tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62458621093762684752024-03-05T18:32:43.325-05:00On My MindI write about politics, sports, unpop culture, and the world as I see it. I'd hope something I write makes you think, and that the thought is profound enough to you that you'd take a moment to share it. But if you just think, and walk away, I hope the thought is powerful enough to move you to in some way act. Apathy is man's greatest foible. --Stew.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.comBlogger114125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-71253402621480281222017-01-23T08:49:00.000-05:002017-01-23T08:49:05.875-05:00...chapter begins.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">from facebook? welcome.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">its been awhile since i graced these pages. i'm glad they're still here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">been thinking and studying. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">a lot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">believe i've found some answers; but they lay down a complicated path.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">not the sort of journey everybody is up for, but i know some of you are thinkers.<br />and for reasons we'll get into here, there isn't much new for you to think about.<br /><br />i'd like to change that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">present a new philosophy, complete with new doctrines, strategies and tactics to fix a specific problem.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">hope you're up for that journey.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">its 2017. the threat is real -- although not what you imagine. it must be faced and defeated, or we will die here. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">i believe it can be defeated without firing a shot, or making anything explode -- but it requires us thinkers to do our thing first.<br /><br />so i'm putting it out here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">you know what to do...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">cheers,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">--Stew. </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-6933966898907416952012-01-05T02:31:00.001-05:002012-01-05T02:31:57.319-05:002012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvG5i2SPMOf5P2NB3jx44c4-CIbAvhI4JowzZplesku1UZLL6NM0nB9afI5JKVpTblO8wkp4gU6qD2dArd7QRbPziE2do_9I8b2Qg8mwHNQsdzLsczL8CaOk9wxSU8jr-ObrCyt-L65vqN/s1600/oldfathertime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvG5i2SPMOf5P2NB3jx44c4-CIbAvhI4JowzZplesku1UZLL6NM0nB9afI5JKVpTblO8wkp4gU6qD2dArd7QRbPziE2do_9I8b2Qg8mwHNQsdzLsczL8CaOk9wxSU8jr-ObrCyt-L65vqN/s320/oldfathertime.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
image: http://www.bunny-comic.com/1503.html<br />
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Every year I search an appropriate image of Father Time, gather my thoughts in a blog, and offer a hopefully positive thought for the New Year.<br />
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I'm late.<br />
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I know, and have no apologies to offer for the tardiness.<br />
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I have never been happier to kiss a year goodbye.<br />
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2011 was pivotal -- in all the directions I prefer not to travel, and I am glad to bid it adieu.<br />
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This year's image is the Father Time I faced for all of 2011; a horrible, miserable, jackass of a year.<br />
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But I am grateful for my survival.<br />
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Many years I am also grateful for the survival of the people closest to me. But this bastard snatched some of my closest, and carried them away from me forever.<br />
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I can only hope 2012 is a less grim and less brutal. I hope to score more points in the battle; and stand bloody perhaps, but unbowed when the final bell rings.<br />
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For now, I am satisfied to be alive. Held up by one phrase that entered my consciousness from the pen of my dear angel Elizabeth years ago, and has hopefully attached itself permanently to a spot near the front of my brain permanently.<br />
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She told me (and the rest of yahoo 360) that she "knows why the angels bow." Her words came as the title and theme of her cybersharing the gut-wrenching and heartwarming experience of watching her grandson kick and fight his way past the darkness to take his place as the then-newest member of her family here on earth. His was a journey fraught with danger. After a fierce battle he'd arrived to a baptism of his mother's tears, still swaddled in the blood of the struggle.<br />
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I haven't checked in with her for awhile, but I trust he is well on his way to a place as one of our strongest warriors. I need him to be, for at the moment, he is my silent and invisible mentor.<br />
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Which brings me to the important part. My blessing for 2012.<br />
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My blessing this year is simple.<br />
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I wish for your survival.<br />
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We may thrive, we may succeed, we may even propel to greatness this year. From behind my eyes, that would all be extra credit.<br />
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I want you and I to both be alive when the clock next strikes Happy New Year.<br />
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The rest is gravy. If I have ever loved you; know that I still do. If we were ever friends, know that we still are. And if we are foes; know that I only wish to live to fight again--you at your strongest, me at my best.<br />
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Peace,<br />
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--Stew.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-40571695967670253862011-05-29T23:23:00.005-04:002011-06-03T19:18:50.001-04:00I only cried once...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZLkVgguEwISVt7QNvkLO8L8ByI9mTILFXSUi_xNkOxsUhZxoAZzrEIKX-AGOZy3PcBIok3Hp_sPBGz2IxhDQEoxJA51N4f5rD_TslWx2w14DEYFIl8UtFKPuyTC4kW4cUNux6Uki8HVyo/s1600/taps_bugler_jari_villanueva.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 295px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZLkVgguEwISVt7QNvkLO8L8ByI9mTILFXSUi_xNkOxsUhZxoAZzrEIKX-AGOZy3PcBIok3Hp_sPBGz2IxhDQEoxJA51N4f5rD_TslWx2w14DEYFIl8UtFKPuyTC4kW4cUNux6Uki8HVyo/s400/taps_bugler_jari_villanueva.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612347952048627442" border="0" /></a><p>...and I'm not sure what set that ceremony apart.</p><p> </p><p>Patrick Air Force Base.</p><p>Cocoa Beach Florida. 1992/3.</p><p>Base Honor Guard.</p><p> </p><p>It was that part of my military career where I was going to a LOT of funerals.</p><p> </p><p>Thanks to the Persian Gulf War cleaning out the 2nd MOB, and Hurricane Andrew decimating the honor guards at Homestead, anyone lucky enough to already be on honor guard could manage to make it a full time job, if you had an understanding boss.</p><p> </p><p>I did. Lonnie was awesome. </p><p> </p><p>Let me sign up for as many funerals as I wanted. There were hundreds. Snowbirds die at an alarming rate, and many have earned rights to full military honors.</p><p> </p><p>The busiest day I remember had 7 funerals. They were back to back to back and involved a chopper flight at one point. Hopped on just north of Daytona Beach, rode the Chinook to a pad just south of Miami.</p><p> </p><p>There are four basic honors a military honor guard at the base level provides:</p><p> </p><p>1. pall bearing</p><p>2. 21-gun salute</p><p>3. taps</p><p>4. flag presentation</p><p> </p><p>From the front end -- they are dignified, impressive components, all of them. people rarely join honor guard in a funeral zone for the ribbon. a few like me, were trying to get out of work, but most are the extremely patriotic, who are there to honor the history.</p><p> </p><p>i wasn't one of those at first. i just like the precision of it all.</p><p> </p><p>The snaps, spats, and aiguillettes, adding a crispy flair to the most plain-jane dress uniform in the Pentagon's closet.</p><p> </p><p>The specialized drill routines, formulated for funerals, and practiced on a grassy field until they happened silently, flawlessly, without need for an uttered command.<strong> </strong></p><p> </p><p>The strangled rifles. M1s with seven-blank cartridges and metal-blocked muzzles.</p><p> </p><p>I remember a meeting -- something at the beginning of summer "season" when old Soldiers, and Marines with permission, and Airmen headed for the wild blue yonder, and Sailors bound for following seas typically start to line up for their procession from the Sunshine State.</p><p> </p><p>We talked about the tempo of the ceremonies, and how each was a family's last memory of a departing loved one, and how one day it would be us in the coffin.</p><p> </p><p>And then it started. Day after grinding day of strapping the straps, buttoning the buttons, wiping off the dust, and climbing on the bus.</p><p> </p><p>Opening the hearse, sliding the coffin out, bracing for that moment when the trailing edge slipped off the roller and we were left at center stage to determine if we'd calculated enough muscle power for the job, trudging to the green tent, navigating around the ever-present shovels sticking out of a mound of dirt, occasionally straining to lift a particularly heavy coffins onto the brass frame.</p><p> </p><p>unhooking rifles, drilling to port arms, waiting through a graveside eulogy, watching a widow cry, soundlessly shifting port to ready to aim.</p><p> </p><p>holding it.</p><p> </p><p>waiting for the command.</p><p> </p><p>!!!!!!!!!!FIRE!!!!!!!!!!</p><p> </p><p>!!!!!!!!!!FIRE!!!!!!!!!!</p><p> </p><p>!!!!!!!!!!FIRE!!!!!!!!!!</p><p> </p><p>it ALWAYS made the widow or the mother or the baby jump.</p><p> </p><p>Then resting your cheek to the butt of the rifle and waiting for taps.</p><p> </p><p>He was part of the team, but never traveled with us.</p><p> </p><p>Never checked in, never said hello. He was a civilian bugler. I guess he'd been Air Force at one point or another ... but I don't actually ever remember meeting him.</p><p> </p><p>He was always behind the trees, or over the hill. And he was dependable like the sunset. A few beats after the last rifle report ... he invisibly commandeered center stage.</p><p> </p><p>His rendition of TAPS still echoes through my memory. He liked to let taps ... waft ... with the wind.</p><p> </p><p>Come hauntingly over the hill on a hot-assed blast of Florida summer.</p><p> </p><p>They were never real people to me at first -- the ones in the coffins. They were names and ranks, and special instructions:</p><p> </p><p>"deceased is obese, please be aware that the coffin may require reinforced manpower."</p><p> </p><p>"deceased is believed to have committed suicide. mother and wife are sworn enemies. mother has vowed to kill wife at gravesite ... to 'send daughter-in-law to hell with her son' ... additional security may be prudent."</p><p> </p><p>When you lift the flag off a coffin, and the six (...or two) of you start to snap it into a triangle fit for immortality in a living room, it feels like folding a spread with your mother. Except the creases matter.</p><p> </p><p>And when you lean over to the grieving widow with that folded flag in hand, you stiffly present it to her with a solemn face. You look directly at her eyes. You do not blink, and you say:</p><p> </p><p>"<strong>On behalf of the President of the United States, the Department of the Air Force, and a grateful nation, we offer this flag for the faithful and dedicated service of <em>**<insert name="" here="">**. God bless you and this family, and God bless the United States of America."</insert></em> </strong></p><p> </p><p>That moment always matters. Sometimes the widow, or mother, or daughter-I cannot ever remember giving a flag to a man--returns your stare, and you can see a lifetime of twisting emotions behind her pupils. Sometimes she wants to kill you. Sometimes she wants to hug you. She ALWAYS half-clears her throat, and manages a hoarse "thankyou."</p><p> </p><p>It was 18 months of funeral after funeral after funeral after funeral. From Jacksonville to the Keys, South of Tampa to Homestead.</p><p> </p><p>Two stick out.</p><p> </p><p>Christmas, 1993. We got a request from the wife of a Retired Lieutenant Colonel for military honors on his December 25th burial in Miami. We couldn't get an entire team together, but a Staff Sergeant and I volunteered to go present a flag.</p><p> </p><p>We talked all the way down, listening to a CD of Sade's No Ordinary Love. Hey, it was Christmas~</p><p> </p><p>It was ... a sad little funeral. Just a widow, a rabbi, and some random guy who looked like either an old friend, or a drinking buddy from the bar. The Staff Sergeant made the presentation. The wife cried then handed each of us an envelope.</p><p> </p><p>"I know it's Christmas. I know you didn't have to do this. It means a lot to me, and I know it would have meant a lot to him," she said.</p><p> </p><p>She wouldn't take the envelopes back.</p><p> </p><p>We were silent all the way back up I-95.</p><p> </p><p>The second was when I cried.</p><p> </p><p>I still have no idea WHY that one hit me so hard. I didn't know him. Didn't think his family looked particularly like mine, or like someone I knew. Wasn't having a bad day, guns didn't jam, coffee was hot. We didn't get lost finding the grave site.</p><p> </p><p>I was on the rifle detail. We had seven that day. (Sometimes you have three, and fire 7 rounds each...)</p><p> </p><p>And I was standing there on a hill, at a cemetery in Orlando, Florida that is the final resting place for thousands of vets ... hundreds of whom I'd honored personally...</p><p> </p><p>And we fired the volleys, and my cheek was resting on the stock of my impotent but noisy gun ... and I had 3 funerals left that day, and a bead of sweat ran down out of my bus driver hat into my eye ... and I couldn't wipe it off because "FIRE" position is like attention...</p><p> </p><p>And taps started wafting up the hill and around the trees. And for some reason ... for the first time ... i actually ... HEARD it.</p><p> </p><p>There's no reason you should know taps ... but, here are the words in case you one day get curious.</p><p> </p><br /><p><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/38wx8C7VmB4" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="425"></iframe><br /></p><p><strong>“Day is done, gone the sun</strong></p> <p><strong>From the lake, from the hills, from the sky</strong></p> <p><strong>All is well, safely rest;</strong></p> <p><strong>God is nigh.”</strong></p> <p> </p> <p>And something about the way it pedaled up that incline, and rested between the crests of two hills ... bouncing back and forth on itself so that 'gone the sun' crashed softly into 'from the hills' and 'God is nigh' got hoisted up on 'all is well' ... caught in my throat. And for the first time <strong>I </strong>realized i was ... AT a FUNERAL.</p> <p> </p> <p>And we were saying good-bye to someone who'd worn a uniform, possibly fought and killed for this idea of America.</p> <p> </p> <p>And maybe he had a good experience, or a bad one.</p> <p> </p> <p>Maybe he was a great leader of men, or a shitty supervisor.</p> <p> </p> <p>Perhaps he saved the Pentagon money with his brilliant ideas, or maybe he was the moron who ended up demanding you buy crap you don't need the day before budget ran out because he didn't want his budget cut.</p> <p> </p> <p>No matter who the enlisted or officer was ... this whole pomp and circus we were taking on the road every day was a trip that had been earned.</p> <p> </p> <p>that Vet had paid in advance for the right to have me skip my unimportant job and go help move his casket from hearse to brass frame.</p> <p> </p> <p>He'd earned a flag. A 21-gun salute. Taps.</p> <p> </p> <p>And out of nowhere, I was crying. Not heaving sobs, just unwipeable tears at the "FIRE" position.</p> <p> </p> <p>I'm not going to cry this Memorial Day. That once was enough.<strong> </strong></p> <p> </p> <p>I'm also not going to make any sort of political statement. Now isn't the time.</p> <p> </p> <p>But I haven't ever felt that moment again, least of all on Memorial Day.</p> <p> </p> <p>The holiday has been pretty much dumbed down to bar-b-q and baseball.</p> <p> </p> <p>There are some 1,189,457* known American fatalities from our series of wars. </p> <p> </p> <p>Pick one, and at LEAST roast a weinie to his or her honor.</p> <p> </p> <p>I'm Air Force General Issue. Our tradition to the fallen involves part of verse three of our song:</p> <p></p><blockquote><p> <em>Here's a toast to the host</em></p><p><em>Of those who love the vastness of the sky,</em></p><p><em>To a friend we send a message of his brother men who fly.</em></p><p><em>We drink to those who gave their all of old,</em></p><p><em>Then down we roar to score the rainbow's pot of gold.</em><br /></p><p>A toast to the host of men we boast, the U.S. Air Force!</p></blockquote><p></p> <p> </p> <p>We say "here's a toast..." to our fallen comrades in arms.</p> <p>On veterans day ... we celebrate the living. The men and women who have put on .. or wear .. uniforms in the nation's defense.</p> <p>But Memorial Day is about the dead. All, 1-million plus of them.</p> <p>To each of them, and every man or woman who knows to raise a glass ...</p> <p>"Here's a toast..."</p> <p> </p> <p>Peace,</p> <p>--Stew.</p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p>© Copyright 2011. justew enterprises. All Rights Reserved. This material may be used online, but not for profit. Attribution Required.</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-87569715377135684022011-05-21T18:23:00.015-04:002011-05-22T10:03:37.884-04:00enRAPTUREd<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIjXltveyP12KUOdUvId4NowY2Bk7RVrMIv4o1u6GELCXi4OZH1zSDf0AUE8MGkS4DDR3M4ilmQb5KEPZxtBknBiGS84jGg_ei1JRqq_NCbqfpga7OTGwaK9QbNZ8dLhKSNt1KughUYe-T/s1600/williammiller.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 157px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIjXltveyP12KUOdUvId4NowY2Bk7RVrMIv4o1u6GELCXi4OZH1zSDf0AUE8MGkS4DDR3M4ilmQb5KEPZxtBknBiGS84jGg_ei1JRqq_NCbqfpga7OTGwaK9QbNZ8dLhKSNt1KughUYe-T/s400/williammiller.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609388255890623282" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Between 1831 and August of 1841, a baptist preacher in New England named William Miller developed a theory that the Second Coming of Jesus was prophesied to be in his immediate future.</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br />He wasn't a crackpot, per se. Just a man who took his own insights into a few specific verses a bit more seriously than anyone ever should.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">ok ... that's a crackpot.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">At any rate, he was eventually joined by a former atheist named Samuel S. Snow. The two of them spent hours poring ... might even be fair to call it obsessing over a couple of Bible texts; most notably Daniel 8:14.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">There was a time I could explain the logic they used -- I definitely spent enough time studying it. Alas, that information was killed by a half-keg of Soberana in the Great Panama Bash of '95.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I digress.</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br />You've probably heard the story, or at least a version of it. By August of 1844, they'd checked and double-checked their math, painted their posters, and taken the warning to the Saints on the road.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">October 22, 1844: the day Jesus WOULD return.</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br />In a ... strangely comical -- although not laughable sequence of events, thousands of people bought into their melded math, tortured theology, and powerful preaching.</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br />You know how this story "ends," -- even if you've never heard it before: their followers gave away all their worldly possessions, said their good-byes, and waited for the celestial ride to heaven.</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br />Unfortunately for them, their pets, and their abandoned assets -- we can now generously say that "something was off in the math."</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br />Nothing happened. Not so much as a bright flash in the New Hampshire sky.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The math was off.</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">History calls it the Great Disappointment. It even has its own Wikipedia entry.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">If the story ended there, it would just be one of those sad side notes of America's religious legacy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But this particular episode of Jesus standing up a group of true believers played a pivotal role in my universe.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A small group of the Millerites spun off their own franchise out of this experience. In the 167 years since, the Seventh-day Adventist church has grown into one of the most widespread Protestant denominations in the world.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lLLAcB5PsDRh2p6eAfW7sLwDUVNP_zdK5Cd9AjJ4WqgUAGT90FPl8TAf3bz_gEG8beYvMWS1JsboWBCIoNQyKMT7oJsfPT983CCe6xjc9ZZN4JyaJIVbDKXzhkRdDqeB1g6q7Awnp_Y-/s1600/gc+crowd.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lLLAcB5PsDRh2p6eAfW7sLwDUVNP_zdK5Cd9AjJ4WqgUAGT90FPl8TAf3bz_gEG8beYvMWS1JsboWBCIoNQyKMT7oJsfPT983CCe6xjc9ZZN4JyaJIVbDKXzhkRdDqeB1g6q7Awnp_Y-/s400/gc+crowd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609389408299876802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Last Saturday, an estimated 25 million people in more than 200 countries attended a worship service in an SDA congregation.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">For the first 20 years of my life, I was one of those millions. And I cannot imagine a better childhood.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">SDA life is a rich tapestry of spirituality, community, and recreation. It has carved a unique and productive culture out of the human landscape. Its hospitals and school system are second-to-none. The people are warm, friendly, and loyal.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">My love of music was born in Adventism. You have heard them sing--and loved it, even though you probably didn't realize you were listening to their special kind of soul.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">As much as I loved the people, music, and culture of Adventism, there came a point in my life where the calculations weren't leading me to the right numbers. I realized I didn't believe what they believe. A separation was necessary.<br /><br />The math didn't add up.<br /><br />19 years later, I still count hundreds of Adventists among my circle of friends.<br /><br />I wouldn't trade those Adventist years for anything. I wouldn't cash in those people for any other group on the planet, and I hope a couple of them will sing a song in my memory after I keel over and kick the bucket.<br /><br />For the past few days, the nation has been focused on another crackpot promising he had run the numbers and identified today as the date of the rapture.<br /><br />This time an 89-year old Oakland, California pastor named Harold Camping is cast in the role of William Miller.<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8dhb3JLfrx_zD7lBv03EhTuU5r3wJpeo4yVY6sgGdPdjomO51aRstq00iaBQo2riOAwiIt6uw_UU_SwrpxY5oyrj9bIppxMkk2Mx714xTx91osUN2hk0Js2HeYy5rOqHw2aWhKPF2CFvH/s1600/harold-camping-false-prophet.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 198px; height: 220px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8dhb3JLfrx_zD7lBv03EhTuU5r3wJpeo4yVY6sgGdPdjomO51aRstq00iaBQo2riOAwiIt6uw_UU_SwrpxY5oyrj9bIppxMkk2Mx714xTx91osUN2hk0Js2HeYy5rOqHw2aWhKPF2CFvH/s400/harold-camping-false-prophet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609390865676704962" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">According to Camping's math the holy were supposed to disappear at 6pm eastern time.<br /><br />It's been a source of lots of jokes, and punchlines will poke out of this non-event until 2012, when we know the world will end because the Mayans whispered the planet's expiration date to us in rock calendars.<br /><br />I've joked about the silliness of predicting the end of the world along with everyone else. And I DEFINITELY think it's funny in a Santayana sense.<br /><br />But there are people out in our wild and crazy world who were quietly counting on Camping's calculations.<br /><br />I silently tip my cap, and my ice-filled glass of vodka to what is undoubtedly THEIR day of Great Disappointment.<br /><br />I hope their disillusionment leads to something down the road that's HALF as cool for some kid who deserves a kick-ass environment in which to become a freethinker.<br /><br />And to that kid ... I can only say ... "watch the math."<br /><br />Peace,<br /><br />--Stew.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Photos<br />Miller:<br />http://snakeoilgraphics.com/NightStick/post/The-Great-Disappointment.aspx<br />GC Photo:<br />http://www.rejuvenatemeetings.com/2010/08/21/q-a-an-adventist-on-adrenaline/<br />Harold Camping:<br />http://extraordinaryintelligence.com/<br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-78190057480115544102011-01-21T05:22:00.004-05:002011-01-21T07:17:29.908-05:00Socks. A Health Care Story.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdIoD9VbzPKdVxbY3XSjITykWeHGUG80EFEtJYgpnKoJ9Vkrg7Z88jFts-soiS3gbuZEAo4AyA3FMiPPYK7DrIaCsg3y9KFL_P9HmRVIhR8dnHD5IqRuopjYTvo58fPuor2QG9iVPfD6ao/s1600/socks1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 304px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdIoD9VbzPKdVxbY3XSjITykWeHGUG80EFEtJYgpnKoJ9Vkrg7Z88jFts-soiS3gbuZEAo4AyA3FMiPPYK7DrIaCsg3y9KFL_P9HmRVIhR8dnHD5IqRuopjYTvo58fPuor2QG9iVPfD6ao/s400/socks1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564589036134223922" border="0" /></a><br />It was a pair of socks that turned me against our current health care system.<br /><br />True Story:<br />It's fall of 2008. I'm in Prince William County Hospital, Woodbridge, Virginia -- the medical facility that tried to kill me.<br /><br />I'm there with a chest full of pulmonary embolisms -- a baker's dozen blood clots spread across both lungs. They were a complication from surgery to reattach a torn Achilles tendon.<br /><br />The hospital room was chilly, and my left foot was still in one of those immobilizing walking boots. Had to be elevated, which made my blanket too short to cover both my feet. The nurse comes in to check on me, and notices my 'good foot' sticking out at the bottom of the covers. She compassionately asks me if I'm cold. I say yes, and she promises to come right back.<br /><br />She brings me a pair of socks. They are reasonably nice as socks go; cotton, gray, with little patches on the bottom to keep me from sliding around on the floor. I've seen similar socks since, at Wal-Mart. They retail for about eight bucks a pair.<br /><br />I thank her for her kindness, and she rubs my arm.<br /><br />I heal enough to go home, and later discover a pretty major insurance SNAFU. The paperwork shuffle sends the wrong documents to the wrong desks, and important deadlines pass. Ultimately I get stuck with the entire bill -- even though I was paying a significant amount to be "covered" before my accident.<br /><br />Getting stuck with the bill meant I got to see all the charges. Almost $50,000 worth of individual pain-killing pills, Heparin, sleeping pills, meals, fees, and a $74.95 pair of socks.<br /><br />Huh?<br /><br />Double-checked it, and yep. It was a real charge.<br /><br />Line 47.<br />Socks, Non-Skid: 74.95<br /><br />Made me a little sick at the stomach. Friends and family had brought me lots of things I needed. I'd forgotten to ask for a pair of thick socks, no big deal. It was an oversight. I would have survived without them for a night or two. And if she'd asked me if I was cold enough to want some fing $75 socks, I would have said "thank you, but no. I'll be ok."<br /><br />See those socks at the top of the page? I'd pay $75 for those. Hell, Maybe even $100. I don't know if you can see it or not, but they're shiny. Got what looks like hundreds of rhinestones on 'em. Plus .. THOSE socks are famous! Worn by a popular musician in his heyday. If I wore THOSE, everyone would look at them and say "damn, bro. now THOSE are socks. Where'd ya get 'em?"<br /><br />And I'd prolly blush a little bit, and tell a story that would make me cool. And I'd feel GOOD about paying $75 for a pair of socks.<br /><br />Instead, the now tattered gray socks with the non-stick tabs make me queasy. And probably will until the day I die. I'm not throwing away $75 socks.<br /><br />Ever.<br /><br />I listened to the health care debate for almost two whole years. I read all 2000+ pages of the bill Congress produced, and it makes me queasy too.<br /><br />It is mysticism -- sort of like when religious people try to explain the plan of Salvation to me. I'm sure THEY understand it, but it's gobbledygook to me.<br /><br />Here's MY solution, short and sweet enough to cram into ONE blog:<br /><br />1. Allow everyone to buy a health care plan. Not just businesses buying for groups. Sell them in set amounts of coverage. $1M, $500k, $100k .. with varying deductibles. Allow anyone to sponsor them; businesses, churches, charities, private organizations, social clubs peopled by men named "Bob." Literally, anybody.<br /><br />Also allow companies to sell term or life policies. Planning to skydive? Play semi-pro football on the weekends sans pads with your buddies? You sir, may need a $10M term policy, good for three years. That's gonna cost 'ya $10k/month ... OR you can gamble that gravity doesn't work, or Joe "wannabe-Brian Urlacher" Smith isn't coming across the middle to break your neck, and take your chances.<br /><br />Now THAT money, is for catastrophic events. The things that we know will happen to each of us "eventually," that are completely fixable.<br /><br />Heart attack? Insurance policy.<br />Rip your achilles playing parking lot pick-up ball when you're too old and fat? Insurance policy.<br />Having a baby? Insurance policy. <br /><br />Insurance for all the mid-level stuff that's too big to fix at home, or with an outpatient doctor's office visit, but too small to require a second mortgage.<br /><br />#2. Take away the mysticism of hospital pricing. One of the beauties that keeps insurance such a murky concept is that no one knows how much anything costs inside the doors of a clinic or hospital. Know why? Because there's no set price. They charge as much for EVERYTHING as an insurance company will pay. That's a recipe for two-way fraud and collusion.<br /><br />Put up price lists.<br />Check-up: $20 (or $40, or $100 ... I don't care what an individual hospital charges for an individual thing, I only care that the provider and the patient both know it's cost/value at the beginning of the transaction..)<br /><br />Cast for broken leg: $200<br /><br />Allow Doctors to charge an hourly wage just like everybody else. Let me buy their time, and more importantly, their undivided attention.<br /><br />Then allow them to explain my options with a menu that includes the prices, so I can understand the calculus and weigh the necessary vs. the luxurious. I'm not a moron, and neither are you. The doctor certainly isn't, so why can't we reason together about how far down the rabbit hole we want to go TODAY to figure out if I have indigestion, or esophageal cancer?<br /><br />Plus, knowing how much something costs is an integral part of competition. Business slow? Let the hospital or doctor run a special; "back to school checkups, 40% off!"<br /><br />Allow medical outfits to balance their books with supply and demand just like every other business in America. And let them actually get paid by the customer for their services, just like the grocery store, the gas station, and the morgue.<br /><br />An outpatient procedure should not REQUIRE insurance. It also should not cost $10,000. It doesn't in lots of other countries.<br /><br />I suspect, that you ... like me, get sick roughly the same number of times every year. You probably have since your 21st birthday. You could probably tell me, right now, within a range of 2 visits how many times you will go to the doctor or hospital in 2012.<br /><br />That's something you can budget for, just like you budget for gas, and groceries, and new clothes. The most expensive item at the mechanic is only a few thousand dollars. And there's a mechanic on almost every corner in America. I cannot grasp why hospitals are so much different.<br /><br />And when you have a procedure that WILL cost more money than you should reasonably be expected to have saved up for ... BLAMMO! You whip out that insurance policy, pay your deductible, and let the big boys pay for it... off the price list, not off some imaginary pay chart where gray non-skid socks cost $37.50 each.<br /><br />Finally, there will be injuries and illnesses that nobody can see coming.<br /><br />Your heart goes bad, and you need a transplant. Your child is born with a rare congenital condition that requires two years of in-patient care. You contract some off-the-wall virus from the crazy Outbreak monkey and we have to fly in Cuba Gooding Junior and Dustin Hoffman to race to the cure.<br /><br />That's where I want Uncle Sam to step in. I don't need him to buy me an aspirin. I can handle that, if the price is cost + a reasonable percentage of profit. But if I need a new $20M liver, I don't mind having the rest of you kind tax payers chip in. And quid pro quo. I'll help out with your ten years of chemo if and when you require it.<br /><br />I also don't mind if the hospital adds a few extra bucks to my bill that helps cover the people who can't afford care. There isn't a system that will cover everybody without it costing an arm and a leg. And as long as prices for the indigent are the same as what everybody else pays, I don't mind pitching in. I may need to tip in to the poor fund now and again, myself. Bad luck happens.<br /><br />I acknowledge a couple of things. Becoming a physician is a difficult and expensive undertaking. In our system, they deserve to be paid well.<br /><br />But they could be paid a bit LESS well if THEIR insurance rates weren't so absurdly high. In the current system, doctors get it from both ends. Bring down expense of care, and their malpractice rates plummet. Nothing helps inflate them quite like starting with a $50k patient charge for a hangnail procedure gone bad that ends up in court.<br /><br />And the space-aged equipment American companies have developed is astronomically expensive. But that's true of a lot of industries. And I'm not so sure those costs aren't also tied to the collusion between insurance companies, big pharma, and big medicine.<br /><br />I'm not a socialist (most of the time). I'm not a Communist. I'm just a guy who looks out at America and sees an over medicated country with horrible eating and health habits, and a medical system that is simultaneously underfunded, and overwhelmed.<br /><br />This isn't capitalism. It's slow economic suicide.<br /><br />That from a guy with ratty $75 socks on my feet. <br /><br />Peace,<br /><br />--Stew.<br /><br />P.S. I don't believe my plan is perfect. I don't think it solves all the problems. I DO believe it's implementable, without creating a new agency, or tacking another $10T onto a debt that's sinking a sunken economy. What would you change? How would you fix it? I already know that you're smarter than Congress. Prove it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-71828148763438858882011-01-16T09:56:00.006-05:002011-01-17T08:12:25.199-05:00Superhero Negro<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrREqx4EdB9CpeDkV3y9QduGQwdrK3IKyu5gK0oM-PsrOjPYeARSi1ghG8YSuTDxkPd4TOF8WtJsHMb3iIFPHTK6qVxO86qNsd_75CKP41ve-Q7TLUWk6kt2oMOPOuoFmBPsDO0ihc5rX-/s1600/MLKmugshot.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 346px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrREqx4EdB9CpeDkV3y9QduGQwdrK3IKyu5gK0oM-PsrOjPYeARSi1ghG8YSuTDxkPd4TOF8WtJsHMb3iIFPHTK6qVxO86qNsd_75CKP41ve-Q7TLUWk6kt2oMOPOuoFmBPsDO0ihc5rX-/s400/MLKmugshot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562806340627327666" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We have turned Dr. Martin Luther King into a superhero -- and thrown away the key.<br /><br />It's worse than prison; because without his unsolicited status he could have flaws, and make mistakes, and even be wrong on occasion.<br /><br />That's not his lot.<br /><br />Instead, some of the varnish flakes off when we look too closely. We 'discover' that Coretta wasn't the only object of his sexual affections, and take points away.<br /><br />We hear his off-pulpit profanity, and try to juxtapose "motherfucker" with "I have a dream."<br /><br />Its a fool's errand, because the same mind and mouth think and speak both extremes. The same brain and body enjoy the sex in both places. And the same intellect and intuition could see assassination coming, and admire a nice ass walking away.<br /><br />We should be ashamed of ourselves.<br /><br />If he were alive today, I wonder if Dr. King would see his role and historic speech at the March on Washington as the highlight of his life. If he were a movie star, I wonder if that wouldn't have been the blockbuster in a career that preferred small independent roles. I have a lot of questions about King. I admire him MORE now that his humanity shines through.<br /><br />In ninth grade English Lit, Mrs. Mullenberg taught me that every viable hero has a tragic flaw. Growing up, I was never allowed to peek at the dark side of the Good Reverend Doctor.<br /><br />Wasn't allowed to watch his stress build until he released it into some sexy Southern Belle he wasn't married to.<br /><br />Couldn't acknowledge his anger spewing out in four-letter tirades among his closest friends. I am confident "the Movement" had its morons, and I wonder how he suffered them.<br /><br />We have turned Dr. King into the Barbie Doll of civil rights; no genitalia, just a pretty face.<br /><br />But the orator I have come to respect more is a multi-faceted MAN. A child of the 40s and 50s with warring spirits riding on each shoulder.<br /><br />I can relate to THAT guy. One of MY angels covers his eyes with his wings about half the time. The other carries a pistol. And he ain't afraid to use it.<br /><br />My man King is a man who could be distracted by pretty legs escalating into a plaid miniskirt while crafting a message that would change the course of history.<br /><br />This is MY King. Not the superhero .. the man.<br /><br />I have my differences with his philosophy. I abhor the use of children in warfare. It was his most effective tactic. I think "turn the other cheek" is a message of subterfuge crafted by men who plan to slap me. He found it a viable and controllable force of the universe, like gravity. I find pacifism degrading. He rode it to a place in history's Pantheon of greatness.<br /><br />I am glad to live in the pool of promise made possible by his sacrifice.<br /><br />I don't craft word pictures for the weak at heart. I don't write to make me feel good, or you feel better. I write because sometimes shit's got to be said. And I'm tired enough of the bullshit to say it.<br /><br />I'm sick of the Superhero King. Tired of rehashing the Lincoln Memorial, and forgetting the Birmingham jail. Bored with fights over the holiday that don't ever reference the dog bites, and water hose bruises. I save my respect for the real guy who probably yelled at planning sessions, and held his own in the political in-fights, even if it meant crushing his opponents.<br /><br />I like to read between the lines. And when I read the story of this phenomenal life, I see children left at home, fatherless for months at a time, while a bus line was being integrated.<br /><br />I see a lonely, gorgeous wife -- married to an icon, when she might have preferred a warm body to cuddle up next to sometimes.<br /><br />I see a church thrust into a harsh international spotlight by their baby-faced pastor when they might have preferred a Reverend who was in town long enough to visit the sick and shut in.<br /><br />And I admire the, ... the, ... the, the SUCK it must have been to BE Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King.<br /><br />Many people have asked what Dr. King would think about the 'black community' if he were alive today. Would he recognize it? Would he regret his role in its "progress."<br /><br />I don't know, and he's not here to tell me. But my question is different..<br /><br />If Dr. King were alive today, would he recognize himself? Would he smile ... or ... wince, at the Superhero Negro we have created in his image?<br /><br />Happy Birthday, Dr. King. Can I buy you a beer?<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQiJkGuSiRbeA1CGXKaQr_WspJik6is7nsyBYVMxEo5yBFTMvJXXCgdNy6yApF84uTsDEDR7kP4k-pgwveiG0tc9cueQN9ZIkcSBbYEiba1LrY-U3wuOhcNszTqWb4ITlE2Ln08F_7aBK/s1600/kingpool.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 337px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQiJkGuSiRbeA1CGXKaQr_WspJik6is7nsyBYVMxEo5yBFTMvJXXCgdNy6yApF84uTsDEDR7kP4k-pgwveiG0tc9cueQN9ZIkcSBbYEiba1LrY-U3wuOhcNszTqWb4ITlE2Ln08F_7aBK/s400/kingpool.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563141522633210546" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Peace,<br />--Stew.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-59398176429456471102011-01-09T10:10:00.006-05:002011-01-09T12:32:03.168-05:00...and your silly death threats...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv1Z2s-te2EauUSxDkYIYOrNh4NSQRvYfeSV-PdBZwUoswpuFhWfsoOzIJMtpIt1hUqs54G9vVnoulhCRNcZFSG2Wg_WjMIzoq6Rx6qD6_dkB7TVYCvPdVPc6iJueM_iiOjfB88pZoqDP_/s1600/sarahpac_0.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 246px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv1Z2s-te2EauUSxDkYIYOrNh4NSQRvYfeSV-PdBZwUoswpuFhWfsoOzIJMtpIt1hUqs54G9vVnoulhCRNcZFSG2Wg_WjMIzoq6Rx6qD6_dkB7TVYCvPdVPc6iJueM_iiOjfB88pZoqDP_/s400/sarahpac_0.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560221285602809842" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I had a fascinating exchange with a dear friend last night.<br />It was short, and cordial .. but important to me.<br /><br />As I type, U.S. Representative Gabrielle Giffords (D-AZ) lies in a post-operative intensive care room. A gunman put a bullet in her head yesterday morning.<br /><br />His spree killed six people, including nine-year-old Christina Green and Federal Judge John Roll, 63. This morning's reports say 20 people are injured.<br /><br />It is tragic to start a Sunday mourning.<br /><br />But our conversation wasn't about grief. Sadness and anger are a given.<br /><br />Our discussion was about timing. He has a view I respect, and understand to have some legitimacy, even as I disagree. I bring my point of view here; to my space, because it is on my mind this morning.<br /><br />At issue was the timing of allusions to Sarah Palin during yesterday's chaotic coverage of the Tuscon violence.<br /><br />He is a liberal, who despises her rise to prominence. But his perspective was that it is inappropriate to address the possible political undertones of an elected Representative being gunned down at a political event "before the bodies were even cold."<br /><br />For what it is worth, he may be right. Mine is not a particularly political point of reference. My interest in the question goes to responsibility and how much accountability public figures have for their words.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />On March 23rd of last year, Sarah Palin sent a controversial tweet to her 300-thousand plus followers:<br /><blockquote>Commonsense Conservatives & lovers of America: "Don't Retreat, Instead - RELOAD!" Pls see my Facebook page.</blockquote>The issue at the time was a Health Care Reform Bill, now law, against which the the former Vice Presidential Candidate and Alaska governor was spearheading opposition.<br /><br />I want to be up front about two facts:<br /><br /> 1. I am not a supporter of Mrs. Palin. Her picture of America doesn't resonate with me. I find her voice shrill and irritating, and her words more often nonsensical than profound on any level.<br /><br /> 2. I do not believe Governor Palin's intent with this tweet was to call for the execution of politicians. I believe she was using reload as a metaphor for not backing down from a political point of view; calling instead for re-engagement in the legislative fight.<br /><br />That said, it was a poor choice of words. And the criticism was fast and furious.<br /><br />Representative Steve Israel (D-N.Y.); among others, responded via twitter and a series of television interviews. His concern was the imagery:<br /><br /><blockquote>Reload? @<a class="tweet-url username" href="http://twitter.com/SarahPalinUSA" rel="nofollow">SarahPalinUSA</a> Is your choice of words inciteful or ignorant?</blockquote>For context, I ask you to recall that at that time there were numerous reports of personal threats to several Democratic lawmakers.<br /><br />Death threats are common in America. I have always wondered about the people who make them. It seems a rather extreme response to go through all the trouble of promising to kill a person with whom you disagree. But yet, nothing controversial in America happens without allegations of threats to life.<br /><br />Make a world-series losing error in game 7? <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Denkinger">Death Threats.</a><br /><br />Say the wrong thing to the wrong crowd? <a href="http://www2.ljworld.com/news/2005/feb/02/lecture_canceled_after/">Death Threats.</a><br /><br />Vote an unpopular way on a legal matter? <a href="http://www.clevelandleader.com/node/13445">Death Threats.</a><br /><br />Express an unpopular opinion on television or radio? <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2006/mar/25/usa.arts">Death Threats.</a><br /><br />Run for President as a black guy? <a href="http://www.obamawatchblog.com/2010/01/death-threats-against-obama-racist-atrocities-soar-as-america-regurgitates-its-soul-part-two/">Death Threats.</a><br /><br />Write a book with a contrarian view? <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/1989/feb/15/salmanrushdie">Death Threats.</a><br /><br />Dare to draw the Prophet Muhammed (peace be upon him) in a cartoon? <a href="http://www.reuters.com/article/idUSTRE6293ZX20100310">Death Threats.</a><br /><br />The point of acknowledging these threats isn't that we expect every vow of violence to manifest in a sidewalk assassination. Rather, that collectively "we" have to be aware that these morons with the hair-trigger threat gene walk among us.<br /><br />And we expect the grown-ups to be cognizant of their existence, because being a public figure in America means that your words tickle millions of hammers, anvils, and stirrups ... and some of those inner canals feed directly into brains where the chemicals aren't balanced just right.<br /><br />In a nation that prizes free speech, we don't expect you to put out those fires of insanity .. but from your public platform, we do ask you not to fan the flames.<br /><br />We expect President George W. Bush to stand on his bully pulpit and publicly say to America:<br /><blockquote><br />The enemy of America is not our many Muslim friends; it is not our many Arab friends. Our enemy is a radical network of terrorists, and every government that supports them. --<a href="http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/gwbush911jointsessionspeech.htm">20 September 2001</a><br /></blockquote><br />To his eternal credit, he delivered. The non-partisan in each of us knows this paragraph saved lives and prevented lynchings.<br /><br />Rights and responsibilities are the peanut butter and jelly of American citizenship. One without the other is either too sweet, or makes your gums stick together.<br /><br />So when Political King and Queenmaker Palin chose to follow her OWN advice .. reloading instead of retreating on the issue, she gets the whole sandwich.<br /><br />I am not prone to hyperbole, so let's speak of facts. Double click on the image that accompanies these words. Make it bigger. Take off your partisan hat for a moment, and just look at it.<br /><br />A map of my beloved country, with 20 targets. Not metaphorical targets; actually scope views of specific districts in which it is "time to take a stand."<br /><br />Then it lists by name, the people to be targeted:<br /> #4: Gabrielle Giffords, AZ - 8<br /><br />She now of respirators and scars, critically hanging on to life at Tuscon's University Medical Center, thank you to a man with a gun who picked her event as an appropriate target.<br /><br />If this poster were a CD album cover, pointing out police districts instead of political ones, and our Sunday mourning was for Officers, would there be calls for cooler heads? Calls to slow condemnation of the artist? Same poster, same outcome ..<br /><br />How about a racial separatist group, from any side of that minefield -- calling for its members to "stand up" against pockets of whites, or blacks, or hispanics? If this were their poster, and we were lighting candles over a Jewish Center, or at an NAACP rally, or Republican headquarters, would we seek to slow down the anger before we called for responsible speech?<br /><br />I do not blame ex-Governor Palin for the crime. But that's not the standard for behavior we promote. The standard is to not speak words that everyone so easily calls to mind when the idiots among us do something horrendous.<br /><br />Imagine this: Mrs. Palin could just have easily said "return."<br /><br />Peace,<br /><br />--Stew.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-6851911515662712812010-12-31T07:45:00.006-05:002010-12-31T10:48:02.000-05:0020-eleven.<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbqPZYxuoDVuZgKPZ4liU4K1P_eOdSZ430c-hBNYywGvMJC4FRzgyjosfzPv2dtwCFkBIWWN_GosmniaQWPblHEL0qdB_JZdEJTQQY8PEu8O1RhQ42tbpSewrCxVb6tErFqXsSf2Io4Mb/s1600/timeopensgate.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbqPZYxuoDVuZgKPZ4liU4K1P_eOdSZ430c-hBNYywGvMJC4FRzgyjosfzPv2dtwCFkBIWWN_GosmniaQWPblHEL0qdB_JZdEJTQQY8PEu8O1RhQ42tbpSewrCxVb6tErFqXsSf2Io4Mb/s400/timeopensgate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556858219319976274" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Artists, Arise! We summon you.<br /><br />Musicians and singers; dancers, painters and sculptors, writers, builders of useful AND unusual things, stretch your bodies and ready your tools. It's time for you to go to work.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Yours are the products that steady our spirits, and soothe our souls.<br /><br />And we are communally cracked, bouncing toward broken.<br /><br />HAPPY NEW YEAR! ummm, happynewyear? ... wait, ... happy. new. year. --- not quite.<br /><br />happy new year ... I guess that's the one.<br /><br />happy new year...<br /><br />2010 leaves "us" more unemployed, more homeless, more precariously positioned, more tentative, and more collectively ... <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">b</span><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 0);">l</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">a</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">h</span></span> ... than many of his earlier siblings.<br /><br />And it is art that will ultimately restore our sanity.<br /><br />This year I have reconnected with more people from my past than at any time in my life. I welcome each of you. I'm glad to have you back in my universe.<br /><br />It is my sacred personal tradition to offer a comment on each departing and arriving year. This particular transition finds me lost for words -- but vocally so.<br /><br />Most years this blessing is a call to the Universe for pleasant things to come your way.<br /><br />Not this time.<br /><br />This year, a call for YOU to stand up, dust yourself off, introduce yourselves to the neighbors, and get to work. We must rebuild.<br /><br />There is plenty to do. And to quote the lovely Alice Walker, "we are the ones we have been waiting for" to do it.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">With that, my 2011 blessing</span>:<br /><br />As the new year sparks to life, I wish re-ignition of the fire in your belly. I wish it to warm, then glow, then crackle, then consume the excuses that may have kept you on the sideline and ultimately burn outward as unquenchable passion to make a difference. THIS is the year we need <span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">you</span> to make progress on that thing you were born to do.<br /><br />I wish you toward a desire for introducing yourself to others. We can spare no quarter to anonymity.<br /><br />First, because there are scoundrels and scallywags among us. And every time they sit a briefcase or bag beside their chair and walk away -- it shuts down the airport. We need to start figuring out who they are, so we can return to keeping our shoes on when we travel to grandmother's house.<br /><br />More importantly ...<br /><br />We are surrounded by people in pain; real, tangible, gut-shredding circumstance and situation. We need to put names and faces to these trials, and stop pondering them in the abstract. It isn't "the homeless," it is Bill, his wife, and the three kids living in their Civic.<br /><br />THOSE are two very different problems.<br /><br />I wish for you commerce. Create something. And sell it or trade it for something someone else has created. Then make something else, and repeat the process. A song, a bottle of wine, a meal, a painting, a table, a loaf of bread, a cut lawn, a colorful knick-knack. These are the seeds of an assembly line, then a factory, then an industry, then an economy.<br /><br />Neither Washington nor your State capitol creates jobs. Those come from people with a tangible "something" to market. And a "strong economy" starts with the thing you created.<br /><br />I wish focus for you. I bless you with an eye for finishing the things you start. These are not times to leave business incomplete. You will drown in a boat half-bailed, lose everything to a fire half-extinguished, and starve in wait for a meal half-prepared.<br /><br />I wish for you language. Our melting pot is flavored with many spices, and we have degraded ourselves to complainers about the combination, rather than savor-ers of the flavor. I encourage you to learn a paragraph not crafted from the alphabet of your youth.<br /><br /><span id="result_box" class="" lang="af"><span title="Click for alternate translations" class="hps">Hierdie jaar</span><span title="Click for alternate translations">,</span> <span title="Click for alternate translations" class="hps">leer</span> <span title="Click for alternate translations" class="hps">jouself</span> <span title="Click for alternate translations" class="hps">om te sê</span> <span title="Click for alternate translations" class="hps">goeie môre</span> <span title="Click for alternate translations" class="hps">in</span> <span title="Click for alternate translations" class="hps">'n</span> <span title="Click for alternate translations" class="hps">taal wat nie</span> <span title="Click for alternate translations" class="hps">jou eie</span><span class="" title="Click for alternate translations">.<br /><br /></span></span><span id="result_box" class="short_text" lang="la"><span title="Click for alternate translations" class="hps">Salve</span><span class="" title="Click for alternate translations">.<br /><br />I wish for you an infinite supply of hugs and kisses. Not for your reception, but for your delivery. We need to resume touching each other. Texting isn't the same. It cannot replace a hug.<br /><br />Artists: I wish your favorite muse to be captured at your side; rendered incapable of leaving you, and emotional in her captivity. I wish her to inspire you, cajole you, tease you, anger you, and propel you to your greatest works ever. You are our bulwark from these blahs. They would have us believe they are inescapable. You have the crafts to prove them wrong. First our survival (√) then our sanity ( ), then our stability ( ), and ultimately our success (!).<br /><br />As always I wish you life, health, strength, a smile, great sex, a party, nutrition, a song, a good book, a circle of trustworthy friends, a cabal of wise counsel, a bushel bucket of hope, and a tougher tether to your elders and children.<br /><br />We have lost many bright lights this year. People we admire and love have gone to the other side from every facet of public and many of our private lives. I wish this to remind you that ours is a temporary sojourn through this time and space.<br /><br />We will not arrive the destination at the same time, but I wish us to all arrive "together."<br /><br />happy new year ...<br /><br />--Stew.<br /><br />Photo: This year's photo is called "Father Time opens the gates of dawn which open upon the real world." That's not what I would have named it, but then .. I deal in words, not images. The artist's title DOES seem to capture everything he intended. If you like it, and want it for your living room, <a href="http://www.art.com/products/p4058773254-sa-i4705303/father-time-opens-the-gates-of-dawn-which-open-upon-the-real-world.htm?sorig=cat&sorigid=0&dimvals=0&ui=0cc7a2c6367a40a995baf07fb3933056&searchstring=father+time">Art.com</a> will be happy to frame it and send it to you.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-31301000946606228842010-01-01T04:27:00.005-05:002010-01-01T04:42:12.576-05:00Twenty Ten<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyD8i1BL-NQQApRWCyqaTPL7bdNCBdS0QfBg46KlzhtOWENJwzbdm-O3U-t465vh2xObw5x0w53204vV4hA0aDfAtPrGQbjI4-VKUm_bfWmYKtZpHt58HLEafWCqeXDZo_3UgCpXFHTStu/s1600-h/time2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 393px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyD8i1BL-NQQApRWCyqaTPL7bdNCBdS0QfBg46KlzhtOWENJwzbdm-O3U-t465vh2xObw5x0w53204vV4hA0aDfAtPrGQbjI4-VKUm_bfWmYKtZpHt58HLEafWCqeXDZo_3UgCpXFHTStu/s400/time2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421704405769133970" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />It is beyond habit, now; this annual sendoff and welcoming of the years. Greetings old friends, it is time for another New Year’s blessing.<br /><br />New friends, this has become my annual tribute to the information age. Every year, as the final grains slip beyond the waist of the hourglass, and we prepare to flip it over, I look for a new representation of Father Time, and write a few words of blessing via blog to the peoples I call “mine.”<br /><br />This year’s art was painted in honor of Chritiaan Huygens. It is described as Father Time holding a pendulum between cycloidal arcs instead of an hourglass. In the background Saturn with its moon Titan and ring discovered by Huygens. Travelers--you can find this piece in the Netherlands’ Boerhaave; the National Museum of the History of Science and Medicine.<br /><br />This is the first time since beginning this tradition that I have the privilege of capping a decade, as well as a year.<br /><br />This marks the fourth “decade,” or portion of a decade I’ve witnessed. It was by far my least favorite while having had the most long-term impact on my life.<br /><br />I don’t mean just the way the Universe dealt with me, as an insignificant. That indeed sucked, but is of no real consequence. I mean the aesthetics, the music, the culture, the society, and the general ... aura(?) of the era seemed to never quite balance in the aughts.<br /><br />For context; consider that here in America, we started the decade locked in a weird and bitter Presidential campaign that “ended” without the vote deciding the Presidency. Speaking from a purely non-partisan place, that’s just ... weird. It neither computes nor balances. And it almost perfectly illustrates what I’m trying to pin down about that space in time. It feels like “everything” in the aughts had a “not quite right” feel to it.<br /><br />We all watched our first “live on network television” national tragedy that Tuesday morning. It didn’t feel real, but was on teevee. It was on teevee and didn’t feel like a soap opera or cable drama, either. It felt like ... being violated? watching helpless as someone hurt your child, your family, something you love dearly? For four days there was wall-to-wall commercial television with no commercials. Again with the “offness.”<br /><br />Of course, that tragedy required us to fight two separate wars against very nebulous enemies; entities we just couldn’t quite pin-down, or identify. “Terrorism,” “al-quaida,” “radical Islamic extremism,” “insurgents,” were our new enemies, even though very few people have seen them, though hundreds of thousands have fired weapons in their general direction.<br /><br />Lakefulls of ink have been spilt and shaped in defense and condemnation of these things. I am here to neither support or attack them as choices, today. I am simply an observer of the odd and subtle ennui that for me, epitomized the aughts.<br /><br />The internet and social networking and cell phones and satellite information beamed to private houses for fee all came to maturity in this relatively tiny span of time. Yet, for most of the decade, it all felt like information without purpose. It was as if everyone suddenly had access to the equivalent of unlimited cash, with very little in the marketplace to buy. Toward the end of the decade, more usability started to emerge from the capability, and all signs point toward a very well integrated future for man, machine, and the knowledge matrix.<br /><br />And then the economy turned on its heels and bit us--the hand that feeds it. Previously predictable real estate cycles turned into toxic asset pools, and global mega-corporations became welfare queens. American unemployment tripled seemingly overnight, and the deficit swelled past pre-Carter/Reagan era records.<br /><br />And finally, mercifully ... we flip the hourglass and reset the numbers. We lose the confusing “what do we even CALL the era” bit, and enter the “20-somethings.”<br /><br />My wishes for you are unusually simple this year.<br /><br />And on this precipice, I stroke keyboard, and click mouse to offer them to you in this newly dawned age:<br /><br />First and foremost I wish you solid ground on which to stand; days with specific milestones, goals complete with reasonable schedules, budgets with solid funding streams, and beliefs that are settled to your core. I wish for this new stability to completely permeate your environment, and ultimate our society.<br /><br />Whether you look in the mirror and see a Conservative or Liberal; theist or atheist, pro-or-con, mac or PC, I wish your world to a perpetual state of rock steady. I bequeath you a universe where what is good for you comes bathed in light, and the evil is covered in shadow for easy recognition.<br /><br />I wish you wholesome food; processed and prepared just enough to be at its freshest, ripest, and most nutritious.<br /><br />I wish you water; pure and unbottled, that quenches your thirst fully and causes you to crave its healthy goodness like Pookie craved crack.<br /><br />I wish you wine that bursts with flavor, color, and bouquet, made from grapes grown in vineyards filled with love.<br /><br />I wish you beer and spirits perfect in their strength, and powerful in their effect, and for you a discerning conscience for moderation.<br /><br />I wish you’d put the soda down. :-)<br /><br />For the first time ever, I wish for you a PARTY; in whatever context that word conveys to your heart an ideal of being surrounded by good friends and laughter, participating in whatever activity engages everyone present to their betterment. I wish you celebrations to attend, and bless them to help heal the tears in your piece of our tattered communal soul.<br /><br />I wish for you a perfect book; for some of you to write, and for others of you to read. I bless it word-for-word, and will you to its completion. I wish for it to touch your soul in an untouched place, and to spark your imagination AND inspiration to go forth and make the world you can touch and see a better place.<br /><br />I wish for you one perfect song. I wish for it to be a song you can sing with your own voice, or play with your own hand. I wish for it to soothe your savage beasts on days where their hunger threatens to consume you.<br /><br />I wish for you an argument that never ends, with a friend who is not threatened by the disagreement, about a subject that stretches your mind, and deepens the understanding between you.<br /><br />I wish for you peace, and love, and joy.<br /><br />I have no sacred powers with with to spark life into any of my wishes, but I do believe that the human soul is capable of speaking the desired into existence. It is with this belief that I humbly present this list of wishes for you with a word of encouragement to speak them into existence in the universe YOU inhabit.<br /><br />We know that there will be sorrow in this year, and pain, and disappointment, and sadness.<br /><br />But it doesn’t have to be the defining character of the time we fill.<br /><br />And when we meet here to celebrate the arrival of the next baby New Year, I wish for us the satisfaction of knowing we helped shape and mold a better “we.”<br /><br />Peace,<br /><br />--Stew.<br /><br />Photo:<br />http://www.museumboerhaave.nl/AAcollection/AAJPEGS/M03/P00785.jpgAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-17097289475786605642009-12-13T14:55:00.005-05:002009-12-13T17:00:21.766-05:00Tiana.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKNHroYacCauLNr6PThwJntfmieKmPqBJBOMccEVuExKqFBMG5of_FIl75_y_XiRbCdtVSKuaCjFDpYaM1TAHerW6wYb7tl2V5LUWU61NkpZHChZXYgF98SQVmax1lVljPTMjU_QVXgAb/s1600-h/tiana-the-princess-and-the-frog.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKNHroYacCauLNr6PThwJntfmieKmPqBJBOMccEVuExKqFBMG5of_FIl75_y_XiRbCdtVSKuaCjFDpYaM1TAHerW6wYb7tl2V5LUWU61NkpZHChZXYgF98SQVmax1lVljPTMjU_QVXgAb/s400/tiana-the-princess-and-the-frog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414812130058589714" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is proper and appropriate to welcome new royalty. So, consider this my formal hello to Her Royal Highness, Princess Tiana.<br /><br />It might seem odd that a manly man such as myself would make notice of a new animated character --even a Royal one. I'm not particularly keen on cartoons or animation. And in my writing, I tend to pontificate primarily about politics, and religion, and social issues of the day as I see them.<br /><br />Which puts Her Highness squarely in my bailiwick.<br /><br />It wasn't until AFTER I'd seen 'The Princess and the Frog,' that I fully appreciated the monumental nature of the moment to which Disney has acquiesced--namely the inclusion of a 'sista into the Pantheon of American Princesses.<br /><br />Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's take a moment to review.<br /><br />American has always styled itself a Democracy. (Ultimately, I take no issue with this self-declaration, notwithstanding that I've argued it is and has always been more of a non-tyrannical oligarchy.) As such, it is as least "odd" that the dream of virtually every little girl in <span style="font-style: italic;">our</span> culture is to be a Princess.<br /><br />This dream clearly doesn't come from seeing Royals on television, or from a constant telling of their exploits in American media. We have no King or Queen. Our leaders are Presidents, Senators, Governors, singers and movie stars. Until Representative Pelosi took the helm as Speaker of the House, one could have presented an entirely fact-based argument that the highest ranking position guaranteed to a woman is First Lady--a ceremonial title bestowed on the wife of the American President.<br /><br />Yet somehow the most iconic image for little American girls is ... and for the past century at least, has consistently been ... the Princess. Barbie is who they want to be when they grow up, but "a Princess" is who they want to be NOW.<br /><br />As a guy, I never appreciated the complexity or depth of this self-visualization process. My ... friend, Stefanie, was all Lady Gaga about taking her daughter to see The Princess and the Frog. Being a simpleton on the subject, I moronically asked "why?"<br /><br />"Because she's the first BLACK princess! Duh."<br /><br />Which immediately sent me into research mode, because I'm that kind of nerd.<br /><br />And sure enough she was right.<br /><br />A bit more background. The AMERICAN Princess myth belongs lock, stock, and barrel to the Disney Corporation. I've seen all the movies, but never really honed in on the Princesses. <a href="http://disney.go.com/princess/#/home/">Disney counts eight</a> Pre-Tiana. They are Ariel, Snow White, Pocohantas, Aurora, Cinderella, Jasmine, Belle, and Mulan.<br /><br />{As with all things American, there is <a href="http://princessproduction.wordpress.com/2007/05/16/what-makes-a-princess/">fascinating discussion</a> and debate about why Pocahantas and Mulan are included (as neither ends up with a Prince), and why others are excluded despite seemingly Royal credentials, but entering that fray requires much more knowledge and much less testosterone than I typically carry in my purse. So I'll avoid that rabbit hole entirely. Disney says eight plus the newly crowned New Orleanian, so eight it is.}<br /><br />Each of these fictional animated young women has stellar mythic credentials. They ALL begin with sterling American-styled character, usually hardened by misfortune or some undesirable circumstances. They are usually witness to great wealth and privilege, but not direct participants in the good life. The journey to princess almost always involves a quest that requires some leap of faith, and results in a radical transformation that ends with marriage to a Prince, and their ultimate ascension to Royalty.<br /><br />This is an impressively lucid premise for a society with a scarcity of coherent comprehensive national mythology. I have no real frame of reference for how it compares to the presence of Greek, or Norse, or Roman mythology in the contemporary lives of the children from those societies. But here, with OUR little girls, Princesses rule! And Disney is the Princess-maker.<br /><br />I have never even tried to visualize the power of these myths to how little girls see themselves. In fairness, I have never heard a little black girl say "I can't be a Princess because I don't look like those girls." But this particular quest HAS opened my eyes to the clarity with which little girls see not just the mythology, but the complexity and rarity of Princesses in "real life."<br /><br />They "get" that Princes are few and far between. They understand that being rich doesn't make you a Princess, and they can even point out the evil stepsisters and characterless wannabes that walk among them.<br /><br />So after noting back and forth a few times with Stef, I decided that it was important to take my Boy King to welcome Miss Tiana.<br /><br />And I was blown away.<br /><br />It wasn't "just" the movie; Disney has mastered the formula to the feature-length fantasy, I expect near perfection from a Disney flick, and Princess and the Frog is boilerplate "Waltic" harmony of music, color, and storyline.<br /><br />It was the ... almost reverence with which they crafted the elements of authentic Princess-hood for this someday queen.<br /><br />I think I was worried that they would shortcut her somehow. Maybe I wondered if they would make her some sort of Princess-lite; not as challenged as Cinderella, not as magical as Snow White, not as courageous as Mulan, not as pretty as Pocohantas, or just not quite ..."up" to Princess par.<br /><br />The bias was CLEARLY with me. Disney crafted a story as true to the myth as any. Not only did they manage to not sell out the story, they managed to not sell out the wonderfully complex, uniquely multi-ethnic culture of pre-Katrina New Orleans (although I thought this film did a disservice to Cajuns. I happen to be very fond of the language, food, and music of these Bayou people.)<br /><br />I took my seven-year old son into a theater packed with little girls to watch the Princess and the Frog.<br /><br />He has always been taught that he is a Boy King, and that most of the hardest things I require of him are based on his ultimate responsibility to someday rule his domain. He had EXACTLY the response I hoped for.<br /><br />He liked the movie.<br /><br />That's it. Nothing else. No epiphany, no sudden awareness of its societal import. Just a "good movie, dad."<br /><br />On some levels I am jealous of his world.<br /><br />You see, for him a black President is no big deal. Black guys have ALWAYS publicly excelled at golf. There are black governors, CEOs, news anchors, supermodels ...<br /><br />... and Princesses.<br /><br />Peace,<br /><br />--Stew.<br /><br /><table class="luna-Ent"><tbody><tr><td class="dnindex" width="35"><br /></td><td><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />image:<br />http://stylefrizz.com/img/tiana-the-princess-and-the-frog.jpgAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-35866328107475253112009-09-03T08:01:00.006-04:002009-09-03T08:58:55.102-04:00Tim Wise: On White Privilege<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVGrdcGB_XIf-IdYJ-8E4sbjx_I9phIMVQLLbMW-bCixv0jYdZlt-JsRcnn4u49sqfIw0dTtDwT9JHEbq8rMUAn01AO_BN3nYaiQ63uSAuJll9mYmmSvBkcdVHRtDL_7nS2Ninv5CQN0PE/s1600-h/american-flag.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVGrdcGB_XIf-IdYJ-8E4sbjx_I9phIMVQLLbMW-bCixv0jYdZlt-JsRcnn4u49sqfIw0dTtDwT9JHEbq8rMUAn01AO_BN3nYaiQ63uSAuJll9mYmmSvBkcdVHRtDL_7nS2Ninv5CQN0PE/s400/american-flag.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377221132772503218" border="0" /></a><br />For most of my life; at least since my early teen years, I've been "that" black guy. I'm the one who WILL discuss "race" with white and brown and yellow and blacker people. I ask them the race-charged questions from the barber shop, they ask me why brothas wore their pants hanging off their asses and why so many black people don't believe OJ killed Nicole.<br /><br />And we talk.<br /><br />Sometimes it's a discussion, other times an argument, occasionally a fight--but it's always a talk. And over the years I've come to appreciate those moments. I thought they happened to everyone.<br /><br />They don't.<br /><br />Anyone who's seen my friends list, knows that if I ever hit the lotto and have my "Equator party" around the world, the invite list is going to be a United Nations-looking, ghetto-fabulous/suburban-chic/farmer-rancher-gardener revival. I will serve kool-aid (red AND grape), water, juice, milk, beer, avena, champagne, wine, whiskey, sake, soju, and Olde English 800--which gets a category of its own. (But probably not soda, because it's bad for you!)<br /><br />At very specific points in my life, I have been reminded again and again that "friendship" is much more important to me than "race." And I have been blessed to have a Rainbow coalition of friends; many of whom would kill or die for me, and I them--although I'm at an age where I'd much rather talk than throw 'bows.<br /><br />My friends have saved my life over and over and over again--often with a word, sometimes with a deed--always at a moment where I did not have the strength, or the resources, or the clarity of thought to save myself. I love them for it, and hope to one day be able to repay those kindnesses.<br /><br />But the questions still come, and I hope they never stop. When the track we (America) are on leads to its almost inevitable race war, I'll be at the front lines, trying to negotiate a truce that probably won't work ... but not for lack of effort.<br /><br />Philosophically, my ancestors are the "Unforgiveably Black." I sip from the cup left by Nat Turner, Marcus Garvey, Jack Johnson, and Marian Anderson. Muhammed Ali had it right. And while I respect Booker T. and Dr. Martin, I ride with DuBois and Malcolm X. The color of my skin has never prevented me from going anywhere I've ever wanted to go, but once I get there, it hasn't been unusual to look around and discover I am a proverbial fly in buttermilk.<br /><br />Danny B taught me that's when you start stroking. The exercise will make you stronger. It will also change your environment. Eventually, you'll churn solid enough butter that you can walk around on your own terms.<br /><br />There are times you have to hunt to eat, and kill to survive. But I believe knowing this should never stop you from sharing a loaf of bread with a hungry soul, or weary fellow traveler who doesn't have the know-how or heart to pull the trigger for himself.<br /><br />It is not lost on me that race still impacts millions of lives every day. I take this as an article of faith and refuse to believe that everyone stuck in a bad situation is there because they want to be. I've been there too many times myself to hold any other position.<br /><br />Which brings me to a video brought to my attention by my friend, Tahnee. It's an excerpt from Tim Wise, posted on youtube by the Media Education Foundation. It's from a lecture series he does on White Privilege. He rather articulately presents an argument I've been having and making for decades, now. I encourage you to press play.<br /><div><br /><br /><object width="384" height="313"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/J3Xe1kX7Wsc&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/J3Xe1kX7Wsc&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="384" height="313"></embed></object><br /><br />That done, what are your thoughts. This isn't a time to be timid, the stakes are too high. Do you agree, disagree, not understand, or not care about the point he's making? Is it still "too soon" for the conversation?<br /><br />Is he speaking from some sort of fringe? Is he a lunatic? Is he an accurate historian from your perspective? Does his presentation mirror the conversations you've had around your dinner table or water cooler? Have you had an experience not reflected in his point of view?<br /><br />I'm THAT guy.<br /><br />The floor is yours.<br /><br />Peace,<br /><br />--Stew.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-18680129682111959062009-07-27T19:36:00.009-04:002009-07-27T20:31:51.232-04:00Letter of ReprimandResolved:<br /><br />When two grown-ased, allegedly intelligent men find themselves in a fairly typical societal encounter, and cannot avoid escalation of said encounter to the highest possible denominator, it is a communications FAIL.<br /><br />There is no right. There is no winner.<br /><br />Professor Henry Louis "Skip" Gates: As a community elder, your behavior as described <span style="font-weight: bold;">by you</span> is unacceptable. We demand that as a highly regarded civic leader and respected intellectual, you hold <span style="font-weight: bold;">yourself</span> to a higher standard than your behavior on the afternoon of July 16, 2009. We expect you to embody proper decorum in <span style="font-weight: bold;">ALL</span> public interactions. Over the course of your life, you have earned the acceptance of our society on many levels. You stand as a living witness to the potential and accomplishment of black people everywhere. We accept you as a representative of your family, education, Harvard University, the cultural elite of Cambridge, Massachusetts -- one of America's most cultured townships, an international envoy from the descendants of American slavery to the globe, an authority on black literature and history, and bearer of the proud tradition of black men holding their heads high as they make their way through a system that is flawed, but trying to make itself more perfect. Your choices during this event were stupid and potentially dangerous. You KNOW better than to make reference to other men's maternal guardians--PARTICULARLY when you have cause to KNOW they are armed and angry.<br /><br />From this day forward, "we're gonna need you to use your big boy words." You are hereby reprimanded.<br /><br />Sergeant James Crowley: As a 17 year veteran of the Cambridge Police Department, you have accepted an active role in keeping the community safe from hurt, harm, and danger. Your understanding of the reality, perception, and potential dangers inherent in the long-standing relationship between law enforcement and various minority communities is well-documented and demonstrated. As a former instructor of the Police Department's policies on dealing with racial issues, we are dismayed that an Officer of your experience and street-smarts would fall for this particular version of the "okie-doke." Your role in escalating this from a routine 911 response call to a public relations debacle is duly noted, and not with a tone of appreciation by us. We can only assume that in this age of the omnipresent camera, and 24-hour media machine, the possible negative images of our fine Department cuffing a cane-carrying Professor for the "disorderly conduct" of impolite invectives hurled from his home, is not lost on you. We further condemn your unneccessary public refusals to apologize as adding fuel to the fire. If you aren't going to apologize, then don't. No further comment is necessary from you on that particular topic.<br /><br />Form this day forward, we're gonna need you to take the latter portion of "protect and serve" a bit more seriously. You are hereby reprimanded.<br /><br />It is our recommendation that you gentlemen take the President's invitation to have a beer in the White House as a gesture of racial harmony seriously. As a nation, and collective communities, we have more important issues to address, and we need the intelligence and contributions you BOTH possess as fuel for our continuing journey.<br /><br />Professor Gates; there are ignorant freshman ready to be molded into informed citizens. Go play your position.<br /><br />Sergeant Crowley; there is still plenty of crime to fight, go put your training and experience to good use.<br /><br />Due to the joint demonstration of your combined ability to turn simple-assed conversations into potential racial flash points, drivers will be provided for you, as we don't need this ridiculous waste of our time to end in DUI's or foolish comments in front of our insatiable media.<br /><br />One beer each. Budweiser, none of that fancy stuff. We're not trying to turn you into drinking buddies, its an effing <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">gesture</span>.<br /><br />That is all.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-30111030549080932802009-06-24T21:07:00.008-04:002009-06-24T22:39:04.065-04:00Saints with Stones.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Z34X4HZEOyBn1hDznX5Is0WOJmfI3DxwK9wlryHQkQDJioKMfagm11bZrfN7L_NrF0FkZ1oPXzAvNP_LX5gbha1cDl85NOddKE-PlHrN_4zzKRCDVusNi_-b-QBAaTw-xhYi1RkEnTiJ/s1600-h/demo17.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Z34X4HZEOyBn1hDznX5Is0WOJmfI3DxwK9wlryHQkQDJioKMfagm11bZrfN7L_NrF0FkZ1oPXzAvNP_LX5gbha1cDl85NOddKE-PlHrN_4zzKRCDVusNi_-b-QBAaTw-xhYi1RkEnTiJ/s400/demo17.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351082998292906018" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Had I been raised Catholic, I'm pretty sure my mother would eventually be eligible for Sainthood. I speak with no sarcasm; I sincerely believe she'd survive the canonization process, and after a century or so be declared a Saint, and honored with patronage (or is it matronage?) of either elderly women, or felons. These are her causes.<br /><br />I don't think she stands alone. Many of the mothers she has surrounded herself with over the years have been women made of the stuff that goes miles beyond basic high moral fiber. These are those who time and again have sacrificed literally everything they have for things only important in spiritual realms, tended the sick and poor when no one else would, and put up with all manner of bullshit people with a smile and a heartfelt promise to 'pray for them.'<br /><br />Those of you who know me understand that I am agnostic. I have no idea whether there is a G-d, in the sense the Christians who surround me describe. But I do believe that the Universe answers when my mother prays. I have seen her stop storms, and avoid accidents, and rain healing on sickness, and once even pray me up from a C+ to an A- that can ONLY be described as miraculous--based on a test score that amazed even me.<br /><br />These are serious credentials, and they form the image that comes to mind when I think of women who are walking ever more slowly through their last years of middle age.<br /><br />Years spent watching the world through the lens of a Betacam have given me a 'different' perspective on video. I don't see things just "happening" when I watch real-life motion pictures, I see people. I smell things, and I imagine the emotions of the person holding the camera.<br /><br />These senses add a dimension to the sounds and sights of video for me. I automatically default to the question of what has caused the operator to focus on this image, given 360 degrees of possibility. I try to envision what motives determine the instant they start and stop recording. I ponder the nearest stable surface potentially available to steady the shot. I sometimes question if they have the fortitude ... beyond the bravery required to stand still and push record ... to keep their eyes open as the image they are capturing spins into permanent imprisonment on the tape or disk inside the device.<br /><br />The news junkie in me has been glued to twitter, and youtube, and <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/">http://www.huffingtonpost.com</a> for more than two weeks now, as Tehran, Iran has been engulfed in a National protest of epic proportions.<br /><br />I watched Neda die.<br /><br />And even though that is the image that will most likely live forever as the touchstone of this moment in history, it is not the one that has seared me most deeply.<br /><br />That image came Saturday, June 20th, at 4:04 ET.<br /><br />I've been following the liveblog of a <b>journalist</b>--and if you know me, you know that's a title I don't give every person with a pen and tablet, particularly in the blogosphere--named Nico Pitney, who has been gathering and chronicling the sacred, sublime, and surprising moments of this event from the beginning.<br /><br />At that moment, Niko posted the video that crystalized my opinion on events in Iran. Here's how he (and Chas, the reader) described it:<br /><blockquote>Here is another longer video with some graphic content near the end. Reader Chas sums it up: "Its a roaming shot of protesters walking toward a street corner where people are already clashing with the militia, Women hand them rocks on the way, and when they get there shots are fired and the crowd carries back a man who has been hit, and then the crowd retreats away from the scene, showing the blood of the man who has apparently been killed."</blockquote>What followed was <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/06/21/iran-election-live-bloggi_n_218537.html">a video</a> that is almost benign compared to some of the more graphic images oozing out of this newly christened war zone. It is precisely as Chas articulates.<br /><br />I watched it. And women in burqas <i>handed the protestors rocks as they walked toward an inevitable clash with the militia.</i><br /><br />And I thought of my Saint Mom.<br /><br />And I tried to picture the scenario where that gentle, kind, praying, weeping, helpful, honest, hard-working woman would hand me a rock to throw at the soldiers coming down the street.<br /><br />And it hit me.<br /><br />If that moment ever came, it would be right. I would take that rock, and walk toward whoever was coming; with their batons, and their guns, and their shields, and their tear gas, and their<br />fear, and their rage, and their orders, and their intent.<br /><br />I would hurl that rock as hard as I could and pray the prayer of David to guide my stone and make it an instrument of death.<br /><br />It was in that moment, as I watched this relatively benign little dispute on a tiny screen, happening in a country 6500 miles from me, that their mini-war became something more than a news event to me. The truth is, I don't care who won their election. I don't understand their politics, and have no vested interest in Mousavi, or Ahmedinijad, or Khameni, or Rafsanjani. I would not know the difference in a Mullah and an Ayatollah if that knowledge could ensure me eternal life with 40 virgins.<br /><br />But among that group of rock-givers, I believe are some good women. One or more of those women would probably survive the canonization process, and after a century or so be declared a Saint, and honored with patronage (or is it matronage) of elderly women, or felons, or the downtrodden--because these are her causes.<br /><br />And I would hope that in spite of my agnosticism; in a fight like this one, you would count me as accepting the potentially fatal gift from a Saint handing out stones.<br /><br />Peace,<br />--Stew.<br /><br />Photo:<br />http://www.iranian.com/History/2000/March/Women/Images/demo17.jpgAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-38005812064606031242009-05-23T07:12:00.008-04:002009-05-24T08:41:01.660-04:00Legacy.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4jwomR0-Um9sCqSK4r56NObrqpczSglKmTBwjMVJN4NBcjoo6bl3BUh_QbKpsiRHKdbcXpOnO5ufEZghha3VQkxxZ5p-Z8orcaIN_-9pqgOoDkUN1VK4PxwScAHBK-D4W2iBLAMGlDm5-/s1600-h/Mj-slam_dunk_comp.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4jwomR0-Um9sCqSK4r56NObrqpczSglKmTBwjMVJN4NBcjoo6bl3BUh_QbKpsiRHKdbcXpOnO5ufEZghha3VQkxxZ5p-Z8orcaIN_-9pqgOoDkUN1VK4PxwScAHBK-D4W2iBLAMGlDm5-/s400/Mj-slam_dunk_comp.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339019600544056786" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>With his team trailing by two and :01 left on the clock of game two of the 2009 NBA Eastern Conference finals, Lebron James exits the time out with his nerves bunched into tight little knots you can almost see in his eyes. </div><div><br /></div><div>The 25,000 people who've paid a couple of days middle class salary to witness the moment unfiltered are stunned into an apprehensive silence. This is not Chicago, or Boston, or Los Angeles; those are cities forged and shaped into a persistent expectation that time is <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">always</span> on their side, and the coming miracle will arrive and twist fate to their favor. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is Cleveland, Ohio, USA; a world-class sports town known for an unconditional love of its professional teams. In the arena tonight sits a naive crowd; far more familiar with heart-breaking defeat than heart-stopping victory--and it shows.</div><div><br /></div><div>Their team has done it again. "It" being blowing a huge lead to snatch apparent defeat from the jaws of certain victory. Now, their King must earn his prematurely awarded crown.</div><div><br /></div><div>By now you have certainly seen the outcome. Number 23 plays possum at the free-throw line momentarily as the ball is handed to the inbound passer, then briefly feints toward the basket before breaking to 3-point territory at the top of the key as the ball is released in his direction. He throws a half-hearted right forearm shiver Hedo's way before catching the pass. </div><div><br /></div><div>The timekeeper pushes the button, reanimating time and restarting the countdown clock at ONE. </div><div><br /></div><div>The crowd catches its collective breath as Lebron spins, leaps, and releases the ball in a familiar and practiced motion, sending the sphere of rubber awkwardly toward the iron ring. </div><div><br /></div><div>The basketball catches on the inner far side of the metal cylinder at about the time the buzzer sounds, rattles around the rim, and drops through the net for a game-winning score.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Cleveland crowd collectively exhales and erupts. Mr. James spins on his heels and leaps into the arms of a teammate, and before the celebration can get a good head of steam, the pundits have already started their comparisons to His three-letter Highness, Air.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is no minimizing this moment. It is Hall-of-Fame worthy. This is the stuff from which legends are made. In time, Lebron James will earn his spot in the pantheon, and school-children will sing his praises and mark the milestones of their lives by his exploits.</div><div><br /></div><div>But ... Jordan?</div><div><br /></div><div>How quickly we forget. Let's rewind history for a moment for a quick recap of what made James and Deloris' offspring ... well, Michael Jordan.</div><div><br /></div><div>Kobe, you might want to bring your trio of rings into the circle as well for this brief reminder:</div><div><br /></div><div>The Jordan era begins in 1982, at the end of March Madness, when ... after Dean Smith led his Tarheel team past 62 OTHER teams, the college freshman Jordan dropped a game-winning buzzer-beater over Patrick Ewing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now THAT'S how you create a lifelong rival! Rob the country's most heralded center of the first of what will be many, many opportunities to be a champion.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lebron (and Kobe) entered the league with no rivals. Nobody's out to avenge a college grudge, nobody has any deeply held bitterness. A win for Lebron is just a win; not the continuation of a decades long ass-whipping. Every year, Mr. Ewing had to not only face His Airness, he had to remember that this Jordan kid stole his college ring! You can pump yourself up to come back next year in the NBA, but where do you go mentally to recapture your Senior year at Georgetown?<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Jordan finishes three years at North Carolina with great numbers, another accomplishment that counts in his legacy. I have no knock on players that skip college for the pros. </div><div><br /></div><div>(C.R.E.A.M. "Get the money; dolla, dolla bills ya'll.")</div><div><br /></div><div>But to compare skills between players is to look at ALL their accomplishments. Without a NCAA ring in the trophy case, James starts off at a disadvantage against Jordan.</div><div><br /></div><div>Air is drafted by the Chicago Bulls, who perennially sit somewhere between the middle and bottom of the NBA's Eastern Conference. His first year in the league, they were below .500, made the playoffs, and got swept by the Bucks.</div><div><br /></div><div>Kobe, there was also the spat during MJ's rookie season All-Star game that you can check-off on your "be like Mike" worksheet. </div><div><br /></div><div>All the vets (*cough* Isiaiah Thomas *cough*) were pissed that Jordan was getting so much hype, so they froze him out. Sound familiar?</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway. Season two was the broken foot, 38 - 52 record. The Bulls make the playoffs again, and Jordan introduces himself to the casual fans by returning from the injury to drop 63 points against one of the top three NBA lineups in the history of the game; the 85 - 86 Boston Celtics. Everybody recounts that record-breaking performance. Bulls lose the game. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nobody talks about the fact that the Bulls not only got beat, but the Leprechauns SWEPT them in that series. I've never asked Mike about this personally, but somehow I think he learned something important about teamwork that Sunday afternoon.</div><div><br /></div><div>We're talking 20 year old history here, so my fellow old-heads will have to back me up as we recall what an fing juggernaut the East was back then.</div><div><br /></div><div>During this era, an Eastern conference season meant you were playing against superstars in virtually every NBA city. Boston still had Bird/Parish/McHale, New York was NEW YORK, Philly still had Dr. J (though briefly) then Charles Barkley, Indiana had Reggie and the Dutchman, the Human Highlight reel was contorting himself to new replays every night in Atlanta, and you could buy t-shirts at any mall in America that said Detroit Pistons on the front, and BAD BOYS on the back. Cleveland wasn't a pushover, eventually Charlotte came to play, and Milwaukee sucked, but they could still make you earn a W.</div><div><br /></div><div>Becoming "Air," meant developing a style that was flexible enough to take a pounding from Detroit one night, and out-hustling Boston the next. This was no small feat. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that was just the East!</div><div><br /></div><div>Travel west and you had to face Hakeem in Houston, the Admiral in San Antonio, a run-and-gun Portland, a competent Seattle, and the best pick-and-roll combo in the history of the game in Salt Lake City. This was all just to earn the right to sell TICKETS to Showtime at the Forum; where the curtain raised every night on the most exciting brand of basketball ever offered at the professional, competitive level. </div><div><br /></div><div>Magic was likely on any given play to toss a patented, never-before-seen, no-look pass to James Worthy, who might drive to the hole ... OR ... dish to Michael Cooper who might drop one from two feet behind the 3-point line ... OR ... whiz a bullet pass up high to Kareem, who'd probably finish off a seven pass sequence with an undefendable sky hook from nine feet in the air.</div><div><br /></div><div>No disrespect to the league OR Lebron, but the NBA just isn't that "kind" of good, or competitive anymore. </div><div><br /></div><div>Who, exactly is putting Lebron to the test these days? The hapless Knicks?? Feisty Chicago? umm... the Wizards??? </div><div><br /></div><div>Exactly.</div><div><br /></div><div>As good as Jordan was, it took three tries to get past the Pistons. That's how steep the competition was. </div><div><br /></div><div>Pundits: Lebron sweeps two teams in a row to get to the Conference Finals, and you want to compare him to WHO??? </div><div><br /></div><div>Are you fing kidding me?</div><div><br /></div><div>By 90 - 91, Jordan has literally transformed himself physically, just to prepare for the brutality of the inevitable series against Motown's Bad Boys. Every sports page in America had an article about the Jordan rules; a style of basketball specifically and unashamedly designed by Chuck Daly for his CHAMPIONSHIP team to beat one man. Michael Jordan.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Where do I look in today's paper(s) for the Lebron rules? Just the other night, I heard Dwight Howard say "we just try to keep him out of the paint." </div><div><br /></div><div>Seriously?</div><div><br /></div><div>That 90 - 91 season is the start of the first Bulls threepeat. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, roll that around on your tongue a couple of times. </div><div><br /></div><div>First. Threepeat.</div><div><br /></div><div>Knocked off the Lakers, the Blazers, and the Suns. That's what the record books say. But we who witnessed it, remember the all out WARS against the Knicks, and the Pacers, and the Cavaliers.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh yeah, and won an Olympic gold medal.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then he retired to play baseball, which he kinda sucked at, but seemed to enjoy.</div><div><br /></div><div>We're not even talking about the fashion impact, or celebrity status. We're sticking to hoops here, but its worth noting that Lebron wears his shorts the way he does because MJ thought crotch-cutters looked stupid, and insisted on more manly attire. And Air Jordan sneakers simply revolutionized high school footwear. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sure Lebron has a shoe contract, but I wouldn't know a Lebron basketball shoe if it walked up and put itself on my foot. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm just sayin'</div><div><br /></div><div>After RETIREMENT, Jordan came back to the game for his second threepeat.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, tongue roll time again.</div><div><br /></div><div>SECOND. THREEPEAT.</div><div><br /></div><div>Hit a triple double in the All-Star game, won 70 games, knocked off the Sonics, won 69 games, knocked off the Jazz, went to the absolute wall against Reggie Miller to get to the finals again ... immortalized the image of Bryon Russell as he knocked off the Jazz. Again.</div><div><br /></div><div>Six rings. Two threepeats against the strongest, most competitive NBA to date. And just for giggles, let's consider the class of indisputable NBA Hall of Famers who cannot flash their championship rings at class reunions because of a little "Air,"</div><div><br /></div><div>The late '80s Knickerbockers. All of them; Ewing, Jackson, Starks, the whole gang of extremely talented ballers.</div><div><br /></div><div>Drexler. Barkley. KJ. Thunder Dan Majerle. Wilkins ... both of 'em, although putting Gerald in this list is a bit of a compliment. Ehlo. Miller. Kemp. Stockton, Malone the Mailman who "almost" always delivered. Hornacek.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are more, but this is a blog, not a book.</div><div><br /></div><div>My beef is not with Lebron, but with those who would crown him the greatest prematurely. By ALL accounts, young Cavalier #23 is among the premiere players in the league. He is fun to watch, has an incredible sense of community and responsibility, and (with Kobe) is rising to the challenge of trying to put "air" back into the vacuum that is the modern NBA. He is incredibly talented, and will undoubtedly one day belong in the pantheon of basketball greats!</div><div><br /></div><div>But legacy is not decided by talent alone. It is not a purely statistical exercise. The numbers count, but legacy is decided in direct competition against a field of worthy opponents. The league could improve, and Lebron may one day get to the level of "Air," but at the moment ... he is merely a talented, yet unproven superstar who had an amazing game-winning shot. </div><div><br /></div><div>Good Luck, Lebron.</div><div><br /></div><div>Peace,</div><div>--Stew.</div><div><br /></div><div>Photo:</div><div><a href="http://hoopedia.nba.com/images/3/35/Mj-slam_dunk_comp.jpg">http://hoopedia.nba.com/images/3/35/Mj-slam_dunk_comp.jpg</a></div><div> </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-63329100180349936442009-05-21T08:09:00.004-04:002009-05-21T09:06:12.738-04:00Tools<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho_g1iBpo_x0xkYCZp8dXisw9nZaOAjKnhhJSrCBd_XZxdTFLu6LjtDpF54ResNzilPGN4WWp2QoDEDP0pP95ErfP8w9H8IKxlv97HOXLUxdXSwVnDkz98RFZIc_Gb163tSYOwID9KlPO6/s1600-h/a623_guantanamo_prison_flight_2050081722-18996.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho_g1iBpo_x0xkYCZp8dXisw9nZaOAjKnhhJSrCBd_XZxdTFLu6LjtDpF54ResNzilPGN4WWp2QoDEDP0pP95ErfP8w9H8IKxlv97HOXLUxdXSwVnDkz98RFZIc_Gb163tSYOwID9KlPO6/s320/a623_guantanamo_prison_flight_2050081722-18996.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338262732201179522" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>Suppose there was a huge brawl at the bar down the street from your house, and the President called in the Marines. I know, I know, that would never happen--but humor me for a moment. There's a larger point I'm aiming for. </div><div><br /></div><div>Let's say the Devil Dogs came in a couple of armor and infantry squads, killed a few of brawlers, and 'captured' more. Because they are now in the custody of the Corps, imagine with me that rather than turning these thugs over to the Police for lockup in your local jail, the Leathernecks followed 'their' regulations and tossed 'em in the brig. </div><div><br /></div><div>In addition to a tremendous legal mess, what you would have on your hands is an example of using the wrong tool for the job. </div><div><br /></div><div>You would have your very own Guantanamo -- a scenario which never should a been a military problem in the first place.</div><div><br /></div><div>The military exists to represent our nation in war against other nations with whom we have disputes that cannot be resolved by diplomatic or economic means. It is not the most effective tool in America's arsenal for rounding up thugs--even really, really bad ones.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's what law enforcement is for.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was watching that Tuesday morning when a group of incredibly inventive thugs pulled off the crime of the century. With a death toll of thousands, these were criminals of the highest order. They belonged to one of the most aggressive international gangs of our lifetime. </div><div><br /></div><div>But they had the distinction of not belonging to another nation. They were and are freelancers--not soldiers.</div><div><br /></div><div>America loves a good war. It brings us closer together, and helps us get rid of bad people. It increases the level of patriotism, and energizes the economy.</div><div><br /></div><div>That might be why we declare so many of them. We've had wars on drugs, and poverty, the deficit, and now a war on terror. How have those turned out?</div><div><br /></div><div>Declaring war on random things is ... wait, let me think of an appropriate word ... ok, got it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Stupid.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>A war on terror or terrorism is a bad idea from the start. It engages the wrong tool for a vapor mission. </div><div><br /></div><div>America has built the most powerful military in the history of the planet. We can show force at any spot on the globe in mere minutes when we set our mind to it. And woe be to the focus of our fury. </div><div><br /></div><div>But even Spider Man realized that with great power comes great responsibility, and hopefully the lesson we'll walk away from this chapter of history will be to not declare "wars" so frivolously.</div><div><br /></div><div>Responding to the horrific attacks of 9/11 was a job for crime-fighters, not warriors. Spending the same amount of money on INTERPOL, the FBI, the CIA, and small groups of Special Operations forces under their control would've avoided a lot of this mess.</div><div><br /></div><div>Why?</div><div><br /></div><div>Because without an actual country to fight, the military starts off at a horrible disadvantage. They're not equipped for nation-building. They're equipped for nation destroying--which is a very necessary function to have at your disposal.</div><div><br /></div><div>The military operates under a completely different set of rules, regulations, and laws than the rest of us. It is a code shared by all the militaries of the world. At REAL war, you know exactly what to do with the guy pointing a gun at you, because he has on a uniform and when you capture him, there's a step-by-step guide specifying how he is to be treated.</div><div><br /></div><div>You don't have to make up a name for him, or invent a status. And you damn sure don't have to create a new prison or judicial system for him. </div><div><br /></div><div>There's another bonus. You know when the job is finished.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anybody got any idea when we should "end" the Global War on Terror? Hell, anybody got any idea who the flesh and blood enemy is in the Global War on Terror? The word "global" should give you a hint.</div><div><br /></div><div>We have literally chosen to fight everybody who has a thought or idea that could be "terroristic." That should turn out well.</div><div><br /></div><div>Can you imagine a Global War on Murder?</div><div><br /></div><div>I mean, seriously. Can you??</div><div><br /></div><div>There are hundreds of people waking up in America right now with absolutely no idea that tomorrow they're going to kill someone. There are a few hundred more who know exactly who they'd like to kill and how, but for one reason or another it won't happen. Not tomorrow, not ever. There are literally thousands who'd like to kill someone but don't have the guts, or the means, or the opportunity.</div><div><br /></div><div>How many dollars of your money are you willing to commit right now to go out and find all of those people? </div><div><br /></div><div>The GWOT is approaching $1,000,000,000 in cash expended. That's the actual bullets and bombs and boats. There are estimates that double and triple that amount in actual costs.</div><div><br /></div><div>Good investment? Perhaps so. There HAVE been many lives saved.</div><div><br /></div><div>But on the morning we declare the war finished, what will we have put in place to stop a terrorist from committing a heinous act that afternoon?</div><div><br /></div><div>The answer is simple. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.</div><div><br /></div><div>An American life in combat is never wasted. Those brave men and women fight for the idea of America. Not the flag, not the Constitution, not even the President ... the idea. They kill and are killed to defend our National interests.</div><div><br /></div><div>Seems like we owe it to them to be "interested" in putting the right tool to work on the right job.</div><div><br /></div><div>Peace,</div><div><br /></div><div>--Stew.</div><div><br /></div><div>Photo: </div><div><a href="http://www.historycommons.org/events-images/a623_guantanamo_prison_flight_2050081722-18996.jpg">http://www.historycommons.org/events-images/a623_guantanamo_prison_flight_2050081722-18996.jpg</a><br /></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-70858119586200900622009-05-20T06:43:00.005-04:002009-05-20T08:20:45.121-04:001000 Words<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmAjU4xctF1kCTLrGO40Y9dPorsI9dtvqLzGN-rdJc-2j8cYi1mdZsE10pe2tKiB57iHNKZ0_ViN0raeQSyN25-_n3F5F7u7yXR-o-ykrmRMo7iLR1WGUfV9iXNnEwtkkAK9JGtDUqH2pZ/s1600-h/muslimcartoon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmAjU4xctF1kCTLrGO40Y9dPorsI9dtvqLzGN-rdJc-2j8cYi1mdZsE10pe2tKiB57iHNKZ0_ViN0raeQSyN25-_n3F5F7u7yXR-o-ykrmRMo7iLR1WGUfV9iXNnEwtkkAK9JGtDUqH2pZ/s320/muslimcartoon.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337871170588440354" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>As a writer, I am annoyed by the truth that a picture is 'worth a thousand words.' </div><div><br /></div><div>But I get it.</div><div><br /></div><div>When Danish cartoonist Kurt Westergaard sat down to capture the essence of Western thought about the current wars between the West and "Islamic Fundamentalist Terrorism," he was following a tradition that has been a hallmark of Democracy for centuries. It is unlikely that he was actively trying to inflame ... well, anything.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>But he created a visual image. In retrospect, it is an image that apparently offended many Muslims.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It is only fair to point out that Islam <a href="http://www.answering-islam.org/Muhammad/pictures.html">does not specifically prohibit drawing pictures of the Prophet Muhammed</a> ... peace be upon him. More broadly, the idea is that you shouldn't create images of ANY person or animal, unless you can animate them. The whole "no photos or images" thing is a response to the possibility of idolatry in the same way that full-length burkas are a nod to modesty and a persuasive hurdle to unwelcome lust.</div><div><br /></div><div>There's a certain logic to it, but to the non-Muslim it comes across as closed-minded and a bit overkill-ish. But that's a discussion for another day.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jyllands-Posten_Muhammad_cartoons">The point is that the cartoon led directly to 100 deaths</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Some 70,000 people rioted in Pakistan alone; embassies in Lebanon, Syria, and Iran were set on fire, and Hamas--apparently not wanting to disappoint, issued death threats.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here in the United States, we tend to reserve such responses for sports championships, civil right protests, and court decisions we disagree with.</div><div> </div><div>But hey, to each his own.</div><div><br /></div><div>The U.S. government is holding 44 unreleased photos that portend to show American mistreatment of captives from Iraq and Afghanistan. The left wing apparently demands their release under a long-standing philosophy of transparency. The right wing points out that releasing the snapshots is likely to rekindle flames of violence should they ever show up in the Muslim world.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Theses pictures are like naked pictures of your wife. Even though YOU might want to look at them, how do you minimize their impact on YOUR life once they hit the wider world?<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>The question to <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">my</span> esteemed assembly gathered here is:</div><div>"How do we properly position the American legal and cultural philosophy that it is wrong to shout FIRE in a crowded theater with the release of photos that we KNOW are likely to spark violence in nations where our friends and family are currently serving in combat capacities?"</div></div><div><br /></div><div>I cannot count on my fingers and toes the number of people I love who are presently at war. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have biological relatives in Iraq, brothers in arms whose children's birthdays I celebrate in Afghanistan, and drinking buddies in both. After 11 years in the Air Force, I count hundreds of active-duty servicemen and women among my closest friends and associates. </div><div><br /></div><div>They serve in all four of the service branches, plus the Coast Guard. Last week, when the Air Force Master Sergeant list came out, I sent no fewer than 15 congratulatory e-mails, and made no fewer than 10 "maybe you won't celebrate Passover next year" telephone calls.</div><div><br /></div><div>These are MY people.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I don't want ANYBODY fucking with them. I want them ALL to retire whole; mentally and physically, from the often dangerous career they have chosen. I want them to leave the military on their own terms; and gracefully move into the next stages of their lives.</div><div><br /></div><div>And yet, I oppose torture--in all its "enhanced interrogative technique-al" glory.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm one of those nerds who reads many of the documents that my government releases to the public (and by virtue of my vocation, many that remain classified) -- <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/04/16/bush-torture-memos-releas_n_187867.html">including the so-called torture memos</a>. And as a veteran; trained, retrained, perhaps even overtrained in the Law of Armed Conflict--they sicken me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Luckily--they are words.</div><div><br /></div><div>I say luckily, because if they were photos, or Heaven forbid, VIDEO ... they would rekindle the flames that would put many of my friends at even more risk.</div><div><br /></div><div>The conundrum exists because as an American, I value the release of information. I think it is the lifeblood of a healthy democracy. I think transparency is good, and that if more Americans could see into the bowels of government, they would be ... at best, disappointed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Having conceded that I believe American troops have committed war crimes in the ongoing conflict, I am torn between the greater good of putting every gory detail into the public domain, and releasing just enough to make the point.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am unsettled by the thought of either option.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've also struggled to see how this is a partisan issue. I see the conflict, or else I wouldn't write about this topic. But how has it managed to break down into a GOP vs. Democratic or conservative vs. liberal question?</div><div><br /></div><div>I return to my original thought. I'm a writer. In this case, wouldn't 44,000 words just be ... better?</div><div><br /></div><div>Peace,</div><div>--Stew.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-16627151327881003042009-05-11T21:13:00.007-04:002009-05-12T00:58:45.594-04:00Defending 'Dubya'<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg90DhwAbdguFBSvXNk86YFCd2zjd7srejDjlN-pexfiYXYylTPeVM1ckJVJBiV2WXAPaBXun-bamRMWSgZtA5b3a2_p1fqJJi24PYAnLJ9CiIf6zl1chOrSX3zleRrS8pXsSNPU93VlozU/s1600-h/bush-god.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg90DhwAbdguFBSvXNk86YFCd2zjd7srejDjlN-pexfiYXYylTPeVM1ckJVJBiV2WXAPaBXun-bamRMWSgZtA5b3a2_p1fqJJi24PYAnLJ9CiIf6zl1chOrSX3zleRrS8pXsSNPU93VlozU/s320/bush-god.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334752797953520194" /></a><br /><br />Ethics.<br /><br />Toss that word into a business circle, or the presence of medical personnel, and you are bound to find yourself challenged and intrigued by the scenarios and questions that pop up. It hearkens images of money, and tough calls, and occasionally life and death. It calls for the sort of fundamental thinking where reasonable people are truly separated by perspective and experience and opinion. Living exclusively in the gray, ethics challenge one to ask not just "what do I think," but "what would I DO?"<br /><br />No cabal has dived deeper into its darkest depths than the military.<br /><br />Military ethics provoke quests for responses to queries unthinkable in any context. They pose questions that have no answers; require conclusions no human can live with, and propose solutions that ripple not just through choices of life and death, but through the very essence of history.<br /><br />A commander in combat faces the fact that war IS hell and s/he may find him or herself in the untenable position of choosing between wrong and wrong. And many are aware that sometimes the only answer is the bad one.<br /><br />Which brings us ... to the Presidency. It is a job marked by pomp and circumstance, ruffles and flourishes. It promises no easy questions, and no unanimous answers. It christens one COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF and sits heavy on the shoulders of one mortal who is given infinite power, virtually unlimited resources, and stripped of all friendships. Its only tool is wisdom, and its only judge is legacy. There are counselors and policies, but their agendas are hidden in plain sight and history holds only one man accountable. And on many days he is left to singularly condone or condemn the lonely commander's bad answer.<br /><br />Into this space walks a proud Texan. His most generous friends call him aloof and disinterested. Born on third base, he steals home and is rewarded with this--the most powerful position on the planet. He is not the first; there have been many oval office dwellers cursed by legacy, and thought in hindsight to be fools.<br /><br />He is rapidly confronted by the most challenging confluence of hard questions to ever face a sitting President. It is a Rubik's cube of international law, war policy, economic theory, and public safety. It presents the new King-of-the-mountain with the most dastardly combinations of bad, illegal, and evil, set to the silent count of an hourglass racing toward empty, and a terrified nation demanding protection.<br /><br />It is military ethics at its most naked and raw.<br /><br />And without a looking glass into the future, He makes His call.<div><br /></div><div>It is illegal, and evil. It contradicts the very soul of the Constitution he has sworn to protect. But he has made his choice(s) and he believes.</div><div><br /></div><div>He throws himself to the mercy of legacy and history--and the empathy of his successor...</div><div><br /></div><div>...Who walks out of a brilliant campaign and face first into the resulting mess to confront his first Presidential ethics question: "Should I be the one to set the precedent for going after an ex-President."</div><div><br /></div><div>At his disposal are the pardon, the ignore-ance button, the condemnation card, and a razor-sharp legal mind. He is a man of compromise, who values the the brilliance of the universally unsatisfactory solution. Like a commander in combat, this combat Commander-in-Chief discerns that the only answers are bad ones. </div><div><br /></div><div>Without a looking glass into the future, He makes his call.</div><div><br /></div><div>The people howl, the pundits pontificate, and his allies scream for blood.</div><div><br /></div><div>But He is--ethically at least--correct; tho perhaps not "right"</div><div><br /></div><div>...in defending 'Dubya.'</div><div><br /></div><div>Peace,</div><div><br /></div><div>--Stew.</div><div><br /></div><div>Photo Credit:</div><div><a href="http://minutillo.com/steve/weblog/images/bush-god.jpg">http://minutillo.com/steve/weblog/images/bush-god.jpg</a><br /></div><div><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-76549240185285284372009-03-31T10:01:00.006-04:002009-03-31T10:57:30.237-04:00Finnishe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihYpxnxd_ageVx2ZrdLAChvPj_36tRzyzIdfNny_dm942wTwAzx8byxGPW9mWL3bijo89_m_1neh7JXq_KNbGgKKNKYf8j2W0uz-eKrPkDbSpQGjXWDDfOyzXSzrYHnfcG5i0wJ3CqURB7/s1600-h/misspelledAP0609_468x311.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihYpxnxd_ageVx2ZrdLAChvPj_36tRzyzIdfNny_dm942wTwAzx8byxGPW9mWL3bijo89_m_1neh7JXq_KNbGgKKNKYf8j2W0uz-eKrPkDbSpQGjXWDDfOyzXSzrYHnfcG5i0wJ3CqURB7/s320/misspelledAP0609_468x311.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319352088517446418" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />So my six-year old brings home his first grade homework; bit of vocabulary, some reading, a little writing, a spelling list, and some 'color the right answer' problems. My job is to make sure he completes it, go over the answers, and sign the sheet saying it was done. Easy, no problem. It's 6pm, he's bright, the work is straight forward, we'll have this knocked out by bedtime.<br /><br />Dad and mom aren't together, so this is a nontraditional week for both of us. His mom is out of town and he has to spend the week with the mean parent.<br />We start with the vocabulary: Use each of the following words in a written sentence; Shouted, drowned, bridge, about, frog.<br /><br />His entries: I shouted at my mom!!!!!(sic) I drowned in the pool. We walked under the bridge. She asked about him. The frog said ribbit.<br /><br />I pause for a minute. Not a fan of the first two, but its early ... and even as a relative amateur I know you have to pick your battles, and 6:09 isn't the time to start a battle. There's lots of work left, and these are all legitimate uses of the words in sentences.<br /><br />Now to the written words: Expand the following contractions three times; shouldn't, couldn't, dose'nt.<br /><br />I ask him about contractions. I want to know what he's been taught in school so I can reinforce it. He doesn't actually get them, but its okay, I understand contractions fairly well. I explain them the way my dad explained them to me. Then I look more closely. DOSE'NT? Hmmm...not familiar with that one. I draw a line through it, thinking its a typo, write it correctly and have him copy my version rather than the mistaken one. He struggles a bit with the concept, but we get through it.<br /><br />Now its time for spelling. Full disclosure--spelling used to be my thing. I'm a trophy-earning ex-champion. Love the stuff, even though I make far more mistakes now than I would've in my early teen years. I look over the list, and stop cold. There at number four, in my six-year old's spelling list, is the following gem:<br /><br />"finnishe."<br /><br />Finnishe?<br /><br />I ask him to read it to me. "Finish," he says. I tell him to use it in a sentence. "I will finish the race." Hmmm...he knows the word. He can properly use it in a sentence.<br /><br />Its one of TWO misspelled words in a list of eight.<br /><br />The principal says--yeah, let's just skip ahead to that part of the story--"I'm so sorry. I walked into his classroom and saw that on the board, and IMMEDIATELY erased it."<br /><br />Exsqueeze me?<br /><br />You ... saw that on the board ... and ... erASED IT?<br />"This is how it was ... TAUGHT? IT's nOT A TyPO? YOu KNEw THis?"<br /><br />Frustration ... no, ANGER rising.<br /><br />"Ma'am; I understand typos, I get mistakes. I make both all the time. But ... this is a SPELLING list. Actually, this is a FIRST GRADE SPELLING LIST." F-I-N-N-I-S-H-E?<br /> <br />Okay, Finnish I might've even given a pass; perhaps you're referring to the fine people of Finland. But the extra "E" means you're<br /><br />a: just being a dick, or<br /><br />b: REFUSE to grab a dictionary before you send home bad spelling to a class half-filled with FIRST GRADERS whose parents don't even speak English as their primary language. You ERASED it? <br /><br />Well ...<br />what did you say to the teacher? what did you do next? did you think this was a problem? what planet am I on?<br /><br />Once upon a time, the news was something I watched or covered.<br /><br />Since moving to the Washington area, it has increasingly become something that I live ... up close and personal.<br /><br />Over the past eight years there I've had a series of first person run-ins with the health care system, the impact of immigration on a community, subprime loans, and the like.<br /><br />And now, I've had my first contact with the DC public school system.<br /><br />It is as bad as they say, and needs to be fixed. Or maybe I should say fixt.<br /><br />I'm the son of a teacher. I believe it is among the MOST honorable professions, I understand how important it is, I am aware of how much off the clock work goes into doing it well, and I personally comprehend the impact that ONE teacher--good or bad--can have on a person's life.<br /><br />A closer examination of Mercer's past homework turns up error after error after error.<br /> <br />And I'm telling my son he can grow up to be President? With THIS sort of education?<br /><br />Unless we find a better system, I'm pretty sure that idea may be finnishied. There's more ...<br /><br />Peace,<br />--Stew.<br />photo:<br />http://img.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2007/09_01/misspelledAP0609_468x311.jpgAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-2141136606054684742008-12-31T17:51:00.002-05:002008-12-31T17:56:39.309-05:002009<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5WVPpPJG8JS1tanWx5FouX509QmuvaSfD51QwoLHvF7_8Fx5d-6uHDNKZOpR9PYIg5-yvN9jXbWcrmhzGpydTU4efvN6IZnlaRvUpEaFV1rFsc-AcCCtj0I-GY_zHGQrROz6S3O7T_KG-/s1600-h/father-time.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286091881133153874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 246px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5WVPpPJG8JS1tanWx5FouX509QmuvaSfD51QwoLHvF7_8Fx5d-6uHDNKZOpR9PYIg5-yvN9jXbWcrmhzGpydTU4efvN6IZnlaRvUpEaFV1rFsc-AcCCtj0I-GY_zHGQrROz6S3O7T_KG-/s320/father-time.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>There are two things I look forward to every New Year’s. They’re not big, and they’re not necessarily important. But they’ve become my little ritual, and I have no intention of skipping them this year.</div><br /><div><br />Number One: I like to write a New Year’s blog; a short piece of prose where I pass along good wishes to my friends and foes.<br /></div><br /><div>Number Two: I like to do the google search for the appropriate picture of Father Time to accompany that blog.<br /></div><br /><div>I may or may not drink. </div><br /><div>I may or may not have too much. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I may or may not spend the midnight moment awake, or asleep … alone, or with friends … at home, or in some strange place where nobody knows my name.<br /></div><br /><div>There have been years I spent this midnight on a well-lit concert stage in a tuxedo, singing Auld Lang Syne into a microphone for large sums of money. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>There have been years I sat alone in my pajamas, and let the words pass from an old thought into a new one, just barely moving my lips.<br /></div><br /><div>Some years I get a New Year’s kiss. Some years I don’t.<br /></div><br /><div>This blogging tradition is only a few years old, and I plan to keep it. But this year it is special to me.<br /></div><br /><div>2008 absolutely kicked my ass.<br /></div><br /><div>I have to grudgingly admire its strength.<br /></div><br /><div>2007 brought its share of rain; but ’08 was all about the thunder and lightning and flood.<br /></div><br /><div>I have life, and liberty, and strength. My religious friends frequently tell me that’s enough. And it IS true that without those things shit is considerably harder.<br /></div><br /><div>But don’t sleep on how much hell can exist even with those elements firmly in place.<br /></div><br /><div>There HAVE been bright spots.<br /></div><br /><div>I reconnected with a friend; actually three, that I never expected to share time or space with again. Friends have always been my most valuable possession. I am grateful to have each of them back in my universe.<br /></div><br /><div>That was the high point in between 2008 punching, kicking, scratching, and biting back.<br /></div><br /><div>But I’m a fighter too; bloody but unbowed.<br /></div><br /><div>Hey 2009, are you a lover or a fighter? Let’s get it on!<br /></div><br /><div>I have chosen for this year’s artwork a piece done by Vouet in 1627.<br /></div><br /><div>Relax, you could put everything I know about art in a micro thimble and still have room for a coffee stirrer to jangle around all the edges. This isn’t going to get technical.<br /></div><br /><div>The work is called Father Time Overcome by Love, Hope and Beauty.<br />It the interwebs can be believed, it hangs in Madrid’s Museo del Prado.<br /></div><br /><div>(Hey Denise, how about doing some reconnaissance work for a brotha?)<br /></div><br /><div>I picked it because this year, I’d like to see this sort of ass-whipping take place.<br /></div><br /><div>Okay, so time for the blessing – given equally to my friends and foes.<br /><br /><strong><u>2009</u></strong></div><strong><u><br /><div><br /></u></strong></div>I have wishes for you this year, just like always.<br /><br /><div>First and foremost, I wish you perspective on 2008.<br /></div><br /><div>If things were good for you in ‘08, I wish for you perfect vision to see through the pessimism that might surround you as the economy takes its hit and the nation tries to reset.<br /></div><br /><div>If things could’ve been better for you in ‘08, I wish you the courage to look around and realize that lots of people are doing fine, and you can be one of them just as easily as not.<br /></div><br /><div>But luck plays a role, and I wish you bushel baskets of the good kind this year.<br /></div><br /><div>I always wish you good health, but in 2009 I wish you a bit more; I wish for you awareness of how good your health is, and enough compassion on yourself to take an active role in moving it even closer to perfection.<br /></div><br /><div>There is room in the political world for each individual to have infinite agreements, and infinite disagreements with each other individual. In this moment of history, I wish for you the ability to grasp how radically the nation has changed in some people’s perspective, even if you think they’re nuts.<br /></div><br /><div>And if you are basking in the glow of this political moment, I wish for you the compassion to realize that change when you are content can be a frightening concept.<br /></div><br /><div>Satisfaction. I wish it for you in dumpster sized portions.<br /></div><br /><div>Family. I wish for you the opportunity to simply bask in its glow this year. I wish you the opportunities to reach out and touch the distant, and to hug and be hugged by those close.<br /></div><br /><div>I wish enough new technology for your universe to make it an even more efficient place. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I wish enough sunshine and nature around you that it is worthwhile for you to still look up from the keyboard on occasion to catch a beautiful sunset, or to look your children in the eyes when they tell you their latest story or joke.<br /><br />I wish new laughter for you--mirth born in today’s movement, not mired in yesterday’s memory.<br />I wish new stories for you. I generously bless you with the space and time to do new things worth talking about.<br /></div><br /><div>I wish for you one problem that carries over from 2008. I wish for it to be gigantic! So big you cannot see how it will ever be resolved, but so dated that your 2009 superpowers melt it without burning even one calorie of your reserve.<br />I wish you a moveable moment of clarity. You will know when to use it, and why.<br /></div><br /><div>Once again, I wish you peace. Peace in life, peace in love, peace in mind, and peace in your daily decisions.<br /></div><br /><div>Finally, I wish you survival. I wish you a life long enough to find something in these wishes that resonates and forces you to remember; and a force that brings both of us here again in one year, maybe battered, perhaps bruised, but able to share the blessings from another year.<br /></div><br /><div>You to read, and me to bless you, and find a picture worth sharing.<br /></div><br /><div>Happy New Year!<br /></div><br /><div>Peace,<br />--Stew.<br />Photo: http://www.wga.hu/art/v/vouet/2/01timelo.jpg</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-25353307821313498522008-10-01T11:48:00.005-04:002008-10-01T19:00:27.898-04:00unConventional<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhibCkwKFTbqvqOd6P_RiXQgoawgOs6MbYoMVguqzrI3256Koi-Q4oH-bGUEUWYZ15HPQuMkCD66ltqxKnOxaifOE_rT9Qm3smmb9SebFqm2oMbq4ExO4fHL50B40WdN7X95_1Sx1pfCelv/s1600-h/uncle_sam_pointing_finger.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhibCkwKFTbqvqOd6P_RiXQgoawgOs6MbYoMVguqzrI3256Koi-Q4oH-bGUEUWYZ15HPQuMkCD66ltqxKnOxaifOE_rT9Qm3smmb9SebFqm2oMbq4ExO4fHL50B40WdN7X95_1Sx1pfCelv/s320/uncle_sam_pointing_finger.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252240604858541202" border="0" /></a><br />It's broke.<br /><br />Grammar teachers, please give me a pass, because 'broken' doesn't properly reflect its state.<br /><br />It's broke.<br /><br />By "it," I refer to our government--in both form AND function.<br /><br />Because I'm a political junkie and news nerd, this is something that I've actually thought and talked about for a very long time with a wide variety of people. Over time, I've culled a collection of ideas; some are completely mine, others I've gotten from friends, pundits, and random people at bars. But I think they're good ideas, and I'm finally ready to put them down on paper for public ridicule.<br /><br />1. The U.S. House of Representatives should be selected at random.<br /><br />The current process is entirely too long for such a short term. Since a Congress(wo)man only serves a two-year term, and a Congressional campaign takes about a year to execute, it stands to reason that you start raising money for the next campaign literally moments after being sworn in.<br /><br />Solution? Have each legislative district put the names of all its registered voters into a hopper, and pull out one out. The 'lucky' new Congress(wo)man gets a letter informing them that they are to report to Washington in six months to perform their civic duty.<br /><br />How would it actually work?<br />Well, we'd have to set up some sort of legislative boot camp that the newbies would have to go through. I imagine it'd take about two months of training and familiarization with the details of the legislative process, but all of that would be cheaper and smarter than what we do now. You'd tack time for that training on to the beginning of the term, so the new class would actually report to Washington a couple of months before the new session starts, and be sworn in and assume their offices after boot camp was finished. An actual 'term' would end up being 26 months, rather than 24. But even THAT would allow for more legislative time than the existing model where Reps are out on the campaign trail for the last half of their term. Leadership positions would be picked the same way they are now, by vote--or if you really wanted to reward competence, by highest scores in boot camp. If 12 strangers can pick a foreman to lead them, I can't fathom why 495 couldn't pick a Speaker.<br /><br />What are the pros?<br />To me, there are too many to name, BUT here are some that sit at the top of the list.<br /><br />• We'd have a MUCH more diverse Congress. There would be MANY more women, considerably more ethnic minorities, a wider range of careers and expertises (the current House is primarily lawyers), a wider range of social backgrounds, a wider socio-economic representation across the board, a wider age range, a wider group of political points of view, in short Congress would look a lot more like America.<br /><br />• We'd have a full-time Congress. The existing Congressional schedule would barely qualify as a part-time job. This isn't to say your Representative isn't "busy," only that the majority of their time is reserved for travel, meetings with lobbyists, and fund-raising. In this system, since the entire group KNOWS it's done in two years, they can spend all 24 months of their legislative term actually legislating. PLUS, I suspect that dynamic would cause them to literally work up until 11:59:59 of their last day, because they KNOW they're not coming back, which means they have nothing to lose.<br /><br />• Lobbying would have less long-term effect. Senator Obama talks a lot about the role that lobbyists play in our government. It's true, but in a sense it's to be expected. The lobbyist-politician relationship is allowed to form and mature over decades. <br /><br />And in an environment where the politician needs a bottomless pit of cash to stay in office, and the lobbyist has access to a bottomless pit of cash--you don't need a Harvard Law degree to figure out the most likely form that relationship will morph toward over time. <br /><br />In this plan, there would still BE lobbyists, but the relationships wouldn't have time to turn so incestuous. They would have to actually lobby, instead of bribe--which, in my opinion, would be a turn for the better.<br /><br />• Interesting and shifting caucuses. One of the very interesting things about group dynamics is that people thrown into an unexpected situation form odd pairings and groups. I think we'd see some very unique alliances emerge in a randomly selected Congress. Over time, many of them might even hold over in consecutive terms.<br /><br />• A randomly selected Congress(wo)man would probably be more responsive to opinions from home. In the current system, by the second or third term, a Representative’s life tive’s life has essentially shifted to Washington. <br /><br />They have much more in common with their colleagues than they do with their Constituents. The ‘Party’ position often holds a LOT more sway over their votes than what’s popular at home. A person whose family, friends, and culture are still based in their home district would be more likely be sensitive to THOSE interests than any other.<br /><br />• It’d definitely be cheaper.<br /><br />Clearly, we’d get some duds. But hell, we get those anyhow. Statistically, we’d also find some hidden gems and discover some real leaders as well.<br /><br />Next, an idea that my friend Terry first presented to me at work. I’ve modified it some from his original proposal but the core idea is his.<br /><br />2. The President shouldn’t select Supreme Court Justices, Federal Judges should sorta like the way Cardinals pick the next Pope. If you think about it, this is a totally underused brain trust.<br /><br />Federal Judges are highly educated and experienced, probably more in touch with what’s really going on in America than any other single group of people, and paid to be fair.<br /><br />Sure, they’re partisans, but they seem to be a lot more realistic in their partisanship than their Capitol Hill or White House compatriots.<br /><br />Who knows better which judges are good, which judges are great, and which judges are losing a step than other Federal judges? How likely is it that a wildly partisan judge could get a majority vote from the wider collective of judges?<br /><br />Sure, the President could still “nominate” their choice, and the Senate could still “confirm” the nomination—but wouldn’t we have a better nomination; based on a recommendation from THEM, than on the simple question of whether a judge is pro-life or pro-choice, as determined by the sitting President?<br /><br />IN THE ALTERNATIVE, how about populating the Supreme Court with a wider grouping of people than just judges?<br /><br />What if that body was turned into a council of elders instead; and a retired businessman, or college professor, or philosopher, or respected member of the clergy could help serve the country as a Supreme Court Justice?<br /><br />Wouldn’t it be kinda cool to have some views other than those of “just” lifelong lawyers? America has, and has always had hundreds of thousands of really smart people. I wonder how it would change the game if a perspective from academia, or elsewhere determined these sorts of outcomes.<br /><br />I’d love to see a Warren Buffett, or Bill Gates, or Michael Bloomberg, or Cornell West, or Colin Powell, or other respected national figure on the bench.<br /><br />How would T. Boone Pickens have decided Roe v. Wade? How would Billy Graham have resolved Gore v. Bush?<br /><br />Sidenote: If I had to pick the next Supreme Court Justice, I’d nominate Judge Judy. Seriously. Like her or not, is there anybody who thinks she’s not fair? Is there anyone who hasn’t watched her judge in action? Is there anyone who gives a rat’s ass if she’s pro-life or choice? Is there anyone who thinks she’s not smart enough, or competent enough? That’s kinda what I want in a Justice.<br /><br />I’ve got more ideas, but this is enough for a start.<br /><br />Fellow news nerds, and polijunkies … thoughts?<br /><br />Peace,<br /><br />--Stew.<br /><br />Photo:<br />https://blog.id.iit.edu/wpmu/newidiom/files/2008/03/uncle_sam_pointing_finger.jpgAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-20422679508583440852008-09-22T17:40:00.007-04:002008-09-22T21:00:15.341-04:00The Robbery.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvzIIJzMJ6XaPWLG8B0ngndTjXIwGpkv5XoQJK5Vs_Q7nl8eVc7iS1wfbkwvbktuhcGQ6b3iM4m6NiQ2ESHGnqUKwRWU1XpVfp_0RO2i8lx2eITscouh-0au-ujn34voPYSAcn92gavtgQ/s1600-h/boss-in.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvzIIJzMJ6XaPWLG8B0ngndTjXIwGpkv5XoQJK5Vs_Q7nl8eVc7iS1wfbkwvbktuhcGQ6b3iM4m6NiQ2ESHGnqUKwRWU1XpVfp_0RO2i8lx2eITscouh-0au-ujn34voPYSAcn92gavtgQ/s320/boss-in.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249000977318155442" border="0" /></a><br />"Somehow, I just know they're going to fold." --Stew.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />I've wanted to finish the games series, but haven't been in a writing mood until now.<br /><br />I don't remember where I first heard it, but one of my beliefs is that the smartest way to rob a bank isn't at the teller.<br /><br />If you want to rob a bank, you back a Brinks Truck up to the back door, and just fill it up.<br /><br />Sure, you’re going to need a cover story, and a plan—but having chosen to rob a bank, you’re going to need those two things anyway.<br /><br />The Brinks Truck method is just simple. It cuts out a bunch of middle men, and leaves you with enough trunk space to take what you actually want ... which is <span style="font-weight: bold;">all</span> the money.<br /><br />Enter “the bailout” to my little screed.<br /><br />I know, you've been hearing about it all day--but THIS ... really is a robbery. They're distracting us with arguments about necessity and the collapse of the economy, but this has very little to do with that. This is a flat out, back the brinks truck up to the safe, snatch the money and run, theft.<br /><br />Oh Stew, you're being hyperbolic again.<br /><br />Riiiiiiight. It's ALL me.<br /><br />Let's review shall we?<br /><br /><blockquote>Hyperbole: extravagant exaggeration (as "mile high ice cream cones") -- Merriam Webster Collegiate Dictionary, TENTH EDITION.</blockquote><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Flashback: </span><br />Date - February 8, 2007.<br />Location – US House of Representatives<br />Event – Govt Oversight and Reform Committee Hearing<br />Speaking – Paul Bremer, former Iraq Occupation Chief<br /><br />Details – The “Honorable” Mister Bremer has been called to testify about the whereabouts of …<br /><br />wait for it …<br /><br />363 <span style="font-weight: bold;">TONS</span> of newly printed, shrink-wrapped $100 bills.<br /><br />NOT HYPERBOLE; not VISA debits, an actual military cargo plane FULL of Benjamin Franklin-faced currency.<br /><br />For those of you who DIDN’T spend your youth counting crack money or in banking, I’ll spare you the math. That is 12-Billion, with a Big-ole B for “butt,” American dollars.<br /><br />And let’s talk about a billion dollars really quick, since math isn’t the American strong suit. A billion is a thousand millions. A five-bedroom, four-bath, three-car garage, McMansion on a quarter acre in the nicer D.C. suburbs would run you about a million dollars, even now.<br /><br />Buy 1000 of those, and you are the proud owner of a billion dollars worth of real estate. That’s enough houses for all of your myspace friends, your facebook colleagues, your drinking buddies who can’t use a computer, your family—even the ones you don’t like, and all the hangers on who’ve figured out you have some extra houses lying around. And THAT’S just ONE billion.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.commondreams.org/headlines07/0208-02.htm">These fuckers DISAPPEARED TWELVE BILLION DOLLARS into thin air. </a><a href="http://www.amconmag.com/article/2005/oct/24/00007/">(The conservatives Agree)</a><br />Not spent it—there are no receipts. Not loaned it, or burned it, not flushed it down the toilet. It just … DISAPPEARED. We don’t know what happened to it EVEN NOW.<br /><br />That, my friends, is called robbery. If you’re rich enough they might call it embezzlement, but <span style="font-style: italic;">“we”</span> just chalked it up to collateral damage from the war and sent The Honorable Mister Bremer on his way.<br /><br />Fine. What’s 12-billion dollars among friends?<br /><br />If you answered “it’s casing the joint,” YOU my friends have won the grand prize, which we’ll award you as soon as we get our 12-Billion bucks back.<br /><br />Why, Stew? What on earth would make you say that??<br /><br />Ahem.<br /><br />Today, they’re back with a plan to turn over <span style="font-weight: bold;">$700,000,000,000.00</span> ... that’s seven hundred <span style="font-style: italic;">billion</span> dollars, to ONE MAN.<br /><br />And Congress is actually CONSIDERING it.<br /><br />Wait, WTF?<br /><br />Okay, lemme breathe for a minute.<br /><br />It’s time for more perspective.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.whitehouse.gov/omb/budget/fy2009/summarytables.html">The US Government’s FY 2008 budget was about three trillion dollars</a> (2.931 Trillion to be precise). Of that, roughly 410 billion was deficit spending, which is to say we were going to put it on a credit card, drawn from the bank of … I dunno, China. That was the PLAN … at the BEGINNING … of the fiscal year.<br /><br />(That number doesn’t include the Global War on Terror, which isn’t part of the budget or deficit numbers because the Pentagon insists that since they don’t know how much it’s going to cost, they can’t project anything … but again, bigger fish, stew. Bigger fish.)<br /><br />Fine. Deficit, schmeficit.<br /><br />That three trillion covers <span style="font-weight: bold;">22</span> departments, all of which have a Secretary or Director who reports to a committee in Congress responsible for oversight.<br /><br />But not for <span style="font-style: italic;">this</span> heist.<br /><br />The Secretary of the Treasury will get to singlehandedly oversee a fund that is almost 25% of last year’s total budget … BY HIMSELF.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/21/business/21draftcnd.html?_r=2&oref=slogin&oref=slogin">I draw your attention in the proposal to Section 8 of the draft: </a><br /><br /><blockquote>Sec. 8. Review.<br /><br />Decisions by the Secretary pursuant to the authority of this Act are non-reviewable and committed to agency discretion, and may not be reviewed by any court of law or any administrative agency. (italics mine)</blockquote><br />Some things just don’t require elaboration. But read some of the rest of the draft plan. It would be funny without a laugh track, if they weren't serious.<br /><br />For the record, I support the notion of bailing out the economy when and if it’s in trouble. I just think the Congress should have to oversee it.<br /><br />In spite of my rebellious and conspiratorial nature, I consider myself an American and a Patriot. I believe in the Constitution, and I take it seriously. Once upon a time, I took an oath to defend it … and I just don’t believe the founding fathers would look kindly on Congress handing one guy a check worth at least 25% of the total outlays for the country last year, with no day-to-day oversight.<br /><br />That doesn’t sound like government to me.<br /><br />It sounds like a robbery.<br /><br />Peace,<br /><br />--Stew.<br /><br />Photo:<br />http://members.aol.com/musiletter/car/images/boss-in.jpgAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-32571058376002236002008-08-26T19:43:00.007-04:002008-08-26T20:47:27.961-04:00Rules of the Game Part I<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUuBS72dooMQlJcpuZbvujcFYDqV7SCvdBKNalQp9JR-sdmM1fg8N9SNlryhRs0Xzyh1kR9Mj1IA5P3zeiCI2RWB_AlgWFsRItktZGfkp62as2RA0c87_wu3tFahN1Z6u24RiVTyUou_As/s1600-h/610x.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUuBS72dooMQlJcpuZbvujcFYDqV7SCvdBKNalQp9JR-sdmM1fg8N9SNlryhRs0Xzyh1kR9Mj1IA5P3zeiCI2RWB_AlgWFsRItktZGfkp62as2RA0c87_wu3tFahN1Z6u24RiVTyUou_As/s320/610x.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238989514282576242" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I think it starts at recess. Five or six little boys decided between freeze tag and hide and seek.<br /><br />Pretty quickly, it becomes kickball or dodge ball. There's that first time teams are chosen, and somebody is, and has to be, picked last. The boys don't do it to be mean, the game requires that a captain pick the best of his options every time its his turn to draft for his team.<br /><br />Over time, the trend is set--changeable only by moving to a new neighborhood, or sudden popularity of a new game. The athletic are ranked and rated, and the clumsy are relegated to the end of the line--the undesirables.<br /><br />These 'unpicked' boys subsequently join one of two camps; the quitters or the plucky.<br /><br />Quitters find some other way to spend recess. They swing or teeter, while the plucky stand there every day, waiting their turn while the athletic and popular get their first-round status for the day.<br /><br />These strong-willed little boys have discovered that there is social value to the game itself. And on some level, they reason that 'last picked' is a social step above not playing the game at all, and disappearing from view.<br /><br />As an adult, I've met some of the people scarred by this process. I admit the damage can appear to be severe. In some cases, it seems to literally shape certain people's self-esteem across decades and in spite of later accomplishments.<br /><br />But these are the rules of the game. Well-coordinated, fast, strong kids who understand the game of the day get picked first. New kids move to the end of the line until they have demonstrated thier ability to play. There is no referee, no appeal, and no relief.<br /><br />Over time this becomes the law of the playground, in the same way that gravity became the law of the planet.<br /><br />And every little boy knows the rules. Even the outcasts know better than to try to game the system; opting instead to either not play the game, or gamble on pluck.<br /><br />Some will try to make their mark elsewhere; in the classroom, or with their parents, or with comedy, music, or art. But they all know that once they step on the field, the rules apply.<br /><br />A few years pass, and the more evolved team sport concept is passed down from fathers, older brothers, the big kids, or television. Team sports introduce new concepts--fair play, playing by the rules of the game, learning how to win--and just as importantly--honorably lose.<br /><br />By this stage, the outcasts have typically started declaring that they don't "like" sports, as if the game is something that requires an individual's affection. It doesn't matter, they are still aware of the rules. And the society in which a little boy lives doesn't care that he 'likes' the game. His is a culture ruled by the concepts the game teaches.<br /><br />And the little boy finds himself semi-permanently assigned to one of the myriad social strata-jock, participant, player, referee, cheater, coach, substitute, or cheerleader. And the outsiders avoid the game but not the concepts, because these are the rules by which boyhood is lived.<br /><br />And the plucky get pluckier because you get better when you play more.<br /><br />In time if you're plucky, you discover through 'hard work' and persistence that you don't have to be great to be valuable. All the game requires is that you learn to do one thing well enough.<br /><br />Maybe you're a natural at defense, a great goalie, have a knack for rebounding, or the skills to be a punter. Everyone isn't born to be a pitcher, or wide receiver, or point guard. These are the superstars. They are rare. Many, if not most boys are born to be role players. And the game has evolved plenty of roles for the plucky.<br /><br />And whether you play the game or not, the game is all around you. And every boy needs other boys, and where tow or more boys find themselves together, the rules exist and are followed with religious fervor.<br /><br />And then grownups get involved. Little League standardizes the equiment, and introduces practice--which is a new concept to a little boy. And in the early days, "everybody plays," and there "are no winners or losers." But every little boy knows this isn't the natural order of things. He sees the gited pulled aside after practice for extra reps, and sees the grownups encourage the mortals to just drink their juice before the ride home.<br /><br />And once he's home, and the boys gather to play, he takes his place in the natural order of things. The place where the best play first, there are winners and losers, and the game has a beginning and an end.<br /><br />And in many ways, this is what it MEANS to be a little boy. It is to learn to navigate this wonderfully simple and complicated landscape.<br /><br />And by the time you reach high school, you understand.<br /><br />The purpose of the games is to teach you the rules. It doesn't even matter whether you are good at sport or not. Very few truly are. What matters is that you have absorbed the rules, because they are not the rules to sport, they are the rules to manhood.<br /><br />And men rule the world.<br /><br />And if you are going to survive and eventually thrive in this wolrd ruled by men, you MUST know and understand the rules.<br /><br />High school is where you ultimately learn the importance of the uniform. This is where teams first represent larger groups of people. Here, if you are lucky enough to make the team, you proudly wear the colors of your school in neighborhoods you've never visited before, on a field of battle you first encounter moments before the game is to begin.<br /><br />You may letter. You may be recruited to a higher level of competition. You may get your name in the paper.<br /><br />Or you may be one of the plucky ones who just play the game, on whose shoulders every high school dynasty is built.<br /><br />Watch for them, every team has them. They're the ones who sit on the bench during varsity competition. They know all the plays by heart, but they aren't fast enough or quick enough or nimble enough to be the first option. Some of them have never actually ever played in a game that counted.<br /><br />They will never become famous for their contribution; but they practice every day. They get knocked to the ground over and over again by linemen learning the fine art of the proper tackle. They do wind sprints and suicide lines until they puke. They spend hours in the weight room. They field hundred of bunts, swim thousands of laps, and shoot millions of free throws, because to be unprepared is against the rules.<br /><br />Even though they know they will never get into the games that count, they wake before dawn because that's what it means to be on the team. Everyone on the team respects them. this is their individual trophy.<br /><br />Here are the rules they learn:<br /><br />1. Every game has rules. These are inviolate.<br />2. You play to win the game.<br />3. You must compete for the honor of being on the team. The best players play.<br /> The rest are backups, who must be ready should injury strike.<br />4. Try-outs are about your mental ability. Everybody here knows how to play<br /> the sport. But it doesn't matter how theoretically good you are; if you don't<br /> do well at tryouts, you aren't going to make the team.<br />5. There is no shame in not making varsity.<br />6. There is great glory in making varsity.<br />7. Practice is MUCH harder than the actual game.<br />8. Respect your opponent.<br />9. Shake hands before and after the game. Go for his throat between the whistles.<br />10. Protect yourself at all times.<br />11. There is a winner and a loser of every game.<br />12. Your record of wins and losses matters in determining the champion(s).<br />13. Sometimes you win the game, sometimes you lose the game. When you lose, don't whine. Congratulate the winner and vow to kick his ass next time. Do it.<br />14. Communism is the enemy. Everyone else is just an opponent.<br />15. Don't blame the ref. It's never the ref's fault.<br />16. If you're hurt; rub some dirt on it, walk it off, and keep playing. Never pretend to be injured.<br />17. If you're injured, don't pretend like you're just hurt. We can't afford to lose you for the entire season.<br />17a. If you're not sure, you're not injured.<br />18. If you lose to the same opponent repeatedly, he's better than you. This is called a worthy opponent; you can measure your progress by narrowing his margin of victory over time. If you work hard, you WILL eventually beat him.<br />18a. If you beat an opponent repeatedly, you are better than him. it is time for a new opponent. Either way, the wins and losses count.<br />19. Cheating is part of every game. Assume your opponent will cheat.<br /> Cheat back if you must, but never get caught. Nobody likes cheaters who get caught.<br />20. Always play as hard as you can. There are no bonus points for potential.<br /><br />There IS a point to this rant. It is political in nature, and hopefully you'll get there without me having to guide the way. Either way, I will tie of the loose ends, next blog.<br /><br />Peace,<br /><br />--Stew.<br /><br />photo:<br />http://cache.daylife.com/imageserve/07oV6VH3Xpcs1/610x.jpg<br /><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-81007972875449563682008-08-02T11:31:00.006-04:002008-12-11T17:12:31.275-05:00The Tightrope<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchzvM_t9kNEUAYfOgXskjOMz7Gn0CnXp9BwT7BarjedWoza0zlEzqMlCDpdvBP8Eo_YCsLro81K6B3zK6FG9y9s7R4q0Ye6-zRYNEt7ds7NtBMGGnTh5aQVWNqhvjzWfPu00KPwAj5rt7/s1600-h/tightrope.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchzvM_t9kNEUAYfOgXskjOMz7Gn0CnXp9BwT7BarjedWoza0zlEzqMlCDpdvBP8Eo_YCsLro81K6B3zK6FG9y9s7R4q0Ye6-zRYNEt7ds7NtBMGGnTh5aQVWNqhvjzWfPu00KPwAj5rt7/s320/tightrope.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229945045813640146" border="0" /></a><br />A baby is born to a teenaged, interracial couple in college. Dad, an African graduate student, leaves before the baby can form complete sentences. Mom gets her degrees and eventually moves home --to lily-whitest Kansas, where her parents can help her raise her family. There, the little boy gets a solid Midwestern upbringing; ten commandments, good neighbor, pull your weight, earn/save/spend, study hard/work hard. The tightrope is fully formed; but it is a faraway feature, the furthest tree in a distant forest. The boy has the luxury of being “just” an observer.<br /><br />To his benefit, the boy probably misses the “You’ve gotta be twice as good to get half as far” lecture that would’ve been the staple in Big Mama’s house. There are other lectures that a white grandfather gives the golden-hued progeny of his freethinking little girl. It is probably for the best, considering this boy, because he has been born with twice as much potential anyway. The tightrope is closer, but the love that surrounds him, properly shields him from its danger.<br /><br />The adolescent awakens to the wider world, and steps out in it. By appearance, he is black, and by many accounts beautiful. Part of a sizable community of men who statistically underachieve, he accomplishes an impressive young adulthood; post-graduating with honors from the Ivy League, simultaneously trying to discover the nuance of navigating a polarized culture from inside his mulatto skin. He is beginning to understand the tightrope, but wisely finds other ways to negotiate the chasm.<br /><br />He chooses to embrace his appearance; to own the darkest side of his birthright, rather than fighting the unwinnable war of persuading those who see him--that he is not what he appears. He selects the most bittersweet piece of a chocolate city in which to make his mark. These … ghettos … always have a battle in progress, and a battle or two lying in wait. He engages. He finds a strong black woman with an intellect to match his own. He marries her. He fathers and she bears two beautiful little girls. He has now acquired the balancing pole that will be his most useful tool, should he ever have to walk across the tightrope.<br /><br />He joins a church tended by a cleric old enough to be his black father. A masculine man with a manly past who stands in the pulpit each week facing a congregation culled from a community where fathers are like tooth fairies; everyone has seen what they leave behind, but only a small percentage have ever caught them in the act. Recognizing this vacuum, the pastor has an obligation. Tradition requires that the black Shepard must risk ridicule. The black preacher says from the pulpit the things that black fathers have always said to their black children. But the aging Reverend is forced to say them in the light of day, and into a microphone without the protection of beer, or bedtime stories, or barbeque.<br /><br />He doesn’t know it now, but he will one day have to sacrifice the manhood of <span style="font-style: italic;">this</span> black father on the altar of public outcry. Yet, these are the words that every black child who has a black father recognizes as “what my daddy told me we believe. " They are the legacy of black--in America. The man hears the words, and through them is formally introduced to the net that will catch him should he ever fall off the tightrope.<br /><br />Years pass, and this mulatto man’s quest for identity is as resolved in his own mind, as it is unsettled in the streets on which he walks. The perfect storm of educational pedigree, politics, good looks, and eloquence find him on the biggest stage of the world; the General Election for President of the United States of America. He is a pioneer in every sense of the word.<br /><br />And he awakens in this moment for which he has dreamed, calculated, and planned--standing on the tightrope. He is too far from his humble beginning to turn around, and too far from his destination to believe he can simply sprint to the finish line. He will have to walk—stabilizing pole in hand—cautiously, carefully, and deliberately to the other side.<br /><br />From one side, the billowing wind of white America; intrigued by his intellect, captured by his eloquence, and hungry for his potential. The same white America wary of his hue, shackled by the tint of a shared history, and terrified by the legacy he can rightfully claim. They know part of him is white, but they wonder which part—and if that part is enough for him to feel their pains.<br /><br />From the other side, the steady pitter-patter of black America; choired in chords from a community in chaos, straining at the seams for signs that THEIR long national nightmare will soon be over.<br /><br />They comprehend, while they would NEVER say so into a microphone, that he cannot fully be one of them. They do not consider this an insult, this is their perception of reality. They welcome him, they admire him, they applaud him, they support him. But they KNOW that many men wear black skin but lack black souls.<br /><br />Theirs is an experience from birth. It lives in barbershops and beauty salons, but it isn’t born there. It shows up at family reunions and around the water cooler, but that isn’t its home.<br />Being black is not a shirt to be selected and worn. It is a skin that is assigned once. It is to heralded on good days, and endured when things go wrong. It is an identity that walks with you through trial, but precedes you in every other moment. These people know that part of him is black, but they wonder which part—and if that part is enough for him to feel their pains.<br /><br />And his tightrope walk continues.<br /><br />A wiser man with the benefit of history will have to tell you if he makes it to the other side. I can only tell you that he has all the external tools he needs. This journey is treacherous even without the tightrope. Many great men have failed to successfully traverse it from much more solid ground. Like everyone else at the circus, I’m here for the show. I want to see a good performance, and I want my money’s worth. He has my support, and my admiration. But he’s got to walk the tightrope … alone.<br /><br />Peace,<br />--Stew<br /><br />photo:<br />http://blogs.itworldcanada.com/security/files/2007/07/j03863031.jpgAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-53277951502603849612008-06-19T05:48:00.006-04:002008-12-11T17:12:31.530-05:00Thoughts from a Silent Keyboard<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB7kF02ou7TezTlKHdJtRm0kgXytTUeGlCBMmBt0C_FG8-XkU2C_PwZPM_Gz1lnUZjx8FTz9sm3ztwju8jwysItTcwMqld1TBEoicG0otEa7y8LUn8zOGANOVIyf_dj8nVd1LAG-qSZYQj/s1600-h/pearmund1.jpg.JPG"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhumi-mR9Bxu1BEMR7CvLPQ2bw8heHigeEgaeFM0Y8n-yioRVg4FGjiBchVWbfPLKTRAWf1gqGfswnj7ItEc_EWp95V0gL_G6rkP5V6jrNNYzYQkFhIIdCtSM44fmVwJZR111HSm8Tbgiu/s1600-h/macbook_keyboard.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213533307131723810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhumi-mR9Bxu1BEMR7CvLPQ2bw8heHigeEgaeFM0Y8n-yioRVg4FGjiBchVWbfPLKTRAWf1gqGfswnj7ItEc_EWp95V0gL_G6rkP5V6jrNNYzYQkFhIIdCtSM44fmVwJZR111HSm8Tbgiu/s400/macbook_keyboard.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>...I think it's been too long.</div><br /><br /><div></div><div>I used to sit at this keyboard every coupla days and force my thoughts through the tunnel. From this side of the wall they'd start out as an undisciplined mob of memories, impressions, and opinions.<br /></div><div>Out there they'd show up as metaphors and missives; allegories and allusions.<br /></div><div>I think it's been too long.<br /></div><div>I'm pretty sure they weren't ever the most important words in the datastream that is the information age.<br /></div><div>But they were mine.</div><div></div><br /><div>They were my mark on an everchanging universe of opinions and shared ... no, I mean Shared!, experiences. </div><div></div><br /><div>They were a proof that I existed. An erasable touchstone that no one would ever have the energy or impetus to completely erase.<br /></div><div>And then I almost died.<br /></div><div>And they were suddenly unimportant to me.<br /></div><div>Now with no excuses, I'm not sure I need them anymore.<br /></div><div>Oh sure, I want them -- those ... words that connect me with you; that find you even when I don't know where to look, or how to make you know we should be connected.<br /></div><div>But the need ... after months of a different fight, doesn't punch the inside of my gut the same.<br /></div><div>And in that way "my" life enjoys its irony -- the hunger is fleeting in an era where I've so much to say.<br /></div><div>You know I'm aching to talk Barack, and Hill, and Russert, and that goddam R. Kelly.<br /></div><div>I have ... <i>questions.</i></div><div></div><br /><div>Like:</div><div>What the hell was Kevin Garnett talking about?</div><br /><div>and</div><br /><div>Why do I dislike Michelle so much, but get so fing pissed off when other people talk badly about her?<br /></div><div>Oh ... and I haven't told you about my trip to the DNC Rules Committee meeting in Washington where the determination was made about delegates from the Disneyland and Motown.<br /></div><div>That was some rich shit.<br /></div><div>Oh, and the Supreme Court. I've got ... thoughts.<br /></div><div>Yeah ... and the media's pornification of my hero Mr. Russert.<br /></div><div>Awwww fuckit.<br /></div><div>I may as well write.<br /></div><div>Stand by...</div><div></div><div>Peace,</div><div>--Stew.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Photo:</div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://www.crunchgear.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/11/macbook_keyboard.jpg">http://www.crunchgear.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/11/macbook_keyboard.jpg</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6245862109376268475.post-10361040668627249912008-01-13T15:47:00.000-05:002008-12-11T17:12:31.724-05:00Good Habits<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqGiw13cWeawr4yLSvZOrCri-MvmNPh3vTmrN5g2rUCmAOCHqLPtoQZgb2HdMUqzwrocr35omcWHVZYhg9ag4eC76bDvq3rG2x9kCXhYVl7udI7GATxOpWAeMsHcL0htHT5OcdLpwXeW-i/s1600-h/42-15198116-nun.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqGiw13cWeawr4yLSvZOrCri-MvmNPh3vTmrN5g2rUCmAOCHqLPtoQZgb2HdMUqzwrocr35omcWHVZYhg9ag4eC76bDvq3rG2x9kCXhYVl7udI7GATxOpWAeMsHcL0htHT5OcdLpwXeW-i/s320/42-15198116-nun.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155088589974676370" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />One of the three media experiences I had over the weekend was a play hosted by St. Mary's, a local Catholic College for women.<br /><br />The title was "Doubt: A Parable." I went because a friend of mine invited me; neither of us had any idea what the play was about, only that one of her friends had a role in the production.<br /><br />I have ranted here about the scourge of Priests molesting little boys, most recently in October of 2006, in a blog called "Priests." I've been VERY critical about the way "religion," and the religious have addressed, or more accurately failed to address the issue.<br /><br />This play didn't so much challenge that idea, as much as point out one perspective that I'd never considered.<br /><br />The plot was simple. Sister Aloyusius, principal/head nun of an elementary school in the Bronx, 1964, believes that the local priest is molesting the first young black boy to attend. Absent the sort of evidence any "fair" investigation would require, she acts. Armed with only her conviction, compassion for the students in her charge, and a bullheaded determination born from decades of experience, she puts ALL of what little she has to risk at stake to do the right thing. She ultimately makes a series of very savvy political moves to force him to resign ... which sadly means he is transferred to another parish, with another elementary school.<br /><br />On another day, perhaps I'll talk about how fantastically acted and produced it was. Or about how completely I fell in love with the character of the old stodgy, icy nun almost from her first words.<br /><br />But today, a different focus.<br /><br />I have come to believe that the secret to processing events in this confusing life is to find and articulate the poignant moment, that instant in the past that most vividly paints the face of good or evil on your conscience so that you can overcome apathy to respond in the proper manner.<br /><br />It is easy to despise a murderer when you are confronted with a corpse. You are sorry for the family, sad for the victim, and afraid for society.<br /><br />But to me, the poignant moment you require to fully ... comprehend the energy of homicide is the instant in which the murderer stood over his victim; knife in hand, armed with the collective sum of an entire life's experience and knowledge, plunging cold steel through skin, past muscle, around bone and fat, and into soft vital organs, fully knowing that he is stealing the life force of another human being. It is the splattering of blood, and whether he dabs it with a cloth, or smears it in ... before washing it off.<br /><br />Facing the blunt, gruesome imagining of THIS moment, allows you to see past the man on the witness stand who wears a stylish suit and has a savvy lawyer. You can zip right past the well-groomed hair and fresh shave to the essence of the man minus his purchased advice designed to sway you.<br /><br />You can snap and develop a mental picture of him in a moment less ... evolved. You can witness his heart-pounding, adrenaline pumping, anger seething, common sense on pause, excuses irrelevant, enraged moment, and envision him ... guilty.<br /><br />And with THAT vision, it becomes easier to grasp the hand of justice and choke the living shit out of him with it.<br /><br />It is the same for me with pedophile priests. I don't see men of the cloth, tortured souls struggling with pitch black temptations.<br /><br />I see unworthy judges--men hearing the sinful and immoral confessions of others while fresh memories play in their mind's eye of recently exposed penises, anuses, and mouths; daring to counsel their peers, and assess the appropriate number of hail Marys and Our Fathers required for absolution from far lesser crimes than their own.<br /><br />Your honor, I'd like permission to borrow the hand of justice to strangle this worthless bastard.<br /><br />There is a moment in virtually ALL of these priestly stories that makes my blood run more frozen than cold. It is the sentence in every story that describes how MANY different environments this particular deviant has been allowed to stalk and hunt in.<br /><br />It wasn't until this play that I allowed myself to wonder if perhaps all that moving around was the hand of honest but helpless people, too powerless to STOP the activity, but too concerned to sit apathetic. Engaged enough to get the demon spawn out of their purview while hoping that someone more powerful would be better positioned and inclined to cut if off at the root.<br /><br />I still have nothing but a hearty FUCK YOU to pedophile priests, but I can only hope that the people lower on the totem pole from Rome to home aren't as complicit as the sky-dwellers.<br /><br />For the sake of the thousands of little boys that will one day be my doctors and lawyers and congressmen and teachers of my grandchildren, I hope there are some "good habits" developing ... somewhere.<br /><br />Photo:<br />http://www.creightonmagazine.org/files/Winter_2005/42-15198116-nun.jpgAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03874926565315023213noreply@blogger.com1