Circumlocution

Webster’s definition of circumlocution
Circumlocution: a roundabout, indirect, or lengthy way of expressing something.

My mother in law is 86 years old. The large number of years has allowed her to master the fine art of circumlocution. She visited here Sunday while our daughter and our grandson were in town. She wandered around the house a bit then apparently noticed that I needed someone to listen to. She told me she stopped at the bank on her way over, but forgot that it was Sunday and so it did her no good at all since the bank was closed.
I asked her if her bank provides her a debit card and ATM card. This was her answer.

Mom-In-Law: “My neighbor Rita across the street is 92 years old and sometimes her daughter comes to take her to the bank. Now, her daughter understand is 70 herself and she can’t drive at night because of her glaucoma. Anyway, she and her husband only have one car because they don’t really need to go anywhere. I think it's a Buick. No, wait maybe its a Ford, oh shoot I cant remember. Anyway, sometimes they go to WalMart but she told me she really likes Target better anyway because of the prices. The only thing about Target is that it is so far to walk from the parking lot. I don't go to the one near me, there's one over by, oh what's the name of that street? You know the one I mean, by the coffee store that sells that Star-something coffee? Anyway, back when Leonard’s was downtown you could take the trolley and it would take you right up to the door and you didn’t have to walk at all. Nowadays it seems like everybody has a big parking lot and the stores like Target are so big I get tired before I even find what I want. Anyway, she said her husband won’t go into Target because the lights make him dizzy, but the lights in WalMart are different and so it doesn’t bother him in there as much.
Most of the time when they come to get Rita they will come over and say hello to me. One time she brought me a bundt cake that had these big pecans in it. I can’t really eat pecans because of my dentures but I didn’t tell her that, I just took a piece and told her I would eat it later. I don’t really understand why someone would leave big old nuts like that in a bundt cake anyway. I don’t think Rita cooks much either so maybe she just never taught her how.”

Me: What about the ATM card?

Mom-In-Law: “That’s why I was telling you about Target. They have those machines there that I see people putting a card in and I don’t really understand it. Rita said they don’t make mistakes. But, I remember when typewriters first came in and some of the manufacturers put the keys in different places from the other people so you never really knew if you were typing a ‘s’ or an ‘a’ unless you looked at the paper. After a while you got used to your typewriter and you didn’t have to look up, but then they would get you a new typewriter and it would be the other way around and you had to relearn it all over again. It took them some years to decide to make the typewriters the same. Anyway, it just seems like all new things have to have the problems sorted out with them. After all airplanes still crash and they have been around a long time. I still remember visiting Meacham Airport when it opened and that was 80 years ago. Daddy took us out there and I remember sitting on his shoulders so I could see. He was tall. My boys were tall like him, but now Brown Eyed-Girl isn’t tall like that. Anyway the airplanes were some of the type that only hauled cargo and the US Mail. A lot of times the planes had to stop for maintenance somewhere and the mail never got to the place it was supposed to go. Anyway, I don’t want any of those cards, I don’t trust them.”

Me: I see.

Babbling Is Ever a Folly

I am amused that institutions that thrive on performance and the continuation of positive effect are content and comfortable with a deadlocked government.

This seems at first glance to be paradoxical. If the institutions that value progressive and positive movement, such as business, are happy to see the government elected by the people drawn to a conflicted standstill, what does this say for the government?

In a more perfect world it would follow logic that a properly functioning republic form of government would be an aid to the welfare of the people governed. If we define ‘aid to the welfare of the people’ I believe it would fall into a framework of economics and supply of need that is economics based. However for many years now we see that business and Wall Street typically function better for the people when government is stricken with partisan deadlock.

That last sentence is my opinion, also supported by other writers and record keepers. It could be argued that significant legislation such as welfare reform has in fact aided the populace all around and that it was affected by a divided government. I would counter my counter argument by pointing out that welfare reform was a 'too long coming' compromise between political parties hammered out over documented failings that were statistically conclusive. In other words, it was a ‘no-brainer’.

In the beginning the founders of the country forged law and set the tone for growth in an orderly fashion, though it can also be pointed out that its efforts fell short of respecting the original inhabitants and could not avoid a civil war within the US. Nevertheless I think the legislation designed and passed by early congresses helped us set an example of a thriving and successful republic for the rest of the world.

Now we have seemingly arrived at the point where the lack of a functioning congress brings a period where the performance institutions that surround us applaud and breathe a sigh of relief.

Is it possible too much legislation is the culprit? Is it possible to make too many rules?

I will take you weirdly out of context for a moment and I readily confess to the digression being significantly skewed, but if we take professional sports as an example of an institution that values progress and is non-ceasing in its efforts to transcend toward its ultimate perfection, we know that the players, managers and coaches are under significant scrutiny.

Managers that cannot bring success and players that do not measure up by viable measuring standards are released and others are given a chance to prove they are better capable of delivering positive results. In the case of the Texas Rangers this season the manager was released because the players rejected his extensive use of rules, including what they could wear on an airplane, dictates about uniforms, and clubhouse hours and more. Two teams have gone on the next season to World Series championships the year after firing this same manager. A close friend of mine, employed in professional baseball for the past 32 years, tells me this is for no other reason than that the players are able to return to playing baseball without the oppressive managers rules that regulate everything except their performance. They are so relieved to be rid of the oppression of too many rules that they perform way above expectations the following year.

This sounds familiar to me when I think about this phenomenon of business being happy with the congresses ability to do nothing.

Maybe we are altogether better off to suspend the rules making when it now takes experts to interpret only one of the hundreds of rulebooks before us. Maybe Wall Street is on to something worth examining.

Ben Franklin said, “Silence is not always a Sign of Wisdom, but Babbling is ever a folly.” I think I would have liked Ben Franklin a great deal.

Election Reflections Part 1

I am going to break my self imposed ban on writing about politics for a series of 3 or 4 posts. I really should say that I will be writing about political culture. I will tell you that my tolerance is very low for interactive discussion that devalues another’s opinion and I really won’t tolerate that behavior in the comment box. Consider yourselves forewarned.

In fact that idea is the subject of this initial post. Is it just me or have we sunk into new lows in our political discourse? This is not a new observance for me, I have been aware of it for several years.

I participated in a discussion on a youtube.com video recently. The video consisted of an exchange between CNN reporter Aaron Brown and cartoonist Aaron McGruder. During McGruders hateful diatribe against the president he states that “Beliefs don’t mean anything if you are stupid.”

This comment was met with resounding cheers from commenters that believed it to be a remarkably intellectual statement. I don’t see it that way. I think the comment is soundly failing in logic, compassion and benevolence.

In my mind it is a remarkable display of both arrogance and ignorance that accompanies a mindset of hatefulness. I pointed out to the commenters that it is perfectly possible to have beliefs that effectively guide your life even if we might not have graduated from a northeastern prep school. Actually I used Forrest Gump as an example in my rebuttal trying to help them understand that the fictional character Gump had a profound belief in the power of love for his mother and for Ginny, and that his beliefs were (while fictional) nevertheless meaningful.

I was thinking in a philosophical context that separated the statement from its political hatefulness and placed it instead into the context of human reasoning and simple examination of its base logic.

As you might imagine I was immediately told that I was comparing Bush to a retard and that that somehow proved their point that I was defending the president and this made me stupid as well. The discussion culminated in a commenter declaring me a 13 year old f **** retard. If you would like to follow this predictable and sometimes bizarre discussion it can be found here . I am the commenter Sleepy7.

Now it is important to know I am essentially a political independent and cast no particular lot with either party. As a matter of information you can consider me a limited government advocate. A deadlocked Congress is a wonderful thing to me since it means the government will not actually function except in emergencies, an assessment with which Wall Street agrees.

I do enjoy an intelligent and reasoned discussion. The problem I am seeing across our country is that the process of discussing points of politics or culture often digresses into one party calling another one nasty names if you are not a member of their ideological camp.

In my opinion one of the hallmarks of intelligence and the development of useful social discourse is the ability to listen and accept that another’s position and understanding is important and meaningful to them even if we disagree with their opinion. The fact that they hold a different opinion is not the same as delivering a death sentence to our own beliefs.

In the case of the ‘you tube discussion’ it appeared the audience was unable to excise the intellectual examination of the logic of McGruders comment from their intense hatred of conservatives and the president. The fact that I would challenge the statement immediately set me as a conservative enemy in their mind and the hateful venom was quickly ejected. What is comical to me is that Bush is far too liberal for most conservatives and yet is widely despised by liberals. It’s a strange and hateful political world we occupy. I would leave everyone with this thought. Not everything in our lives or judgment carries political party implications. Perhaps we could all act in a more thoughtful and reasonable manner when dealing with our neighbors beliefs?

Beliefs do mean something to anyone that holds them; even if you are not a northeastern seaboard ‘blue state’ cartoon artist that is all too ready to dismiss the beliefs of those he considers inadequate.

Scatter Shot Election Tuesday

According to Rush Limbaugh he would like to slap Michael Fox 'back to the future' for confusing the electorate and telling little white fibs. However, Limbaugh say it is a difficult task since Fox will not sit still long enough.

Reports from the NFL yesterday said Chiefs quarterback Damon Huard was questionable for the game because he pulled his groin last week. Hmmm…I did too, but I think I could still play football.

A man in Detroit this week was arrested for assaulting his wife. He claimed he grew tired of her ‘looking at him the wrong way’. Clearly, more practice ‘looking at him the right way’ is required.

Just kidding…no hate mail please. Defenses of the slandered individuals are also not required.
However, I would like to hear your sex stories from the weekend.

Following the Piper Across the Illogical Divide

It’s late on a Saturday evening and for some reason I am reflecting on a summer day in June of this year. I was watching the Yankees play the Red Sox on television and the Yankee fans were viciously booing their own player Alex Rodriquez.

This post is not necessarily about baseball, so don’t hang up the phone just yet.

What I am really thinking about is a cultural phenomenon that presents itself for inspection often. Many of us might use the colloquialism ‘piling on’ to describe it. Or we might also call it ‘follow the leader’ or being ‘on the bandwagon.’

What Yankees fans were doing was booing one of the games premier players, and odd to the point of illogic, one of their own players in a situation in which his positive performance would be instrumental to their goals as Yankee fans.

I see this often. My take on this is a simple analysis really. I think we often behave in a herd mentality to our detriment. A talk show host or someone on the New York sports scene decides to jump the case of Rodriquez and soon the unthinking herd has picked up the beat and the next scene observed is the thundering roar of complete illogic.

From Florida elections history we are told that elections are rigged and our vote does not count. The Democratic Party confesses it must now re-educate its voters to understand they really should vote because their vote actually does count. Once again the bandwagon effect plays a part in an illogical action from voters based on the wagon loading voice of the party’s leaders themselves.

We watch the disgraced Ted Haggard place countless thousands on the anti-gay bandwagon while he pays for gay sex on the quiet. The anti-gay beat resonates across religious America with intense fervor as the wagon grows tall with followers of the Haggard position, no personal thought required; we’ll just follow gay Ted to loud and profane illogical conclusions.

It is not a crystallized thought with me at this point, but I am moving toward the idea that we are often simply too cowardly to act on our own thoughts. We find a chorus we are comfortable singing and then we find many others to sing it with, abandoning additional thought. It matters not that the song doesn’t belong to our heart or even represent our soul’s reflection. Rather it is the easy out, the repetition of another’s thought brought forward into reality without a proper gestation based on individual thought.

So we join the chorus that sounds more or less socially presentable to us, one that makes us acceptable to others. We do it because the consequences of being different or disputing the logic of the masses is unpleasant. This failure in stepping away from the tribe is apparent in history. If it were not true, then Hitler would not have done the damage he did and fanatical Muslims could not so willingly kill from atop their bandwagon of immense hate carrying the illogical notion that the service of virgins is the reward for the murder of fellow humans.

I say these things because I believe in a natural order handed down by the Creator. I believe all things are presented in the good and that evil originates from our failures to understand or correctly implement the natural law.

This might sound mysterious, but for me it is as simple as listening to the inner soul or perhaps what we think of as heart. If the heart and mind feel good and you do not suffer from psychosis, then I propose we are working in the natural order. If it somehow feels wrong then perhaps we should consider if we are atop another’s bandwagon instead of riding comfortably inside our own set of values and God granted abilities to discern good from evil

I fear the possibility that I follow the Piper across the illogical divide too often. I pray that it isn't true. I wish to be brave enough to ride on a bandwagon of one called 'me', walking in the good with logic in hand.

Point of Departure

The opening lines to the movie The Departed are given to Jack Nicholson. It’s something along the order of “I don’t want to be a product of my environment; I want the environment to be a product of me.”
Watching the movie I am given the impression the viewer is expected to absorb the message in a sinister manner. I got hung up on these lines. Given that these are the first spoken words of the movie meant I lost my place a couple of times as I mulled the thought through.
Somewhere in the front third of the movie came another honey of a line. Replying to another actor that has stated that he feels like he is dying, Nicholson deadpans “We all are, act accordingly.”
Now I have two memorable lines running through my brain and my concentration on the movie began to develop slow leaks. I’m betting the director and writers were not expecting the audience might get hung up on contemplation over a couple of lines, but they are memorable lines aren’t they?
Can this first remarkable phrase about the environment be considered sinister? The actions, thoughts and behavior of Hitler or Bin Laden could prove this case in my reasoning. Could it be used in white ways? It sounds like the working philosophy of Jesus, Gandhi or Mother Teresa as well. This is truly a double edged sword of a phrase.
“I don’t want to be a product of my environment; I want the environment to be a product of me.” We could all spend some time with that phrase. I thank the writers of The Departed for sharing it with me. Maybe it has an historical origin and my lack of literacy limits me having known this phrase before.
The second line that confirms we are all dying and therefore should ‘act accordingly’ carries equal paradox to the careful listener. We can turn that phrase inside out and re-write it as “We are all living, act accordingly” and then we might still wonder if we have the same meaning in place?
The movie itself is a twisting tale of violence and double-cross, the sort of Hollywood brew that turns back on itself so many times it is easy to get lost. There are lots of bullets through brains and folks leaving life in violent and improbable ways. And of course the main characters are inevitably united in a mano v mano scene where all other cops and criminals are mysteriously absent even though the scene began with their presence.
I’m taking away these two memorable lines to work with:
“I don’t want to be a product of my environment; I want the environment to be a product of me.”….and….“We all are, act accordingly” in reference to dying.
For some reason I am reminded of another very memorable line given to Nicholson in the movie Chinatown. The principal actress in the movie telephones Nicholson and asks him if he is alone….the reply from Nicholson was “Aren’t we all?”
These are three remarkable phrases to think about on Monday. I’m twisting them inside out and standing them upside down. I’m going to shake their pockets toward gravity later. I want to see if I can get a little more out of them.

For now, TTYL.

Seven Leaves of Autumn

If I could catch the now I would place it in a jar,
I would watch it and come to know it;
I would cling tightly to the hope of understanding what I see.

When I open the window of the car on an October morning,
I feel the cool breeze and smell the clean air.
I hear the children play on the school playground,
Their laughter resonates against, and then mixes with the fall breeze.
I feel the now; and then it is gone again.

My mind ricochets around the past, and then bounds toward the future.
The present is left to wait.
The children play but I no longer hear.
I wait in expectation for the future; I wish yesterday had not disappeared without warning.
If I could catch the now I would place it in a jar,
I would screw the lid down tight.

To see the world as it wants to be.
To know now is enough.
To understand today’s now becomes tomorrow’s memory in a blink.
To know that tomorrow is not yet earned.

To feel the tear on the cheek as though it were the first one ever.
To hear the birds sing as if it was all new.
To smell the autumn; the smell of a fireplace burning as it moves across the evening air.
To feel the leaves under my feet, and the rain on my head.

To see a friend’s smile and comprehend it as a golden gift.
To feel as if I were dreaming with my eyes open wide.
To see the world as it wishes to be for me.
To know now is enough.
If I could catch the now I would place it in a jar,
I would give it to you; and laugh when you laugh.

If I could catch the now I would place it in a jar,
I would try with all that is inside me to embrace it.
And if I did hold it long enough,
I would give you seven leaves of autumn, of different colors each.
I would do it right now,
And smile when you smile.

If I could catch the now.

Man With A Crooked Smile

I was raised in the kind of poverty that wasn’t oppressive enough to make an emotional dent. It was the type of want that prevented new clothes. I wore my older brother’s clothes as he grew larger. Often the pants had patches on the knees. We didn’t go to restaurants. If we went on a vacation it consisted of visiting the local lake for a weekend of camping out and cooking over an outdoor grille. Genuine world travelers were we.

I was loved back then and the same people that loved me then love me still. Some are gone of course, but I trust they still come around and accept me despite their graduate status.

One thing that was not available to me was dental care beyond the basics. It hasn’t turned out so bad really; I have a handful of fillings now later in life. But the word orthodontics was unknown in our house, at least I had never heard of the word until many years later. I have paid for orthodontics, writing check after check for my kids. Tomorrow my day comes. At 55 years of age I will have a set of braces placed on my teeth. It happens tomorrow morning (Wednesday). Our blog friend Leonard Leonard said I should write about this. I was hesitant. I am a little modest about my teeth I suppose. They are well taken care of, clean and white. The bottom ones are more crooked than the top. Most of the time when I smile and show only top teeth it looks normal for a baby boomer I suppose.

Still writing about something so personal seemed difficult for me so I decided not to do so.

I changed my mind this morning.

Isn’t it interesting the way that small things we say to one another can have such a dramatic impact? We talk a lot of nonsense to one another, particularly bloggers, but every now and then someone will say something to you that makes a bullseye. Not the type bullseye that Warren Buffett describes. He says too often we shoot the arrow and then walk up and draw a circle around the arrow, then draw great comfort in our shooting accuracy. Instead I am talking about a true bullseye, a comment that hits the mark of our consciousness and strikes deep, sometimes good and sometimes ill.

That happened to me this morning and it created the springboard for me to be able to write about this experience in my life. The comment came from my little brown eyed girl here at home. We were talking about the details of the event; sore mouth, sore teeth and pain killers. She stood looking at me for a second longer than my instincts might expect her to and then she said, “You know, I think I am going to miss that crooked little smile of yours.”

The power of this statement didn’t hit me for a while, but when it did I knew I needed to write about it. For me it meant unconditional love was surrounding me. Isn’t this what we all seek? To know that we are loved despite our imperfections? To know that someone loves us so much that our imperfections are not only forgiven, but possibly even incorporated into the base equation for that acceptance and love? For me it turned into a spiritual signal moment

To feel her love despite my imperfections, and to have it expressed in such a disarming and simple fashion, this was my gift from the brown eyed girl today. It’s priceless to me.

Someone said grown men don’t cry?

Sometimes the man with the crooked smile does.

Waiting for Tomorrow

I’m always waiting.

I’m not sure what it is that I am waiting for.

Staring at the clock. It’s 2pm and I wonder if 3pm will be different.

Watching the rain and waiting for the sun.

Watching the sun and waiting for the rain.

Waiting.

Wishing for the things upon which I wait.

Waiting for the thing upon which I wish.

Waiting to see who loves me at the end.

Wishing that my wait for the end is not near.

Waiting.

What is around my corners?

What is contained in the day known as tomorrow?

Waiting to find out.

Waiting for the night, then the darkness causes me to await the light.

Waiting. I’m always waiting.

When will now be enough?

The fatigue of waiting makes me want change.

Waiting on the change from waiting all the time.

When will now be enough?

Bucket of Balls

The first cool evening of fall blew through North Texas last night. It reached the remarkable low of 54 degrees F.

This morning I am watching leaves as they bid goodbye to their host of many months. Brown with age, they are being lifted on the wind to a new home on the surface of the grass, their greener friends still in place and seeming to wave at the aged ones below. The freed leaves tumble along with a steady north wind, their ultimate destination subject to the directional whim of the wind, much like all parts of nature, including our own lives at times. The leaves and their fall ritual reminds me that I don’t much care for ritual. I never have really been one to revel in doing things just because we always have. But wait, now that I have actually typed that thought I realize it is inaccurate to a fault. I should have said I dislike particular traditions. Others I enjoy.

I really do like watching the World Series each year and have no quarrel with it, only joy and contentment, except for the incredibly annoying and hyper-self important commentary of Joe Morgan.

I really don’t like Christmas. I really don’t, and I think many others don’t like it as well. I’m not talking about religious significance. I’m talking about the travel to relatives; travel that is expected of you, or you land in the family dog house. My mom’s dog house is a big one. She can fit lots of wayward in there and I understand she is considering adding a couple of rooms. I’m talking about the sister-in-law’s that are amazingly shallow. The ones that think clever conversation is to discuss Oprah’s best shows, followed by expressing genuine reflections about life and Oprah. Or, seeing the same green jello thing with sliced bananas in it that some damn body makes; now 27 years in a row. I never asked who is making this stuff, but it appears that it is a family member that hasn’t passed yet. Or, having to listen to my mom’s second husband who appears to believe that evil is committed and the world is unsafe unless he is talking non-stop about himself, all the while mistakenly assuming that I am the very best listener in the family.

I really do enjoy new green grass in the spring. The scent of the green never fails to remind me of baseball. I go into my garage and stare at the two very large plastic buckets of new baseballs. These are the seldom used balls that survived my years of coaching. I always take one out and carry it in the house with me. I imagine them all raising their hands and saying “take me this time, take me!” Only one gets to go into the house each spring. I love that tradition.

I don’t like praying in public. For all of you that read here, you know that I own a strong spirituality, and still this one gives me the ‘heebies’. I think it began in my youth, listening to male relatives pray before meals using the same worn phrases and prayer clichés. At some point in my youth I ran across the bible quote about always praying in a closet and not making a public spectacle of praying. I like this idea better than the overreaching and bizarre prayers that come out of some people’s consciousness. Now as a family male elder, I am called on for the Christmas or Thanksgiving prayer and I tell you I detest having to do this. Bear in mind that refusing the task results in permanent dog house status with 2 padlocks on the door, a bowl of water and no food. I think of public praying much like I think about public dancing. The amateurs should very definitely leave this task to a professional. At all times.

There you have it; 2 ‘dislikes’ and 2 ‘likes’ about traditions, anyone see a pattern?

Singing at Midnight

A bird sang at midnight last night.

Outside my open bedroom window its incessant happiness worked its way inside the window and pried my eyes gently open.

Was it happiness? I suppose that’s my interpretation of a birds call.

What causes a bird to sing at midnight?

The clock on the wall worked its rhythmic beat in one ear as I lay still in the night.

The bird in the tree wove her song through the remainder of quiet the clock left behind, the vibrancy of her sound mocking the stillness.

I blinked and watched my ceiling fan rotate. The fan cascaded a pattern of nighttime urban light against a dark ceiling, the type visual pattern that owns its own rhythm.

The clock ticked and the fan rotated with the steady beat of electric impulse. A faint cough came from a distant bedroom and a happy bird sang its song at midnight.

My mind skipped from thought to thought like a smooth rock across the surface of water, never sinking into a specific knowing, just skipping along without time to stop; defying the gravity of serious immersion.

In time, like the rock that must ultimately succumb to gravity, my thoughts slowed as well.

I thought about the steady beat of the clock and compared it to the unexpected song of the bird.

The bird sang with consciousness, while the clock worked from electric impulse.

I thought about the steady beat of life, the day to day slog through convention.

I thought about the iconoclasts of our world, the figures that have dared to march out of step.

I thought about Gandhi. I thought about Martin Luther King.

I thought about running full speed down a track at 55 years of age, training as though I were 20, all for the simple joy of running fast.

I thought about the world’s inventors and explorers, those that defied convention and took risks despite the warnings of conventional wisdom, owning the courage to sing at midnight.

A distinct cooling breeze pushed its way through the window and across the sheets of the bed. The clock ticked its steady mechanical rhythm. The fan twirled along in chorus.

The bird sang in counterpoint, a happy melody of defiance to the birds that sing only in the morning.

The rock skipped across more water and I thought about how happy my life has become as I have grown older. I was wide awake when the rock succumbed to gravity. I finally knew, beneath my sheets and in the company of a solitary defiant singer of happy songs, I knew why we must learn to sing at unconventional times.

I felt gratitude for the knowing, and gratitude for all the birds that sing at midnight.

******************************************

Photo Credit: The baby photo was shot this weekend in the studio by my pro photographer wife (AKA Brown Eyed Girl)

A Copycat Is Born

In Las Vegas and Bailey, Colorado and also Quarryville, Pennsylvania the madness of irrational murder of the innocent was played out in dramas that bombarded our consciousness in horrifying repetition.

We wrote about sadness. Who would not feel this sadness? Those who are raising or have raised children feel it keenly. We wrote about our outrage. We talked in disparaging terms about the madmen. We flashed their images, their history and their methods from coast to coast on network and cable news programs and news web sites. As a nation we asked why.

My fear today is for those that did not feel the sadness or outrage. Across our world lie many shattered souls, individuals holding with shaking hands to a glimmer of sanity. Waking in the morning they see visions of killing and revenge. They reflect on their lives spent in pain and humiliation. Maybe the humiliation is self generated and maybe it is exogenous in its origin. Whatever its source it is an adumbrant presence in their consciousness. Our friend Enemy of the Republic wrote recently about our love affair with the sociopath. I encourage you to read her thoughts and the thoughts of her readers. If we did not ask ourselves how to protect our children it would be both ignorant and slovenly. Some wish the police were better equipped to deal with the emergencies. Some hope for total school security. Many, as they always do, entertain notions of banning guns, as though it were as simple as buttering toast in the morning. Those that see the folly of banning guns as an impossible process wish for an armed community that guns down the madmen before they kill us, raising the specter of role reversal in the tick of a clock.

For my part this morning I am focused on the communication aspect of this problem, though I freely admit to its being akin to studying water molecules at the ocean’s surface. Still, when I read the cable news network web sites I was met time after time with the photo of the killers. Below the photo was the story of the crime, complete with mental history or lack thereof, the modus of operation for the crime, the speculation of the experts, the count of the dead and all of the other details with which we are emotionally broadsided. Predominant in all the stories is the outline of the killer and his life. It is a virtual news celebration of the sociopath.

Somewhere in our world the individuals I described above, the ones that cling with tenacity to their sanity while simultaneously staying in touch with their anger read also. They read and internalize it with their own struggle. A copy cat is born.

Have we glamorized these madmen to the point that those that walk the edge make the mistake of confusing ill-gained notoriety with self importance? The question poised at the edge of the frontal lobe of the disturbed turned crisply into the answer, “I can do it better than that, and I will prove it.”

I have no idea if this is correct or blind wandering. I am an architect by training, not a brain examiner with skills. However, I am normally rational to the point of hoping that some solutions do not require certified brain sleuths. Is it not simple enough to understand that it just might be irresponsible to paste the madman’s photo and life story across every broadcast and news web page in America? Would it would not be more helpful to use the communications to point toward sources that can help the shadowy insane find help? Watching everywhere in America and even around the world are the shadow killers. The mind of man that awakes in the morning and packs the tools they read about the day before, uncertain if they will use them that day.

Could we spend more communication resources more responsibly on preventing the madman from walking into the trap of ill-gained notoriety? I believe that if they were not celebrated, we might make a start. I know the opposing argument already. It goes something like this, “We are only reporting the news, it was someone else that did these horrible things, and we are only reporting the news.” It’s a decent argument.

It falls short for me however. The fact is that FOX, CNN, MSNBC, ABC and all the other acronyms are competing for our dollars and viewer ratings.

We reward them by pulling our chair up closer to learn all about the mystery madman that killed innocent children, falsely believing that this is the only injured and angry human with this capability and thank goodness now they are gone. Perhaps we should pull our chairs back in an act of defiance, bringing the power of the dollar to bear on the corner executive that silently hopes for yet another killing on this day because the news is slow?

I am not tardy in taking my own limited action. I have written letters and emails to the broadcasters asking them to please quit glorifying madmen for a national audience. I encourage the same of all Americans. Let’s use our communication resources to reach out to the shadowy figures of mayhem, the sociopath that is confused about personal glory and how to best achieve it. Can we help the sociopaths that express their anger and harbor a desire to kill become less confused about the concept of personal honor and glory? They walk among us all and they listen to the news. They surface on some of the blogs we read, expressing statements of death and murder. They are asking for help. Can we give help in both a personal and national way? I believe we can, but we must first begin to purge from our society the brewing confusion between what honor and glory mean and what murder of the innocent and insanity mean. It is too fine a distinction for the many that struggle with their madness. Is it because we have moved the ends of the yardstick of definitions too close together?

Kids These Days

“It seems like kids know nothing these days.” I have heard this phrase all my life. And the phrase gets repeated generation after generation, so much so that it seems to be conventional wisdom.

Many that use this phrase leave no room for discussion. I’m left wondering if this is the way they wish it to be or if they have convinced themselves, or maybe they have heard it enough that it is now their truth.

Every time I hear this phrase and its equivalent “Kids these days!” I cringe a little.

I do so because I recognize that they begin life with zero knowledge of our world, its laws, teachings or values. They assimilate the values from the people that are slightly older, the very ones that decry the lost intelligence of generations that follow. From parents and grandparents come the lessons of life, the teachings and values they come to hold as their own. As information technology grows this process of passing knowledge becomes more difficult for individuals. We see influences of television, movies, music and video games stamped across the brains of our children. We see positive things as well. We see a vast network of information spread before their eyes and fingers in a way we never dreamed of or imagined we would ever experience.

The information is often technical however. I’ve not yet seen a video game dealing with ethics or moral choice. Information marketed to teens is rarely of the ethics and honor variety, rather themes like ‘jackass’ bring the dollars to the tv executives and shareholders.

It then becomes easy for us to turn our back and declare it is the fault of the world outside of us that kids have no manners, values, honor or knowledge. This is too easy I think.

If we are so convinced that kids have lost their way, defined as OUR way, then why are we so reticent to teach the values? Why do we blame an outside world?

I am drifting off into moralizing and hoped not to do so, still I see a world of kids with incredible potential. Theirs is a potential far greater than yours or mine for no other reason than that they are living through a continually advancing world of knowledge at a time later than you or I.

We inherit what we sow, do we not? This is wisdom handed down through the Books of Wisdom and layers of time. The next time we want to lament the ignorance of our children perhaps we should remind ourselves who has been teaching them, and then ask if we might have been teaching them at all?

I am reminded of the NFL head coach that declared at his weekly press conference that he was coaching the stupidest football team of all time. He said it was a team that appeared to know nothing about football. He said it with a straight face. He appeared to believe the responsibility for teaching them football belonged with someone else.

I laughed. He kept frowning.

The Man in the Glass

The image in the glass is not me. I don’t know this man.

The glass that contains the reflection belongs to the Metrorail in St. Louis. The glass reflects the image of a man in his mid fifties. That is the face I see. I see the face that used to be me.

This illusion of time is shattered as I sit and stare at me. The illusion becomes solid the longer I sit and this man holds my stare. The image doesn’t change. The sun behind my head that makes the image possible warms my recently shaved head, bounces off the glass and onto my retina, burning in the image of the older man, the one that used to be me. I am on my way to the St Louis Airport.

I’m thinking as I stare. The thoughts are not the type you can capture, but more like the dreams of night, fleeting and then gone. They are not the sort of thoughts that one can write about. At least I can’t organize them, and I have no paper and no laptop. I have my transitory thoughts only, plus a suitcase, and the older man image staring back at me. I sit motionless as if in a trance, staring at the image of the man that used to be me.

The train rocks and weaves, even seeming to bounce. It crawls to a stop at Busch Stadium where the Cardinals play and fans are exiting the stadium and crowding onto the train. Young boys with their fathers are wearing persistent smiles formed in place by baseball and train rides and sunny days of youth spent in St. Louis on a bright Sunday afternoon. I remember baseball and its impact on my life and I think about its impact on my son’s life. I think about my grandson and his good fortune to live so near a historic professional baseball team. The fathers and smiling sons leave the train in a slow migration to their homes, a few at this stop, a few more at the next. I’m alone again in the train car. The man in the glass stares back. The reflection of the man that is different than the man I remember. He is older, more wrinkled after just a few more stops down the tracks and in the oddest of fashions this man now seems to look quite wise. He is bald like an eastern sage, wearing glasses as if to declare that even if he is an eastern sage he still comes down from the mountain top to visit the optometrist. He looks far wiser than the man I used to be.

I didn't like this man at first, when I first saw him on the train, this man staring resolutely back at me, his gaze following my own without embarrassment. I have been staring at him for an hour now. Bumping and weaving along, people coming and going and yet this man never moved. He only stared back at me and somewhere along the way I began to warm up to him.

He looked kind in a way. He looked expressionless as if he were deep in thought about something but he wasn’t about to let me know what it might be. He seemed more agreeable to me now, this man that stared back, this man that used to be me.

The man in the glass smiled. Finally he even laughed. As I rose to exit at the airport I looked at him a last time. I saw a tear on the cheek of the man in the glass, this man that used to be me and never cried. Then the man laughed at himself again at the same moment that I laughed at him.

I liked him now, this wise and kind looking older man; this man that smiled and laughed at himself. I said goodbye to this reflection in the glass; goodbye to the man that used to be me.

Freight Trains and Bridges

Bridges fascinate me. They always have. Many years ago when I was 10 years old I almost lost my life on a bridge. It was a bridge specifically erected to allow freight trains to pass over a road. This particular bridge was wide enough for the train and little else, just room enough to stand sideways against the steel side barrier and not be run over. You literally could not stick out an arm without losing it because the standing room was so tight. As you might guess, a train came along while I was meandering across it one day and I had no other option than to stand sideways and hold my breath for what seemed like forever. The next available option was to be totally smushed at ten years old. I had more imaginary home runs to hit, so I stood with my butt tight to the railing. I never used that bridge to cross the road again.

There are bridges that impress me for their remarkable engineering, others that make their mark on my imagination because of their beauty, or conversely, their simplicity.

I also love hiking through wilderness. Often I have seen the obvious signs of human wanderings because of a tree trunk laid carefully across a ravine, or a primitive style bridge engineered ‘on the fly’ by some one needing access to the other side.

In military schools thick textbooks are used on the subject of taking out enemy bridges. It disrupts supply lines and transport of troops to key areas. If they were not vital, why bother? One hundred more military textbooks are devoted to temporarily re-building the bridges that were destroyed so we can use them ourselves after the enemy territory is secured.

So we build them in peace and we destroy them in war. Does this sound familiar? It sounds like a lot of our personal relationships to me.

I find myself analyzing some relationships of the past, wondering about bridges burned and sacked.

Some bridges I wish were still in place. Others, well lets just say I’m thinking I never needed to be on the other side.

Chavez Will Have Glover's Baby

Seven's Satire Report News
Seattle, Washington

Barbabra Nantz of Seattle is fed up with the current Administration and its lies. Ms. Nantz is the founder of American Women against Forced Childbirth. Ms. Nantz contacted Seven’s Satire Report News requesting an interview for her cause yesterday.

Ms. Nantz told SSRN reporters that her organization supports the idea of men giving birth to children. In her carefully worded statement she said, “Women have been giving birth to children for so many years without a male taking on his responsibilities in childbirth that the world has come to believe that only women are capable of birthing children. This is yet another demonstration that the Administration in power is the enemy of all mankind.” In a later part of her statement she read “The fact that Arnold Schwarzenegger gave birth in a movie several years ago lifted the lid on this well kept Administration secret that men can in fact give birth. What has happened is that this administration has once again, like I mean, evil Bush, has decided to terrorize women by forcing them to have all the children for the world, while they callously abuse their own time and power by doing things like rigging the World Trade Centers with explosives and intentionally knocking them down and then afterward like they actually blame it on terrorists and everything stupid like that,” said Nantz.

After finishing her formal statement to my reporters, Nantz said the moment of truth is upon the current Administration. “This next spring we will witness natural childbirth by a man, thus revealing the wanton corruption of power by the current President and everything”, she said before lowering her voice and adding, “The child will be the love child of Hugo Chavez and Danny Glover.” When pressed about her sources Nantz confirmed that Molly Ivins was her source for this bombshell news, and that Harry Belafonte had confirmed the story.

Stay tuned for continuing developments.

Council Issues Statement in Golden, Colorado

Seven's Satire Report News
Golden, Colorado
September 20, 2006

The Council of Christian Dyed-in-the-Wool Leadership issued an official statement yesterday afternoon in an attempt to clarify its position on the recent comments by the Pope and the resultant outcry among Muslim faithful. The Council's president, Reverend James Micheals, read the following statement to Seven's gathered reporters.
"The Council is unified in its feeling that both parties to this dispute, both Catholic and Muslim demonstrators, should be blessed from this point forward with a powerful golden shower of love from the Lord."

Jennifer Squalls, Executive Director of the National Society of Watersports Enthusiasts said members of her organization are deeply offended by the Council's statement, believing that the group is attempting to belittle her organizations mission statement. She said her group plans a protest in downtown San Francisco on the next rainy Saturday.

Reverend Micheals says he doesn't understand what Ms. Squalls means.

End of Report.

Sad Irony

Let me see if I understand correctly......the Pope reads from a medieval text about someone else saying that Islam teachings can be evil and inhuman....and the Muslim reaction is to gun down innocent nuns and burn Catholic churches?
Oh, I see. That should cetainly prove their point and lovingly illustrate their outrage.
Does anyone else see the sad irony here?

Adjusting Sails

This is the third and likely the last post on the fragments of maps concept. I am particularly struck by the articulation about our mutual world that you each express. When I write and then come back to read the very thoughtful comments it makes we aware that you are out there thinking of so many important things and that you are willing to share your thoughts. That is meaningful to me.

I have asked myself the question, “Would these ideas be better discussed around a table?” or is the discussion via web and print just as effective? The question ended in a laugh at me just because the first option is probably not plausible. So I will move on in print with my fragments of maps and hope to pick up a new one or two from you. I want to expand the comment box into a post and particularly talk about the comments from lynilu, ilias and enemy of the republic.

Lynilu said “You Can't Direct the Wind but You Can Adjust the Sails.” Well, maybe it was her fortune cookie that said this but she has captured it into her daily thinking. I am going to disagree momentarily. But I want to come back to it later. She also said that personal responsibility is vital to our peace with others. To this I agree wholeheartedly. This is a natural fit to my theory of a natural law that guides us along a path that is open to scrutiny as to the actions correctness or incorrectness. It is sometimes surprisingly easy to determine if our equations are correct, but often much harder to admit to them being incorrect. The idea of personal responsibility is in good company with me because we must always be willing to assess our behaviors and decisions to form a correct equation with the Creator’s guiding laws.

ilias said “I like to think that it is our thoughts (followed by actions) that create things that happen in the world or to us or near us, etc. If enough of us here on earth think about tragedy all the time, it will inevitably manifest. It must as the law of manifestation.” Yes ilias, this is indeed the largest and clearest map I hold after 55 years of searching. It is a truth to me, no longer a wondering. I like to say it this way, “The fate we believe in, we bring to pass.” This is a vital concept to me. It doesn’t mean that I will control the good v. evil choices of others. It doesn’t mean I will save myself from a crazed and angry gunman in Montreal, but it does mean I will face the world with personal responsibility for my direction and my choices; and if each of us did the same our world would improve dramatically. This idea is wedded to lynilu’s idea of personal responsibility as easily as rain and sky. We can bring sadness to our lives or we can bring good things, but it takes courage to declare it as personal truth. It’s so much easier to abdicate truth for the ‘victims’ cry of “Why oh why do bad things always happen to me?” In the simplicity of down home Texas talk, “Well maybe because you had been expecting trouble all along?”

Enemy of the Republic said, “Instead of asking: Why is this happening or How can a loving God allow this--the question may be "what is my own relationship to evil and suffering"? This falls gently into place with my thoughts about natural law and a perfect coordination with the equations of the perfect life. The presence of evil illustrated by my maps is the practice of an imperfect equation, the art of applying the natural law in a manner that results in the wrong answer. If we can look at evil this way, in the way EOTR advises us, we find the ability to discover the erroneous equation. In simpler wording, we discover the incorrect answers and they can be discarded in our search for the correct answers. This is a gem of simple truth wrapped in a complex thought. Evil exists because we are misapplying the natural law of the Creator and of our universe. How better to eliminate it than to embrace its erroneous reality, again as EOTR advises, and by doing so coming to understand why it not a successful equation?

If I return to the saying “You Can't Direct the Wind but You Can Adjust the Sails” I would take these ideas of (1) personal responsibility, (2) knowing that we can shape our world through our thoughts and actions and (3) that we can confirm that evil is present via its negative relationship to natural order and thereby clearly identify it for what it is, then I would gently suggest the phrase could be written this way instead.

“You Can Direct the Wind and You Can Adjust the Sails.”

I value your comments. Much Love as always.

Seven

Working The Equation

It is the nature of men and women to search for answers. The question that surfaces quickly here is ‘why would we wonder about things’ if it is not the natural order of our minds? If it were not natural to seek all the answers, it would be required that we learn this attribute. But we don’t teach our children to wonder, and we were not taught to wonder at an instinctual level. We do so because wonder occurs naturally.

Watch a child stare at a rainbow, and if you can’t explain it, you might want to run hide, because they will ask you all about the rainbow. In the question of that child we find naturally occurring wonder, a wonder that remains all of our lives.
But we change the aim of our wonder as adults. We wonder about the things I wrote about in my last post. My central point in the post was that we should never stop wondering and searching. If we stop searching and wondering and we say “it doesn’t matter’ we close the door to investigation and thought itself. In many cases perhaps we simply consider the work too rigorous.
So we stare solemnly at the reality of children dying before their time or madmen with guns angrily shooting down the innocent. We label the gunman insane, wonder no more, and move along like cattle to a barn, back into our warm stable of contentment, though still quite frightened by insane men in black trench coats. Maybe it will always be someone else gunned down; not me or mine.
I believe our world is composed of the Creator’s natural order. It is an order that responds to only good and knows no evil. Yes, I do believe this. And when I talk with others about this they always fire back, “But Seven, evil is all around you.”
I know this fact about evil too well. Should we blame evil and injustice on the Creator and his plan? If we accept this notion we are acknowledging a less than perfect God and a life filled with landmines for all generations that might come after us.
If we look at the science of math we see easily enough that a math problem can be worked incorrectly. If we work it incorrectly, is the ‘law of math’ at fault? No, because the law of math is perfect so far as mathematicians can observe. Solving it correctly is the art of correct application of the science. The science of math has no power over how we use it. We can use it correctly or incorrectly; however incorrect answers cannot be blamed on the order or rules of math.
This is much the way I think about the natural law of the Creator. Can we blame God for the children that die early in automobile collisions. We may try to blame God, but the fact is clear that man invented a machine of a few thousand pounds, composed of steel, rubber and glass and sent it propelling down a strip of concrete at high speed, with the child placed inside the machine. Is this the correct working of the problem? The automobile is convenient to our lives and so we convince ourselves that it must be God that has taken our child for reasons unknown to us. It might be too difficult to admit that our invented solution for moving people is not a correct solution in the eyes of natural law. But I think it is always much like this. It is simpler to blame God than to believe our answers are incorrect.
Many die in hurricanes each year, and we wring our hands and wonder why God is so angry with us. Then we vow to reconstruct our homes in the path of hurricanes to come, never questioning if we have worked the equation of natural law correctly. Nature is surely sending us a message that our choice of home location, or perhaps construction quality, is not in accordance with the Creator’s plan?
Inside both of these examples lie fragments of the maps I discussed. These thoughts represent a small part of my tattered and glued together fragments of map; the pieces I keep folded in my pocket. They are maps that point to a natural order that waits to be found, a fleeting yet powerful point of clarity. Creator has given us a natural order, constructed of complex outline, and he/she instructs us to seek IT. We are not only allowed, we are expected to find it, but we must strive and observe. It is an order that has rules and beauty of precision, much like math, filled with good and enormous possibility for personal expansion.
It is our opportunity to look at the equations before us and come to a point where we know the hidden and correct value on the other side of the equation. These will be breakthroughs on a spiritual plane that will be equal to our resolve and intent. We must continue to seek and not blame the Universe, but rather look for the answers in the laws laid before us for inspection.

Then one day we will not say to our children…”it doesn’t matter”…because we will know it always did matter, and only good will walk inside.

Fragments of Maps

More than one child died in an automobile accident today. Somewhere a man in despair took his own life. In Montreal a gunman opened fire on innocent bystanders. Glass lies broken on the street. Blood and brain tissue stain the wall adjacent to the hole made by the bullet and its fallen victim lies below. Montreal citizens run from a source of evil unseen.

How do we explain such things to young minds and hearts when it makes no sense to our seasoned minds and hearts?

Some blame God. Some blame mankind. Hate mounts, even among citizens of the same national and familial origin.

As a youth I asked many questions of religious leaders, particularly the ones I grew up around. I asked about pain and suffering. I asked about the early unreasoned death of a child with cancer. I asked and then I asked some more.

I was pointed toward the writings of C.S. Lewis. I was pointed to the words of Jesus. I was told it didn’t matter; all that matters is recognizing that God knows. I was looked at with blank looks that hoped the ceiling might catch on fire to divert attention from my question.

I dismissed the ‘it doesn’t matter' answer as searchers sloth and spiritual surrender.

I’m still asking and searching.

Fragments of maps litter my path. Pieces of map that point toward another part of the map I can’t find. Nightmares wake me in the darkness. Light illuminates a thought until I think I might hold the thought in my pen, only to find it is quicker than ephemeral, evaporating like vapor escapes into the sky. I squeeze my eyes to focus my brain, but it is gone again, this vapor of understanding that teases me and then turns resolutely to punishment.

We pick up the glass from the pavement and we scrub the walls. We search for the gunman. Day after day. Week after week. Then we leave earth and the others follow behind to do our work, leaving us resembling a retired employee never missed.

I know God will not give me the answer unless I search. Maps litter the path I have walked; more wait to be unfolded. I look to the earth and shed tears for those whom we would answer, 'it doesn't matter.'

Hysterical Society To The Rescue

Seven Satire Report News
Shedville, Kentucky
July 2005

Retired Greyhound bus driver Jimmy Dunkin is a bit upset with Marjorie Jenkins. According to my sources in Kentucky, the trouble began when Jimmy let it slip out that he intended to tear down his outside storage shed that had begun to lean seriously to one side.

It seems he told Betty Adams at church one day. Betty, as it turned out was best friends with Marjorie Jenkins, the wealthy wife of Louisville retailing millionaire Sam Jenkins.
As fate would have things, Marjorie is president of the Blue Grass Architectural Hysterical Historical Society. The mission of the society according to Mrs. Jenkins is to save old buildings from destruction.

In an interview with Seven Satire reporters Mrs. Jenkins says she intervened in the destruction of the leaning shed, some 175 miles from her home in Louisville, “Because it is built with lumber that is old and came from very old trees.” She added, “Also the nails used to hammer it together were sold from a very old hardware store that is no longer in existence.”

Mr. Dunkin has now been stopped from tearing down the shed by an emergency injunction issued by the Kentucky state court system. The court order states that the shed is illustrative of ‘old shed’ buildings in the State of Kentucky and because it is now leaning over it can serve as an example of shed failure not normally preserved for study.

July 2006

One year later Mr. Dunkin shed has been awarded a Blue Grass Architectural Hysterical Historical Society plaque that the State of Kentucky ordered applied to the wall despite Mr. Dunkins' protests. According to Dunkin, “that danged plaque causes morons of all kinds to stop and stand around looking at the silly thing and wondering why it’s important. I tell ‘em its cuz the state sez it’s got old nails, and they seem genuinely impressed, and then I tell ‘em about the old boards and the old trees and they start phoning their friends on their cell phones to tell them all about it.”

For her part, Marjorie is quite pleased. “When I married Sam he told me I could do wonderful things with my time working in community service and all, especially using his money to accomplish all the good things,” she beamed. “And the best part of all is that the Hysterical Historical Society I founded has saved several other sheds in the state too, but this ‘lil shed in Shedville will always be special to me.”

A Ludacris Celebration of Ignorance

I stumbled across an email this weekend where I was apologizing for failing to answer a question in a way that totally suited the person asking the question. I explained to this person that my response was unacceptable in their eyes simply because I lacked the necessary knowledge in the subject area to know my answer was inadequate. I really tried to answer the question; I just didn’t have enough knowledge to ‘get there.’

I actually did want to know much more about the particular subject, so I phrased my explanation this way, “It may seem odd to you, but I am glad the answer is inadequate because it makes me aware that I have a great deal to learn. In a sense, I suppose I am celebrating my own ignorance.”

As we go along through life we so often think we need to know all things, or at least pretend that we do, and then hope like hell no one figures out that we do not. In the age of rapid information transfer we live in, it gets more difficult all the time to absorb the constant onslaught of information and deal with the default idea that we should know all things. I find myself frustrated occasionally that people around me know all about a particular subject, while I remain silent in embarrassment that I have never even heard of the subject. For the longest time, I wondered what the heck a blackberry was; the non-fruit type I mean.

I think more often lately I have fallen back onto this idea that it is not really so bad to not know all things that others might know. For example, take the rap artist Ludacris. Ludacris appeared in concert at my alma mater last week. There was a great deal of controversy and hand wringing about his appearance as a result of his controversial lyrics. And yet, when I discussed this with friends, many looked at me in puzzlement and said “Who is Ludicrus?”

And if you have read here very long and know my ‘personality’ you will know that was a very wide opening through which to drive my sarcastic wit.

I am rather glad actually that Ludicrus is invisible to so many.

I think when we truly want to know something, and we begin to zero in on learning or understanding it, we can truly come to value our ignorance in a way. Without the early ignorance, we would have no goals or inspiration to know more. And so in the oddest of twists a paradox emerges here. The paradox peaking over my shoulder today is that our ignorance can be celebrated, if only because it offers us the opportunity for it be overcome. And certainly, at the least, our ignorance does not have to be shaming, but merely a transitory phase, or in the case of Ludicrus, merely a blessing.

When we understand this, then perhaps we can all quit pretending that we know all the things we do not?
***********
Postscript: And oh yeah, I am not particularly picking on Ludacris here. His art belongs to him and we all get to decide about consuming his art. What I mean by 'the blessing' thing is that his power to influence has limits and that I believe is true (and good) for us all.
I am a fan of the movie 'Crash'. For many years I have had a love/hate relationship with the film industry, but I felt life was accurately portrayed in that movie and I applauded it's success.

United Nations Welcomes Karr and Jeffs as Peacekeepers

Sevens' Satire Report News
United Nations, New York City

In a stunning announcement today the US federal government said that John Mark Karr and William Jeffs will not face trial. Instead both will be reassigned to the United Nations at the request of Koffi Annan the United Nations Secretary General.

The US government says its motivation for avoiding trial of the two men is to avoid the expense of long public trials. Jeffs is accused of arranging marriages for and having sex with minor children as part of his religious practices. John Mark Karr, previously held for confessing to the murder of Jon Benet Ramsey continues to be held on child pornography charges.

According to government prosecutors, the United Nations will be a very good fit for both men. The world body recently admitted its UN peacekeepers in the Congo have routinely raped and sexually abused female war refugees including young female children. The UN admits such crimes extend into the past more than a decade in locations around the world. Various U.N. reports and interviews with humanitarian groups suggest that international peacekeeping missions are creating a predatory sexual culture among vulnerable refugees from relief workers who demand sexual favors in exchange for food to U.N. troops who rape women at gunpoint.

An anonymous federal prosecutor said, “Jeffs and Karr fit quite well into this culture and it allows us to avoid the great expense of trials for both.”

Discussions with Jeffs and Karr have led to plea bargains. According to my sources, both men are excited about the possibility of serving the United Nations.

Koffi Annan commented that both will make valuable additions to the United Nations culture of rape and pedophilia. However, he also lamented that he did not know how sharp either’s graft skills might be. Said Annan, “Graft and corruption may be something we need to teach them to create a fully functioning United Nations representative, one capable of rape and pedophilia and simultaneously accepting under the table money for selling their victims as sex slaves on the open market.”

“All these training goals will take time of course,” Annan added.

Reporting from St. Louis

Have you ever wondered how in the world there is enough food for all the people in the world to eat? Over the weekend I rode the Metrolink train from the Illinois outskirts into St. Louis. The Metrolink is disarmingly simple for a major city mass transit system. Instead of the typical spaghetti map composed of the primary colors assembled into an incomprehensible barrier to understanding, the metrolink map is one line with stations arranged along its path. Yes, that’s right. One graphic line. Perhaps it is a concession to the quality of the education in the St. Louis schools, but I think instead it is a good and simple way to layout a mass transit system.

Now back to the food question. Riding from my daughter’s house to the city, a distance of maybe twenty miles, we passed acres and acres of rolling corn and bean fields. Many more acres I’m confident than the acreage occupied by the city of St Louis. My daughter tells me this is the tip of the iceberg of farming in the region. I will wonder where all the food comes from never again; at least the corn and beans. I couldn’t help wondering about the lives lived on these farms. They are the quintessential photograph of American rural life; the white farm house with red barn and tall silo stationed in the geographic center of rolling green farmland. How would it be to call a farm like this your home?

I took the Metrolink to the airport yesterday. All the way from the farmlands, thru the length of the city, and arrived so late (because of a Cardinals game) I had to sprint through the airport like O.J. Simpson of long ago. Making matters worse, the TSA official wanted to hand check my carry-on bag. I guess because of my shaved head I looked the type to carry out a ruthless terrorist attack over the St. Louis arch. He was a young, muscular athletic appearing man. He found inside my carry on a couple of texts for training young sprinters in track and field. His face lit up like a kid at Christmas. Unfortunately this discovery turned into a track sprinter question and answer session, while I danced around and glanced at my watch nervously. Finally he bid me a good day; at least he did so to my rapidly disappearing butt that took off like the starters pistol had fired. I arrived at the gate in full sprint just as the boarding agent was giving me the ‘not on your life’ look. I sweet talked her. And as fate would have things, after I am the last person seated, (yes I know we all hate that guy) we then sat on the runway for 30 minutes waiting our turn to take-off.

I am a lifelong baseball fan. I am stuck with the Texas Rangers unfortunately. I lovingly refer to them as the Texas 500’s since they are paralyzed in a successive streak of .500 seasons. Give them credit for consistency anyway. If we lose today we are guaranteed a win tomorrow and a loss the next day, and so it goes.

They are more fortunate in St. Louis. It is a city with a treasure of baseball history and a love affair with the beloved Cardinals. Too much love in my opinion. We toured their new stadium on Saturday. People were lined up for entrance several hours before the game. Kids in Cardinal jerseys played baseball on the adjacent streets waiting for the gates to open. And then the pinnacle of Cardinal mania; the father, mother and three kid family all dressed in Cardinal jerseys and caps. Yes, these are grown men and women wearing “Pujols” and “Rolen” jerseys, the little tribe of red bejeweled baby cardinals following close behind, three small red caps following the two big red caps, like ducks along the banks of a lake, except in this case along the banks of Busch Stadium. I am a big baseball fan, but I mean COME ON! GET A LIFE, please.

I would like to nominate St. Louis for the easiest and best mass transit system I have seen. All of you in Philadelphia, New York and Chicago know what I am talking about! I don’t think anyone can really read the subway and bus maps in those cities. I doubt they are even correct. They don’t have to be; no one understands them anyway. I doubt also if they are ever updated. There is no point. Regulars know what to do by experience. Visitors ask questions of rude citizens and drivers. And guys like me end up at the Mets stadium by mistake instead of Yankee Stadium. At least there aren’t tribes of families dressed in Mets uniforms!

Ripples On The Water

My dad said we should be careful down at the river but I don’t think my brother Pete ever really pays attention to that. He has his .22 rifle in his left hand and tells me to be quiet so mom doesn’t see us leaving with the gun.
I’m 11 and my gun totin big brother Pete is 14 on this hot summer day in Texas in 1962. We are headed to the banks of the Trinity River about a mile from our house.
It’s the river that just last winter killed 5 teenage girls. It was all the newspaper could talk about for days and days afterward. On the first day it showed big black and white high school annual pictures of all the girls on the very front page. They were all smiling big as could be with wavy long hair and dresses with little bows at the collar. It talked about how they had nice personalities and stuff like that and what a big tragedy it was and all. Their car went off the road after they drank too much beer and went right down the bank and into the river. Most everybody said they were good girls and probably some store owner made a big mistake by giving them the beer. The second day the newspaper reported on all the things their parents said and also what their preachers and teachers said about it and all. On the third day they reported about the funerals of four of the girls. The other girl got mysteriously sent off to New Mexico for her funeral. Somebody said her daddy was too embarrassed about the beer and the talk to stay in town. There was a photograph of one of the mommas crying with her handkerchief held up to her nose while the preacher talked to her. She was wearing a necklace that looks like the one Beaver’s mom wears on ‘Leave it to Beaver’. I was a little afraid of the river after that, I wondered if the girls had ghosts that cried at night time and might even float the one mile right up to my bedroom window.

On the way out the door my next door buddy Glenn Ford joins up with us. Glenn’s 10. He didn’t ask if he could come. He never does. He’d probably follow me right into the path of a train come to think about it. His mom and dad named him after the movie star, but Glenn is kinda stupid. My mom says they musta dropped him on his head or something at the hospital and they didn’t bother to x-ray for damage or nothing, just sent him on home with his momma trying to act like nothing happened at all. Glenn’s dad works at the General Motors Factory up the street. Mr. Ford says Ford cars are for shittin' in. He only drives ‘built in Texas’ GM cars. That’s kinda funny to my mom too. She says maybe Glenn just takes after his dad in the brains area. His mom is something though with really big pretty knockers which she showed me once when she bent over to pick up the baby that was wailing like a little brat in the middle of the floor, I just happened by dumb luck to be staring at the dopey kid at the time and got a big eyeful. Hers are prettier than the first ones I ever saw in my dad’s magazine last year, the one he thought was hidden under the big rock under the house, but I like going under the house sometimes just goofing around and he didn’t know that, so I figure she could show her knockers off in a magazine too and be famous like Marilyn Monroe, only she has to take care of Mr. Ford and all the brats at her house and there’s six of them already.

When we get to the river Pete hands me the gun and dares me to shoot at the turtles that are floating along the surface. I don’t like killing things and he knows that which is why he is daring me. Me and Pete are a lot alike. He’s just daring me because he won’t kill them either but if he dares me first he can call me ‘chicken’, which of course means I will dare him back and then he will miss the turtle on purpose just to prove he’s brave enough to shoot at them.
My Uncle Jay says we are almost the same, meaning Pete and myself. That’s why he always calls me Repeat. That‘s what he says every time he sees us. “Well look at this willya, here comes ol Pete and his sidekick Repeat.” He says it every time. My dad thinks it’s funny so he calls me Repeat too, almost like he thought of it himself. If Uncle Jay isn’t around to take credit I guess it is like he thought of it himself to anyone that doesn’t know what I know.
Pete gets to keep his name in this ignorant game which is why I don’t like it too much.
I toss a rock into the river just to watch the ripples. I like throwing things, especially rocks into the water, because I can try to hit the turtles on their backs. They always dive down when I actually hit them like they think the Japs are bombing them at Pearl Harbor or something. Then I watch the ripples grow bigger and bigger above their sinking and dying turtle shells.

“You know what that means when the ripples go out like that?” asked Pete. Glenn asked what a ripple is, but we just ignored him like we always do.
Knowing Pete watches a lot of TV I decide he probably knows what it means and anything I answer is gonna get laughed at so I bite on the question. “No ignoramus, what the hell do the ripples mean?” Pete ignores my insult figuring he had something important to teach his little brother like the day he taught me to throw a curveball, “Dad says it’s the same as telling a lie or telling something nice about someone.” “That’s right” said Glenn. We knew Glenn was probably thinking about something altogether different than we were so we just talked around him. “What do you mean? I don’t get how a rock in the water and ripples is like a lie.” Pete sat back on the bank and tried to act wise, “Well the ripples are like someone you tell a lie to and then that person goes and tells the lie to someone else and pretty soon the lie you told is going on all around you just like the ripples in the water and you can’t do anything to stop it. But if you say something nice to someone or say something nice about them then the same thing happens, but it’s all nice and good things that are going on instead.”
I didn’t say anything back to Pete on account of I was figuring him to be pretty smart at that point, but Glenn asked him what happens to the rock.
“Glenn, you’re a dumbass, it doesn’t matter about the rock!” Pete was easily irritated when he was trying to pass on some of dad’s wise thinking.
“It just matters that if you tell a bad thing about someone or say a bad thing it just goes on and on, it doesn’t end there unless you live on the damn North Pole or something. Same thing happens with good things.”
“But you called me a dumbass,” said Glenn.
Pete’s eyes were narrow slits now. “Glenn those dead girls from this river are gonna haunt you for the rest of your life you little ignorant son-of-a-bitch!”
It looked like Pete had already forgot about the ripples and nice words and all that, but I was figuring dad would be sorta proud of him anyhow. Glenn shut up then cause Pete had a gun and he didn’t feel the same about Glenn as he did the turtles.