying.

It was here at midnight that I reached my moment of darkness. It was around 12:30 pm. I was watching "Magnificent Seven," the original with Yul Brynner. The nurses were all male. One of them expressed a love for old westerns and I urged him to see Once Upon A Time in the West, featuring a deliciously evil Henry Fonda. He hadn't seen it, but said he would. I wondered how many patients offered tips and suggestions while laying there interrupting his train of medical thought on each shift.

This first nurse was replaced by tall, beefy guy, who had a young son. He started talking about how seeing his boy starting to run around and be active made him more concerned than ever about his own health. He said, "You would think as a nurse I would know better, but we struggle just like everyone else." He wanted to drop about 70 pounds or so and be more fit.

I had stopped focusing on the movie, with thoughts of the bathroom looming ever stronger. But since I couldn't actually move without passing out, I was now fearful. You cannot pass out six or so times without it eventually starting to impose "expectation fear." The passing out was fine, if worrying; the waking was the scary part, as it eventually got to the point where I would be waking without air.

I rang the nurse bell, the nurse came, and I said, "I am thinking I am going to have to use a bed pan and this won't be pleasant and I am sorry. I wish I could walk, but I don't want to pass out either." He assured me it was no problem, routine. He grabbed a wholly inappropriately constructed bed pan and some other materials.

(Note to society: We need less Groupons, less LinkedIn's, more hospital beds designed with built in waste management systems. Maybe a slot that slides open to reveal a butt sized hole.)

It was probably one of the most degrading experiences of my life, but I was relieved ever after, in every way. I was now free to focus on more pressing issues, like would my vacation time and sick days cover my stay, how far behind would I get on my work, might these clots travel into my head and kill me, and several collateral issues related to elevated protein and my peculiar kidneys. I occasionally thought about death.

My condition settled and they felt comfortable moving me back downstairs.

Laid back young male doctor returned to inform me that his hunch was right, and that my lungs were very clotted. In addition to hydrating me, they started me on injections of blood thinner and blood pressure medicine and other medicinals. My girlfriend and mom were visiting each day. I took meds and ate tuna melts with potatoes and gravy. It was a meal that went down smooth. I made my girlfriend the honorary bathroom assistant, and she stood in front of me holding my robe up to form a privacy wall. "No peeking," I reminded her, wanting to keep the moment's somber integrity. The first time I promptly passed out once back at the bed and my girlfriend had to hold me down as nurses rushed in to up my oxygen. They slapped a yellow "fall risk" armband on my arm and reminded me that I must be assisted in the bathroom. "Okay".

The rest of the time was a mix of doctors and injections, of "How are you feeling?" and blood draws, and with the cardiologist popping in periodically to tell me that the heart stuff, more or less, was fine. Each time he kind of implied that I could just pack up, rise up, and walk. This more or less created a constant dichotomy given the advice and treatment plans of every other specialist who was tagging in to offer their wisdom. I assume that to a cardiologist, the world revolves around your heart. I made an effort to apologize to him for doubting his wisdom, which he accepted in the same hurried "I am really too busy for a conversation longer than three sentences" grace that he showed when popping in to tell me to go home already.

The last three or so days were easy going, and with a great group of nurses. In fact the whole haphazard experience made me thank my stars (that being God) that I was born in a western nation. But it also reminded me of the luck I had in having a job with virtually free insurance (if you are single, but 1/4 of my take home if I opted to ever marry and have things like family covered). Had this happened during my employment lull in the summer of 2010, I would have been in deep trouble, and sitting with a bill in the thousands. ($59,000 thus far, to be exact) That health care is not an automatic "must have" part of the government safety net is why I voted for Obama in the first place after years of voting for Republicans. You hit a certain age, and start to realize you are not Superman, or Thor, and that the wrong confluence of controllable or uncontrollable events could upset your life and set you back forever.

I am still not feeling normal. There are still questions about my heart (a scarred part) and my kidneys. My PCP was a bit annoyed with her colleagues at the hospital for not calling her, or taking a look at her own tests, some of which they duplicated. In her casual way she informed me of the fatty liver I never knew I had. Elevated triglycerides or something, and the Niacin she prescribed I've yet to take out of a certain fear of side effects (like passing out).

All in all I feel worn, but am lucky. Lucky to have a job and people who love me: at least two of them. There have been moments when I thought, "I don't want to live like this," and my higher self reminds me that such attitudes are an insult to God, and to those who actually have greater problems, and who struggle on despite the difficulties. Being sick and in the hospital has a way of making you think the world revolves around you and the drama can be intoxicating in some odd way. You have to fight to retain perspective.

Sunday Sermon: Divided Tongues

We don't normally get into conversations about Christianity here in any detail, although our opinions about the world--political, economic--are often formed from some underlying relational stance to what we believe a Christian should do or believe.

So this little mini-sermon about the Holy Spirit will either prove extremely boring and irrelevant for some, interesting or amusing for others, and quite off base for a third group who is the intended target.

In the Christian world there is often a debate about the role of the Holy Spirit, and whether things like tongues and healing are "for today." Most of this debate will tend to be among conservative Christians who take the Bible literally as God's word. One segment, like Baptists, might shy away from the supernatural and things like tongues, but a great handful of your born again evangelical types hue closely to the idea that  everything you read in the book of Acts should be happening today.

The outcome of this usually results in a kind of Christian schism, centered around the role of the Holy Spirit. It manifests itself under the general question of "Are you saved and filled (or baptized) with the Holy Spirit?" That question is usually quickly followed by "And do you speak in tongues?" The assumption is that when you truly accept Jesus as your lord and savior, you become baptized or super stuffed with God's spirit, and the evidence of this (your changed nature not being instant proof) is the speaking out in tongues.

In certain circles and churches, those members or pastors who speak in tongues are considered somehow closer to God, on fire, full of the spirit. Those without tongues to prove the indwelling of the spirit are always considered wanting and not fully formed as a useful tool for God. If you are debating some issue, invariably your view will be dismissed because you are not filled with the spirit and seeing everything with God's eyes. It's Christian dyslexia that you will maintain until tongues appear.

We know from the book of Acts and elsewhere that the Holy Spirit as an entity is important. During one of the few "vengeful God" episodes that can be found in the New Testament, Ananias and Sapphira died on the spot for being deceptive about what they were offering to the church by lying to the Holy Spirit. (Incidentally, these two can be placed at the center of a whole sermon regarding tithing that I won't get into here).

Understanding how the Holy Spirit works at the time of conversion, as evidenced in the Bible, should really serve to bring Christians into a less questioning stance regarding each other, but it involves jettisoning preconceived notions passed down from preacher to congregation to child and back again. Often enough the ones trying to divorce tongues from the authentic Christian equation are merely seeking to practice a Christianity somewhat removed from Biblical practice. At the other end of the perspective, those who speak in tongues often worry that removing tongues as an automatic part of the true conversion experience somehow makes their own activity suspect.

Let's look at some parts of Acts.

In Acts 1:5 we have Jesus telling us that John baptized with water, but that his followers will be baptized with the Holy Spirit in a few days. We can notice two things here. First, that the face of God in front of the world is changing. In the Old Testament it was a fiery God interfacing with man directly and instantly. The New Testament brings God among men in a body in the form of Jesus, where he is seen interacting with those around him. After his death and going forward today, it's God in the form of his Holy Spirit. Unseen, but living within us. The second thing we can note is that water baptism is not enough: God's spirit is necessary.

We travel forward to Pentecost in Acts 2:4 when the Apostles were "filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak with other tongues." This attracted a crowd of observers who were amazed to hear Galileans speaking in other languages, and some concluded the Apostles were drunk. We won't get into the debate here about whether there are multiple types of tongues (known languages versus God's tongue), but simply note that the Apostles all did speak in tongues as the Spirit guided them. In Acts 2:14 Peter goes on to explain what is happening as something new between God and man.

In Acts 2:37 we see the response to Peter's words. Those listening asked, "Brethren, what shall we do?" after being pierced to the heart. Peter said, "Repent, be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of sins, and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit." This is a pretty clear statement about how to be "saved." Note that tongues are not mentioned in the process, and yet the gift of the Spirit is affirmed strongly.

Three thousand souls came to God and were baptized and began living the Christian life, sharing things in common, breaking bread together. Many wonders and signs took place, "through the Apostles".

Thus far we have seen tongues evident among the Apostles, but not native to every experience. In Acts 4:8 we get an interesting contra-point regarding the function of the Holy Spirit. Those who tend to get hung up over people getting baptized or filled with the Spirit on conversion (and with tongues), often fail to note the many places in the Bible where believers are situationally "filled with the spirit". In this verse Peter becomes filled with the spirit before speaking to officials. This is one of the many clear examples that indicate that God's spirit can come more strongly when necessary to help the believer. Conversely, it indicates that the concept of "filled" or "baptized" to completion is a misnomer when it relates to conversion. In essence during conversion you simply get God's spirit, giving him access to your life. How much the Holy Spirit is actually in you is variable, situational, dependent on you and God.

This is an important point, because often the tongues enthusiasts carry a related yet convoluted idea that while everyone surely gets the Holy Spirit, that to be a truly powerful Christian, you must be FILLED. And you will know you are filled when tongues are evident. Actual Biblical evidence indicates otherwise. Christians are not a gas tank that is either filled or empty, filled or faulty, filled or weak, nor did the Apostles walk around "filled" every moment, as we see them getting "refilled".

A good example of "refilling" can be seen in Acts 4:31 after Peter and John get released. It says, "And when they had prayed, the place where they had gathered together was shaken, and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit, and began to speak the word with boldness." We don't see this as a new manifestation of Christians as this group is referred to as "companions" of the two. What we do see here are two things: people being refilled and, no tongues. In Acts 7:55 we see Stephen filled with the Spirit and gazing into heaven.

Chapter Eight introduces us to Saul, a hunter of Christians, and an anonymous Ethiopian official. But first we see Peter and John popping into Samaria. They, Samarians, had received the word of God, but not the Holy Spirit. The believers there were baptized in water. Clearly, they had not received the full message about the necessity of the Holy Spirit. Peter and John prayed for them, they received the Spirit (no mention of tongues) and all was good. We also note the general flaw in Philip's ministry, who basically let Simon the magician be his sidekick. That the believers did not receive the Holy Spirit could be reflective of the influence of Simon, who ultimately gets rebuked by Peter.

Let's pause a moment. We see tongues pared with salvation only among the Apostles thus far. Everyone else just receives the Holy Spirit in some quantity. The Holy Spirit is the necessity and the gift to every believer.

We next see Philip being used to bring God's message to an Ethiopian, so apparently his hanging around with Simon didn't do permanent damage to his usefulness for God. (And of course the Bible is full of great men of God making mistakes and doing stupid things, while still being useful to God). Philip preaches Jesus to the Ethiopian Eunuch, baptizes him, and the eunuch goes on his way rejoicing. We might question whether his salvation is complete, for while we see the Holy Spirit snatching Philip away, we don't see explicit reference to the Holy Spirit falling on the Ethiopian. We can cautiously assume the spirit fell (since an angel sent Philip in the first place), while noting, again, no tongues. The greater purpose of this conversion example is to prepare the way for God's message to be opened to the Gentiles. Biblical foreshadowing.

Saul, murderer of disciples, enters the scene in Acts 9, and by Acts 9:17 Saul is a new man. Ananias lays hands on brother Saul, he regains sight, is filled with the Spirit, and gets water baptized. He then has a snack, but no tongues. Interesting that.

We get to the pivotal Chapter 10, which begins the opening of God's message to everyone, gentile and Jew alike. Up until now, and before the Ethiopian conversion, the message was centered among the traditional Jewish population that had the history and relationship with God.

In Acts 10:45:

And all the circumcised belivers who had come with Peter were amazed, because the gift of the Holy Spirit had been poured out upon the Gentiles also. For they were hearing them speaking with tongues and exalting God."

The new believers are then baptized in water. This first outpouring en masse to Gentiles mirrors the events with the Apostles, the first Jews to receive the Holy Spirit. Peter gets some flak (11:2) from his fellow Jews about cavorting with and converting Gentiles, and he explains the new paradigm.

"And as I began to speak the Holy Spirit fell upon them, just as He did upon as at the beginning. And I remembered the word of the Lord, and how He used to say, "John baptized with water, but you shall be baptized with the Holy Spirit". If God therefore gave to them the same gift as He gave to us also after believing in the Lord Jesus Christ, who was I that I could stand in God's way?"

(Acts 11:15-17)

This is the second place we will see tongues paired with conversion and it's momentous. In the first instance it was God coming to his chosen people, and signaling this new vision with tongues. In the second it's God coming to the rest of the world, and signaling this new vision with tongues. But in between and individually, and from person to person, each salvation moment is highlighted not by tongues, but by the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. Both Lydia and the jailer of Paul and Silas in Chapter 16 come to God: no mention of tongues.

Tongues finally returns in Acts 19 when Paul goes to Ephesus. But this event is much like what happened with Philip, where believers had not received the Holy Spirit. The message in Ephesus was the message of John the Baptist and the believers were not aware that something beyon water baptism was needed now. Paul asks them if they received the Holy Spirit and they respond, "Uhm, what Holy Spirit?" (Acts 19:2).

Here we have a major body of believers who never received the full message that went to everyone else. So Paul lays hands on these 12 men, they speak in tongues, and thus the word of God expanded into Asia. (As earlier some Apostles had been told by the Holy Spirit not to head that way).

That pretty much sums it up. Nowhere do you get the impression that tongues is an automatic indicator of authentic Christian conversion. You can wander around other books of the Bible to get greater clarification on the gifts of the spirit and come to the general conclusion that different people get different gifts and can request gifts. But you can't rightly read Acts and then leap to an assumption that every Christian should be speaking in tongues, or that without tongues there is no Holy Spirit inside a person, or filling a person.

And yet Christians will continually dance around the idea that an ongoing manifestation of tongues is indicative of a greater understanding of God's ways, or a closer walk with God. This allows certain Christians to be overwhelmingly and undeservedly confident in their walk with God, and leads others to be highly insecure in the truth of their own conversion. Others of us don't care too much, knowing better, but sit silent when the tongues brigade preaches or pushes assumptive theology not based in scriptural reality. Usually those who use tongues as a barometer of spirituality are far too sure of their rightness to question or do a verse by verse analysis of what they believe.

In the end it's important for Christians to recognize each other, love one another, and work together for God's good. We each are imparted with the Holy Spirit to guide us in this task. We won't always agree to the task at hand either. The Apostles and disciples often disagreed, and chose opposing options, but remained unified in love. And that's the true symbol of real Christianity. They will know us by our love for the world, and for each other, and for Jesus.

Arizona Not Taxing For Those Who Live Here

It's the weekend here in Phoenix and the weather is tiptoeing in unpleasant, with a sudden spike in temperature. I'm over at a friends house, and see families--mostly mom's and their kids--frolicking near the pool and getting an early start on the season. I give it the blah-face, eyebrow raised. Not ready for Arizona to do what it does best, which is be a desert. (Second best thing it does? Be a desert).

Yesterday ended a week of interesting speculation at another friend's job. He works in public eduction for a district office, and the district had finally decided on what cuts to make, given three possible scenarios. And they decided on cuts because the state legislature won't do some obvious things like temporarily raise taxes by a few percentage points. Better to cause havoc in the education system with people fired, people temporarily fired and rehired, teachers rotated and reorganized, and other such turmoil. Then again, the ultimate Republican goal is to shrink government, not necessarily keep people employed or maintain the public education system. School systems are thus left to scramble and hustle, layoff and fire, and cobble departments together to do the work that could barely get done before with more people.

This particular district decided to make most of the cuts at their district office, given previous hardships already visited upon the schools. So of six directors heading departments, two lost their jobs. Print shops were merged with supply offices and so on. All of this while raises are non-existent, benefits are cut back over time, and a highly animated conservative movement pushes the idea that government is inherently inefficient and lazy. There is no joy in working for the public. Servant indeed.

Which is funny, because the average teacher probably has more education than some of the Limbaughs and Becks out there peddling outrage.

Illinois took a particularly gutsy move, raising personal income taxes by 66% and corporate rates by 45%. When talking percentage it sounds like a huge increase, but in actuality the rate went from 3% to 5%. In an article back in January Fox News puts it this way, "The increase means an Illinois resident who now owes $1,000 in state income taxes will pay $1,666 at the new rate." Of course that new higher "crazy" rate that no Republican was willing to support in order to raise $6 billion toward balancing the budget, is a rate lower than many other states.

If we were to carry the same thing over to Arizona, one wonders if it would be worth an extra $50 a month to the average worker in order to assure a more than balanced budget for a year or two until the economy picks up. That is the question really. Do you spread the pain across the population with tax increases that are about the amount people waste in a given month on a trip to the movies or a pair of sneakers, or do you throw a smaller group out of work, who will then go on to have a massive ripple impact as they default on their homes, stop giving to charity, and completely stop spending while utilizing public services more?

Ideally, as is being done in Illinois to still experimental effect, you want to raise a tax long enough to build a rainy day surplus (with major strings), and freeze or cut spending at reasonable levels.

But nothing is reasonable in Arizona. Not the weather, not the politicians. It's always all or nothing, with no shade, reasoning scantily clad under a hard, brutal oblivious sun.

The Beauty of the Turmoil in Japan and the Middle East

It's a weird juxtaposition. What you say? The way the circles of reality lay themselves out in your mind, jostling for position and authority.

We look out at the wider world and see two rather momentous events happening simultaneously: the spread of revolution across Arab states, and the spread of radiation and nuclear instability across Japan. Both events will reshape modern life... are reshaping modern life. Our gas prices are rising, causing us here in the States to rethink our overall energy strategy. Obama's speech today at Georgetown University proposed a cut in foreign oil dependence, and an increase in both domestic oil reliance and energy diversification. Here, within two very different world situations, the common elements are danger, energy and opportunity.

Danger lies in the potentiality that none of the revolutions across Egypt, Tunisia, Yemen and Libya will ultimately lead to democratic nations. Ridding the world of dictators does not rid the world of men with ambitious, cunning dictatorial hearts. And in Japan, the patient and gallant response to massive destruction--last tally, 27, 652 dead or missing (Bloomberg)--does not begin to answer the questions that are being asked as miniscule traces of contamination begin to show up in odd places.

One really does not want to get caught debating the merits of energy policy when people are fighting and dying for freedom (across Arabia) or trying to recover from a tsunami and its inflicted derivations in Japan. And yet energy is a major player in how these societies will evolve when they are finished... evolving. Will nuclear in Japan prove so damaging that people begin to seek to rely on alternatives? Will the contamination effect trade and the products that Japan excels at producing? Energy touches everything, everywhere. In the Arab lands, energy can fund freedom or dictatorship, driving policy and relationships.

The beauty of the turmoil lies in the opportunity for change. It takes a shakeup to reach down into the mind and energize it in a way where it recalculates the possibilities. So long as you are guided by the status quo, with nothing pressing or pushing or seeming to fall apart, the human mind will not normally flex itself. It's during these moments of extreme danger when everything is shaken that the mind finds new foundations to build upon.

Japanese Nuclear Engineers Look Fear in the Face

Voice of America reports on a second blast today in Japan:

Tokyo Electric Power company, which operates the plant, said an undetermined number of workers had been injured in the blast.

(VOA)

I would imagine that workers at a power plant don't normally expect anything to go very wrong. They are smart, well educated, conscientious. They didn't likely fall into this occupation as a last resort, like a few of those in the military. In contrast with the military, there is no backdrop of  likely death. People may enter the military at a time when the nation is at war, and that risk is always a factor in the decision. Some will join because we are at war, and some will join precisely when we are not, and always risking the odds of death. Same with firemen and police, who measure the risk, but take the jobs due to altruism, patriotism, love of the work or family history.

Working at a plant is different, since the risks are rather unlikely, and out of the blue. In Japan, it was an earthquake and tsunami triggering damage. Now the pressure is building in reactors and workers have to be on hand to manage the situation.

What if you had to rise this morning, knowing that you had to go into a potentially radioactive environment? Life--YOURS-- might be cut short. It's your job, but, it's not mandatory. You won't be court-martialed if you leave, necessarily. Does that nuclear engineer or site specialist in Japan decide, on this particular morning, of all the mornings in the world, to pursue his inner muse, skip work, and take up another career out of cowardice or self preservation? Does the father of a young child want to make sure he sees his son play baseball as a teen?

There is now the potential of dying for energy, or dying to protect everyone else from contamination. Your life could be cut short on the tail end, with the resulting sickness slow and deadly, or you could go right up front in one stark blast of light.

Right now there is little talk of alarm. There is probably an entirely stronger discourse going on behind the closed doors of officials, and in the mind of that individual worker who sits there wondering if this day at work will be uniquely life changing in bad way. That is fear. I can feel that fear from the comfort of my home many miles away in the Arizona desert, and where Palo Verde Nuclear Generating Station--the largest nuclear site in the U.S.-- sits 45 miles away from me.

I wake up this morning knowing that I can skip work, and quit, and it won't be a big deal. Nobody will die because of my fear, or suffer because of my inaction. I will sit ans eat a piece of Toblerone, and fill in a spreadsheet, while others lay their lives on the line.