To Write

Today, I want to talk about the sheer joy of writing.

I invite you to share it with me.


* * * * * *

For me as a writer, there are three orgasmic moments.

The first comes when an idea shows up with it’s own voice.

My brain tends to race a bit, and most of the time its sort of stream of consciousness, random thoughts and ideas that flash like little lightning bolts in my head. They are usually mushy and voiceless, and I can’t actually hear them for the first time until I’m in the middle of talking and they hitchhike a ride on a sentence to the outside world. Sometimes those are cool, and I think to myself … “Hmm, that was interesting.”

But favorite moment number one of three has to do with the ones that show up on-scene fully formed, kicking and screaming.

They’ve already come equipped with a metaphor or analogy, and they’re wearing it like a winter jacket, or a bikini, depending completely on what their passion is. They require nothing from me but an acknowledgement that I am capable of properly expressing them.

They are sort of like children, in the Gibran sense of the word. They are clearly not “mine.” They come through me, and the universe rewards me with the gift of opportunity to express them. I remember the day I first realized how unusual it was that I don’t agree with about half of my OWN thoughts. I’m just lucky enough to be their conduit.

Developed thoughts don’t ask me to believe them. But they do communicate with me. They are inquisitive and each has only one question.

“Stew, are you capable of expressing me?”

It is literally a moment of bliss to hear that question boom inside my head, and be able to answer “yes.”

Then comes the hardest, yet most rewarding part of the process. The writing.

I’ve conversed with linguists and translators who describe the process of hearing a sentence in one language and mentally processing it to articulate it in another.

That’s what I think it feels like to try to write one of these ideas down.

Because many aren’t words. Sometimes they are feelings, or notions, or emotions, or “sense-i-tive,” in that they are actually smells, or sounds, or sights. And the singular joy of the writing part is finding the precisely correct combination of words in the right order to transfer the thought from its birth form, into written words on a page.

It’s a process that has been modernized to be ---

Typetypetype space typetypetype. Dictionary page-whirling. Deletedelete type space type type type space. Thesaurus smell. Typetype type space typetypetype. Highlight, delete.

But at the end, there is a physical feeling of satisfaction when the last word or phrase falls into place.

It simulates walking up to a locked door in the dark with a set of keys, having to pee. You know that one of them fits, but you ALSO know that you’ve been as bad as good, and karma won’t let it be the first one. And it isn’t. And you’re twisting back and forth, and squeezing to make the pee wait, and crossing your legs, and jangling keys and feeling for the keyhole with your thumb and sliding the key you’ve picked down your thumb to the keyhole, and realizing that “nope, that’s not it.” And starting over, and getting frustrated, and starting to wrongly focus on having to pee as your primary problem rather than having to find the right key because whether you pee on yourself or not, you’re still going to have to open the door. And feeling the next key not even fit in the hole at all and realizing that you haven’t kept track of which key you started with so there’s a chance of wasting a try with the same key twice. Now you’re cursing under your breath even though you’re a Sunday school teacher and wondering if God forgives people who have to pee but the goddamn lock won’t open for taking his name in vain. And starting to think you’re not going to make it and thinking back to the last time you’ve peed on yourself and wondering how many adults pee on themselves a mere 20 feet from a toilet and starting to panic and dropping the keys, and picking them up knowing that now you’ve really lost your place and now you juST NEED TO OPEN THE DOOR BECAUSE THIS SHIT AIN’T FUNNY ANYMORE AND YOU’RE A GROWN-UP AND SHOULD BE ABLE TO HAVE ENOUGH SELF CONTROL TO MAKE IT TO THE FUCKING BATHROOM AND GRABBING THE ENTIRE DOORKNOB AND JUST RAMMING THE FIRST KEY YOUR FINGERS CAN FEEL INTO THE KEYHOLE AND FEELING IT SLIDE IN AND VIOLENTLY TWISTING IT TO THE RIGHT AND THEN THE LEFT AND HEARING IT ...

... CLICK!

Now freeze.

That’s what the moment I’m trying to tell you about feels like.

That instant the door is unlocked. Suddenly, you don’t even have to pee as bad because you opened the door.

In writing, it is orgasmic because you’ve replicated the voice of the idea in your head.

And you are happy.

And the thought is happy, even if it’s a sad thought, because part of it was worried that it couldn’t be shared with the universe because it’d come through such an unworthy vessel.

Can you imagine how fortunate a thought must be to arrive at the mind of a Dante, or a Mark Twain, or a Stephen King, or a Caleb Carr?

How unlucky it is to enter the world and be forced to make its presence known through the limited voice of the inarticulate.

How halting a journey that must be.

It’s probably as unlucky for that thought that wants to be written to arrive in THAT space, as it is for a thought that needs to be drawn or painted to show up in MY brain. Even if it is the Mona Lisa …

She’s doomed! She’ll be lucky to become a stick-man with eyes. Or an emoticon : --)

Getting it right is the second moment.

The third moment happens when you share that written idea, in your own words, in front of someone and watch them “get it.”

You see your idea not “moved” … because it’s still with you.

But it is multiplied because now it lives in two people’s minds.

Then three, then four, then 50, then 100, then 1000, 1,000,000,000

Then everybody knows it. It’s a best-selling idea! It’s … a SUCCESS.

Well, I have no notion of how many people have to get it for that to happen, but I’ve seen the converted; the people who didn’t understand what I was trying to say, until they read it in written words. It completes me as a writer. It’s the conclusion of the trinity.

And they feel me.

Yes?

Priest

When I was a boy, my father taught me that you never speak ill of a man of God.

His object lesson came from the story of Elisha, the boys who mocked his bald head, and a bear that ate them up.

On December 14, 2002 Cardinal Bernard F. Law resigned his position as head of the Boston archdiocese because of public backlash from his blatant attempts to deny, then cover up, then apologize for his role in a widespread and growing sex abuse scandal.

Fuck him.

As of his resignation, there were more than 500 lawsuits pending against priests for a variety of sex crimes against children.

The Catholic church has spent an estimated 70-million dollars fighting them. Fuck each and every one of the men of the cloth that is guilty of those crimes. What goes through your mind as you stand in the pulpit to bring a message from God, knowing that earlier in the week, your penis was in some little boy's or boys private parts?I

In what special part of hell can I stand to pour accelerant on your piecce of the fire so your flames are hotter than mine?

I watched one of the NBC Dateline specials where they trick the pedophile men into showing up at a house to have sex with a child. It broke my heart that one of the predators that made his way to the candid camera setup was a Rabbi from Fairfax, Virginia.

Fuck him too.

Here’s where it starts to actually piss me off instead of just making me sad.

In every community there is an ecumenical council that encourages the ministers of various denominations to fellowship and create strong bonds between the clergy.

Where I’m from, we call that a fraternity.

I’ve been to hundreds, maybe thousands of church services, and I have yet to hear any real condemnation from the pulpit about the fact that their frat brothers have been using their penises to communicate with our little boys.

That’s diabolical.

I smoke, drink, and chase women sometimes. I’ve told some lies, and I’m pretty sure that technically, I cheated on my wife.

I've been a shitbag at times. There’s no question I’m a sinner--good heart and all.

Yet, I get an earful every time I darken the doorway of a church.

But right now,

somewhere a priest is molesting, harassing, or raping a little boy.I’m not against priests, but I AM against the rape of little boys. Meanwhile, the clergy is silent.I’ve decided there are only a few of possible explanations:

1 - They are unaware of the problem.

2 - They don’t care

3 - They don’t think it’s their place to say anything

4 - They condone the behavior.

My four year old knows better than to think any of those would be enough to excuse this type of behavior. MY FOUR YEAR OLD.

I have an extremist position about this, and I no longer care how it sounds. I believe that every preacher should start every sermon with a condemnation of the sexual abuse of our little boys. Instead they tell a warm-up joke, and offer a generic prayer.

This is one of those topics I could rant and rave about. I’ve chosen not to. The point makes itself.

And if you don’t get it, this entry isn’t for you anyway.

I don’t go to church anymore for a lot of different reasons, but I know some of you do.

If your preacher’s never mentioned it, would you ask him why for me?

Partisan

Even now, as I start to type, I realize that I’ve inappropriately titled this entry. It should have been called “In Defense of Boys.”I’m not going to change it. I’m just going to stubbornly plow ahead.At least one boy has been harmed.He was 16 when the harm happened.It came at the hands of an elected official.Somehow, this is an issue of Republicans vs. Democrats.Why?Mark Foley isn’t a despicable man because he’s a Republican. Mark Foley is a despicable man because he is a predator who practiced his trade while supposedly serving the public interest.Unfortunately, the agreed upon news story hasn’t unfolded in any sort of sympathetic dialogue about a boy being harmed. It hasn’t even tackled the concern we should all feel that the entire Congress apparently knew that a predator was in their midst and did nothing, even as they were approving applications from boys in their home States to leave their mothers and fathers for a summer opportunity to be a Congressional Page and learn about government from an up close and personal perspective.No, the story of the week is the Republicans vs. the Democrats.This was also the story last weekand the week before.There was no happy hour in American history where we all got along.But even in my lifetime, there was a time when a person’s identity wasn’t a political label.Perhaps this is just a Washington thing, and I think of it as global because I drive the Beltway to work sometimes.Maybe “blue state” and “red state” citizens don’t know that’s what we call them in D.C.Maybe they too are more concerned that the Republicans have a scandal on their hands than they are that a boy was harmed.We bemoan the violence between Shiites and Sunnis in Iraq because it seems like such senseless mayhem.But we’ve divided ourselves into Democrats and Republicans and called each other nasty names and accused each other of terrible things while a predator was harming a boy.You and I are computer people. We "get" how internet communication works. We use yahoo messenger, we read and write blogs. We understand how very real and how very serious these relationships that are developed through broadband and cable hookups are, on every level. We've been told that the totality of the harassment was just a series of e-mails, instant messages, and inappropriate offers from one man to a small number of boys.But you and I, in the part of the conversation that we aren't going to have out loud--the part where I'll give you "the look" and you'll return it so we don't have to slander anybody, the part where we just "know," both know there's more to it. Or do I actually have to wink and fucking nod?If Mr. Foley was a teacher … preying on his students, do you think we’d care if he were a Democrat or Republican?Would the news story of the night be about the political discussion between the school board and the Superintendent?What if he were father molesting his son?Damn those Democrats?Fuckin’ Republicans?Somewhere between Vietnam, Watergate, Iran-Contra, the Blowjob, the Contract with America, election night 2000, 9/11, The Iraq War, and Katrina we stopped being Americans who belonged to political parties and became political party members who happen to be Americans.A boy has been harmed.Are you a Republican? Or a Democrat?Oh yeah … its time to talk about the priests…

--Stew.

(5 Oct 06)

The Teachers

I was perusing my high school yearbook the other night, and I came across a much younger full color picture of myself.

Underneath, I was given an opportunity to tell the world my life’s career goal. I wrote cardiovascular surgeon.

Ha!

But it took me back to a specific moment in time.

The human heart fascinated me. In my schoolbooks its diagrams were covered with red lines and very cool names. It did fascinating things, and a teacher introduced me to those functions.

In fact, even though I dropped out of college after the first semester of my freshman year to wander the world, and haven’t made my way back—I am forever indebted to each of the teachers I’ve had for teaching me the things that helped shape the mind I have.

I remember each of them, in order, and what I learned from them. It’s a peculiar hall of fame, and I’m the only one who’s ever visited it.

For one day only, I’m opening its exhibits to the world.

1st and 2nd Grade, Mrs. Lewis: Psalms 91. She taught me that if you repeat something often enough, you will engrave it on your mind. At the end of every class day, we recited this beautiful passage. She never cared whether you read it from an open Bible or not. By the end of the year, no one needed to. Today, 30 years later, I can still recite it word for word.

3rd Grade: Miss Madison: She taught me that all Africans aren’t black. Her parents were missionaries, and she’d been born on the dark continent. She was the first white woman I ever thought was gorgeous. She was also very kind, but started the trend of letting my math work slide, because I was an excellent reader and writer.

4th Grade: Mrs. Greene: She taught me that not doing a job well is something that will eventually come to light.

5th Grade: Miss Bringham: She taught me that the room doesn’t have to be quiet for learning to happen, and that gymnastics is cool.

6th Grade: Mrs. Gerheart. This was Miss Bringham after she got married. She taught me that some women are better off by themselves, but they’re afraid of being alone. As a result, they’ll put themselves through hell for companionship.

7th Grade: Mrs. Stewart. She taught me that having your mother for a teacher puts you in an impossible situation. Your classmates don’t trust you because your mom is the teacher, and she has to be twice as hard on you to avoid the appearance of playing favorites.

8th Grade: Mrs. Poitier. She taught me that a teacher can become a lifelong friend, and that school is supposed to reinforce the love you get at home. I remember her hugs, and her playboy glasses.

9th Grade:

Mr. Payne, Geography: He taught me how to fold a map, and that I was as smart as anyone else in the world. He showed me how to never be afraid to know the answer, and to never be afraid to not know that answer—but only until I could find it. Every question deserves to be responded to, and you can stop cheating cold if you care enough to try.

Mr. Porter, Biology: He taught me the appropriate use of gambling in every day life. His tests were an exercise in genius. He showed me how to create a dichotomous key, and in passing, the word dichotomy, which remains a favorite to this day.

Miss Mullenberg, English: She taught me to that it was ok to dislike the work of Shakespeare, as long as I read it. ( I have, and I do. He's a windbag. Dante is much better.) She taught me that it’s ok to prefer modern writers, that George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, and Stephen King are each geniuses in the same vein, but that nobody cares until they are dead for 100 years. Greek mythology is where a LOT of religious ideas come from.

Sergeant York, JROTC: Profanity has a useful place in conversation, like it or not. Every man needs to know how to properly care for, and use a weapon of some kind. The rifle is highly recommeded, as it allows you to specify the target you are trying to hit. The shotgun is more effective, but less precise. If you learn drill, you learn human behavior. Be yourself, and speak up when you have something worthwhile to say.

Mr. Warner, Drafting: The difference in steel and iron. You don’t have to be able to draw to create useful art. What you need is an idea, a fundamental understanding of the rules of math and illustration, a t-square, and a couple of triangles. Also, its easier to erase a paper cleanly, if you sprinkle the whole thing with eraser-bits first.

Mr. Cain, Algebra: Education as assembly line doesn't work, everyone DOESN’T learn at the same pace, and if you try to force such a thing, the slow ones won’t learn anything. Homework doesn’t reinforce knowledge you don’t already have. Rock stars aren't necessarily cool.

Summer School

Mr. Harrington, Algebra: Bow ties rock! Its not algebra that sucks, its Mr. Cain. The fact that an entire classroom full of his students was back for take two was indicative of this, and mathematically it was a provable fact. Binomial equations. FOIL

10th Grade:

Mr. Harrington, Geometry: All mathematics doesn’t suck, in fact Geometry is useful to all writers. It’s the math that uses words.

Mrs. Stommes, Drama: There is an actor inside all of us, kissing in public is fun (and no, she didn’t kiss us. There was nothing untoward about this interesting woman, she was just youthful, and taught us stage-kissing, along with stage-stabbing, stage-crying, and stage directions.)

SFC Middleton, JROTC: Teamwork is good. Stewart, you’re a natural born leader. Never run from that responsibility.

Mrs. Nelson, English: I was a lot smarter than any of my teachers realized. I should sign up for more honors classes. She was the first person to ever read my writing, offer constructive critiques, and memorize a phrase I turned. She once asked me to autograph a theme I’d written, and seemed to generally enjoy reading my work.

Mr. Gillogly, World Studies: Religion has shaped the world more than any single force. It is neither good nor bad, but if you are going to understand the world, you MUST understand its religions. Read the damn textbook. All of the answers are in it.

THIS IS WHERE IT ALL WENT TO SHIT.

11th Grade:

Mrs. Wehling, English: Racism is still alive. You are “less” because you’re not like “the rest of us.” Some people smile to your face and stab you in the back. My writing is just okay. Just because your ACT scores are in the top tier of the class, doesn’t mean you’re smart. (Actually, it does. Intelligent is a different thing) And just because a person does something nice for you, doesn’t mean they like, or appreciate you.

Elder Fitch, Bible: Religion has shaped the world more than any single force. It is good, and as soon as we can get the world to see religion the way we do, Jesus can come. You don’t have to be feared to be respected.

Mr. Davis, Principal: Sometimes non-racist people live right next to raging fanatics, but if they don’t exercise their power, they are as useless as tits on a boarhog. A good man who says nothing of evil cannot really be called a good man.

Mr. Goodchild, Physics: Music is scientifically measurable.

Mr. Vandevere, American History: If you learn a little bit every day, by the end of the year, you will have learned a lot of new things.

Mr. Vandevere, Music: Just because you can play an instrument, doesn’t make you a good music teacher.

Mr. Turpen, Dean/PE: Your title doesn’t earn you respect, it just puts you in charge.

Mr. Gerrans, Maintenance: The entire world is held together by screws, nails, and bolts. Learn how they work, and the tools used to attach them, and you can either destroy the world, or help put it back together.

Mr. Kaufman, Driver’s Ed/Health: Beauty is skin deep.

12th Grade:

Mrs. Wehling, English: People never change inside. Their words may, but character is with you forever.

Mr. Goodchild, Chemistry: If I don’t understand something, I can’t teach it to you. (Me, not him. I’m sure he gets it.)

Elder Fitch, Bible: Religion is actually pretty complicated as a science. That’s why some men get PhD’s in it. (It’s really an art, not a science. But I didn’t learn that until later, and on my own.)

Mr. Williams, Music: Life is fun. Enjoy it. Music is as individual as writing, art, or your smile. Yours can be as beautiful as anyone else’s.

Mrs. Williams, Music: Anyone can be taught to sing. Some people need the lessons more than others.

Mr. Turpen, Dean/PE: Adults are still learning. Don’t be too hard on them. Nobody’s perfect, but lots of people are trying.

Mr. Gibson, American Government: A “thing” can either be complex, or simple. It truly depends on how creatively you approach it. No job is harder than Senior Class President. This period in your life is the most useful experience in the world to learn how to influence people and how you fit into the world.

Mrs. Gibson, Cafeteria: Learn to cook well, and you’ll always be able to make a friend. Learn to enjoy cooking well, and you’ll always be able to find a path to your own happiness. Cooking for 100 is just like cooking for two, except that you need bigger pots and pans.

Miss Bascom, Typing: The small things matter. Learn them, and you’ll never have to think about them. Ignore them, and you’ll discover why the small things matter.

There you have it. I respect each of them for what they taught me and for what I learned from them. If you want to change the world---teach.

Peace,

--Stew.

A Cappella

I’m in this space where I want to share the pleasures I know.

Please don’t ask why, I have no idea.

I'm challenged by the notion of finding the right words to capture certain ones of them.

At the front of the line, having put the book thing to paper … is the feeling of singing a cappella. I think I've got it right.

If you're a fellow a cappella singer, let me know.Whether you are, or aren't ... share my attempt with me for a moment.

* * * * * *

A single voice sometimes whispers, occasionally talks, or whistles, periodically shrieks, giggles, laughs, yells, or onomatopoeically expresses some thought.

THIS … is a monologue.

Take the syllables of that soliloquy and physically wrap each of them with a specific frequency.

Let those consecutive pitches float out on the river of sound whose headwaters lie just below your diaphragm.

As you push them toward life—one after the other on an escalator of air, and shape the timbre and volume of each in your larynx … you will experience the conception and birth … of a solo.

Each is as unique as creation itself.

This one exists moment by moment, and disappears into the ether at your whim.

Now form it.

Close your eyes.

Give your solo a face, a name, a personality.

Let it breathe, or bleed, or cry.

Let it have a life of its own.

Let it live it.

Now stand near another who is summoning the same force, and match your frequencies a third above, or a fifth below.

Let them dance.

Force them to foxtrot, tempt them to tango, free them to funkily disco.

Listen to them intertwine, and kiss. Hear them hug. Feel them fuck.

Allow their coition to build, hold, climax, and afterglow.

This is a duet.

Now marry your duet to another duet. Let the orgy marinate.

Now find the man (or woman) whose solo has a beat.

Let that drummer drive, and go as fast or as slow as the percussion lets you.

Turn your solos into a song.

Make it something everybody knows, and sing it for them--as hard, and as perfectly as you can.

Watch their eyes glisten in recognition.

Watch their feet tap as they try to hitch a ride on the rhythm. Watch their flesh flush as their

imagination rises to the challenge of guessing where this trip is headed.

Get louder.

Get softer.

Skip-a-beat.

Then tackle the melody with a counter harmony at the corner.

Lean into the turn.

Smile.

This is the essence of music.

This is what men made instruments to duplicate.

This is what gives jazz its splash, gospel its soul, and rock its rebellion.

This is what you crave while the orchestra is playing.

This is what your monologue always wanted to be.

This is what you’d create if it was just you and the song waiting to be born.

This is what it feels like … to sing a cappella.

*****

Peace,

--Stew.

(2 Oct 06)

**Book

There is one love affair that I’ve maintained since my youth. Through numerous relationships, the headaches and ecstasy of wandering the globe, a satisfactory career, a short stint as a professional singer, and the typical highs and lows of life, I have been infatuated with and lusted after books.I know, I know … It’s incredibly corny to say that nothing moves my passions like the written word. Yet, it is the truth.There are any number of things I adore; women, music, beer, sex, football, scotch, a perfectly grilled steak, a good argument, it’s a fairly long list.But nothing has as prominent a place, or has been my constant companion as selflessly or with as little judgment as my collection of bound and printed pages.I should blame it on my father. He’s been a bookman for as long as I’ve known him. But as a child, I found most of the books he sold boring. They were ALL about religion, and I love a great thriller sometimes.Perhaps mom should take some of the fall for this passion. She’s a teacher, and taught me the eternally useful art of sounding out letters until they forced my mouth to say words that I could use to convey or comprehend ideas that could take over the conscious and unseeable places in my brain simultaneously with an idea so powerful that it consumed my every waking thought and sleeping vision.But that was just words. The book thing is bigger.I love the smell of new books. People describe the scent of money, and identify it as something that excites their passions. I can’t smell money. Some days I wish I could.Ahh, but the scintillating scent of fresh ink on new paper, hot off the press, letting me slide my fingers up its spine and caress its leaves. That, dear reader, is bliss to me.I adore the slippery smooth Mylar of a hardback, and the slutty carefree ways of a fresh paperback that will open wide for me, let me consume her, and not care that I’ll toss her to the side when she has sated my curiosity.There is the incredible climax of having the tease satisfied by seeing the first line of a tome I’ve anticipated for a span of time. J. K. Rowling, you move me.There is the utter satisfaction of closing a book for the last time, and the indescribable loss of having to destroy a book.And books force me into the light, refusing to give up their secrets unless I care enough to find an illuminated place, even under the covers where a flashlight is my sun.Their words cajole, and challenge, and inform, and critique me.They hide secrets for millennia and reveal them without my having to ask out loud.They tell of things I’ve never imagined, and paint pictures I can only see when I close my eyes.They accompany me in dark times, and wait with me when the world won’t let me be first in line.They frighten and amuse me. They make me laugh, then cry, then laugh again.They take me to places no man has been, and bring me home safely.You may have heard me rant and rave about the injustices of man against man, and nature against man. I abhor them. But I would personally try, judge, and execute the barbarians who destroyed the Library of Alexandria for base crimes against humanity.There is this quest to find a way to replace books with computer the computer slate. This mythical device will allow users to store millions of pages on a hard-drive, an recall them on a single page-like device.
Blasphemy.I want to share some titles with you. I don't care what, if anything, you choose to do with them. I do this for me, and because a good book is to be consumed, digested, and then shared.The Incarnations of Immortality, seven volumes by Piers Anthony that allow you to see a God and Satan you’ve always wondered aboutHoly Blood, Holy Grail, the REAL DaVinci Code by Baigent, Lincoln, and LeeMemnoch the Devil, Anne Rice’s successful capture of what filmmakers were TRYING to say when they produced the Devil’s AdvocateThe Children, David Halberstam puts the Civil Rights struggle in a light that makes me ashamed of how little I’ve done to make the world a better placeBehold A Pale Horse, William Cooper makes me wish I had a tinfoil hatThe Alienist, Caleb Carr shows me the New York I never saw, from a time and place before I was bornShowing My Color, Clarence Page writes the thoughts I never thought to writeEaters of the Dead, Michael Crichton turns Beowulf into a book you don’t need a professor for Harry Potter, J. K. Rowling creates the most complete and engaging alternate universe in writing since Tolkien retired his pen and closed his eyes at the end of his journey On Writing, Stephen King teaches a class to aspiring writers that utterly defeats the childish premise that you don’t NEED to learn grammar, and proper usageShogun, the James Clavell book I wish my President would read for a better comprehension of just how dichotomous two cultures can be, and how useful it is for ME to learn about YOUTuesdays with Morrie, Mitch Albom writes the first self-help book to make you actually want to hug your parents and children, without ever saying how much you suck as a person This list could be infinite, but I choose to stop.A book beckons me.

(2 Oct 06)

The Moral High Ground

I was in the fourth grade at Cedarvale Junior Academy the day Jimmy Newlon gave me the experience that later helped me understand the concept of the moral high ground.

The incident took place on the playground, where some recess infraction led Jimmy to punch me in the face.

I have no idea whether I deserved it or not. If I were an odds maker, I would guess that I probably made some smartass comment that earned me the eye-jammie.

The moment created a dilemma for me.

Do I punch this kid back, or not?

I opted for both.

First, I went inside to tell Mrs. Greene that Jimmy’d punched me.

As she grabbed her whistle to follow me outside, I headed back out to where he was sitting on the swings.

Of course by this point, he was calmly minding his own business and looked like the picture of innocence.

About the time the teacher rounded the corner of the school building, I’d reached the swings. I’m sure the sight of me walking toward him with the teacher in tow gave Jimmy a moment of internal peace. I obviously wasn’t injured, so he wasn’t likely to get in much trouble.

I shattered that calm with a rather lovely left hook that landed somewhere between his right eye, and his chin. It caught him off guard, and I don’t think he even tried to block it.

I don’t remember much, but I do recall following it up with a flurry of a couple more punches that ended just as Mrs. Greene reached our now burgeoning fistfight.

Of course, since stealth has never been my strong suit, I’d made no effort to camouflage the blows or pretend like I wasn’t trying to knock his ass off the swing, so Mrs. Greene had no choice but to watch the whole thing happen.

The premise of her lecture has stayed with me in the 30 years since.“Kenney, you started off by doing the right thing. Now, you’re going to be in trouble even though you started off right. You can’t tell the teacher, AND continue the fight.”

I’d lost the moral high ground in the altercation.

By ethical definition, the moral high ground is the status of being respected for doing the right thing against a universally accepted standard of right and wrong.

Keep in mind that it isn’t actually “doing” the right thing. It’s the external status that comes from the action.

From my vantage point, there is no intrinsic value to having the moral high ground. In fact, it only comes into play where others are concerned. Its companion, although I’d argue its inverse, is integrity.

As a rather enthusiastically aggressive training instructor taught me in boot camp, integrity is doing the right thing when no one is looking. It allows you self-respect, but not necessarily the moral high ground.

In order to maintain the moral high ground, OTHER people need to be able to see and judge your actions.You only truly “need” the moral high ground if you’re the sort of person that likes to criticize.

If you’re from the laissez-faire school of thought, the moral high ground can be a wasted pursuit. But if as an individual you gain some sense of pleasure from commenting on, judging, or critiquing the actions of others, your skeletons must be safely locked in the closet if you’re planning to plant a flag on the moral high ground.

If your own behavior is publicly above reproach in a given category, you earn the right to comment on or judge the behavior of others. The moral high ground gives you a built-in soapbox that you can whip out whenever you feel the need to address an injustice or wrong committed by someone else.

Historically, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Junior was one of the very best at exploiting the high ground. He perfected a technique pioneered by Mohandas Gandhi. By using the burgeoning mass media to provide a worldwide stage for civil rights activists to publicly demonstrate their willingness to not violently respond when attacked, he forced the public at large to cede the moral high ground to the movement he fronted.

The result is the possibility for me to have more options open to me, and millions like me, and a life less restricted by the color of my skin.

In later years, the product of illegal FBI spying revealed that the hero was just a man after all, and had a less-than-ideal relationship with the morality of monogamy. Fortunately for we millions of Americans, the information was never released in a setting contemporary with the man behind the myth.

It is an interesting “what-if” to consider the possible long-term impact an immediate public airing of Dr. King’s misdeeds might have had on the absolute stranglehold the wordsmith held on the moral high ground of his era.

Pop culture may give us a glimpse. His political progeny, Rev. Jesse Jackson, has seen his off-camera behavior erode his moral standing to make public declarations about the actions of others, almost immediately reducing his access to the moral high ground.

This in spite of an impressive domestic and international record that includes some successful hostage rescues, a series of corporate shakedowns, a respectable run at the Presidency, and a lifetime of VERY public service.

Society snatched his megaphone when they discovered that he, like many great and not-so-great men, was a slave to his penis more than his public ideology, had a long-term mistress, and fathered a love-child.

This week, comedians and pundits alike will have Representative Mark Foley (R-FL) to kick around. The six-term Congressman resigned his post almost a year after House leaders were made aware of a series of “raunchy” and sexually explicit e-mails between 52-year-old Foley, and a 16-year old boy who was lucky enough to land a summer job as a Congressional page, but unlucky enough to have to deal with one of the old guys who apparently has a hard-on for him.

Literally.

The Foley story could have been an irrelevant side note to this diatribe. But … I’ll give you one guess as to who was the Chairman of the Missing and Exploited Children’s Caucus.

Oh yeah, and one more guess to come up with one of the main proponents of cracking down on internet child pornography and making life MUCH harder for child molesters and sex offenders.

Turns out the moral high ground can be a “Double-black diamond” ski slope if your public profile or position is high enough.

Who’s ever even heard of Foley? It’s almost a shame that “pulling a Foley” might soon be as expressive a phrase as “giving a Lewinsky.”

But such is the etymological ether that is American English. I really should apply for the copyright now.

As a nation, it has always amazed me how completely and legitimately America has managed to control the moral high ground internationally. In spite of our youth (230 years just isn’t a very long time in a world where there are 8000 year old cities), and our less-than stellar ACTIONS with regard to treatment of the natives in America, slavery, the Salem witch trials, lack of universal suffrage, manifest destiny, being the first and only nation to ever drop an atomic bomb directly on an occupied city, Japanese internment during WWII, McCarthy, andonandon, we have legitimately earned the right to be THE gold standard on the subjects of human rights, religious freedom, capitalism, and democracy as ideals for the world to follow. (Amazingly long sentence. Don’t forget to breathe in there somewhere.)

That’s no small accomplishment. Warts and all, the American experiment is a resounding success. The fact that our early elites put enough thought into an ideal, practical society to write such a workable document as our Constitution, gave us a real leg up in the race to the moral high ground.And we’ve done plenty of “good” on the world stage.

Fighting over slavery—and ridding the nation of its evil, accepting the poor, tired huddled masses from England, Ireland, Russia and elsewhere, destroying the third Reich and restoring Germany’s Jews to society after the Holocaust, rebuilding Europe in the post-WWII era, saving Yugoslavia’s Muslims, donating billions of dollars to virtually every nation in the world, and fighting a 50 year was against our biggest philosophical opponent largely by proxy, rather than necessarily cluttering the empty spaces on our planet with weapons.

I’ll bet you’ve figured out where I’m headed with this by now. Most of the time, even our enemies have feared, or respected us. This is a little discussed benefit of having the moral high ground.

In war, having the moral high ground saves lives. It is a fact of military science and history that outmanned enemies are more likely to surrender than fight an enemy who publicly declares and backs up a philosophy of treating its captives like humans. And every weapon NOT fired, is potentially an American life saved.

And following the rules sometimes causes strange reactions from your enemies.Don’t believe “all” the hype about the bad guys not obeying the Geneva Conventions.

Most of them are shitbags. But ask Chief Warrant Officer Michael J. Durant how it felt to get a visit from the Red Cross, after Somali militants captured him in 1993.

When the U.S. complained that although they weren’t a uniformed military force (because they were street thugs), and weren’t at war with the United States (they were embroiled in a Civil War that had nothing to do with America, but centered around who was going to be first to steal the dwindling supplies of foreign foodstuffs and money sent to relieve rampant starvation), they owed Chief Durant decent treatment under the Geneva Conventions, the thugs agreed.

After beating the shit out of him initially, they recanted and afforded him some of his rights under common article three of the treaty, even though they CERTAINLY weren’t signatories of said treaty.

That … is the power of the moral high ground. America doesn’t torture. That’s what makes us better than a LOT of the bad guys. We imprison our own by the millions, we had slaves, kangaroo courts, we dropped the bomb, we conned and murdered the Natives, we lied our way into Vietnam, we claimed Manifest Destiny so we could steal land from Mexico, we did some shady shit with Iran so we could fund Central American rebels, we’ve lynched, we rape our own, we wave guns around at each other like flags, we steal from the poor to fund the rich, but …If you were unlucky enough to face us on the battlefield, and surrendered—our reputation has always been that we’ll take you in, introduce you to the hamburger, give you a cigarette, show you the latest Hollywood movie, hook you up with some decent clothes, and let you go when the fighting stopped.

In World War II, we even let prisoners sign a promise to not rejoin the Nazis, and sent them home—taking them at their word.

But it’s never been our policy to torture. Until now.

Any guesses as to whether we’ll ski, snowboard, or sled off the heights of the moral high ground?

Peace,
--Stew

Go Big Red

I’m a big football fan, and over the weekend I watched most of the games that were televised in my area.This week I started to analyze and reapply some things that I’ve known for years, but never applied outside of the game. From a fan’s perspective, games basically divide up into three parts, the pre-game analysis, the game, and the post-game interviews and recaps.In the pre-game analysis, pundits, ex-players, and retired coaches dissect what they believe the outcome of the game will be. These are not uneducated assessments. They come from years of watching, planning for, practicing, and playing the game of football. Every person who wears a microphone during the pre-game show has an intimate love of the game, and an understanding of what leads to success and failure.They spend a lot of time discussing and arguing about the fine points of each team’s running game, how effectively each tight end and receiver run patterns, and how accurately and consistently each quarterback has been able to pass the ball to the right spot. They discuss the particular strengths and weaknesses of every player on both defenses and how that plays into the particular expertises of that week’s opponent. At the end, they make an assessment of how the game should turn out, in their opinion, based on their view of the given outside influences on that particular game. Is there a significant difference in the weather? Who’s crowd will be cheering the loudest? Who will be more affected by traveling, all sorts of factors that could play a role in the game that is going to be played.This conversation in many ways mirrors what the coaches are doing in their planning sessions. The head coach sits down with his assistants, and they watch hours worth of videotape of their next opponent. They look at the formations, sets, which types of plays the opponent calls when, who seems to run the most consistent patterns, who the quarterback seems to trust more often to give the ball to, how effectively that exchange is made, who looks lost on which plays, who misses their assignments, basically a man-by-man statistical breakdown of precisely HOW that team wins, or loses.For the coaches, this is just the first part of the process of game planning.Next, they examine their own team with an equally candid eye. What plays have gone well in practice? Who’s still a little gimpy from a hard hit last week? Who can we count on to gain us yards, and eventually score us points? Who do we have that specifically counters a particular strength of our opponent, that we can leverage somewhere in the plan to give us an advantage? What plays can we use that we capitalize on the confusion of that middle linebacker who gets lost in the 4-3 every time his role switches from pass rushing to short field zone coverage in the middle of a play? All of those factors go into the process of developing a game plan. It is a full time job that starts all over on the plane ride back after the most recent win or loss. Finishing your plan is indicative of nothing. It simply means that you have a theory, and have developed a hypothesis. Your theory will be tested on the gridiron in front of a collection of well-wishers and critics. In this day and age, they will be knowledgeable, (unless they’re SEC fans. Smile, it’s a joke.) they will have an opportunity to see your experiment unfold and succeed or fail, in high-definition, super-slo-mo, with Telestrated highlights, compliments of the analysts.No pressure.With that complete, you move to phase two. The game. I won’t dwell here, because the game is in some respects the least important part of the analogy. I want to fast-forward to halftime. There is a moment, in EVERY organized and televised sporting event, that is contractually required before the coach can head to the locker room for the second most important part of his job that day. It comes in two parts, and they are critical to our conversation here, although you don’t realize that yet.Part one: The journalist/reporter says some variation of the following…“Coach, you screwed up [this facet] of the game. What are you going to do about it?” Part Two: The coach says some variation of the following…“We’re going to make some adjustments.”( You know what? That came out strong enough that I don’t have to write much more. I thought I would, but its not necessary. Just remember this, the coach makes this statement, fully realizing that he’s already spent at LEAST a week planning his strategy. But some part of it has been less than perfect, so he’s getting ready to go chew some ass, and swap out some part of the plan that’s not working, SO HIS TEAM CAN WIN THE GAME. )Here’s the point, imagine if the Athletic Director/General Manager, or University President/Team Owner came out, grabbed the microphone and said: “We’re looking good. Not gonna change a thing!”Well, I don’t have to imagine it. This morning, for the 50th time, and yes I’ve been counting, MY President said:“We’re gonna stay the course in Iraq.”Discuss???

Cry From The Middle

PCP user and infamous traffic law violator Rodney King deserves an important place in the cultural hall-of-fame. I contend this is true for more than “just” the public beat-down he took at the hands of the street gang colloquially known as “The Protect and Serve posse.” From the perspective of conversational history and its evolution, Mr. King provided us with a new cliché that slides perfectly into a language void I suspect we were unaware of. I don’t even need to describe his hall-of-fame moment to you, because I am positive your mental Rolodex has already stored it, and will allow you instant access to the image. Swollen-faced and black-eyed Rodney, [realizing that his ass-kicking, and the subsequent acquittal of the gangstas involved with it, has sparked the biggest riot in Los Angeles since the last time the blue-clad PS posse miscalculated the public’s interest in their treatment of citizens and launched the Great Watts riot(s) of 1968] looks into the camera of a local television news outlet and responds to a question about the hundreds of millions of dollars in damage, dozens of lives lost, and brutal assault of innocent bydriver Reginald Denny with the plaintive plea … “Can’t we all just get along?” It was a poignant and dignified moment from an unlikely source. They were perfect words, spoken clearly through still-mending facial bones and broken teeth. King, off the cuff and without a speechwriter, had summed up in seven syllables the complexity of what most of us were thinking as we watched day after day of the slow burn in LA.Today, I summon the muse of Mr. King in an appeal for a new approach in one of my favorite sports--politics. I love politics with a very similar passion to my basketball and football fondness. But watching this particular era of the game makes my stomach hurt.Pure politics is the process you use to arrive at policy in matters of setting up, operating, and protecting a government structure. Don’t bother looking for that in the dictionary, because it’s a Stew definition. But I’ll stand by it, and suspect that Noah Webster wouldn’t give me much hassle about the wording. Politics involves interaction with the public, discussion, debate, deal and decision-making, compromise, consensus brokering, salesmanship of your conclusions to the populace, and underlying agreement with principle. For all the talk about the Founding Fathers, I don’t believe that what’s happening now is related to what I’ve described, or they envisaged.I love America. I love being an American. I have legally carried a firearm in defense of her interests. I have earned and claim the right to speak out on behalf of the IDEA of my country.There’s no interaction with the public. All we get is lectures from the non-verbal president, and spin/talking points from our legislators.There’s no discussion. Statistically, a full two-thirds of the country is ON RECORD as saying they think we’re on “the wrong track” … whatever that is, and nobody’s talking about anything that will get us on the right track. In that uniquely ironic American way, the discussion IS ABOUT the fact that two-thirds of the people think we’re on the wrong track. Fucking waste of time.There’s no debate. Last week in the House of Representatives, in spite of the facts that:• we are fighting at LEAST two separate wars• gas at the station next to my house is still hovering near $3• mortgage foreclosures are about to reach record highs• the current budget calls for us to spend roughly $9,000,000,000,000 more than we believe or can accurately forecast generating through taxes or investments, and yes … that’s $9,000,000,000,000 … twelve zeroes, indicating trillions of dollars. • more than a year after Katrina; South Louisiana, and Mississippi’s Gulf Coast still look like a fucking hurricane hit them• 25,000 veterans who started the century in good health have lost an arm, leg, major brain function, or a combination in combat actions over the past five years• minimum wage hasn’t moved in the better part of a decade• five years after 9/11, ground zero is still a sacred hole in the ground• the average American secondary public school graduate doesn’t know, or hasn’t been exposed to as many ideas as his counterpart in virtually every other developed nation• 1,000,000 people have been murdered in Sudan. ONE MILLION MEN, WOMEN, and CHILDREN have been MURDERED in Sudan. ONE MILLION POTENTIAL HUSBANDS, WIVES, BROTHERS, SISTERS, AUNTS, UNCLES, GRANDMOTHERS, GRANDFATHERS, POETS, MUSICIANS, ARTISTS, LABORERS, CRIMINALS, COOKS, FARMERS, STUDENTS, ORATORS, PATIENTS, TAXI DRIVERS, NEIGHBORS, READERS, CUSTOMERS, BUSINESS OWNERS, PLAYMATES, HAVE BEEN MURDERED IN SUDAN. This is a point that deserves illustration. If you invited 100 of your friends to a party, and they each brought 9 of their friends with them, you’d have 1,000 people at your party. If there were parties just like yours in the 999 houses closest to yours, one million people would be partying in your neighborhood. Several weeks ago, my local neighborhood paper editorialized OUTRAGE about a house-party stabbing that happened not far from my house. The precious life of ONE young man was tragically ended FAR too soon. It was sad for his mother, his father, and our community. But let's have a bit of perspective, shall we? To equal what has happened in Sudan, a person with a submachine gun and a shit-ton of ammo, would have to go into ALL 1000 houses, and kill EVERY PERSON IN EVERY HOUSE! Now I REPEAT, ONE MILLION PEOPLE HAVE BEEN MURDERED IN SUDAN. • as many as a reported 20-million people have had lives and situations so desperate that they left their home countries at risk of life and limb to illegally come here and try to blend into the fabric of our society without an infrastructure to support them• there are literally a thousand other things our congress could’ve chosen to address Do you know the one piece of legislation that moved anywhere last week?What item would you guess rose to the level of deserving congressional attention?Your house of representatives spent September 6th in consideration of a bill to:“…prohibit the shipping, transporting, moving, delivering, receiving, possessing, purchasing, selling, or donation of horses and other equines to be slaughtered for human consumption, and for other purposes.”What? You’ve spent time around the water cooler. Have you and YOUR friends ever even DISCUSSED the fact that there are three slaughterhouses in the country that kill horses for meat, and ship their products overseas?Your congressional representative has.Don't get me wrong, I'm sure this is a very real problem with very real consequences. In no way do I mean to disparage those to whom this issue is important. Nor do I suggest that Congress should've taken no action regarding this cultural scenario. But if they could only get to one thing ... There’s no dealing or decision-making happening. There’s just hot air, and plenty of it.There’s no compromise, consensus brokering, salesmanship of your conclusions to the populace. There are just two groups. Identical in every way, including their hatred of the other group, singing the same extreme verse of the same extreme song they’ve been singing since their term started.Hey Congress, FUCKING DO SOMETHING! Watching YOUR version of the game is turning my stomach.I remember a phrase P-Diddy flaunted in an MTV campaign some years ago. Vote or Die. Well, I voted. And people are dying anyway.Of course, Sean Combs is no Rodney King.

(10 Sep 06)

Happy

I want you to know that I am happy.Not particularly at this moment, but generally speaking I’m a happy man. I am satisfied with where my life has taken me, what I’ve seen, and what fate has allowed me to experience.It doesn’t often come out in my writing, because I express my happiness in other ways. They seem to all be private. For better or worse, my happiness is usually exhibited in things I observe. I read happy books, I listen to happy songs, I think a LOT of happy thoughts, and occasionally throw my head back and laugh out of sheer glee. I tell jokes, and tease my co-workers mercilessly. They tease me back, and some days, we even get a lot of work done. I can't explain it, but for some reason the things I create don’t usually tap that part of who I am. I sing sad songs, I write dark prose about ugly places. But for some reason I want you to know that these things are just a "part" of me. There are plenty of happy blogs, I read lots of them and enjoy them. I want you to know that I am happy.I hope you are happy too. :-)--Stew.

(29 August 2006)

Katrina

I am fortunate enough to have friends that I can argue with. That’s important because without friends you can argue with, you end up testing out your most fundamental confusions on people who DON’T like you. Which means they never point out the flaws in your argument. They “just” try to use them against you.Which brings me to Katrina. Between covering the sad but so completely overwrought saga of JonBenet Ramsey, “the media” has managed to remember that America’s largest single natural disaster happened one year ago this week.And it’s “this week” because it wasn’t a tragedy that struck on a Tuesday morning, and stays seared in your brain like 9/11. Katrina was the disaster that went on too long, like a first novel by a second-rate writer. Long after the story should have been reaching its conclusion, more chapters were being added and the plot wasn’t getting thicker, it was getting murkier and sadder. So, I’ve found myself discussing and debating hurricane Katrina and its aftermath with my friend. She’s white, and doesn’t understand why I see the storm and its aftermath in terms of “race,” a moniker I detest when discussing politics, primarily because it doesn’t mean anything. I’ll come back to that later.The dichotomy of our opinions is pretty simple. We agree that the government demonstrated incompetence in its response to the needs of the people at the local, state, and federal level. Where we part company is the question of why.To me, it’s painfully obvious that it was a combination of apathy and arrogance that led to the Constitutionally-elected executive branch of the federal government not noticing, or collecting the data that would have allowed them to fulfill their Constitutional obligation … specifically the insuring of domestic tranquility, part of the “reason” given for forming a nation in the first place. I believe that apathy has been their standard response to the specific plight of poor people. I believe this has particularly been true of those they could subcategorize as minority, and that this springs from an unexposed view that minorities actually have MORE opportunity thanks to post civil rights legislation. Therefore, those who haven’t managed to succeed have no one to blame but themselves, and as a result should be all but ignored by those who have. They are obviously inferior in some way, or just too lazy to take what has been offered.I believe the arrogance is a by-product of an irresponsible life of privilege. I have no firsthand knowledge about being wealthy, and I suspect that I am guilty of the same apathy toward the problems of the rich that I accuse them of exhibiting toward the poor. The relevant difference is that I am not tasked with their protection, nor do I seek to gain from their loss. The responsibly rich understand that their wealth comes with strings. One of those strings is an obligation to use a portion of their time, money, and power in pursuits to help the less fortunate. The government recognizes this and codified it as a desirable trait by making charity tax deductible. In fact, it is actually DIFFICULT in America to be wealthy WITHOUT declaring part of your assets toward a “charitable” cause. If you try, the government will literally TAKE most of your money away. Without that government insistence on philanthropy of some kind, I suppose the stick in this equation is that if you don’t, and the transgression is great enough, history tells us that the poor will eventually tear down your gates, take your shit, and probably behead you.I’ve always admired the responsibly rich and poor equally. Every group of poor people counts among its numbers many who work hard, play by the rules, and raise responsible families that pride themselves on taking as little from the public dole as possible. These are the people who show up at their jobs on time every day in exchange for a wage they cannot be expected to survive on, and serve as the fuel for the national economy. But there are despicable extremes among both rich AND poor. In action, the despicable, regardless of class, are users. They seek the next handout with religious fervor, and waste tremendous amounts of brainpower developing new ways to game loopholes of the system. They use their despicableness as capital for crime, laziness, and selfishness. Faced with poverty, they become stick-up kids. Faced with extreme wealth, they become board members of Enron … or vacation as a city drowns. They have no concern for how their behavior affects others. They are the picture of arrogance … and apathy. For me, Katrina ripped the façade off the face of despicable America. The poor became looters, the rich kicked off another game of “it’s not my fault” … version two of The Blame Game. And America watched as thousands of people were victimized by criminals in their midst as they waited for other criminals to come to their aid. Millions were displaced, thousands suffered, and hundreds died.And the world watched as more Americans with dark skin than have ever made an appearance on daytime television begged the cameras for food, water, medicine, and help.My friend doesn’t see the race issue. I can’t blame her, but I understand why. I believe it is a question of heritage.Heritage is the substance that is passed down from generation to generation around the dinner table. It’s the knowledge you have that isn’t written anywhere, but know as surely as your multiplication tables. It’s the beliefs you have in common with your grandparents, even though you vote for different political parties. It’s the feeling you get when you see symbols that you realize are a façade.I look at television footage for a living. I’ve learned to believe that a picture is worth a thousand words, a moving picture is worth a million, and a moving picture with sound … is priceless.To my friend, I share this simple explanation of why I see “heritage” when I look at footage of Katrina:The way the event played out, hit a very raw, sensitive, and exposed nerve in the “black” psyche that we’re still not “part of the country.”As a group with shared heritage, we don’t have the language to describe what we feel. We just perceive it the same way. I cannot speak to the “fact” of it. I can only speak to its “truth.” All these “black” people are not saying the same things simply to piss “white” America off. We say it because we believe it. We say it because we feel it. We say it because we know it. On some level, it doesn’t even matter any more whether it’s “true” or not. Katrina will become a chapter in the unwritten book of our heritage like the Tuskegee Experiments, like the Tulsa burning of 1921, and like the need to be “twice as good to get half as far.”To the poor and displaced people of Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Florida … I wish you the blessing of Job. After learning he’d lost everything in a matter of minutes, his story is about trial and tribulation. But it ends with him gaining a double portion of his material possessions. (His children are also replaced, which is kind of weird, but that’s another topic for another day.)Peace,--Stew. (P.S. Knucklehead, I hope you're ok. If you see this, let me know that you are.)

(29 August 06)

Sin, C-Span, and ex-Presidents

I am a C-Span junkie, which is to say that I’m more inclined to watch an entire hearing of the Senate Armed Services Committee than catch the soundbites on the evening news.I believe in sin—which I acknowledge is a bit odd since I am still “on the fence” about the existence of God. I think the concept of sin is a necessary device for society because it allows us to all share the sentiment of disgust about certain acts. I define sin as “the act of doing something fucked-up on purpose.”My father would vehemently disagree with my definition, I suspect—on two grounds. #1, he would NEVER use the term “fucked-up” to describe it. We wouldn’t argue that point in person, because I use as little profanity as possible in his presence out of respect for him and the way he has chosen to live his life. #2, his definition of sin is “the transgression of God’s law,” which is the 10 Commandments.I struggle with his definition because I think the 10 specific rules leave out a LOT of stuff that he would then call sin—like homosexuality. (Stay with me, this is headed somewhere.)Growing up Christian (Seventh-day Adventist to be precise) I was taught that all sin is equal in the eyes of God. I certainly don’t believe that, but if it IS true, it creates conundrums of all sorts. [Is a gay couple who concedes that happiness they get from their lifestyle, which is fucked-up in the eyes of others, is worth paying whatever consequences it demands really riding as fast a sin wagon as a mass murderer?] Which brings me to the unresolved conflict that’s happening in my head today.Ex-President William Jefferson Clinton turns 60 today. Happy birthday. One of C-Span’s Washington Journal questions today dealt with how we as citizens should view his presidency. It generated the Republican vs. Democrat responses that you should expect as a viewer of a call in political discussion show in the current political age.For those of you who’ve tuned out news altogether because it’s a constant cycle of Jon- Benet Ramsey, OJ Simpson, and donkeys and elephants arguing over the mundane … here’s the short version.Republican: Bill Clinton is a despicable man who disgraced the Oval Office and the Presidency. The economy did well under his leadership because of the Republican Congress, and the policies established under his predecessor. Al Quaida declared war against America on his watch and he did nothing about it. He is a stain on American history. George W. Bush is God’s man of the moment. He isn’t terribly articulate, but without his leadership we would face daily terrorist attacks. He’s an old-school cowboy who understands that you have to meet force with force, which isn’t always pretty. But if you really love this country, you understand that he’s protecting America and will support him.Democrat: George W. Bush is a moron who didn’t know anything about the world at large before he became President of its most powerful nation. He was right to go into Afghanistan to clear out the Taliban, since they wouldn’t turn over Bin Ladin; but Iraq has nothing to do with terrorism. He lied about the weapons of mass destruction intentionally. He’s a war monger who’s lining the pockets of his friends by creating war without end, and his actions have led more than 25,000 American young people to the loss of life or limb. Bill Clinton was an articulate representative of common political sense. He worked hard for the little people, built the strongest economy ever, balanced the budget, and stared down Newt Gingrinch and the Contract with America lunacy. He had an unfortunate dalliance inappropriately with an intern in the Oval Office, but his sexual proclivity shouldn’t necessarily taint his Presidential legacy. He was wrongly impeached by a Congress that hated him. He couldn’t do much about terrorism because every time he tried to make a military move, he was accused of “wagging the dog” and trying to distract America from his promiscuous behavior.Hmmmm…..The discussion got me to thinking. Which usually gets me to writing. Which brings us here.I’m a moderate Independent. Politically, that’s exactly the same as being an agnostic. We live in a tiny little room, where we play referee … since we can’t get into the game.Politically analyzing the situation is pretty easy for someone with my views. Both men are sinners, but the consequences of their individually fucked-up acts, done on purpose in both cases, aren’t having very similar impacts on world society.What Bill Clinton did, by encouraging and accepting a series of blowjobs and other sexual acts IN HIS OFFICE, was reprehensible on a dozen levels. It DID disgrace the Oval Office. There should be some places that are sacred because of their function. Imagine your Pastor spending a Tuesday night getting a blowjob on the pulpit. Isn’t that just … wrong? I mean, whether he gets caught or not isn’t really the issue. Isn’t it a desecration of the function of a pulpit? Doesn’t the fact that he will stand there on the weekend, and hopefully decry sin in all its various and sundry forms mean that he SHOULDN’T be using it as the venue for the satisfaction of his manly desires? Of course it does. This is what motels are for. The pulpit should be a place of innocence. I would argue he’d be just as wrong to plan a bank robbery, or beat his wife on the pulpit. ALL of those would be despicable acts, made even … WRONGER … by his choice of location to carry them out. There is no excusing it, there are no acceptable explanations, and frankly, I don’t think he should be allowed the opportunity to rationalize his behavior. It should be a punishable crime, and he should be shunned by decent folk for his sin. The Oval Office is the place from which my country speaks most forcefully. It’s where the decisions about which of our bills will be laws of the land without a Congressional fight are made. It’s where we receive the leaders of other nations on decidedly unequal ground. It’s where the conversations about whom we’ll fight, and who we’ll choose more diplomatic means happens. It’s where policy thought happens. It is NOT a boudoir, it’s not a strip club, it’s not a “by the hour” motel. It’s not the appropriate place to take your Mistress, with or without your wife’s consent. It’s MY office. It’s YOUR office. It’s OUR office. It’s one of America’s pulpits. Under NO circumstances, without my approval, is it the appropriate site for some guy’s Cytherean trysts with the hired help. That’s just nasty. It’s wrong. It’s … well, it’s fucked up.On a different level, it’s stupid. Forget Hillary, forget the marriage, forget Chelsea, forget that this guy was a “family man.” I’m not proud to say so, but lots of men cheat on their families. That’s also wrong, but irrelevant for the discussion of this particular man. How his family deals with his actions is a discussion for a separate forum. My topic today is Clinton as President. So here’s a question for the topic: “Shouldn’t he have known … as he was getting his Johnson smoked by the semi-nude girl just a couple of years older than his daughter in MY Oval Office … that there was a chance he’d get caught? I’ve had sex in a few “public” places … and it was always on MY mind in the moment. As President, wouldn’t he have been … AWARE of the potential consequences? Didn’t he KNOW … AS THE BLOWJOB was happening … that if Congress ever got hold of the video, that it would make it MUCH harder for him to get his agenda through? Of course he did. He’s a politician. It’s part of the job description to be constantly aware of how ALL of your deeds, seen and unseen, could affect your political viability. There is NO WAY … even in mid Max Headroom, to not be “aware” that hey … “this could go badly for me.”Of course he knew. Of course he was aware. But he told her to suck on, anyway. This my friends … is sin. A fucked-up act; in this case … getting head under MY desk … done on purpose.Now, how do we position this sin in the appropriate context of the man’s accomplishments? Here … is where it gets tricky.Aside from his sin, there is general agreement that Bill Clinton was not a BAD President. (That’s how we have to couch it to get the general agreement, lol). We can’t debate whether or not he was a “good” President. That’s not how it’s done. The question is … “Was Bill Clinton a bad President?” Most Republicans will even concede that the answer is no. They will insist on an asterisk for the blowjobs, which they are WELL within their rights to do. They will then add that he lied about it … which wasn’t a sin in my view, because … well, how the devil would you EXPECT him to behave? Of COURSE he lied about it. Duh. Having already committed the sin, I would’ve lied about it too. Once the nut is spent, and my obvious stupidity hits me in the instant after, I’d have thought up the best story I could, and rode it till the wheels fell off. Which he did. The lying to the Grand Jury wasn’t a sin … that was a crime; which is completely different. Impeachment was the appropriate penalty for it, and he paid that penalty. This combination of sins and crimes makes it hard to put him in the Great President fraternity. But it doesn’t erase his other accomplishments, either. Which brings us to Mr. Bush II. Not to be confused with his father, who is alleged to have cheated on Barbara … but not in the Oval Office. His sin is a bit murkier to me. He told lies to get what he wanted—war. It’s fucked up because to date, thousands of people have died as a result. To me, the discussion about his intelligence borders on the irrelevant. Once you make a decision, your intellect is no longer at issue. There is only the consequence of your actions. Many a moron has made a decision that resulted in brilliant outcomes. But that original lie … was fucked up. I suspect that in years to come, there will be dozens of books and articles about the pervasiveness of this particular deception. Time will eventually tell us a LOT more about what has happened in the Oval Office since the infamous blowjob. Already, I believe that it’s been used to hatch a series of lies that have resulted in people I know losing their lives.Without belaboring that point, it leads to my conclusion … and question. Are all sins equal? You tell me.

(originally posted 19 Aug 06)

State of MY politics

I am a Nebraskan. A Husker, wandering lost on the Eastern Coast.From a cultural standpoint, this means I appreciate a well-seasoned Runza, and know what steak is actually supposed to taste like.I also appreciate how it is to be cooked, and what you put on it when it’s “done.”If these observations leave a question mark in your mind, it’s because you aren’t as well cultured as we Huskers, lol.It also means that for me, High School civics was a series of lessons about the Unicameral.Wikipedia might tell you a bit more about us, but I haven’t checked it lately, and don’t know if any of my fellow red-blooders have taken the time off from harvest, or planting, or milking to bother to inform you about how an effective government works.You might have heard about the Unicam in the news this year, if you’re a news junkie like me.I still have friends at the television station where I wrote newscasts in the valley of uncertainty after I ended my military stint. And I still watch my hometown news.I have a favorite Senator. His name is Ernie Chambers, and he represents North Omaha. His picture is the one at the top of this blog. He made national headlines by proposing that the only public school district I ever attended be broken up into a triumvirate of separate administrations representing Black, White, and Hispanic school districts.Insane is what they called him.Not so much, but that’s because the rest of the world doesn’t understand the good Senator.He’s not. He’s just a throwback.I haven’t seen Mr. Chambers for almost 20 years, but when my co-worker knocked on my office door to tell me that there was a black Nebraska state Senator on CNN I remembered him well enough to ask if he was wearing a gray sweatshirt, and jeans.He’s a genius who used to cut hair on 24th Street.He raises the kinda unrest and hell in the Senate back home that I’d like to cause in life.He’s “one of us.” He’s ALWAYS been, but sadly you’ll probably never hear of him. When I was growing up, Nebraska was a state that had fewer than a million people, about 13 percent of whom were black.I don’t know the exact number, but I’ll bet Senator Chambers represented just about all of us.Nebraskans decided we don’t need two separate houses of legislation. Unless you’re one of us, YOUR state has a House of Representatives, and a Senate. You ALSO probably pick your committee chairmen by majority party. My Congress can kick YOUR congresses ass.You don’t need both.In Nebraska, you are elected from a neighborhood. To run, you just get your name put on the ballot. You're neither a Republican nor Democrat--you are a name. People either know you, and are willing to vote for you, or not. You don't go to the Unicameral to represent the interests of some generic political party, you go there to represent the people who sent you there. You become chair of a committee because the people on that committee believe you can get the job done. You stay for 4 years, divided into 4 legislative sessions that last 90 days in odd numbered years, and 60 days in even. You make $12,000 each year for performing the service, then you go home. We also split our electoral college votes. Hasn't happened in recent history, because the State has gone solidly one way or the other, but when its significantly split ... the winner get a majority, not a totality.The NATION needs two houses of legislation. The NATION has 300 million people, plus an estimated 30-million illegal “immigrants.Your state … not so much.My state … is smarter than your state because they figured this out early in the game.Two houses means you have to pay a lot more people out of your paycheck. And unless they’re putting money back INTO your check, you’ve got too many people on the payroll.Next time you’re on the internet and none of your friends is around to chat with, look us up.You’ll be surprised that we’re more than just the best football in the nation.

(Originally posted 12 Aug 06)

The Conclusion

“Okay black man, so let’s get the basic facts straight and ask the obvious question.”

He is an acquaintance of my muse, and he isn’t smiling.

I don’t know if he’s black, white, or from the other side.

“One week, a decade ago, you had a bad experience. You’ve decided to purge it from your spirit, but who honestly gives a shit about it? Everybody has a bad day. Rub some dirt on it, and walk it off. Most importantly, SHUT UP about it. It’s unimportant.”

The fact that the conversation was happening entirely inside my mind coupled with the realization that I was alone in the room kept pounding the inside of my consciousness like a timpani.

He was right in a sense. It’s a point I can’t argue.

But I have to finish, because I know that there has ALWAYS turned out to be a method to my madness.

There’s a reason my spirit has kept this story bottled up for these 3500+ days and nights.

There’s a reason my fingers fairly fly whenever I start to recall the details.

There’s a reason my thoughts zoom ... from electrical impulses inside my head, to whispered phrases nobody hears but me, to memorized finger-cadences marching across the keyboard, to saved bytes and bits I had to buy a new hard drive to store, to words on a page, to a light bulb switching “on” in YOUR mind.

It’s a journey of mere seconds.

Something eerie this way goes.

I’ve chosen to verbally fight him—this elegant, logical, and articulate stranger trespassing in the dark recesses of my mind.

I can’t quite see him in the shadows he favors, but I’ve conjured up a picture of him.

He wears a black hat. I’ve decided I’ll verbally battle him word for word, because as I grow older the wisdoms of my elders increase in value.

George Santayana, my elder by every measure, left me a priceless jewel. He said:

"Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it."

It stands to reason that those who never HEAR history have a fair and honest excuse for their inevitable, yet unnecessary repetition.

But if the people who KNOW the history don’t tell the people who may not---whose fault is the inexhaustible groundhog day?

As of this month, there are roughly 150,000 American servicemen and women in Iraq. There are another 20-thousand or so in Afghanistan.

While we debate and discuss how they got there, whether they should be there, and how soon they should/will/could come home—there’s a MUCH more important question that nobody’s asking at the town hall meeting.

WHO WILL THEY BE WHEN THEY GET BACK?

We’re not talking about your brother, or father, or cousin, or uncle, or friend, of course … we’re discussing the “other guy.”

Because it is a fact of history that none of the people we know or love has ever come back from war, let’s say … Vietnam, with any mental health issues.

For that matter, the experience has never so much as changed them one iota from being the happy-go-lucky, balanced, friendly guy who was King of the Prom.

RIGHT?

What sort of impact does exposure to death, chaos, and mayhem have on the psyche?

Anybody know??

A 34-year old hand slowly reaches for the sky from the back of the room.

“I know.”

The words are quiet.

Just a few of them, all but hidden on a weblog that nobody will ever read, hosted quietly on a website where anonymity is achieved by melting into the crowd of millions of bored Americans wandering in search of the sex, chat, and fun that are the bold-print items on the agenda.

But they are sincere.

“I have a history with that. And I don’t want anybody to have to repeat it.”

In the shadows of my mind, I can see the black-hatted doubter leaning forward.

He still wants me to “walk off” the pain. But he’s intrigued by the comment.

His aura begs me to consider the possibility that he’s a good guy after all.

Just, misunderstood.

I don’t know, and I'm afraid to find out.

But he’s assumed the position of “the thinker” and he’s listening.

Progress is.

I talked to a friend of mine days before I started writing chapter one of this story. He and I are military buddies. We have been friends for a long time, and in the old days he wanted to go to war.Now, he’s been.And he cries himself to sleep almost every night.

I can relate to that, except that the tears didn’t come when my particular slideshow started every 24th hour on the hour.

He unloaded on me.

Talked about the things he’d seen, the things he’d done, and the things he’d thought about doing.

He told me in confidence, and has given me permission to reference the conversation here … but made me promise to never use his name.

He’s talked about the killing, and the dying.

He’s talked about the maiming, and the blood.

He’s talked about the violence, and the sound.

The smell.

And the heat.

He reached the end, and stopped talking.

Now ... we talk about football, and girls, and funny cartoons.

All the stuff NORMAL teenagers discuss.

He says he is different, now.

When I stare into his eyes I believe him, and I know what he’s talking about.

I wasn't strong enough to find the voice I would need to scream in to give his story the kind of volume it would need to raise the roof off the muthafucka!

So I chose to tell you my story instead of his, because mine isn't as grotesque.

It's not as vivid, there is no good guy or bad guy in my story. There is only an accident, and victims.

Plus, I was finally ready.I am familiar with them both, and believe me when I tell you--My experience was absolutely NOTHING compared to his.

But I’ve walked a few steps down that road.I also believe that he’s strong, probably much stronger than I.

In ten years, you may find yourself reading HIS blog, and seeing this war through his eyes. He is a master with words, and I sometimes read what he writes when I search for inspiration.But he hasn’t written about this, yet.

I write on his behalf because neither you nor I have the luxury of waiting that decade. Because he is legion.

There are almost a MILLION people who have spent a month, or a quarter, or a year, or 18 months, or done repeat tours in the belly of these beasts of conflict.

And they have seen the hell that defines war, and becomes the fiction of tomorrow.

Most of them are stable, and will come back to what we always called “the world” to resume normal lives.

But there are a MILLION of them.

And some of them will suffer nightmares. Others will beat their wives, or children. A few will adjourn to the local bar, where they will spend every drunken night looking for a fight to give their newfound aggression a home. And a small percentage …

of the MILLION …

Will become a threat to you, the people you love, and the community you live in. They are not at fault. They have experienced a trauma so deep that it awakens their darker selves. They have been called upon to “defend freedom.” And defense of anything requires violence, killing and dying, watching, and the summoning of spirits we like to leave sleeping.

Those spirits are organic. They are not robots. You don't just "pull the plug" to power them down. They don’t simply return to rest.

They stalk the dark recesses of the mind, they pound the inside of the consciousness like a timpani. They appear wearing black hats, and lean in to better hear the discussion.

They speak.

They argue.

And sometimes, they win.

They turn men into rapists and thieves, havoc wreakers and murderers.

In one of the earlier chapters, I talked about the wallet … and the photo I can still see as clearly as if I were holding it in my hands. I didn’t know the woman, but yet … she haunts me.

How much greater would that haunting be if I’d killed her. Or watched her die?Watched her kill my friend? Watched HIM die?How much darker would my nightmares be if I’d CAUSED that tragedy, even unwillingly?Post-traumatic stress disorder is real.

I stAND UP in testimony to its existence and its very real power.We have exposed hundreds of thousands to hell, and pushed many of that number into trauma in the name of spreading democracy.Who will protect those victims when the gunfire stops?

Who will protect YOU when it starts again, much closer to home?

Who will quiet the nightmares? Debate the spirits, and clean up the mess??

Shiites and Sunnis were glaring at each other across the room when my grandfather's grandfather was tilling the fields.

They will still hate each other when my grandchildren’s grandchildren are given their first computer. I don’t care about that. It isn’t my problem. Theoretically, I could make it my problem, but I have to pick and choose my battles. I choose my brothers and sisters in arms … who have their OWN August 6th, 1997 experience to cope with. Thank you for listening.

He is quiet … my black-hatted stranger. I am not sure if he is thinking, or plotting.But I can still feel him, hugging the walls of my mind, as he contemplates his next move. He is probably me. I wonder what HE remembers.

(Originally Posted 11 August 2006)