On Critics

"

It's not the critic who counts,

not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled,

or when the doer of deeds could have done better.



The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena;

whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood;

who strives valiantly;

who errs and comes short again and again;

who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions

and spends himself in a worthy cause;



who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement;

and who at the worst if he fails,

at least fails while daring greatly,

so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls

who know neither victory or defeat.

"

--Theodore Roosevelt, 1910

...addressing the Sorbonne, in Paris

* * * * *

For two summers, I contemplated having this quote tattood in olde english script on my back. In the end, I opted not to because I wouldn't be able to see it, and I don't want it on my chest. But one day --- with enough vodka in me, there is still a distinct possibility. The point is, the words mean enough to me that I wouldn't mind ALWAYS having them at arms reach. Hope you take it with you, too.

--Stew.

(Dec 21, 2006)

On Children

Kahlil Gibran DEFINITELY said it best in The Prophet:

"

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children." And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

"

--"On Children," from Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet, 1923.

Six Weird Things About Me (yahoo 360 quiz)

"Six Weird Things About me"

HERE ARE THE RULES: Title your blog "SIX WEIRD THINGS ABOUT ME". You need to write a blog of your own with 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. At the end you need to tag 6 friends and list their names. Don't forget to leave a comment that says: "You've been tagged!" And to ask them to read your blog:



1). I have a VERY small circle of “real” friends. I don’t go out of my way to meet new people, but when I do I tend to decide very quickly whether or not they’re going to be in that circle. Once that decision is made, it lasts forever. No one ever comes in after that moment, even if we are acquaintances for years. And its really hard to do anything that would push you OUT of that circle.

2). Even though I’ve been around the world a couple of times, I really don’t like to travel. I love to “be” other places, but hate just about every conveyance that makes that possible. If I had my druthers, I’d stay inside for most of the rest of my time here and write. As it turns out, that’s not an option right now so I’m still on the road more than I want to be.

3). The only common food I’m aware of truly disliking is okra. I don’t mind veggies, most meats, or any solid foods. I DO hate gooey food and condiments, like mayonnaise.

4). I’m a world-class snorer.

5). When I was younger, I had a list of everything I wanted to do sexually that I hadn’t tried. Shortly after my separation, I finished all but one of those things.

6). My television is ALWAYS on, and 90 percent of the time, its on a news channel. I sleep to news, wake up to it, and live to it. When its not news, its sports. I don’t watch very many other types of shows. Although I love “The Wire” and most other HBO series.


Personality thingie tag~


1) What is your best personality trait?

I’m fairly level-headed. I’m the person you want around in an emergency. I can’t remember the last times I “freaked out” about anything. The down side is I don’t get terribly excited about most things, either.

2) What is your best quality for friendship?

Once we’re friends, there is only one. Loyalty.


3) Why should people be friends with you?

Hmmm…good question. I guess you’d have to ask one of my friends. I’m not unbiased enough to have any idea. I only know that I love my true friends, and they seem to love me back.

4) What is your best quality(s) for being intimate in the bedroom?

I’m very comfortable with being me, my body, and what I like/don’t like.


5) What talent do you have that makes you stand out?

Passion. It usually manifests itself in my music, and my writing.


6) How long have you known your longest friend?

Steve is my best friend. Always has been.


7) Do you think you're hot???

Nope. But I think I’m engaging which seems to make up for it.


8) Are you geek and proud of it?

Yep. I’m a news geek. Proudly so. Also love politics and religion, all the taboos unfortunately. I’m fiercely independent though, so I don’t “belong” to any political or religious orgs.


9) What's the weirdest thing you ever wore that you got compliments for?

Air Force uniform.

10) Is it better to give than receive?

Nope. Its best to give AND receive.


(originally posted 19 Dec 06)

America the Beautiful

So yesterday morning found me riding down Hwy 101 between Santa Maria and Los Angeles, California. To the left were big, beautiful hills. Not quite mountains, because Colorado teaches one to respect the difference. But they were stunning nonetheless. To the right, the beautiful Pacific Ocean, my old buddy and nemesis.

Riding down that road it was hard not to think about what a beautiful place this country is. Even when we’re arguing about politics, or religion, or what the law should be—a quick drive in almost any state of our union will take you someplace gorgeous.

This most recent trip took me to two of the country’s most beautiful places. I revisited both the Rockies, and the western coast. There’s this weird question I get asked sometimes when geography is the topic: “beach or mountains.” It confuses me, because they’re both stunning. It’s like asking if I prefer sunrises or sunsets. Or who’s the most beautiful woman in the world. It’s a fool’s errand. Beauty doesn’t work that way. It just is.

But between the mountains, the beach, and the sound of the tires spinning across the highway, I drifted into a rather fun reminiscence about some of the gorgeous places I’ve been privileged to see in this, my country. It didn’t happen chronologically, but turned into more of a moving map with pictures from my memory.

I started with Jakey’s invitation to show me New England. While it’s my least favorite part of the country, that has nothing to do with how pretty it is. From the amazing foliage in fall, to the cranberry bogs, it was truly a feast for the eyes.

New York City is gorgeous in that industrial way that civilization turns a horizon into a skyline. And even now, with the scab of the World Trade Center marring the view by its absence, it is beautiful.

D.C. is pretty … more so if you stay in the car, but a drive up George Washington Parkway from the beltway in the North, past the National Cathedral, the monuments, and National Airport can be breathtaking (unless you’re in a hurry to get somewhere and it’s rush hour).

The Atlantic coast is breathtaking.. North Carolina’s outer banks, South Carolina’s coastal cities, Florida’s beaches, from Daytona to Fort Lauderdale, down through Miami, and up the West Coast—picture-perfect from the first moment almost to the last.

And there’s the South.

Strange fruit trees aside, if you’ve never seen an avenue lined with Mississippi magnolias, or dirtied your hands in Alabama red-clay, you should. They’re beautiful. Louisiana—sexy by every measure—plus the food’s amazing, although that’s a different story. And then there’s Texas. Again, not my favorite … but not because it’s an eyesore by any means.

New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada’s Lake Tahoe, the MOUNTAIN views of Salt Lake City. California, Oregon, the rest of the gorgeous Pacific Northwest. Mount Rainier is stunning, especially when you see it with the Space needle in the foreground.

I would never forget the heartland---God’s country. Miles and miles and miles of some of the most fertile ground on the planet. Catch it at the right time of year, and there are amber waves of grain, acres of waving sunflowers, or empty fields are far as the eye can see. It has a special beauty of its own.

The Grand Canyon, the Northern Lights, Maui … there’s just no end to the simple beauty that America can call it’s own.

I’ve been blessed to see many of the sights that make up the world’s prettiest postcards. And even though I’m well on my way to carmudgeondom, there are still some that stop me in my tracks. There is no sarcasm about my awe of the Rocky Mountains. No cynicism about fall foliage, or wisecracks about ocean waves breaking on the beach. Whether you like your views from skis, driving by, wearing a bikini, biking, hiking, or through the lens of a camera—one of these days when you hear about red states, and blue states---ignore the political implications and think about sunrises and flowers blooming. It’s a beautiful America.

Do you have a favorite piece of America you’d like to rave about?

Peace, prosperity, pleasure … and bah humbug.

--Stew.

(17 Dec 06)

GO BIG RED

Over the weekend, I realized something about one of my favorite passions that I’ve never stopped to appreciate before.

I’m a huge sports junkie. I’m not the kind that can quote you a bunch of statistics, or remember all of my favorite players numbers, what years they played, or what high schools they attended.

I just love the games. Basketball, football, tennis, golf, soccer, even baseball … which I’m starting to enjoy again.

Last week I started to realize what a huge impact the games I’ve watched has had on me as a person.

I am a NEBRASKA CORNHUSKER college football fan. And over the weekend, we got to renew an old rivalry that Big XII expansion has all but destroyed.

Nebraska vs. Oklahoma.

I wasn’t even aware of the Huskers until we moved to Nebraska when I was in the seventh grade. But Omaha is a city that isn’t distracted by many things. Bluntly, there isn’t a lot to do there. It’s a place where people raise families, and work their asses off. We speak to strangers, but respect their space. It’s not a town famous for its nightclubs, or tourist attractions. But in those days, at least … the streets were clean and the cost of living affordable. Omaha is cold and windy enough to kill you in the winter, and hot enough to fry an egg in your hand between July and early September. It’s a city with a lot of money, mostly from insurance and commercial food production.

We eat beef.

But every fall, the city BELONGS to the Cornhuskers. Among other things, to be a Nebraskan IS to be a Husker fan. In my youth, a big game meant no homework on the weekend. It meant bars opened early, and other businesses shut down before their usual closing time. It meant fewer chores and a later curfew. And the entire city, hell … the entire state was focused on one gigantic structure. And on Saturday afternoon during football season, a line of cars starts at the Colorado border, runs the entire length of Nebraska west to east on I-80, and ends at Memorial Stadium, by population the third largest city in the state on game day. Football is life. A big game is a good day. I’ve seen an entire row of traffic miss a green light and no horns blow because of a big play in a big game on the radio.

And no game was bigger than Oklahoma.

I’ve had the privilege of watching football games in stadiums around the country. I realize that there are fans of every stripe; they love their teams as much as I love mine. I have no debate with that love.

But there are a few traditions I learned as a young Husker fan that in the legends of my mind are different than some of the rivalries I’ve witness in stadiums, bars, and living rooms dedicated to other teams. We lost the “big game” to Oklahoma this year. But I thought a bit about what this meant Saturday as I sat in a bar full of Sooners and Huskers fans. I wish opposition in the rest of the world were as cordial and honest as the tradition of rivalry between those two schools. I tried to figure out what makes it work. I still don’t know, but I have a few thoughts.

1. YOU ALWAYS RESPECT YOUR OPPONENT. I’ve seen old men with toddlers on their shoulders swathed in red seek out fans of the opposing team to teach the young how to properly shake hands and say “good game” after wins AND losses. I’ve watched as 60,000 people stood to cheer a severely overmatched opponent who had enough heart to drive the ball and score late in a losing effort. Nobody left the stands early in those days. There were football players on the field, still playing their hearts out, and if they loved the game enough to keep playing—we could love the game enough to stay until the clock read 4 00:00.

2. GAME PLAN TO YOUR STRENGTHS AND STICK TO THE PLAN. Until
very recently, there was never any question about what Nebraska’s next play was going to be. We were going to line up two men behind the quarterback, probably in an “I” formation, and run either left or right, then pitch it to one or both of them in sequence. There was going to be a cloud of dust, as our gigantic O-line dug in and tried to knock down every obstacle in the way, and if you were going to stop us, you were going to have to be stronger than us. Even after “the pass was invented” we still played ball like to ‘air’ was somehow human, and we were the Gods of Mount Olympus. We recruited fast running quarterbacks from SEC country, and troubled young men from California to play running back. We lined them up behind corn and beef-fed 350-pound men who learned to run by tipping cows and dodging bulls. And on defense, we weren’t going to bother worrying about your receivers. Our plan didn’t include giving YOU enough time to see them, much less throw them a pass. How many guys we got? 11? Great. See the man under center? Smash him into the ground. Last one there is a rotten egg. Ready? Break.

3. WE PLAY THE GAME TO WIN. I remember Coach Tom Osborne coaching against Miami in one of a half dozen bowl games with national championship implications. We’d managed to pull within one point with virtually no time left on the clock. Decision Time. Go for the extra point, and tie? Or go for two, and win? He barely hesitated to send the boys out there to go for two. Miami, who was our nemesis for years stopped us cold. But I can’t imagine that the parade for the team was any smaller than if they’d chosen to play for the tie, instead of putting an entire season, and tradition on the line for the win.


4. ANYTHING WORTH BRAGGING ABOUT IS WORTH WORKING YOUR ASS OFF FOR. I don’t know how many consecutive years we had our championship hopes dashed by Miami, or eventually Florida State. Over and over and over and over again. But when we came back and beat each of them in bowl games, and then went back for Florida, who we … well, let’s just say “beat” (you’re welcome Becky, that’s called respect for your opponent) it made me ok with being proud of my Huskerdom even when I lived tens of thousands of miles away from any Nebraska border.

5. NO EXCUSES. Ever. As long as you play hard, you’re going to win some on good days, and lose some on bad ones. But there are no excuses for losing. When you lose, it’s because the other team is better than you. Period.


We’ve played Oklahoma about 80 times over the years. I believe they have the edge these days, by a game or two. It’s ok with me. We’ve played them when they were headed to championships, and we’ve played them when we were the powerhouse team of the nation. We’ve won some spectacular games against them, and lost some heartbreakers. In some ways, those games define a piece of me as a sports fan, as a Husker fan, and as a fan of the beautiful game of college football.

I hope you are lucky enough to have a team in your life that is a part of you. Whether you cheer for Ohio State, or Florida in this year’s championship, or whether your team is going to some no-name bowl, I hope they bring you as much joy as my Huskers have brought me over a lifetime.

It’s not politics, or religion, or even “important” in the overall scheme of things, but in a lot of ways, football has some things to teach us.

Good Luck whatever your team is doing this post-season. If you're playing in a bowl, have a good game. If you're not, work hard this off-season, and show the rest of us why we should share the love.

Most importantly, GO BIG RED. Beat Auburn in the ... Cotton Bowl?

Who's your team? Are they bowling this year??

Blocked

This isn’t likely to be one of those socially relevant, or politically interesting blog entries.

Some of you know that I’m in the process of writing a book.

Most mornings, I try to get at least a few pages done. Today, I’m facing a bit of writer’s block on it. Nothing’s coming out right, so I’ve set it aside for tomorrow.

Since I don’t really want to waste the time I’ve put aside for writing, I’m hoping that sharing a little bit of this whole writer’s block with you will chase it away.

The book I’m working on isn’t really the sort of thing I expect to be a big seller. It’s a pretty narrow policy tome, aimed at a very small segment of the population. Having read tens of thousands of books, this is my first attempt at writing anything longer than a few hundred pages, and to be honest I’m struggling a bit.

My book is the outgrowth of a series of conversations with my pop, Danny B. We tend to talk about religion and business when we share the phone. He’s a small business owner who sells Bibles and religious books online.

He is, and raised me Seventh-day Adventist. I left that organization years ago, but have very fond memories of a LOT of the extremely active programs the church provided for young people. It was a fantastic environment to grow up in. Even now, I count among my friends any number of people who are still involved in that particular denomination.

One of the best parts of growing up Adventist was the educational system. SDAs operate the second largest parochial school system in the country. It’s a pretty impressive collection of primary schools, junior and senior secondary academies, colleges, universities and medical schools.

Growing up, I never really saw the system as an entity. There was just the school I was attending at the time, and the academies and colleges I hoped to go to someday. I never made it to the academy I favored, or the college I wanted to attend. Life happened. But I’ve always had a certain fondness for the entire system that I still consider my own.

So it sort of hurt my feelings when I discovered that my alma mater was in serious jeopardy.

It has always been a small school, but in the 17 years since I graduated, its enrollment has plummeted. As a grown-up, and a journalist, I started to pen a few ideas that first surfaced with me as a student there, and have evolved over time as I’ve been involved with different financial and marketing endeavors. Danny B listened to some of them, and encouraged me to write them down so he could present them.

Not being a power-point kinda guy, this challenged me to do the research, interviews and critical thinking required to present the ideas in a context that will allow them to be well received by the people I want to eventually read them. It’s a technique that works well in blogs, because you’re essentially writing a very short piece (relatively speaking, I don’t edit much OUT of my diatribes in this format :-) ) that requires minimal research.

I’m about two months into a research cycle on the development of the American secondary educational construct. Its pretty interesting, but I’m really struggling summarizing it in a way that doesn’t take me off track.

That’s a common enough struggle for me.

Anyhow, that’s what’s happening with me today. The words aren’t coming, and now that football is starting up, they’re probably not going to get the chance.

But at least I got some writing done in my writing time.

GO BIG RED.

Hope you have a great day.


--Stew.

(2 Dec 06)

Scourge

Between 1520 and 1527, a smallpox epidemic ravages Latin America. By the end of its run, the disease has managed to knock off two of the greatest civilizations in human history. It kills millions of Mexico’s native inhabitants, weakening the Aztec nation enough in one year that by 1521, Cortez and his forces have no trouble capturing Tenochtitlan. Incan ruler Huayna Capec falls to the disease, along with 200,000 of his citizens, virtually erasing their society from the map, and much of their knowledge from the human collective.

This wasn’t the genesis of the epidemic as a phenomenon. In fact, by the time the first Inca or Aztec felt his temperature start to rise, or noticed small bumps on his arm, the human population had faced disease of epidemic proportions no fewer than five times already.

The usual suspect was bubonic plague. Between the sixth, 14th, and 17th centuries the plague is believed to kill 137, 000, 000 people. It repeatedly kisses Europe like a stalker with a mistletoe cap; feeding on the overcrowding, filth, and ignorance of a species still learning how to effectively share information by word of mouth. It’s a gift from the Subcontinent that keeps on giving.

Then there is “The Sweat,” a disease of the late 15th and early 16th century so perfectly married to human physiology it typically snatches a life in a mere 24 hours.

The “European Epidemic” of 1540 kills three-quarters of the First Peoples of Florida, South Carolina, and Georgia.

If you toast your two best friends for New Year's in 1563 London, drink long and hard, because statistically, one of you won’t live until Christmas because the plague is doin’ it like that.

Measles and smallpox and Yellow Fever and the flu pockmark history much the same as they scarred the corpses and bodies of their millions and millions and millions and millions and millions and millions and millions of victims over time.

And in 1959 Belgian Congo; after the printing press, and vaccine, and television, and Darwin, and polio, a family cries at the clinic because their husband and father is sick and the doctors don’t know what is wrong with him. And we don’t know until much later that he is the herald of a new plague.

We can’t quite nail it down in 1981, when gay men’s immune systems start shutting down, and their symptoms earn the monniker GRID—gay-related immune deficiency.

But we’re “sophisticated” now, and started tracking the trend. We become aware that a strange, new condition is present in 14 countries. We realize that something is literally eating the immune systems of thousands of young men, young women, and babies around the world.

By late 1982, we name the condition “acquired immune deficiency syndrome.” It is important apparently, that you “ACQUIRED” it—as though any disease that invades a body hasn’t at that point become an “acquired” condition. But there is no panic. There is no epidemic. There is just a statistical metronome as the number grows, and undesirables die.

1982 is also the year the first hemophiliac gets the virus from a blood transfusion. And we blink for a second. Maybe it’s not just the gays at risk. This could be a problem.

Three months after announcing he has AIDS in 1985, Rock Hudson dies.

We should have noticed it then. The truth is, nobody in the generation that’s going to have to deal with the fat end of the problem knows who he is, or was.

The Journal of the American Medical Association coins the name Human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) in 1986 to describe the virus at the root of the problem.

1987, Liberace dies. Nobody knows him either, except that he’s the most flamboyant man in America, and plays the piano like a carnival ride. And if you’ve never heard Liberace play, you have missed a singular treat, and owe yourself a download from somewhere.

And at this time television and the movies becomes the strongest information tool we have, not because the news media is all over the story, but because faces we recognize from sitcoms and old family shows start dropping left and right.

Miss Kitty from Gunsmoke, Mike Brady from the Brady Bunch, Norman Bates from Psycho, Jack Ewing from Dallas.

In 1990, AIDS becomes real to me, because Ryan White dies. He has been talking to me about AIDS through my High School years, and I thought we'd find a cure in time to save him. Turns out, its not really that high of a priority.

But AIDS becomes real to the everyday man, when Magic Johnson stepped up to the microphone in 1991 to announce he was HIV positive.

By the end of this year, an estimated 25 million people will have died from AIDS. Some of them are people I love. In Africa alone, there are 12 million AIDS orphans. THIS YEAR, almost 3,000,000 people have died from AIDS, 4 million more contracted the disease. They join a club of 40 million people who are living with it.

We are facing a crisis. It is a scourge as sharp as bubonic plague, or smallpox, or The Sweat, or Yellow Fever.

If you have not been touched personally by AIDS in 2006, I suggest that one of two things is happening.

It is possible that you are incredibly lucky.

We who are tasting the pain, and smelling the fear could SURE use your good fortune on this side of the fight.

It is also possible that you just don’t get out very much, and haven’t called your family in years. You should give them a call, and get caught up on what's happening outside. Sooner or later this disease is going to knock on a door you're familiar with.

Either way, I ask you today to spend a moment of time considering the AIDS crisis.

I only have one source to send you to, one of my childhood heroes has put a LOT of information in one place. Please hit his website today.

http://www.istandwithmagic.com/

Thank you.

--Stew.




References Used in this blog entry:

http://fohn.net/history-of-aids/

http://www.avert.org/worldstats.htm

http://www.genealogyinc.com/enc_epidemics/index.html

(originally posted 1 Dec 06)

Scrooge

So here we go again.

This is my least favorite time of year.

The dreaded Christmas.

I know, I know … I should really be a fan, but I’m not. There are just a few reasons.

1. Christmas lasts entirely too long. My GROCERY store has been playing carols since shortly before Halloween.

2. Christmas brings out the “perky” in people. I DESPISE perky. Not sure why.

3. Christmas is about forced gift-giving. My friends will confirm—I’m not cheap, by any stretch of the imagination. But I buy gifts, because I see something that I think will make someone happy, or because I see something that I want them to have. It has never occurred to me that I should buy a gift because it’s a particular day. (And yes, this counts for birthdays, too)

4. I actually like Ebenezer, at least … until he sells out at the end.

5. There are never any NEW Christmas carols. And I’m REALLY sick of the old ones.

(Although I give "We Three Kings" a pass, because at LEAST its written in a minor key. Its OBVIOUSLY a spooky halloween song that somebody put happy lyrics to. I always find it funny when they put it in the middle of Joy to the World, and some jovial crap like "Angels We Have Heard On High. It always sticks out like a hooker at high mass.)

6. Hate Santa Claus, he only shows up when the parent have money. When they’re broke, he’s broke. Think the reindeer would be tasty in venison stew, and I REALLY wish Frosty would come play in July, when we’re really having fun. Since he doesn’t, I assume he doesn’t really love us.

Thanksgiving, I love. Food, family, fun, football. One day long—two or three if you count the cook day(s), and a day to either unwind, or clean up.

I dig New Year’s. New beginnings, new starts, blahblahblah. But Christmas? Pre-ghost Ebenezer said it best. “Bah, Humbug.”

Please don’t write me with suggestions on how to make this season better, or why I shouldn’t be a Scrooge. I am what I am, lol. Don’t bother telling me I shouldn’t be this way, you’re FAR too late to the party to have an opinion on that part of me.

Merry F-ing Christmas.

--Stew.

(24 Nov 06)

Toledo

As I was writing my most recent blog entry a few days ago, I’d all but convinced myself that it was a boring topic. By that, I mean that I felt like it wouldn’t resonate, and people wouldn’t respond to it.

Apparently, I was wrong. It both surprised, and heartened me that people ARE in fact, willing to share their definitions of what the ‘black community’ is.

Sometimes a word or group of words become so commonplace, that everybody uses them, even in formal settings, without a common agreement as to their definition.

With a word like “Toledo” … this could be a significant problem.

You log on to the airline’s website, book a ticket to Toledo, arrive on time, head through security, hear the head flight attendant announce the destination, and go to sleep, expecting to arrive to the smiling faces of Aunt Em, and Uncle Saul.

Instead, you wake up in a foreign land where nobody knows your name, there’s not a pallet laid out for you somewhere, and the food tastes funny.

Is that an important oversight?

For me, Toledo has to be Toledo in three separate ways, and I’d argue that the same is true of most word pictures.

First, Toledo needs to be the same place that it was last time I went. This can be overruled by explicit knowledge or media blitz explaining that things have changed. New Orleans is an example of this. We all know that New Orleans today, isn’t the same as the Mardi Gras snapshots in your photo album. That place doesn’t exist anymore. It was destroyed by flood. And NOW … if you find yourself discussing New Orleans, you will notice that you say things like “well, before Katrina I was in New Orleans …” or “The French quarter … you know, they’ve cleaned it up since the hurricane.” This is necessary for you AND your listener, because it helps establish your sanity, and the common vision that you are sharing.

Second, Toledo needs to be the same for me that it is for other people who use the word. If you talk about the Ak-sar-ben in Toledo, I won’t know what you’re referring to, and that conversation will require a bit of elaboration from you so that I can share the word picture that you’re painting. I know of Omaha’s Ak-sar-ben. That’s where the horses ran when I was a kid. Sat just south of 72nd and Dodge Street. Now it’s a big lot where the carnival comes to town, and the University is planning to build something or other in the space. Ak-sar-ben just doesn’t mean Toledo to me. Toledo may very well HAVE it’s own Ak-sar-ben. Its just that since I don’t know anything about it, you can’t just plow into your story about it, without catching me up to where you are, and what the dickens you’re talking about.

And finally, TOLEDO has to cop to being TOLEDO. I can’t imagine there’s a more complex word-picture than Toledo. But I’ll bet that right now in Toledo there are billboards that say something like “Toledo’s finest ____________.” Or “The best ____________ in the city of Toledo.” I bet every piece of mail sent to Toledo has Toledo in one of the two bottom lines of the lower address. I’ll bet every news anchor and radio dj says “here in Toledo” at least once a day. I’ll bet that somewhere in that fine city is a ten-foot tall sign that says “Welcome to Toledo” or “Toledo is glad you came. Hope you’ll visit us again, soon.” Toledo KNOWS its Toledo. And it is possible to use the name without taking it in vain. The people who are Toledo know they’re Toledans, or Toledites, Toledoans, or whatever moniker they’ve arrived at a consensus on.

I haven’t been to Toledo in ages, but I’ll bet it still has crime and churches, grocery stores, and hookers. And I’ll bet everyone who lives there, or considers themselves part of Toledo knows it. And I’ll bet that you can say Toledo has crime, without them taking it personally. They KNOW it does.

Readily, I admit that the analogy isn’t precise when I talk about the community. But when I say the Japanese community, or the medical community, or the athletic community, or even the gay, lesbian, and transgendered community, a much more crystal picture comes into my mind, and I feel more confident proceeding with whatever follows. But for some reason, when I say black community … and worse when I HEAR “black community” … it’s just not as clear to me.

One of the things I found intriguing about this question, and the responses I got was how each answer claimed and articulated a feeling that I’m very familiar with:

To my dear friends Zee and Karma, black community was all about the culture. Now, as a black man I accept and acknowledge black culture. I understand it. I can identify it when I see it, even though it encompasses a LOT of different facets. It is dreadlocks, weaves, cornrows, and afros. It is gospel, jazz, blues, and Prince. It is collard greens and corn bread, peach cobbler and malt liquor. I love black culture. I am lost when I cannot touch, hear, see, or smell it. And even though there’s a negative side of the culture – the one I see when I turn on Black Entertainment Television … my nemesis, for the record; I recognize it. But when we talk about black community and only consider the culture—where do people whose specialties don’t reflect that culture fit in? There’s no Clarence Thomas, or Bryant Gumbel, or even Ward Connerly in that discussion. And those are people who have had as much of an impact on the black community I think exists, even though I can’t see it, as Tupac, Billie, and B.B. King.

My chat buddy Sneaky spoke about a violent and ugly black community that I am also familiar with. If you’d lined up 20 of my childhood friends from the neighborhood, and snapped a picture 30 years ago, the MAJORITY of that group today has either been buried, or locked away from society. I’m not speaking hyperbolically, that is my reality. Zee saw the racism of that community as improperly balanced, I KNOW the black community that Sneaky is talking about. That place exists! It’s tangible, and it’s real. And it’s black. I’m not sure if it’s “the black community” or not, but I do know that when I read an article that says crime is up in “the black community,” the author is not writing about the place of peace and love to which Zee refers. That writer is penning a message from the underbelly of that place. They reference a community that has skeletons. And those skeletons have keys to the closets and carry guns when they walk outside.

Dirtysweet honed in on the past, which is an important part of any community, I suspect. In the days she alludes to, colored people had quite a bit in common. I would identify their separation from the rest of the country as their main commonality. If you couldn’t drink out of the white fountain in public, you were DEFINITELY part of “the colored community.” Interestingly, in spite of their skin tones, Africans in America at that time weren’t part of that community. Are they now?

My sounding board and neighbor Becky and my brother Big T took an approach similar to mine, in that they went for the dictionary, and tried to reconcile the words there with the struggle I’m having.

Cherished and Lis took a slightly different tack. Theirs is a very personal “black community.” I wonder if the patriarchs and matriarchs are the leaders in the black community those thoughtful women describe. I would bet that they are. Coming from a strong family myself, this community also resonates with me.

I guess all of these things are “part” of the black community, but to wrap this thought completely around to where I started, are any of these communities we’ve described, places that you can find repeatedly? Could you help someone else find them? Are they the same when different people use a common terminology? Do they each “cop” to being “the black community?”

Ironically, I think that each of these representations of “the black community” face a very similar crossroads, and almost identical problems. But I don’t think many of the solutions that I’ve heard voiced address them independently. Truthfully, I also don’t think there’s much crossover between them. As a result, when I hear about solutions to crime in “the black community,” it confuses me. I don’t know if they’re talking about our families, or our culture, or our religion(s), or our ugly underbelly.

To go back to another theme that dirtysweet touched on, the notion that the only “white community” is the KKK, it took me a minute to follow her line of reasoning. Having considered it, I completely agree.

Allow me to develop the thought as briefly as I can, before you dismiss the idea.

For the most part, the people we describe as “white” people, don’t describe themselves that way.

They call themselves Americans, and claim a heritage that is Irish, or German, or Italian, or Greek. The only time you hear them call themselves “white” … is when the distinction is between blacks and whites. And honestly, I don’t think those people spend a lot of time thinking about “black people” as such. WHEN THEY DO … you start hearing stuff like “white power” or “white flight.” And leaders who describe themselves as “white leaders,” and I only know of a very few, are most often neo-nazis, or militiamen, or avowed racists and bigots. THOSE are the people who live in the “white community.” Everybody else seems to live either in America, or in an ethnic community described some other way.

Yet, men of influence will accept being called a “black leader” or leader of the “black community” even when they’re talking about the war, or politics, or education.

I THINK THAT’S WRONG.

I haven’t signed a permission slip for anyone to speak for me. If I am in fact, part of “the black community,” I’d like more say in who gets the label of my “leader.”

I AM STEW’S leader.

I don’t belong to any churches, or political parties, or religions, or organizations that I’ve given that authority to. And more and more, it pisses me off when people assume a mantle that supposedly includes me, without that permission slip.

Race is hard to talk about. I know this. I appreciate that you’ve all participated in this conversation with me, and I hope we can find some common ground. I’ve chatted with, or talked to many if not all of you individually, and I know that this is a reasonable group. There isn’t a “more” important internal discussion for Americans to have. We’ve got some things that need sunlight, and air.

Peace, pleasure, and prosperity …

--Stew.

Community

I spent a few minutes listening to Juan Williams today; he's an author and journalist I respect and admire. He was discussing the Civil Rights movement.

I became aware of Mr. Williams as a middle school student, I believe. He wrote a companion book to what I still consider one of the finest documentaries of all time. Perhaps you’re familiar with Eyes on the Prize. If not, it’s worth reading, or seeing, if you find the title at a DVD store somewhere.

He is also my voice of reason on Fox News Sunday, one of the six news programs I watch or listen to every weekend. I appreciate his moderate approach to issues, and his willingness to be the odd man out. You don’t really get to see that from black men on television very often, and I for one, appreciate his candor.

But I digress. Mr. Williams is really just the means to an end for me today. In a wide-ranging conversation on what’s wrong with the post-Civil Rights era, Mr. Williams made repeated reference to a phrase that I’ve heard all my life, but genuinely don’t understand.

Trusting the collective wisdom of strangers, here’s my question.

What is the black community?

I don’t ask this question flippantly, or with an agenda. I ask it because I’ve tried to understand the concept for a long time, and honestly, sincerely do not.

I understand that there are ‘black people.’ I can’t always identify them on sight, but I get the concept. I am painfully aware that they share a legacy, much more than a skin tone, and that at this point of history, their contributions to the society I live in are significant, and spreading.

I follow that the black church has a lot to do with a particular style of worship, and that a denomination can have black churches sprinkled into its register.

I know that there are historically black colleges and universities, and that they have a legacy of education that dates back to a time period when segregation was both the legal, and traditional way of life.

I know that when a ‘black person’ starts a business, it’s a “black-owned” business.

And I know what a community is. In my typical fashion, I looked up the word. And there were certainly phrases there that could apply to some black people in some situations. But I didn’t get the feeling that any of the definitions were what Mr. Williams in this case; or any of a thousand other people I’ve listened or talked to in many others, was referring to.

I’m not dense—I DO understand all the points he was making, and I follow the semantics of the conversation(s), but as a wordsmith, I put a pretty high value on the precision of a particular word, or phrase—even when it’s a cliché.

I don’t say I’m starving when I’m just hungry. I rarely say I’m angry when I’m enraged, or enraged when I’m livid. The beauty of a sunset could be brilliant, but the beauty of a woman has never been, at least not to me. I draw a strong distinction between sexy, sultry, and sensual.

And “the black community” leaves me a bit … confused.

So while I’m processing the larger point of the very articulate and rational perspective that Mr. Williams provided in the interview I heard, I’d love some input for my other dilemma.

It’s important for me to say that you don’t have to think of yourself as part of the black community in ANY way to opine about this.

When I’m looking for knowledge, I couldn’t care less what color the book is that provides it.

This is a subject I hope to return to, because Mr. Williams raised some issues I feel fairly strongly about, but for now I'm just trying to find myself in this concept.

I’m having a good week. Hope all of you are, as well.

Hope

Somewhere right now, in a basement or on a stoop, or in the nicest house in suburbia or behind the trailer--there's this kid. And the kid is REALLY good at it.

Maybe the kid's a dancer.

The kid probably mastered breaking, and line, and swing, and ballroom, and tap, and jazz, and modern shortly after taking that first step. Today the kid is working on some never before seen move that tickles the ozone, and calls forth rain from the clouds.

Perhaps the kid's an artist.

Was just born understanding how Mike managed to paint all those tiles of the Sistine ceiling distorted just right so when you see them from the ground floor, everything's perfect. The kid figured that out before speaking that first word, could do it in crayon on construction paper. And now, the kid mixes oil and this stuff from tubes daddy's never seen before to rip the facade off the rainbow to reveal colors you and I have never seen in the spectrum.

The kid might be a mechanic.

Been sneaking out of the house after curfew, forever. Thats when the kid fixes those funny noises in mama's old jalopy.

She used to complain about them on the way to the babysitter. The kid doesn't like to hear mama use those words. Lucky for her, there's a letter perfect blueprint on the kid's mind. The kid sees all the wires, and connections, and parts as clearly as he sees mama sitting behind the steering wheel. And in THAT blueprint, everything moves, so the kid can understand what causes the noise.

And the kid just "knows" how to make them stop. Over time, the blueprint has grown, and now every machine in the whole world is part of that diagram, and the kid can just walk up to any of them, and "know" why they're not working right

And there's a part of the diagram in the kid's head that goes to a machine the kid's never seen. That's because it hasn't been built yet. But the kid knows how, and will eventually get around to building it.

Or cook, or chemist, or singer, or builder, doctor, philosopher, physicist, basketball player, therapist, preacher, healer, midwife, farmer, geologist, anthropologist, or some skill we don't have a word for yet.

The kid's brain knows the task at hand as surely as it knows to make the kid's heart beat, and eyes blink. And at six, or seven years alive there is no question in the kid's universe that begins "What are you going to be..." or ends "...when you grow up." This thing is the kid's true religion and taken as an article of faith. The kid and the gift just ... are.

The kid's parent(s) probably don't get it yet. They know their kid is different, but in this world where different can be dangerous, their working assumption is that even the difference is "typical," you know ... the kid is gay, or mentally challenged, or disabled, or born in the wrong place and time. And the kid might be, but that has nothing to do with THIS. They thought the new hobby was a passing fad--a puppy love or temporary intrigue. But they're wrong, This ... is DIFFERENT.

There's a chance that on some days, in deep-seated places they don't like to talk about with their closest friends, they are even ashamed of the kid.

And the other children don't understand the kid either. Why the kid is always up before the sun, already completely engrossed in a chemistry experiment that's already failed 1,278 times before They don't realize that the kid knows how close the answer is, but can't look it up in a book somewhere, because it's never been written down.

Nobody can quite understand why the kid risks getting grounded to stay up long past bedtime, plugged into an ipod, or hands busy scratching old records to make and mix sounds nobody's ever thought to put together, sounds you can't hear because the kid doesn't share headphones while there's work going on . But if the kid is lucky, there is one person ... maybe another child, who will try.

You and I won't truly become "aware" of the kid until the moment arrives. And in the moment, we'll wonder where this genius came from, and how even though we sent a man to the moon, nobody ever thought of the kid's particular way of doing that particular thing.

And because television cameras only zoom so close we won't see the calluses on the kid's hands or feet that started as "hard-work'" blisters before the kid ever came close to puberty. We'll notice the kid's glasses, or the way those eyes squint to read, or glare to see. We won't recognize that the kid intentionally sacrificed perfect vision on the altar of the inside magic so the secrets could come out.

We might even notice the kid's backpack, and the way it bulges. But because we grew up in the age of books, we won't realize that the kid was born into an age of instant information, and the the backpack is full because the kid has reached the end of the internet, devoured the thoughts of every great predecessor in the field, and that now the kid is thinking thoughts that those greats wouldn't have arrived at for 20 years after their departure.

But we'll catch the kid in fleeting glimpses. Camouflaged to match the concrete, or the prairie, the one-stoplight town, or the Appalachian mountains. And in our tragically hip way of missing the trees for the forest, the kid will slip from our potential vew.

Lucky for us, the kid doesn't care. The kid isn't even aware that we can't see the effort or the results because of the crowd of thugs, criminals, potheads, wannabes, and posers blocking our view. The kid's nose is to the grindstone. The kid only cares about one thing ... and it isn't our blindness. The kid is a modern-day Jesus, or Mohammed, Gutenberg, Curie, Gates. And the very way people think--about even the possibilities, will never be the same after the kid, as before.

All the kid has to do is survive ...

... infertility, and abortion, poverty, abuse, pedophiles, that first delicious hit of weed, alcoholics, alcoholism, gangs, drugs, becoming a parent too soon and losing focus, Playstation, bad education, worse healthcare, bullies, a thousand points of darkness, self-loathing, suicide, peer pressure, friends that aren't good for him, a mother that desn't know best, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, crooked cops, an injustice system, random acts of violence, saccharin, asbestos, global warming, dying on the wrong battlefield, religion, politics, the media, and the demons inside.

The kid isn't the first, or even the 10th.

You will someday hear what the kid has to say, because when the kid speaks, it is with the voice and authority of the universe.

I do not know the kid's gender, or when the kid was born. I don't know what color the kid's skin is, or the kid's ethnicity. I'm not privy to whether the kid is cute, or funny-looking, rich, poor, or middle-class. I have not seen whether the kid is a beanpole, or pudgy. I don't know if the kid is born into the Bible Belt, a community ruled by Sharia law, or the liberal bastions of Berkeley. The kid may be betrothed at age four, or have earlobes stretched by polished stones

I only know that the kid is good. And good at it. And that one false step can snatch the kid from us forever.

OH ... and I know the kid's name.

Hope.

Sudan

I ask you to look to the East. I want to re-introduce you to a nation that sits just beyond the reach of the American tongue. If your local news station has spoken of our topic, it has most likely been to inform you that Clooney, or Jolie, or some other member of the beautiful people has just returned safely from a trip to our destination.

For this sin alone, our every hand washing should rinse pink into eternity.

Noting the collective American ignorance about geography, humor me for a short “where in the world is--?”

I know that YOU know where Sudan is, but many people don't. You’ll need a globe, or map. Open a separate browser window, and load up a map of the world. I’ll wait for you.

* * *

First, find Egypt at the northeast corner of the continent of Africa. Point to it. Now drag your pointer south. On a modern map, the first border you touch symbolizes the northern edge of “the Dark Continent’s” largest country.

Don’t move your hand just yet.

You are symbolically fingering the historic land of Nubia, ancient Egypt’s silent supplier of goods and knowledge that helped the land of the Pharaohs cast an exceptionally long shadow across time--through history, myth, legend, and lore.

One of the cradles of civilization, Nubia is the ancient link between tropical Africa and the first great international trading zones. In its heyday, the many caravans carrying gold, ivory, diamonds, and knowledge to the world’s first international trading ports on the Mediterranean Sea and River Nile walked its soil. It too boasts pyramids.

It has been Eden, and Kush, and Egypt, and British colony.

It is Sudan.

In that all too human way we cast aside history for shiny things and pretty people, Sudan’s soul has been pillaged for pennies—it is today the scene of what our descendants will know to be our greatest crime.

As we speak, Sudan is reaping the results of a tattered history of war, famine, and corruption. By the hundreds of thousands, Sudanese have walked away from the burning remains of their homes and lives. To the west, neighboring Chad, is straining under weight of hundreds of thousands of pedestrian refugees who cross the borders in groups of 10,000.

Perhaps some of the 2 million people who have fled their homes and villages have settled in your community. Unfortunately, as the first generations of immigrants from other places have discovered, America, my home, can be a very inhospitable place during the transition.

These huddled masses are unquestionably the lucky ones.

To whatever degree there is a spotlight on Sudan, the point of focus is Darfur. This region of Western Sudan is believed to have slightly fewer than eight million people. Believed, because Sudan has been too dangerous to gather accurate census data since 1993.

Darfur is embroiled in a conflict that pits an Arab Muslim militia--the Janjaweed, against the largely African Muslim population. Like most problems, their dispute is too nuanced and complicated to adequately describe in generic terms, but it stems at least in part to a squatter’s rights quarrel between nomads and farmers.

In a disagreement that stretches back a dozen generations, the nomadic tribes believe they have a right to graze camels on the available arable land. No problem, except that the agricultural groups believe they have a right to own, farm, and develop the land.

A series of famines has made arable land scarce. That land is now rare enough to kill for.

On a different continent, in a different age, this dispute might have ended up in court.

But this is modern Africa, and the dispute—complicated by a thousand political and economic facets, assisted to various degrees by such famous bad guys as Muamar Qadafi and Usama Bin Ladin, has become an ethnic genocide.

Turns out the government, the group of people you’d expect to take a role in protecting citizens—any nation’s greatest resource, has instead turned on them.

Not turned on them like … refusing to count their votes. No, no, turned on them like--allowing them to be slaughtered.

The U.N. has settled on a death toll of 400,000 and counting in Darfur. An estimated 2 million people have been forced out of their homes, had their villages burned to the ground, and suffered unspeakable horrors in the name of war.

In a conflict that has literally turned rape into a military weapon, the Arab militias have made it their life’s work to rid the nation of its African blood.

Sadly, Darfur is one of a NUMBER of conflicts ravaging Sudan.

I won’t berate you into feeling sorry for these people of the great past. I am capable, but it’s counterproductive. I’m a much more practical man than that.

I will however, put my considerable pride aside to kneel on both knees, touch my forehead to the floor, and BEG you to take a few moments of your time to do three things:

1: Choose to inform yourself about Sudan.

Media criticism aside, this is the information age. You don’t need CNN, FOX, ABC, CBS, or the Wall Street Journal to tell you what is going on. You and I are engaging in this conversation using the most powerful research tool in the history of civilization.

http://www.wikipedia.com/

Start here. Search Sudan, and follow the links that address whatever questions you have. Don’t worry how far you wander from your starting point. Search “the Darfur conflict” and read what’s been written. You don’t need a globe, or map, or any books. You have everything you need to find out EXACTLY what’s going on.

Next,

http://www.google.com/

Same search. Same drill. Give yourself half an hour. That’s more time than your local newscast can afford.

Do it while you’re hunting for your next 360-playmate, or checking your e-mail.

Follow the first five links that appear to have anything to do with the subject at hand.

Then, switch the upper tabs to “images” and look at some pictures of the damage done to ancient Nubia.

By the end of your 30 minutes, you will have a much better idea of what’s going on in Sudan. You will have started to develop some opinions about whether or not it’s a cause that deserves your attention.

You will have informed yourself enough to know whether you agree that Sudan is a crisis. You MAY conclude that Sudan should be an African problem to be solved by Africans. As an informed citizen, that is well within your rights.

You may decide that it’s no big deal, and doesn’t deserve to be given any more attention than it’s had to this point.

You may compare and contrast it to problems we have here at home and decide it doesn’t stack up. It may not touch you in the way it touches others. From my vantage point, those are completely acceptable outcomes—as long as you’ve taken the time to inform yourself.

2: Come back here, and share a little bit of what you’ve learned.

Or … find some other place where the topic is under discussion and jump in with both feet. Part of the apathy that mires Americans in inaction begins with a lack of viable conversation. We will not solve the Darfur crisis here. That isn’t the point.

The goal is for informed people to share ideas. We should stop underestimating the power of discussion. It is the source of consensus, which births action.

Every real change that has affected the globe began with groups of real people, talking about---and then DOING real things.

3: Act on your conclusions.

This particular blog entry was suggested to me by Zee, from Buffalo, New York. Her parish has taken up this issue, particularly as it relates to their community of immigrants from Sudan, in a tangible way.

For Zee, that parish movement has spawned action in real life. She has chosen to mirror that activity here, and asked me to help spread the word to my small circle of friends. She has posted a number of links to organizations that are taking an active role in having an impact on the daily situation in Eastern Sudan. I invite you to visit her, and consider the opportunities she presents.

I honestly hope that the process of informing yourself and sharing ideas creates in you a passion for a group of people in peril that you cannot immediately see, touch, or hear. I hope that passion manifests itself in action.

My action at this instant is to remove my forehead from the floor, stand to my feet, and conclude my appeal to your mercy.

You are only one person. You are free to do something, or do nothing. We all have that choice, one … by one … by one.

As we’re making that decision, people in Sudan are dying, one … by one … by one.

(29 Oct 2006)

For my Friend Lis

There’s this wonderful woman named Lis, whom I’m acquainted with through yahoo 360. She’s a fellow writer, and phenomenal blogger. I read her comments faithfully. Recently she’s taken a stand against what she feels is a growing sentiment.

She says, and I believe her completely, she has come across a number of blogs that speak from the perspective that women are “silly,” and black women perhaps more than most. I believe that I accurately represent her point of view when I say that she believes those comments represent a growing opinion trend, and perhaps reflect an undercurrent of belief that the overall quality of black women is on the decline.

(Lis, if I’ve misstated your position, feel free to correct me. I’ll make any changes that will more accurate reflect what you actually said. I’m hoping to continue your conversation, not mischaracterize it.)

Before I continue, let me say that I unabashedly and completely adore women. I love black women, and white women, all the brown, tan, and beige shades in between. I dig women from Asia, and Latinas, and Eskimo chics, Native American women; and every mixture, cross-pollination, or combination of the above.

I like big ones and tiny ones, Shaquille-tall ones, and micro-mini four footers. I like the way women smell, and taste, and look, and the electricity they generate when they touch me. I particularly like the ways they aren’t like me. And I live for the type of intelligence that they uniquely bring to every conversation. They know things I cannot know, and see things through much more sensitive and well-tuned vision than I’ve ever developed.

Now some ARE definitely silly and have endlessly wasted my time, or brought less than a full deck to the card game. But that’s not because they’re women, that’s because they’re silly or had less than a full deck to play with.

Without question, black women are a part of my identity. The first thing I ever saw was my black mother looking back at me. I was raised by a black woman, married a black woman, divorced a black woman, and have a son by a black woman—who does an amazing job of putting her “mother’s touch” on the heart of the ‘mini-me.’

I read Lis’s words, and found many of them to be absolutely true. But I don’t agree with her overall assessment. I think she throws too big a blanket on the small ideas of some very small men.

I’d like to offer a response to Lis here, but not as a counter in any way. I offer it as the continuation of a conversation. This isn’t a debate at all. She has earned every opinion I’ve ever heard her express. She’s brilliant, and always ‘brings it’ from a very legitimate perspective. She articulates her point of view with grace and passion. I am learning from her. I support her.

I offer an additional perspective for her consideration.

I believe what Lis has correctly, and appropriately put her finger on is the tip of a much bigger iceberg that threatens the relationship between men and women in America.

The internet at any given time is a digital snapshot of the entire country. The gang’s all here. The misogynists, the villains, the perverts, the pimps, the playas, the hos, the liars, the egomaniacs, the pedophiles, the cannibals, the criminals, the freaks, and the “normal” all share this space like an elevator. This is that look inside the houses of strangers. And just like your mama told you when you were a kid … you “can’t eat at everybody’s house.”

The haters are here with the peaceniks, and if you look—you’ll find some absolutely frightening things about murdering black people, or re-killing the Jews, or stopping the power of “the man” through the violent overthrow of the government. Those people are real, their thoughts exist and are communicated every day, and their pages link from one disgusting site to another.

If you get caught in one of those webs, it can become easy to believe that their name is legion, and that they are many. But in truth, they’re not. It’s a few thousand people whose opinion isn’t all that widespread. They’ve learned the art of speaking “loud” as a masturbatory substitute for being right.

I would suggest the same is true of the people who find their pleasure in degrading women.

Their bullshit ideas don’t represent anything more than bullshit men.

I don’t think they’re little boys, I think they’re men. Little boys are males whose ideas and actions can still be easily shaped by external forces. But positive forces haven’t shaped every man. And every man isn’t a good end product. (And if the man you’re with changes at your whim, be careful, you might end up being mommy.)

Lis, I encourage you to just avoid them. The internet is just like a nightclub. Everybody’s got a line, a mating call, and most of them aren’t meant for you. They are looking for something specific, and whatever it is that they’re looking for … exists. If it’s not you, ignore them, and move to the next possibility. The fact that you aren’t a skank, doesn’t mean there aren’t any. Skanks are as real as virtuous women, and there are men who live to seek them out. The mating call for a skank will repulse you, because it’s not for you.

The mating call that is meant for you will appeal to you. It also exists.

There are millions of good men. I know because in addition to belonging to that club, I converse with men all the time that I would allow to date my younger sister without hesitation.

I’m not a skull-cracker, or thug. I’ve done a few thuggish things in my life, and usually felt bad doing them, and regretted them shortly after.

I’ve hurt a few people, both physically and emotionally.

And I’ve been hurt a few times, physically and emotionally.

With age and experience, boys become men. Where they are at the moment of that transition is more often than not where they stay. And what they’ve experienced is often what they will identify as their preference, and work to perpetuate.

Flower-senders will have that habit forever. As will batterers.

If you are looking for real men, I encourage you to continue that search.

There is plenty of chaff with the wheat. Toss it up, and let the chaff float away. The wheat will land, harvest it.

I wish you well, my friend.

High-Tech Lynching

If given a chance, would you ever join a lynch mob?

Tulsa, Oklahoma. May 31st, 1921.

Dick Rowland is in jail.

It’s too late now to know if he actually attacked Sarah Page in the elevator.

The Tulsa Tribune says that’s what happened.

Says so in the story under the headline that screams:

NAB NEGRO FOR ATTACKING GIRL IN ELEVATOR

His arrest certainly wasn’t the consensus story of the day.

Across town, the Tulsa Globe didn’t even bother to mention it.

Tim Madigan, author of The Burning, suggests that’s because the local police were quite skeptical of Miss Page’s accusation.

Rowland had a reputation of a ladies man, and in retrospect there is significant evidence that their first meeting was certainly NOT at the elevator in question.

What happened over the next few days has become an historic and cultural touchstone of what happens when good race relations go bad.

Dick Rowland was black.

Sarah Page was white.

In those days, the accusation alone was enough to turn racially progressive Tulsa into a violent inferno.

The crowd didn’t so much … need … facts, as they needed to satisfy their thirst for blood.

The ensuing riot prematurely ended as many as 300 lives, destroyed the city of Tulsa, and ruined one of the greatest economic success stories in the history of blacks in America.

There were a LOT of lessons to be learned. The ’21 riot in Tulsa put some of America’s worst problems on the sort of display that outlives all of the participants.

It’s a story of bad media, racism, lynching, violence, rushes to judgment, and mob thought.

It is one of those stories that black people use to illustrate the ridiculous way the country has treated us.

But I’d like to use it for a different purpose.

Clarence Thomas described the Anita Hill portion of his Supreme Court confirmation hearing as a “high-tech lynching for uppity Blacks.”

It was almost a throwaway line, but an appropriate one at the time, because the execution in question was not of his person—but of his character.

But the phrase hearkened back to Tulsa, and 1921.

To have a proper lynching, you need three things--a mob, suspension of the legal process long enough for the mob to make up its mind, and an execution.

In the Thomas example, the execution wasn’t going to end his life, but it was certainly going to kill his good name and reputation.

It was perhaps an overstatement, because his “lynching” was happening as part of the legal process, but the execution was real.

Thanks to the mob of television cameras and breathless news anchors offering play-by-play analysis during every recess, one of the largest international news audiences ever counted up to that point were introduced to pubic hair on Coke cans, and Long Dong Silver.

Dick Rowland might have preferred a high-tech digital lynching to the violent and painful end he suffered.

Good thing the country doesn’t lynch people—digitally or otherwise, anymore.

Durham, North Carolina. March 16th, 2006.

Reade Seligmann has been indicted.

So have Collin Finnerty and David Evans.

They are students of the prestigious Duke University. They are athletes, wealthy, good students, and alcohol consumers.

It’s too late now to get a clean first impression of whether or not they actually raped “Precious,” a local woman, mother, student, and stripper during a lacrosse team party in their city.

Because that’s what the headlines screamed on CNN, Fox, ABC, and ESPN and in every major newspaper in the country.

Of course, we’ve become quite a bit more civilized in the intervening 85 years. Now we use words like “alleged,” and “accused” instead of putting it all out there. Litigation has taught us to be careful. So the mob has to read a little bit between the lines.

If you can believe 60 Minutes, trust the words of Ed Bradley, and have confidence in the video record of the immediate media blitz that followed the initial accusation, the local police are far from skeptical about the claim, as evidenced by their rush to collect evidence of the rape even if it means throwing out all of the rules of evidence in the process.

The district attorney has behaved very badly too, desperately wanting to use the “mob” thoughts to further his career, legal ethics be damned.

“Precious” is black.

Reade, Collin, and David are white.

In these days, the accusation alone was enough to turn racially improving Durham into a festering sore of raw racial passions.

Shall we have us an old fashioned “high-tech lynching for uppity Whites?”

Here’s the debate I don’t ever want to have to blindly score point totals on:

A hired stripper goes into a roomful of drunk college boys. She takes off some or all of her clothing because that’s what she’s been hired to do, things get out of hand, and later she says she was raped.

Did it happen? Is it possible? She said? Or he said?

Who’s telling the truth?

I have no idea, which is why I really dig the idea of having a court trial about it.

Remember those?

In the interim, the crowd is gathering, made up of millions of people who’ve already decided on the truth.

Since Sunday's edition of 60 Minutes, the following question is no longer rhetorical.

You and I have the chance. Shall we join the lynch mob?

(16 Oct 06)

Out of Pocket

I think I'll go out of town for a few days. See you in about a week.

Before I go, Becky appropriately asked why I always leave out the girls when I've talked about molestation.

I've answered her, but I should say it publicly.

The molestation of little girls is even MORE deplorable than the shame of diddling little boys.

In this case of priests, while I'm sure there are some who've made young females their prey--I never hear about them.

As for my rant(s), I wasn't actually talking about molestation in general, but the very specific hypocrisy of the clergy and other professions of power in my not-so-limited exposure to this problem.

For the record--

Fuck Mark Foley. Fuck any man or woman who uses the wisdom of age to overcome the innocence of youth.

If you are a letch of any stripe

Fuck you too.

It's harsh language, I admit. But I'm not a gentleman when it comes to this.
If there is a place for political correctness--a discussion about the care and concern for our children isn't it, unless they're participating in the conversation.

So if you happen to be reading this blog, and you've spent any part of this week fondling, diddling, caressing, or otherwise inappropriately communicating with some child under your influence ... FUCK YOU!

Know that there are those of us out here who don't give a damn who you are, or how close you're supposed to be to God, human power, or monetary wealth.

You are the bane of our civilization, and a shit-stain on humanity.

And yes, I understand that you have a problem, you're not wired like the rest of us, some shit-stain molested YOU as a child blahblahblah.

That's called a cross to bear. We all have one. Mine is an unholy obsession with round asses. But I've identified it, live with it, and manage to walk to and fro on the earth without grabbing all the ones I think are amazing and trying to talk to them with my penis.

Pick up your cross, Strap it on your shoulders, and strain under the weight like the rest of us.

Give these unfortunate children a chance to mature and discover what a fucktard you are before they have to decide whether or not they want to have sex with you.

Everybody out here isn't looking for polite way to say you don't deserve to live.

I curse you, and call on the Creation powers of nature--and WHOEVER holds them-- to use the next time you chew or swallow as an opportune moment to take back the breath you have mistakenly been loaned, so it can be given to a more useful vessel.

I for one have a consistent, and direct message for you. It won't change next week, and it won't be any different when I'm an old man. And if I have to scream it from the top of some mountain, all by myself, forever, I'm dressed for that trip.

FUCK YOU!

And no, I don't know what it's like to be molested. But I do know what it's like to try to hold a decent relationship together with a woman who can barely sleep because she's afraid you're going to try to rape her while she's sleeping--like her daddy did. I know how hard it is to depend on a worker who has nightmares at night. I watch the stunted emotions you leave in your wake. I see the impact on my society from the fallout of your criminal behavior.

And if you need more practical advice, I suggest alt.com

There's a whole community of people a bit more adjusted than you who love to dress up like and be treated like children. Exercise your proclivities there, with other grown-ups who can decide what parts of you they want touching what parts of them.

* * * * * *

To everyone else--have a great week. See you next time.

Peace, prosperity, and pleasure ...

--Stew.

(10 Oct 2006)

The Pick-up

There’s an art to the pick-up.

No so much a learned skill, as an ability to mentally ignore the possibility of negative repercussions should your advances be refused, or worse ridiculed.

Like many things, there are some who develop this particular skill. By ninth grade, certain people have figured out the right combination of words and deeds that ensures them a level of deserved confidence that they can talk a complete stranger into sleeping with them.

It’s part picking the right target, and part having the right introductory line—and being able to follow up the initial intrigue with a conversation that reinforces your humor, or intellect, or sheer pluck.

In my younger youth, we called it fishing, among other things. It seems to be an appropriate metaphor, because it’s precisely like the sport. You have to understand the habits of the fish; does the type you’re after dart into the current and grab something floating by, or seek out the calmer waters and wander through the greenery for a more stable prey.

Some people are much better at it than others.

By college, or your early 20s, you’ve figured out if you have that particular skill. If you do, it tends to come in handy in all sorts of social and business environments.

There’s something useful about knowing that you have enough command of your environment to present yourself in such a way that people find themselves drawn to you. It’s even better if you can get to them give you what you want. Sex, conversation---

maybe even a vote?

I’ve never seen a study on it, but it seems to me that canvassing a community for political votes requires the same set of skills as cruising a bar for a one-night stand.

Your task is to enter an environment filled with people who for the most part, don’t know you, and ask them to give you something that is, or at least should be "special" to them—not “really” knowing what kind of person you are—beyond your pick-up line/stump speech.

I can’t imagine that a shy, or self-conscious person would be very good at it. Politics is an endless cycle of public speaking, begging strangers to give you large sums of money, and whispering the case that you're a better option than every other potential suitor in the room.

Is it the same game?

If it is, it would help me understand why a six-term congressman would be able to ignore the possibility of negative repercussions as he logged on to his internet messenger of choice, and boldly typed the words “are you horny?” to a teenager spending a semester at the Capitol.

He’s been fishing for years. He’s learned his prey for a variety of environments. He's been elected to congress six times, and was considering a run for the Senate. That means he's asked a LOT of people to "give him some," with a great deal of success. And he runs with a pack of people who are used to fishing for their very survival.

The method that seems to have worked for him where it comes to his young male companions is to start reeling them in while they’re young, and finish the deed a few years after their stint as pages is over. This week, the Mark Foley story took what I’d have to call an “expected” turn, as a former page tells the Los Angeles Times that he had sex with the Florida Congressman.

I won’t bother with the “I told you so.”

Now that there’s a full-blown ephebophile scandal in Congress, the question of what “types” of people end up in the House and Senate seems to be at least borderline appropriate. Is there any chance our system has spawned a happy hunting ground for the fishermen?

This week, the Dems get to gloat a bit. I encourage you to avoid that roller-coaster. History teaches us that it will get derailed.

I told you there'd be more to the story, now I'm telling you that there's more to the story. I'll bet Mr. Foley hasn't been fishing alone.

(10 Oct 06)

Recollection from Korea

1994 - 95 was a pivotal year for me. I was in the Air Force, and the military had sent me on my first overseas tour. I drew the short straw, and spent a year at Kunsan Air Base, in the Republic of Korea. It's a fighter jet base, located about three driving hours south of Seoul.

At that time, Kunsan was considered hands-down the worst assignment in the Air Force. Chemical protective gear was a standard issue, and we practiced putting on the various layers and combinations during annoying, week-long drills that were to prepare us for the day the dreaded “balloon goes up.”

There is a weekend of that year that is relevant to me as I type tonight.

Apparently, something had gone wrong in the talks between North and South at the DMZ. A threat of some kind had been made, and by the time the story got to us, it was reported that Kim Il Sung’s representatives at the meeting had threatened to “turn Seoul into a flaming pit of hell.”

I spent that weekend in a silly little trench, outside the building where I worked, holding an empty M-16A1 rifle in the lowest level of protective gear. Trained but terrified, I was more than a little confused about which specific decision of my life had resulted in me being tasked to defend a radio station full of albums from the Communists. I foolishly thought we’d beat the Commies by winning the Cold War. Yet here I was, a 22-year-old Nebraska boy with an empty rifle and no bayonet, waiting for North Korean Special Forces to breach the concertina wire to attack AFKN.

Needless to say, they never showed up. Tensions eventually ratcheted down, and our emergency state of alert went back down to its normal “elevated” status. I never had to fire that rifle. As far as I know, I was never in ANY immediate danger, and if I had been I’m sure someone would’ve brought me some ammunition and a walkie-talkie or something.

But as I sit and watch the news that crazy assed Kim Jung Il is at it again, and has now reportedly tested a nuclear weapon—I wonder about those silly little trenches, and whether there’s some scared 22-year old sleeping there tonight.

The world is a different place now. We’re at war in both Iraq and Afghanistan, Iran is rattling its saber, and we finally have action on all three fronts of our self-declared “Axis of Evil.”

Today, Airmen dread an assignment to Iraq for its lack of creature comforts. A tour to Kunsan isn’t such a bad thing. There are seasons on the ROK, and great shopping, and there hasn’t been a hostile shooting in forever.

But the America of today seems to always be aching for a fight, and if conventional wisdom is right, perhaps the maniacal midget north of the DMZ is aching to give us one.

If this is in fact the first signs of the balloon going up, I hope somebody at least takes the 22-year old some bullets.

Still

I’ve long thought of America as a teenaged country.

We’ve been around for 200+ years, but on the world stage of civilizations, that’s about enough time to sneeze.

When you consider that Hawaii, our 50th state was added in 1959 … a mere 47 years ago, you start to appreciate the fact that we’re a very young Nation compared to a nation like Iraq, whose northern city of Kirkuk is more than 5000 years old.

Which isn’t to say this has been a quiet quarter-millennium. The history of America is actually quite fascinating. It has enough sex, drugs, whodunits and rock stars to be a great story—for the written page, musical expressions, movies, or campfire tales.

We have enough heroes, villains, and ordinary people of greatness to stoke the imagination.

It would be a lot of fun to sit the nation down in a therapist’s chair and get a thorough examination of our psyche.

In many ways our country has some of the psychology of a teenager.

We’re quite idealistic still, and have enough successes under our belt to make us see our highs as higher than others, and as failures as more moderate than our competitors.

We’re pretty tough on our elders, and we completely exhibit the personality of the proverbial man “born on third base, who thinks he hit a triple.”

That’s not always a bad thing, and you should know that I’m an extremely proud American, through and though.

But there is one aspect our of adolescence that disturbs me, at times.

We have an incredibly short attention span. Just like I did as a teenager. The record suggests that we find it difficult to carry forward the significance of even a cataclysmic moment for more than a few months.

The media is partly to blame for this, and takes a fair amount of legitimate criticism for its revenue-chasing approach to deciding what’s “important.”

Our news cycle is 24-hours long and its perpetuators can plop a video camera down at any coordinate on the planet within an hour or so and beam the resulting images to every household on the globe. As a result, we’ve come to accept that our instant access to moving pictures of far away places reflects an accurate window on the world.

It does not.

The world is a gigantic place, and while television has bent the physics concept that an object cannot occupy more than one place at a time, it has not negated it.

Emotions last a lot longer than the attention we give them.

But when your only window to the emotions of the world is a constantly shifting collage of new crises, and the image of the moment—it doesn’t take very long to start limiting your feelings about the impact of a moment to its duration in the news cycle.

A widow grieves long after she stops crying. If you are incapable of recognizing the breadth, height, and width of her pain measured across time once her tears are dry, you lose the sympathy and empathy that are required to knit the hearts of humans into a common thread.

On these pages and entries, I’ve passed through a lot of topics. Today, I want to take a moment to remind you that they all still have repercussions.

It is imperative to expand your memory to realize and accept that an event lasts much longer than its headlines.

There are still thousands of people who disappeared in the Christmas tsunami. No trace of them has ever been found. Their families still have to cope with that loss.

Right now, people are still dying in Sudan.

Vice president Cheney is still the man who was careless enough to have shot one of his best friends.

President Clinton is still the man whose morals allowed him to get his Johnson smoked under the desk by an intern.

The city of New Orleans is still a filthy, dysfunctional shell of its former self.

Attacks on Americans fighting in Iraq are still happening every hour.

President Bush is still the man who taunted the so-called terrorists to “bring it on.”

The 190th Congress is still the most inactive legislative body in our short history.

People are still mourning 9/11.

That young man is still responsible for dealing with emotional fallout of having to decide how to respond to a very powerful predatory letch.

Veterans are still waking up every night with nightmares.

Every story you’ve ever seen on every newscast, or in every newspaper is still echoing through the minds of the people who were involved.

The teenaged mind is very capable of being trained and developed into a productive adult mind.

What sort of grown-up will our Nation become?

(8 Oct 06)