Saturday Video

Ready or not, here I come, you can't hide
Gonna find you and take it slowly
Ready or not, here I come, you can't hide
Gonna find you and make you want me

Now that I escape, sleepwalker awake
Those who could relate know the world ain't cake
Jail bars ain't golden gates
Those who fake, they break
When they meet their 400-pound mate

If I could rule the world
Everyone would have a gun in the ghetto of course
When giddyuping on their horse
I kick a rhyme drinking moonshine
I pour a sip on the concrete, for the deceased

But no don't weep, Wyclef's in a state of sleep
Thinking bout the robbery that I did last week
Money in the bag, banker looked like a drag
I want to play with pelicans from here to Baghdad

Gun blast, think fast, I think I'm hit
My girl pinched my hips to see if I still exist
I think not, I'll send a letter to my friends
A Born Again hooligan only to be king again

Ready or not, here I come, you can't hide
Gonna find you and take it slowly
Ready or not, here I come, you can't hide
Gonna find you and make you want me

I play my enemies like a game of chess, where I rest
No stress, if you don't smoke sess, lest
I must confess, my destiny's manifest
In some Goretex and sweats I make treks like I'm homeless
Rap orgies with Porgy and Bess

Capture your bounty like Elliot Ness, yes
Bless you if you represent the Fu
But I'll hex you with some witch's brew
If you're doo-doo, voodoo

I can do what you do, easy, believe me
Fronting niggas give me hee-bee-gee-bees
So while you're imitating Al Capone, I'll be Nina Simone
And defecating on your microphone

Ready or not, here I come, you can't hide
Gonna find you and take it slowly

You can't run away
From these styles I got, oh baby, hey baby
Cause I got a lot, oh yeah
And anywhere you go
My whole crew's gonna know baby, hey baby
You can't hide from the block, oh no

Ready or not, refugees taking over
The Buffalo Soldier, dreadlock Rasta
On the twelfth hour, fly by in my bomber
Crews run for cover, now they're under pushing up flowers
Superfly true lies, do or die

Toss me high only puff la
With my crew from lock high
I refugee from Guantanamo Bay
Dance around the border like I'm Cassius Clay

Notice

I will be out of town from Saturday until Sunday of the next week. Postings will be light in my absence.

Assateague Island

Click to explore.

True Weakness and Strength in the Age of Trump

In the early to mid-Seventies, my mother, like many women of the period, found much appealing about the Women's Liberation movement. The inequalities between men and women were prominent and reform was needed. Having said that, she never truly immersed herself fully in the radical and activist side of things, never learning applicable academic terms like second-wave feminism or consciousness-raising. She never subscribed to Ms. Magazine.

She never took to the streets to march or distributed self-penned polemics on street corners. Even with an informal understanding of a complex issue, something about the spirit of the times strongly grabbed her attention. A well-stated and personal manner of framing an argument spoke neatly to her condition and her frustrations. And she was not alone. Lots of women felt the same way, and I'm sure many of them will pull a lever for Hillary Clinton a few months from now.

I came along a few years later. Though she willingly took on the role of mother and caregiver, a hard-edged side always shone through. That part never completely faded from view. Though I tried to understand and usually kept my hurt feelings to myself, my mother used a particularly infuriating mantra on occasion.

Men are weak. This was always said with an off-handed smirk, offered with a kind of snarky condescension that cared little for who it offended. It consistently managed to enrage my father, which might have been the reason why she used it as frequently as she did. Though I love my mother with ever fiber of my being, the comment always burrowed under my skin the way only the best insults can. It still does, even now.

In adulthood, with a far greater sense of context, I better comprehend what she meant and her reasons for saying it. Roughly translated, in her way of thinking, men believe that they are in total control, but they are easily tripped up and felled by their baser instincts. Men are convinced that they are as omnipotent as gods, but they are destroyed time and time again by hubris and arrogance.

The point is taken fairly. Yet, taken a different way, it can also be a gross oversimplification motivated by feelings of substantial resentment, along with a corresponding lack of agency. I get it, though I'm not convinced it is correctly applied in each and every circumstance.

If men are indeed weak, this stance implies that they simply can't help themselves. Talk about an enabling statement! Put that way, men are totally off the hook. In our own time, Donald Trump seems to be unable to help himself in a different way, convinced it is wise to consistently bring up the indiscretions of Bill Clinton. As we know, Trump’s own history with women is not much better. Nevertheless, his supporters see their beloved as strength personified, a man unafraid to speak hard truths with no need for tact or decorum. Only weaklings and losers need take that course.

It is perhaps inevitable that any political campaign pitting a woman against a man should become, in part, a battle of the sexes. If a more conventional Republican candidate was pitted against Hillary Clinton, more or less politically safe charges and counter-charges of sexism would predictably fly back and forth.

Instead, Americans are dealing with an unprecedented election in American politics, a grudge match between a “strong” man and a “strong” woman (depending on how one defines strength) each with tremendously high negatives that might even increase before voters cast their ballots in November.

Women can be weak, too. They may not be flawed and foolish in the way that skirt-chasing and risk-taking men can be, but they are capable of making mistakes based on very poor judgment. Love her or hate her, Hillary Clinton has been gaffe-prone since the days of two-for-the-price-of-one. But, as we’ve observed in fascinated horror, her GOP opponent seems to have forged his political identity by making outrageous statements that any other candidate would have swiftly walked back.

In this alternate reality, Trump may well have accomplished the impossible. He has somehow managed to secure the party's nomination, while at the same time potentially neutralizing every pertinent talking point Clinton might try to make. Or, he might well have counter-productively managed to somehow neutralize the damage any potential Clinton misstep might make upon the electorate. Or both. These are the risks we take when a loose cannon could well be President.

One wonders if the Trump phenomenon will be a flash in the pan or a dramatic realignment of political rhetoric and the consequences of doubling down on even the most patently offensive remark. On one level, a double standard continues to exist between men and women. That I am not debating. Today, however, it seems that two parallel standards in public perception exist. One applies to Trump and a second, more conventional one applies to Clinton.

On the question of strength versus weakness, who is most deserving of the label? One is reminded of the exhaustively quoted passage from Julius Caesar, itself a story about domineering politicians who reign for a time with unchecked authority. As the Bard put it, "the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings." Americans can opt for true strength or weakness masquerading as power. It will take a movement, not a few committed citizens, but the work can be done. No one will do it for us.

I'm Not Sure What to Think About This

We shall see.

Quote of the Week

When I was about twelve, I used to think I must be a genius, but nobody's noticed. Either I'm a genius or I'm mad, which is it? "No," I said, "I can't be mad because nobody's put me away; therefore I'm a genius." Genius is a form of madness and we're all that way. But I used to be coy about it, like me guitar playing. But if there's such a thing as genius — I am one. And if there isn't, I don't care.- John Lennon, 1970.

The Predominant Mood

C. Murphy/Sloan

So many stories I could tell
I had the world under my spell
Does this even ring a bell?

I wonder because
Don’t you know who I was?
Interest in me dissipated
All my methods antiquated
I’ve been cast away
Lost and friendless today

I made a name for myself
When one could do such a thing
A reputation that’s held
Together by string

And so I chose to cherish those
Who think there’s some purity
To fading into obscurity

What works on paper
Has the tendency to ride on vapor
Sometimes what’s not to love
But then other times what’s to like?

I’m unable to tell if I know who I am
A modest success, a shill, or a sham
I’m not afraid of what I’ve made of
But my trajectory
Has me fading into obscurity

You kids’ll have to fend for yourselves
Because your mother’s gone and asked for the elves
Who used to do all the work around here
Well they’re not gonna do it anymore

You kids can kiss your mother goodbye
And I’ll give you twenty minutes to cry
She used to do all the work around here
But she’s not gonna do it anymore

And you’re getting to old to be cared for by me

And for that matter
This cake is baked but I much prefer the batter
Perhaps in part because it had so much potential
To be delicious and still be influential

I’m undecided
If the evidence that I have provided
Explains what I mean
It’s too late now ’cause I can’t see or be seen

And I know you don’t shrug through my tears
So I’m not gonna shed ’em anymore
Out of favor with the flavor of the week’s where I’ll be
And fading into obscurity

An outsider but in good company
Oh yeah
I’m fading into obscurity

I’m undecided

Saturday Video

There's a destination a little up the road
From the habitations and the towns we know
A place we saw the lights turn low
Jig-saw jazz and the get-fresh flow

Pulling out jives and jamboree handouts
Two turntables and a microphone
Bottles and cans and just clap your hands and just clap your hands

Where it's at
I got two turntables and a microphone
Where it's at
I got two turntables and a microphone

Take me home in my elevator bones!
That was a good drum break

Pick yourself up off the side of the road
With your elevator bones and your whip-flash tones
Members only, hyponotizers
Move through the room like ambulance drivers
Shine your shoes with your microphone blues
Hirsutes with your parachute flutes
Passing the dutchie from coast to coast
Let the man Gary Wilson rock the most

Where it's at
I got two turntables and a microphone
Where it's at
I got two turntables and a microphone

What about those who swing both ways: AC-DC's

Two turntables and a microphone
Two turntables and a microphone

Where it's at
I got two turntables and a microphone
Where it's at
I got two turntables and a microphone

Oh, dear me. Make Out City is a two-horse town
That's beautiful, Dad
Get my microphone

Where it's at
I got two turntables and a microphone
Where it's at
I got two turntables and a microphone

I got plastic on my mind
Telephone plastic baby

There She Goes

There she goes
There she goes again
Racing through my brain
And I just can't contain
This feeling that remains

There she blows (there she blows again)
There she blows again (there she blows again)
Pulsing through my vein (there she blows again)
And I just can't contain
This feeling that remains

There she goes
There she goes again
She calls my name
Pulls my train
No one else could heal my pain
But I just can't contain
This feeling that remains

There she goes
There she goes again
Chasing down my lane
And I just can't contain
This feeling that remains

There she goes (there she goes again)
There she goes (there she goes again)
There she goes (there she goes again)

2016: Making Sense of Where We Are as a Nation

Anyone who knows me well recognizes that I don't like being caught flat-footed. After a trip, I frantically unpack and put everything back exactly where it was before I left. I recently read somewhere that my behavior is symptomatic of someone who wants to assert control over unfamiliar surroundings. No one panics more than me when I momentarily lose my cell phone, or my wallet, or my keys. Most of the time, such items are easily found, and yet in the process of locating them I'm convinced they are gone forever, never to return.

This is why I am often reminded of the biblical Parable of the Lost Coin.

Suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Doesn't she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? And when she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, "Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.”

Jesus speaks here beyond the literal, specially about the concept of redemption. And by this he means the radical notion that it is never too late to turn away from sin. There is no hierarchy in Heaven over who arrived first or last. This speaks contrary to the way we are conditioned to think and the games we play in the course of our lifetime. We learn to flaunt our credentials, our history of good works, and the sacrifices it took to reach them. We rationalize what we do by saying that such things are simply the way of the world, that they are necessary evils, and they cannot be evaded.

In life, we expect to be treated differently if we've reached some high achievement, made lots of money, or accumulated some combination of the two. In political parties, workplaces, and especially in churches, seniority means that those who have been in good stead longer have more say and more control. These people who occupy the favored seats have the right to guide and lead in the way they choose. To many, Jesus' ministry is an egalitarian one, where the first person to speak is held in the same high esteem as the one who has spoken ten thousand times before.

Backing up one verse from where we started out, the meaning of the parable is made clear.

I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.

The upcoming Presidential election showcases two of the least religious candidates in American history. Hillary Clinton rarely mentions her suburban Illinois Methodist upbringing, a past that at least instilled the candidate with a strong sense of social justice. On the other side, Donald Trump could almost be considered areligious, a fact that until this moment was a sure violation of Republican orthodoxy. Assuming the point is raised during the campaign, Trump can avoid even discussing religion, specifically Christianity on the stump unless placed on the defensive.

This would be unheard of not that long ago. GOP candidates have consistently and conspicuously put public displays of faith before voters for a very long time. Courting Evangelical conservative voters, according to the conventional wisdom, panders to the base. It is a move of either cynicism or desperation that many such voters have seemingly placed victory above rhetoric this go round. Clinton is not especially strong on the issue and is unlikely to force the issue. Neither candidate is likely to have a Pastor Wright problem this cycle.

Every election is a barometer of how we have changed as a nation. Only the once-in-a-decade census shows the macro trends that began small, yet grew steadily over time. 2016 might well the first sign that we as a country have moved towards a new Post-Christian reality. Here on the East Coast, organized religion has been dying for a long time. The Midwest and the South continue to uphold long-standing religious traditions and have the highest rate of church attendance, but disenfranchised and thoroughly disgusted voices can be heard from those places as well. In time, I expect that more and more Americans will fall away from church or some sort of religious observance.

Members of Generation X and the Millennials that followed them have consistently shown little to no interest in religion. Within these two subgroups, what remains are a mere sliver of what once existed, a minority group of leaders and activists. These are the sort of people who take their convictions and leadings very seriously, often wishing that others adopted this same kind of passion.

Extremely motivated believers are not enough. Church was designed for mass participation, specifically set up as a place where any and all are truly welcome. It makes me very sad to see these traditions slowly withering away. From now on, I inhabit a space dominated by baby boomers. They may be the last generation, in all seriousness, who wish to carry the mantle.

So how does one find these lost souls, these coins in search of a finder? Many Evangelicals have recognized and observed the distressingly slow decline for years. Many now seek to perpetuate and plant their chosen faith in developing parts of the world. The continent of Africa is a particularly favored target. Asia and South America are next. To some observers, this is merely another form of colonialism, presented with a slightly different backswing. These deeds and the cheerful enthusiasm in which they are undertaken makes even other religious people a mite uneasy.

The Roman Empire successfully spread Christianity across the civilized world, even as its borders eventually grew too large and unwieldy to defend. Today, some people of faith are completely in favor of outsourcing a precious commodity to the third world, their eye on conserving the old ways, keeping Christianity alive, thriving, and intact.

I personally am highly conflicted about the process, as I most certainly do not want my own faith, Quakerism, to die out. Neither do I wish to supplant the ideas of the conqueror upon the conquered, even though that very same process made me who I am today. Assuming I am speaking to those who live in the so-called First World, the same process made you who you are today, as well.

Speaking of American politics, let me put it another way. When I fear that our own treasured Democratic values themselves are truly under threat, not presented in a spirit of reactionary fear-mongering, then I will sound the alarm for a five-alarm fire. Until then, everything is not lost, but time is of the essence. We need to act and come together. Our causes are linked by necessity.

Members of liberal and progressive faith traditions are not nearly as ambitious as our Evangelical and ideologically conservative brothers and sisters. Many of the former are divided among themselves as to know how to best grow the faith in the parts of the world where we first came to be. But in truth, the extreme skepticism and even hostility towards organized religion has in large part caused this problem. Sixty years ago, a sitting U.S. President could state, without pandering to voters, that he was a Christian and a Democrat, and nothing more.

The last Democratic President to make the same distinction was Jimmy Carter, whose rise to prominence came about four decades ago. Since then, the liberal electorate and the powers that be have skillfully talked out of both sides of its mouth on the subject of religion, much to its detriment. It has equivocated by way of a mealy-mouthed, on-one-hand-but-on-another-hand ambivalence that is always careful to offend no one, but offers no real path forward.

And it's this attitude, among others, which must change if Christianity in its current form is to even survive the next few decades. Faith is undone and perverted by people, not by the concepts and precepts themselves. The Left is reaping what it has sown by disassociating itself from Christianity, and sometimes even a higher power. The Right has dug its own grave by selectively picking the verses, moral lessons, and self-serving emphasis it most agrees with, implying that the entire faith itself has no greater context aside from the narrow interpretation of some. Both are wrong. Neither is correct.

If all else fails, I suggest buying a one-way ticket to some simpler place, some far away hamlet. A person might be heard and understood there, not talked over on the cable television news program of one's choice. The next six months are going to be bitter and nasty, and the vitriol ginned up by both sides will likely persist well past November. If ever the world needed religion, let it be today. The message remains, but we must stop resisting, thinking that we are somehow in control of our own destiny. Election years are always proof to me that despite on-message delivery and focus groups, one can never prepare for the unexpected.  

Quote of the Week

,
"...Of no one marrying, or going home, or getting a job in a town a thousand miles away, or doing any of the traitorous things friends do after college."- Donna Tartt, The Secret Life

Saturday Video

We like the breeze flow straight out of our lids
Them they got moved by these hard-rock Brooklyn kids
Us floor rush when the DJ's booming classics
You, dig the crew on the fattest hip-hop records
He touch the kinks and sinks into the sounds
She frequents the fattest joints caught underground
Our funk zooms like you hit the Mary Jane
They flock to booms man boogie had to change
Who freaks the clips with mad amount percussion
Where kinky hair goes to unthought-of dimensions
Why's it so fly cause hip-hop kept some drama
When Butterfly rocked his light blue-suede Pumas
What by the cut we push it off the corner
How was the buzz entire hip hop era
Was fresh and fat since they started saying audi
Cause funks made fat from right beneath my hoodie
The poobah of the styles like Miles and shit
Like sixties funky worms with waves and perms
Just sendin' chunky rhythms right down ya block
We be to rap what key be to lock

But
I'm cool like dat
I'm cool, I'm cool

Friday Video (A Day Early)

For Donald Trump

I bet you fall in bed too easily
With the beautiful girls who are shyly brave
And you sell yourself as a man to save
But all the money in the world is not enough

I bet you've long since passed understanding
What it takes to be satisfied
You're like a vine that keeps climbing higher
But all the money in the world is not enough
And all the bridges blown away keep floating up

It's cold
And rough

And I kept standing six-feet-one
Instead of five-feet-two
And I loved my life
And I hated you

It's cold out there
And rough

And I kept standing six-feet-one
Instead of five-feet-two
And I loved my life
And I hated you

Quote of the Week

Civilization, in fact, grows more and more maudlin and hysterical; especially under democracy it tends to degenerate into a mere combat of crazes; the whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed (and hence clamorous to be led to safety) by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, most of them imaginary.-H.L. Mencken

Saturday Video

Punctured bicycle
On a hillside desolate
Will nature make a man of me yet?

When in this charming car
This charming man

Why pamper life's complexity
When the leather runs smooth
On the passenger's seat?

I would go out tonight
But I haven't got a stitch to wear
This man said "it's gruesome
That someone so handsome should care"

Ah! A jumped-up pantry boy
Who never knew his place
He said "return the ring"
He knows so much about these things
He knows so much about these things

I would go out tonight
But I haven't got a stitch to wear
This man said "it's gruesome
That someone so handsome should care"
La, la-la, la-la, la-la, this charming man
Oh, la-la, la-la, la-la, this charming man

Ah! A jumped-up pantry boy
Who never knew his place
He said "return the ring"
He knows so much about these things
He knows so much about these things
He knows so much about these things

How Prescient

From A Face in the Crowd, released 1957. Andy Griffith, in his first film role.

The Continuing Experiment to Regulate Teen Drinking

I’ve been watching, as some of you may have been, CNN’s recent documentary series about the decade of the 1980’s. Many, if not most of the historical events and themes covered are familiar. I was a child at the time, but nevertheless a precocious little boy, and my memories of those times are strong. Two of my strongest recollections show the fingerprints and direct involvement of my parents. My mother and father quite intentionally sat me down in front of the television to watch two crucial world events unfold. Children of the Cold War, they had never been allowed to forget the spectre of communism and inherent threat of the Soviet Union. Could the end finally be near?

Patriotic Americans to their core, these family viewings were partially a pep rally for capitalism. Democracy had won. Communism had lost. They were enthused by the optimism and myriad of possibilities in Tiananmen Square. And then it all came crashing down, predictably. My parents held their breath as the students were dispersed, the depressing, but inevitable conclusion in place, a repressive government back in control. The fall of the Berlin Wall, that same year, was a different story. The Reunification of East and West Germany to follow provided what it promised. It was trendy, almost de rigueur, to buy a tiny concrete cube of the Wall and install it like an art exhibit on a person’s work desk. Many an interesting conversation piece was, for at least the next two years, provided for the slightly gloating Western world.

But if any event summarizes the decade for me, it’s a much more localized incident. The reason it left an indelible impression on me is due to my relative proximity to the source. For in it, I came to understand for myself what real, not canned grief looked like. Instead of a world away, through the lens of a camera and a video feed, I only needed to direct the handlebars of my bicycle a mile from my backyard. In the beginning, the story was considered only somewhat newsworthy. It was treated as not much more than an afterthought in the local newspaper, a one-day story at best. When the details spilled out, to most it was just another senseless tragedy. It became little more than a two minute story on a local news broadcast, provided by appropriately serious and grave toned news anchors.

No one could have foreseen a ghoulish plot twist the likes of which O.Henry would have loved. Let’s first consider a familiar culprit, drunk driving. As likely happens in every city and town in the United States, five high-spirited teenagers crammed into a car late at night. Many of us probably resembled them once, if we think back on it hard enough. None of them had any clue of what was to follow. Teenagers usually don’t. When I was that age, I tended to live quite happily in the present tense.

Tuesday, August 11, 1987, was the waning moments of summer vacation for many. In the news, the attention of Americans continued to be directed at the always-troublesome area of the Middle East. Iran-Contra raged on, as did the Iran/Iraq Civil War. In film, the sleeper hit Dirty Dancing, starring Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Gray, was a week away from being released. The number one song in the nation, according to Billboard, was Irish group U2’s single “I Still Haven’t Found What I'm Looking For.” In sports, another college football season was about to kick off. Only a few months before, Southern Methodist University (SMU) in Dallas, Texas, received the Death Penalty for frequent violations of NCAA rules.

August 11, 1987, is notable for other reasons. It marks the date that five teenagers from Hoover, Alabama, a southern suburb of Birmingham, made a particularly fateful decision. Four were female. A fifth, the driver, was male. As it was learned after the fact, he had apparently been drinking, despite being several years underage. The family of one of the girls, Ashleigh Nutter, has since stated that none of the passengers were aware of his level of intoxication before entering the car. Nutter and the driver, Todd Patterson, were dating at the time, which might explain why he offered everyone a ride.

A fascinating wrinkle to this story came two or three days later. One of the girls, first identified as Susan Ponds, somehow managed to survive the crash. Her body was rushed to a local hospital, where she was placed upon a ventilator to save her life. As fate would have it, she’d been the only passenger not to wear a seat belt. Though currently alive, there was no guarantee that she would survive. If she did make it, extensive time would be required to heal from her injuries. The story now takes a swift, unforeseen turn for the macabre.

At some point during that fateful night, Ponds and a friend, Christie Reeder, decided to swap class rings. The girls had been attending a slumber party, one of those chatty affairs which inevitably concludes well into the early morning. The accident that followed had been a brutal one. Patterson took a hairpin turn, driving much faster than the posted speed limit of 30 mph. This bad decision on his part effectively flipped the Ford Mustang in which all had been traveling face down in a ditch. Due to the severe injuries inflicted by the trauma of the crash, identifying the bodies was a difficult task. It became evident to many that the funerals to follow would likely be closed-casket affairs.

Three days later, the UPI caught up to the story. Nothing captures the attention of the media more than news of the bizarre.

HOOVER, Ala. -- A 17-year-old girl severely injured in a car accident while wearing a friend's class ring was mistakenly reported dead, and her relatives prepared for her funeral before learning she was alive in a hospital.

The mistake in identities was announced Wednesday night at the closed-casket visitation of Christie Lee Reeder, a Hoover girl whose funeral had been set for Thursday although she was very much alive.

'When the young man told me, I said, 'I'm her grandmother, what are you trying to tell me?'' Margaret Welch recalled. 'He said there was some sort of mix-up and Christie wasn't dead and it was another girl.

'When they announced it at the funeral home it was just bedlam.'

Imagine how it must have felt, as a parent, to absorb the shock. Grief that intense rarely produces many retellings, which is why I’ve rarely heard this story told much. To learn first that your child has been involved in a terrible accident is beyond awful. Informed of your child’s demise, you dazedly and dutifully follow all the needed steps, manage the hoops to jump through as best you can, all the while processing the loss and anguish. You even make funeral plans, only to learn that your child is, in fact, very much alive. Imagine the tragedy in reverse, the agony of the Ponds family, their hopes cruelly dashed.

I was young then, almost seven, but I remember how the news reverberated across the community. The local swimming pool and racquet club, itself less than a mile from the site of the accident, installed a brass placard by a flagpole that listed the names of the deceased. I walked past it on many a fond, chlorinated day. For a time, using this example, adults warned me of the consequences of drinking and running with a wild crowd.

The age today that my parents were thirty years ago, I understand the approach they took, even as I acknowledge its flaws. They meant well, but I was a little too young to understand. It would be many years before I was old enough to drive a car. Only then would I have any kind of conception for how deadly automobiles can be. It would take a long time before I understood innately how easy it is to get into an accident and how much care one must take while driving.

As warnings go, not much was going to dissuade me from adolescent foolishness when it became my time. The years of mandatory D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) taught me from the age of nine or ten what hard drugs were, but I grew up in a suburban bubble where no one snorted lines of cocaine or tried to sell me PCP on street corners. Later, as so many do, I drank too much in college, even breaking the law a handful of times by taking the wheel when I shouldn’t have. I’m lucky that I didn’t get caught.

Twenty-nine years later, I wonder how many of us from back then remember that car full of teenagers and how they ended up. I pass by the site of the accident multiple times on my way home to visit my parents. Car wrecks are the real American epidemic. I have only known one confirmed heroin user in my life, but have had at least five relatives and friends die or be seriously injured in an automobile. The statistics on auto vehicular homicide are probably close to their levels in the 1980’s. I would be shocked if they were not.

When we talk about the decade of the 80’s, we shouldn’t leave out a crucial detail. It was in 1984 when the United States raised its drinking age in all states from 18 to 21, an experiment in paternalism and in placating grief-stricken Mothers Against Drunk Driving that, to many, has been about as effective as Prohibition. If we examine a very formative and significant time in American society, we need to also examine its share of enacted reforms, legislation, and the ways they continue to affect every American. How times haven’t changed.

Quote of the Week

In times like these, it's helpful to remember that there have always been times like these.-Paul Harvey

Saturday Video

I said-a hip, hop, the hippie, the hippie
To the hip hip hop-a you don't stop the rock
It to the bang-bang boogie, say up jump the boogie
To the rhythm of the boogie, the beat

Now what you hear is not a test, I'm rappin' to the beat
And me, the groove and my friends are gonna try to move your feet
See I am Wonder Mike and I'd like to say hello
To the black, to the white, the red and the brown, the purple and yellow

But first I gotta bang bang the boogie to the boogie
Say up jump the boogie to the bang bang boogie
Let's rock, you don't stop
Rock the riddle that will make your body rock

(And so on, and so on)

Honky Cat

When I look back, boy I must have been green
Boppin' in the country, fishing in a stream
Looking for an answer, trying to find a sign

Until I saw your city lights, honey
I was blind
they said

Get back honky cat, better get back to the woods
Well I quit those days, and my redneck ways-and-a
Mmm mmm mmm mmm
oh, the change is gonna do me good

Get back honky cat, living in the city ain't where its at,
It's like, trying to find gold in a silver mine, its like
Trying to drink whisky, from a bottle of wine

Well, I read some books and I read some magazines about those
High class ladies down in New Orleans and all the
Folks back home, well, they said I was a fool,
They said leave them alone, is the golden rule

They said stay at home, boy you got to tend the farm,
Living in the city boy is, gonna break your heart
But, how can you stop when your heart says no?, ah-ah
How can you stop when your feet say go?

Get back, honky cat,
get back honky cat,
get back

Health Update

Ever since I turned thirty about five and half years ago, I've dealt with one chronic illness after another. Should you be a reader of any duration, you've likely encountered a few posts like this one. My intention is always to educate. I'm processing my feelings by dissecting the particulars, inviting you to join in on the analysis if you wish. Follow me in my journey, a frustrating trek through mystery ailments and medical conundrums.

The most recent evidence of a potential new condition showed up in recent blood work. Four levels turned up elevated beyond normal readings. The offending four are hemoglobin, hematocrit, zinc, and the immunoglobulin antibody M. If one or two of these in isolation were flagged, it would not be troublesome. All four in tandem is a different matter and requires further investigation.

To give you a better idea of what these findings indicate, I'm going to totally cheat here. I'll cut and paste in the definition of each metric from a Google search. Please see below.

• Hemoglobin is the protein molecule in red blood cells that carries oxygen from the lungs to the body's tissues and returns carbon dioxide from the tissues back to the lungs.
• Hematocrit is the proportion of your total blood volume that is composed of red blood cells.  
• Zinc is an essential mineral that is naturally present in some foods, added to others, and available as a dietary supplement.
• Imunoglobulin M, or IgM for short, is a basic antibody that is produced by B cells. IgM is by far the physically largest antibody in the human circulatory system. It is the first antibody to appear in response to initial exposure to an antigen.

I have an appointment with a hematologist in around two weeks. Most doctors in specialized practice schedule first and diagnose later. In this situation, the doctor to oversee my case required a fairly vigorous pre-screening first. This took the form of several pages of paperwork, alongside consultation with my primary care doctor. The lab levels must have indicated that, in his judgement, something more substantial might well be wrong. Had it not, the hematology nurse would have never called me back earlier this week to formally schedule an appointment.

Specialists usually don't require anything up front besides a referral from another doctor. I've never experienced a situation before where consultation with a doctor came only after my case was reviewed. I imagine it's a way to cut down on the backlog of patients, separating the truly needy from those who don't need further examination.

What do these test results mean? At this stage, they could mean lots of things. The primary care provider took into account several months of complaints and corresponding labs before referring my case in deference to someone else's expertise. Over the summer, I completely lost my appetite, didn't eat solid food for three months solid, and lost fifty pounds. A condition called polycythemia may be to blame. Once again, I'll cheat and borrow someone else's definition.

Polycythemia is a condition that results in an increased level of circulating red blood cells in the bloodstream. People with polycythemia have an increase in hematocrit,hemoglobin, or red blood cell count above the normal limits.

It makes sense that this condition is suspected. My primary care doctor suspects that allergies are to blame. The levels recorded are too high, yes, but not to an extreme sense. The worst case scenario is cancer of the bone marrow, and while rare, it is an option that cannot be taken off of the table quite yet. And this is where I leave you, for now. 

Being Good Is Not Enough

My partner’s mother hails from conservative small town Texas. Now pushing seventy, I’ve heard her tell the same story on numerous occasions. It must have left quite a lasting impression, as I hear it every time I’m visiting family during the holidays. The latest retelling is always delivered with a kind of amused pity. She relates to the unfortunate but is very glad to not be one of them.

Our setting is some time in the 1960’s. A group of young God-fearing Baptists kids are intent on disguising their actions. Men and women drink beer at a restaurant, quietly chatting, calling no attention to themselves. They are trying to conceal what they are doing. Someone evidently came across the idea of sticking lemon slices on the lips of the plastic cups that the eatery provides paying customers. The effect was pure plausibility denial, designed to make it seem as though they’d only been consuming iced tea instead. Such is life in the Bible Belt.

This story is an excellent demonstration of the limitations and weaknesses of any system of belief that insists upon the strict undertaking and completion of good works. Perfection is an ideal that no one can ever truly reach, and we know this innately, but that hasn’t stopped anyone from trying. Jesus’ ministry holds particular scorn for religious hypocrisy, particularly directed at an elite priestly caste who add meaningless rules for the sake of adding rules. As Scripture puts it, they strain out a gnat and swallow a camel. Their priorities are totally askew, indebted almost to absurdity, much like watering one’s house plants when one’s house is on fire.

The famous Protestant reformer Martin Luther spoke out against similar excesses of the Roman Catholic Church in his own day. Taking communion was not enough. Confessing sins was not enough. Being baptized was not enough. These rituals shouldn’t take the place of inward conviction and honest belief. Furthermore, it was his view that groups of people and large religious institutions should not have the right to define purity and salvation only for themselves.

I recall the old joke about Baptists and fishing. The yarn goes like this. “Why should you always take two Baptists fishing with you?”

Answer:  “Because if you only take one Baptist, he’ll drink all your beer.”

The news over the last several weeks from my home state of Alabama has been quite embarrassing. The current governor, Robert Bentley, is embroiled in a sex scandal. His hand has been caught in the cookie jar, but he brazenly refuses to resign or even to admit to his numerous indiscretions. Briefly, the Governor had an extramarital affair with an top aide, made said top aide almost equal in power to himself, and conducted all of this with absolutely no discretion or thought for legality whatsoever. The affair led to a scandalous divorce from his wife of fifty years, which is where the drama began.

To provide some context, this is a man who was elected to office as an unapologetic born-again Christian. He raised eyebrows in the inaugural address of his first term by very nearly implying that his chosen faith was superior to others. In the present day, he may not be indicted for breaking the laws of man, but guilty or innocent of those charges, he has certainly broken the tenets of his faith. In addition to violating the Old Testament commandment against not committing adultery, his sins (if we interpret biblical teachings by his standard) now include obtaining a divorce, as well as a vast multitude of parsed lies and half-truths that are simply too numerous to mention here.

Kindly pardon a quick change of scenery. Baseball season has resumed recently, much to the joy of its fans. My memories of the game are often bittersweet, as I was a long-suffering fan of a hapless club. Though times eventually changed for the better, they are back to their old ways today in 2016. The Atlanta Braves baseball team of my childhood were perpetual cellar-dwellers. One couldn’t even excuse their pathetic play by calling them lovable losers. They were just bad. The team’s line-up was a paean to mediocrity, with the exception of one player. The outfielder Dale Murphy was the team’s lone star, but his religious piety separated him from most superlative players in the sport.

Murphy's clean-living habits off the diamond were frequently noted in the media. A devout Latter-day Saint (Mormon), Murphy did not drink alcoholic beverages, would not allow women to be photographed embracing him, and would not pay his teammates' dinner checks if alcoholic beverages were on the tab. He also refused to give television interviews unless he was fully dressed.

People gravitate to laws and rules because they promise easy resolution. Quakers have their Testimonies, but they are far less strictly applied. We have far more freedom of choice, but that same freedom challenges us ever more to live a worthwhile life. We must hold ourselves responsible for being the best Friends we can manage, not needing to feel shame, guilt, or the disapproving gaze of others to do what is right. It might be simpler and more comforting in the short term to come up with a system of laws to easily address and eradicate every weakness, every perceived imperfection. But in hindsight this approach is not really any satisfactory resolution. We’ve learned that building higher walls or more prisons might not necessarily make us any safer, only creating other problems that require new rules and laws to fix.

It’s difficult enough for me to hold my tongue and not swear profusely. I cursed too much in my teenage years to defy authority figures. I’m now ashamed of my earlier behavior. If I can’t even clean up my talk, what makes me think that laws put in place to address complicated societal problems are enough for every person? The first law and its observance lies within us, whether we call that self-control, restraint, inward conscience, even the Inward Christ. That’s the philosophy Quakers and those of liberal religious faiths usually profess. Orthodoxy can be loose or robust, black and white or shades of grey, but it still requires adherence and some degree of conformity.

Those who prefer the comfort of a more authoritarian mindset might need to go elsewhere. And this isn’t true just for religion, it’s true for whatever groups we identify with or actively participate within. How much do you trust yourself with your life and your life’s decisions? For some of us, that answer changes dramatically over time. Intense, even painful life events can necessitate what philosophy we choose. It’s this kind of internal honesty, rather than acting the part that is needed. Where we are today might not be where we are later. If we are honest with ourselves, we won’t deny it.

Quote of the Week

Two wrongs don't make a right, but they make a good excuse.-Thomas Szasz

Erotica: Time for an Update

I'm still adjusting to the desires of my audience. Writing total smut with the barest consideration of plot or character development may be their foremost desire. The expectations are severely lowered in this context, far below what we might consider high-brow, or even middle-brow entertainment and high standing. Writing a short story for serious publication requires lots of things: a lucky break, a foot in the door, a chance to excel and impress. Being good at what one does is not enough. This is not exactly that.

In that universe, the competition is incredibly intense, at times hopelessly elitist. Erotica often caters to an audience that wants sexual titillation only, with no need for gussied-up flourishes. Defining what erotica even is can be tricky. To some, it's nothing more than glossy pornography, a means to an end. To others, it's a misunderstood art form. I've always found that the brain itself is more sensuous an organ than the genitals, but whether others buy into that theory remains to be seen.

My first story in a now four-part series continues until I get totally bored with it. The process started off well. The hit count of subsequent posted stories have slacked off tremendously. My first won slightly over 10,000 hits in ten days of publication. The second received roughly half of the first. The third has plateaued somewhere between 2,000 and 2.500. And the fourth, posted only this morning, has reached slightly over 2,000 hits thus far.

I am too much of a polished writer to produce purely gratuitous content, no matter how much the audience wants it. I write for people who like to think. I draft, construct, and revise stories for those who desire being challenged from a psychological and intellectual standpoint. That said, I'm not out to impress anyone with multiple six-syllable words, sentences that fill up a whole paragraph, or a command of a foreign language. Such stories tend to bore and alienate me, so I deliberately don't put my audience through the same labors. It's only fair.

Many of my stories revolve around mind control and fantasies of physical transformation. If I were to psychoanalyze the reasons why, I could come up with a few good guesses. Dealing with years of chronic illness has routinely left me feeling out of control and in significant pain. Those fears, given a very different content, routed much differently, can turn to sexual desire without much effort. I process the problems I can't fix myself by channeling them through the lens of sexuality. If my hit count proves anything, it makes a strong case that I'm not the only person to feel this same way.

The bisexuality and gender dissonance that torments me, but that I have never exactly tried to hide, is still another explanation. Though it may be difficult to explain, I recognize that I was born a man, even though I've never totally felt like one. Though it is currently a polarizing and controversial topic in today's discourse, transgender has never been a label I've claimed for myself. Worrying about bathroom access is petty politics, barely scraping the surface, educating almost no one. I have no opinions because I'd rather communicate on a much higher plane.

Undergoing transition is not an option I wish to pursue, but I know that I'll always have a love/hate relationship with masculinity. My characters, male or female, are often placed in situations that they cannot undo, problematic circumstances with no clear path to resolution. Pain becomes catharsis, or at least that's the intent.

Writing from a woman's perspective used to be difficult, but now it is easier. In fascinated curiosity, I've examined what might be called women's ways. The pertinent parts that spoke to me have been memorized and incorporated wholesale into my identity. I won't say that I write with total confidence, raised as I was in a male body, responding as I did to the world of other men. But for someone who is largely self-taught in ways that often get pigeon-holed as pertinent only to women, I'm proud of my progress.

Moving on, I find I have two major challenges as a writer. One of them is being comfortable with expanded and extended dialogue. I am much more interested in the progression of the story, the psychological underpinnings and inward conflicts that hold it together. Yet, I must admit that verbal communication is essential to convey every interpersonal relationship. Eliminating or downplaying conversations between two people is a dodge, no matter how artful.

The second challenge is writing outside of my own first-person perspective. Inevitably, my stories start with a single character speaking as much to himself or herself as the audience. This protagonist experiences life as it happens, only glancing back into the past when it's absolutely necessary. He or she is a storyteller by nature. All action and significant plot twists are viewed first through his or her eyes. I've never felt especially comfortable writing in third person. The ghost in the machine effect, in my opinion, distances the reader from the writer. I want my audience to feel at home within the narrative, not held aloft by someone else's superior knowledge and judgment.

I've learned from this process of crafting erotica. These stories reflect greater seasoning and maturity. Progress has been made. But I am not yet satisfied, nor do I ever intend to be so. Athletes wear out with time, but writers and thinkers hone their craft throughout a whole lifespan. May it be so for me, too.

Saturday Video

Well, the clock says it's time to close now
I guess I'd better go now
I'd really like to stay here all night

The cars crawl past all stuffed with eyes
Street lights share their hollow glow
Your brain seems bruised with numb surprise

Still one place to go
Still one place to go

Let me sleep all night in your soul kitchen
Warm my mind near your gentle stove
Turn me out and I'll wander, baby
Stumblin' in the neon groves

Well, your fingers weave quick minarets
Speak in secret alphabets
I light another cigarette

Learn to forget, learn to forget
Learn to forget, learn to forget

Let me sleep all night in your soul kitchen
Warm my mind near your gentle stove
Turn me out and I'll wander, baby
Stumblin' in the neon groves

Well, the clock says it's time to close now
I know I have to go now
I really want to stay here
All night, all night, all night

Erotica and the Craft of Writing

I've started writing erotica in the last few weeks, mostly for practice. No need to worry. Links will not be posted here, nor any excerpts from much longer works. I'm quite happy writing under a very private pseudonym to an audience of complete strangers. Most of the time, I write intentionally for a public forum, courting a fan base. The key to being a good blogger, a good op/ed writer, an internet attraction, or all three, is building a cult of personality around oneself. I find the work of naked self-promotion distasteful, offensive to my artistic and religious sensibilities, but I've been necessarily forced to court it to be relevant.

But not here. In this case, I've chosen an innocuous username, one that will never be revealed for any reason. I'm not even telling my friends where to find me. That said, should you feel similarly inclined, I encourage you to try your hand. You may find you really enjoy it, particularly because of the instant gratification aspect that is rare in many other platforms. Receiving praise and a few thousand hits within hours has a way of boosting the ego.

Writing, as anyone who tries can attest, is a discipline. It is one of the most demanding disciplines of any worthwhile artistic endeavor. I haven't written much fiction in months, and what I've been doing in the past few weeks is mainly good practice. I'm easing myself back into the purview of short stories, efforts that need to be revised and revised again. At the site where I've been recently posting, one can submit content in one of about ten different categories. I'm comfortable with three or four of the listed genres, but totally out of my league in the rest. I want to expand my skill set, for the sake of growth, but I don't want to sound like I have no idea what I'm doing.

My first story won me between 4,000 and 5,000 hits. So far, it's been rated somewhere between 3 and 4 stars. As is true for internet content of any form, most people only bother to read a post. A very small minority even bothers to votes. Almost no one leaves feedback or comments. 5 stars is the maximum rating, but that is an impossible standard. Certain truths prove inescapable. Discerning the taste and preference of those who read comes first. It doesn't matter how compelling or arousing one's work is. Every publication has its formula, its system.

Part of the fun is confusing my readers, making them guess who I really am and how I identify. I'm a complex person with a correspondingly complex fantasy life, which is, I assume, what one wants. Truly skilled craftspeople can switch genders, ages, settings, and periods of time skillfully. These qualities separate good authors from great ones. Thus far, I've written three stories, all part of a series. I'm not sure how to draw it to a satisfactory conclusion, but I'm having a lot of fun generating plot twists and dialogue.

Erotica has been less daunting than I feared it might be. There's something titillating about the process of creating an erotic story. Sexuality can be as stimulating for the author as it is for the reader. I haven't had to worry as much about losing patience, drive, and the will to do it. This might not be the case with a lengthy post about a political issue, but writing on topics like those can occasionally try my patience. But as I wrap up my thoughts once again, I have no real destination in mind, nor any idea of when it makes sense to stop. It doesn't matter, and that's okay.  

Quote of the Week

Too often critics seem more intent on seeking new ways to alter Congress than to truly learn how it functions. They might well profit from the advice of Thomas Huxley, who said a century ago: "Sit down before facts as a little child, be prepared to give up every preconceived notion — or you shall learn nothing.-Gerald Ford

Saturday Video

It's your thing, do what you wanna do.
I can't tell you, who to sock it to.
It's your thing, do what you wanna do.
I can't tell you, who to sock it to.

If you want me to love you, maybe I will.
Believe me woman, it ain't no big deal.
You need love now, just as bad as I do.
Makes me no difference now, who you give your thing to.

It's your thing, do what you wanna do.
I can't tell you, who to sock it to.
It's your thing, do what you wanna do.
I can't tell you, who to sock it to.

It's your thing, do what you wanna do.
I can't tell you, who to sock it to.
It's your thing, do what you wanna do.
I can't tell you, who to sock it to.

I'm not trying to run your life, I know you wanna do what's right.
Give your love now, to whoever you choose.
How can you love, with the stuff you use now.

It's your thing, do what you wanna do.
I can't tell you, who to sock it to.
It's your thing, do what you wanna do.
I can't tell you, who to sock it to.

It's your thing, do what you wanna do.
I can't tell you, who to sock it to.
It's your thing, do what you wanna do.
I can't tell you, who to sock it to.

When Trigger Warnings Aren't Enough

I write on this topic with some reluctance because I could be easily misunderstood and misconstrued. Even so, I think it needs to be said. For the last decade or so, it’s been popular to preface especially intense online tales of physical abuse or blatant psychological cruelty by means of a so-called trigger warning. An issue this crucial, rooted as it is in human frailties and basic shortcomings, shouldn’t have become ideologically polarized between the Right and the Left, but it has anyway. Conservatives hint darkly at a new culture of socially acceptable, whiny victimhood and selfish histrionics. Liberals see the issue as a simple, decent matter of protecting those who have been through traumatic circumstances.

I wish it was as easy as right versus wrong. Raise your voice in an online forum on a controversial topic and let the hate mail begin. Should you be a woman or a minority (or both), expect the floodgates to cascade open and sewage to spew forth. Resolution, in person or online, is difficult enough. Both efficiently and effectively prosecuting those who make anonymous threats, often as dramatic as rape threats and death threats, is much more challenging.

I’ve written in a public setting for several years, and have won my share of criticism, no matter how childishly rendered. One particularly annoying troll left numerous insulting and offensive comments on my personal blog. Not content to stop there, he did much the same thing with most of the 400 or so YouTube videos I have recorded since at least 2007. It takes a perverse, driven work ethic to go such lengths. I do not understand his motivation to be even the score.

Around ten years ago, I filed a restraining order against a former girlfriend. Filing the paperwork required hours of scaling a mountain of bureaucratic red tape, filling out every necessary form, standing in line at the correctly numbered teller window, and many other exasperating delays. I didn’t even get everything done in one day, necessitating that I return later in the week to tidy up that which remained. Following that, I had to plead my case in front of a cynical, weary, overworked judge. She sat in a tiny, dark office, ushering in the latest to speak without much conviction or energy. Her ultimate discretion and say decided which presumptive orders of protection were granted, and which were not. I queued up in line with everyone else, waiting for nearly an hour, only to receive about three minutes’ worth of her honor’s time.

A young black woman, no doubt in shock, told me a horror story about her former boyfriend that was far more vicious than mine. I could have had it much worse, I reflected, but I still had a purpose in being there and I intended to see it through to a conclusion. It is unfortunate that the current legal system, be it state or federally managed, requires indisputable proof of cruelty before the procession can proceed. Metaphorical nail marks must be felt. Priority comes first, skepticism follows second, and validation comes a distant third. In far too many circumstance, women have been unable to prosecute their abusers because they simply weren’t beaten up badly enough.

Violence doesn’t only take physical form. Emotional abuse and psychological cruelty can be as damaging as a right hook to the jaw. And to add insult to injury, the telling and retelling of a painful story makes a bad situation even worse. By the time I was through with the latest account, the most recent run-through, I felt that I was a novice actor performing a memorized part on an illuminated stage. What happened to me before no longer seemed real, as though I was singing a well-known cover song in front of an audience who knew all the words.

We live in a time of evaporating privacy. True safety is increasingly growing rare, even as many claim to the contrary. We like to believe that we inhabit a world that is growing more benevolent and less cruel. Perhaps, perhaps not. It depends on how we define safety. The Internet has emboldened cowards and sadists alike. Law enforcement statutes designed to protect are often insufficient and clumsy, a day late and a dollar short.

As for myself, I had to tell my story at least four times in a row to the uncomprehending before I was at least partially understood. Most of us don’t have the financial means and the time to spend to get the creaky process fumbling towards resolution. I was only able to jump through the hoops in sequence because I was on disability from my job and thus had the free time needed to do it.

This isn’t a popular sentiment, I recognize, but there really aren’t any truly safe spaces out there. I’ve known many people, men and women alike, but usually women, who demand the most ideal circumstance imaginable in every gathering or community. Those raised by alcoholic parents want alcohol-free spaces. Those who grew up in dysfunction of any form want assurances that their immediate environment won't contain these elements. I’d be all for it myself if I believed such spaces even exist.

We’re told that there was a epoch in our collective past where we could leave our doors unlocked and place full trust in our neighbors. Women have every right to ask for adequate protection, but time has taught us many difficult lessons. One of these unfortunate truths is that safety is a fantasy. I live in one of the safest parts of the District of Columbia, but a casual survey of recent police reports reveals routine acts of senseless violence and a few key stabbings a mere mile and a half from my residence.

As I understand it, the rules, the laws, and the guidelines as written are mostly to blame. Trigger warnings are a good first step, but they are insufficient. They are highly cosmetic, but if you believe that they work, far be it for me to discourage you. Safe spaces are really just giant placebos, but, as we know, the placebo effect has always been curiously effective for some. Windows can be broken, alarm systems can be disconnected, cars can be stolen, and privacy is merely an illusion. With greater technological advances to follow the current day, we will no longer have the ability to disappear completely, leaving no footprint behind.

This doesn’t mean that anything goes. Laws only work if citizens agree to abide by them. Unlike a few choice hackers with a little too much time on their hands, I’m not an anarchist. The prevalence of online communication and its increasing importance in our life is going to require brand new strategies to consider and implement in place of what we have now. But in the meantime, I suggest that you regularly rehearse in your bedroom mirror a particularly effective narrative account, directed towards the proper authorities, should you one day be the victim of a crime. Trust in God, but keep your powder dry.

Quote of the Week

"I went to Zimbabwe. I know how white people feel in America now--relaxed! 'Cause when I heard the police car I knew they weren't coming after me!"-Richard Pryor

Saturday Video

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
(A hill in the deep forest green)
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
(Tracing of sparrow
On snow-crested brown)

Without no seams nor needlework
(Blankets and bedclothes
The child of the mountain)
Then she'll be a true love of mine
(Sleeps unaware of the clarion call)

Tell her to find me an acre of land
(On the side of a hill
A sprinkling of leaves)
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
(Washes the grave with silvery tears)

Between the salt water
And the sea strand
(A soldier cleans and polishes a gun)
Then she'll be a true love of mine

Tell her to reap it
With a sickle of leather
(War bellows blazing
In scarlet battalions)

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
(Generals order their soldiers to kill)
And gather it all in a bunch of heather

(And to fight for a cause
They've long ago forgotten)
Then she'll be a true love of mine

A Spirited Defense of the Pastoral System

For the sake of full disclosure and complete transparency, let me state for the record my religious past. I was raised, baptized, and confirmed a United Methodist. At the age of seventeen, well into teenage rebellion, I became a heathen Unitarian Universalist. This lasted for eight years, whereupon I dramatically renounced UUism and returned again to my beginnings. Both of these faith traditions have, as part of their time-honored and long-established leadership structures, formally called, seminary-trained, full-time ministers.

At no point did I ever worry that my voice was somehow being compromised by a usurping preacher, priest, or rector who was up to no good. No one I encountered agonized about such matters, and it wasn't until I began worshiping in the company of Friends that I ever learned any reason to be especially alarmed or concerned. Many liberal unprogrammed Friends, in particular, share this uniquely paranoid, pearl-clutching religious view. I have to say I never once felt especially disenfranchised or taken lightly in my own faith journey with a single leader nominally in control.

Bored? Yes, certainly. Uninspired? Of course. Cynical? Absolutely. But it takes belief in the destructive power of organized religion to fear its ultimate malevolence. Never assign to malice, as the saying goes, what can be assigned to stupidity. Never assume stupidity when ignorance will suffice. You might say that I saw the exact opposite perspective, one that is equal parts milquetoast and mind-numbingly bureaucratic. Ministers were often underwhelming in practice, and as a member of the congregation, I knew I had a vote and a say regarding church matters. No one railroaded me or disregarded my views.

I think some of us are giving ministers of any denomination or persuasion far too much credit. Those of us who have never worshiped in what Quakers call a programmed setting, or who left programmed worship long ago may benefit from a slightly different perspective, an alternate means of contemplation.

My worries about any sole minister, male or female, young or old, ambitious or conflict-averse, were quite practical ones. I didn't like dull sermons that droned on and on with no resolution, not an end in sight. I wasn't always sure that we needed an cute eight-part series to span three solid months of Sundays or a clever concept to remind us to tithe regularly. It was basic competence that I always sought, and sad to say, not all ministers are interesting or particularly skilled in what they do. It's hard to feel threatened by someone who gives a person no compelling reason to care one way or the other.

The most recent issue of Quaker Life magazine features its usual regular column by FUM General Secretary Colin Saxton. Readers of this post may find it particularly relevant.

At the close of worship, we divided into worship-sharing groups to talk further on the practical nature of reconciliation.

As we were about to introduce ourselves, a member of the group turned to me and asked, "Are you a pastor?" I responded that I was.

Suspicion confirmed, this person looked me in the eye and shouted, "You know, you are everything that is wrong with the Religious Society of Friends, and you are ruining it for the rest of us!"

Obviously, I had underestimated my influence!

Sound familiar, Friends? How ironic that a discussion intended in a spirit of reconciliation took a sharp, swift detour towards disharmony. Someone else put it much more eloquently than my inadequate words ever could.

So the trouble is not with the law, for it is spiritual and good. The trouble is with me, for I am all too human, a slave to sin. For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. But if I know that what I am doing is wrong, this shows that I agree that the law is good. I want to do what is good, but I don't. I don't want to do what is wrong, but I do it anyway.

Saxton's column ends on a positive note. Reconciliation is eventually achieved between Friends, but sharp, judgmental, unforgiving words come first. How very human. It is also very human to resort to projection when an open-minded, peaceful attitude is much better served. Instead of assuming that someone else is over-reaching, defining what Quakerism is for everyone, especially without your having any say in the matter, look deeper. Live your Testimonies in your own way. Speak to your condition, but recognize that we do have more in common with each other than we have differences.

Just Sayin'

If you're having girl problems, I feel bad for you, son.

The Myth of the Good Negro, Revisited

A well-regarded news anchor was recently fired for making racially insensitive remarks. Wendy Bell, formerly of Pittsburgh’s WTAE-TV station, posted controversial opinions to her personal Facebook page. Though her post was not exactly artfully worded, I believe what she wrote is not nearly as offensive as some believe. Bell’s indiscretion can be an instructive exercise in deflating and discrediting a persistent myth, that of the Good Negro. Instead, it has been transformed into another condemnation of what can or cannot be expressed in an Internet forum.

First we must define what is meant by a Good Negro. Writing in November of last year, the attorney Nikki Johnson-Huston states:

I have always been what is considered to be a “good black person.” I have a diverse set of friends, a home, a nice car and three graduate degrees. I’ve traveled the world, from France to India, New Zealand and beyond. I am happily married to a white man who loves and respects me, and his family loves me and has supported our relationship from the beginning. Many have said to me that I am a credit to my race.

Professionally, I am a well-respected tax lawyer and a leader in my community. In fact, I have been supported and mentored by many people who do not look like me. The people who know me will tell you that I am not angry or a race-baiter. I have been an incredibly lucky person who grew up in poverty and even experienced homelessness, but with hard work, the social safety net and mentoring, was able to build a good life. I am living the American “Post Racial” Dream.

The problem is this narrative doesn’t tell the full story of my life. It doesn’t tell you that for too many people in my community, I am the exception and not the rule. Black Americans are some of the most talented and ambitious people that I have ever met, but for many, their spirits have been crushed by a lack of opportunity.

Having formally spelled out what is meant by a Good Negro, now we can address the flaws in Ms. Bell’s argument. A professional, one forever in the public eye, should have known better than to post what she did. But her larger point, though highly incorrect and oversimplified, is nevertheless very commonplace. Bell sought to make sense of a complicated situation by resorting to a kind of lazy logic. Who among us, black or white, can attain a full sense of the perceived flaws and challenging problems within the black community? Even venturing an educated guess on this explosive issue can invoke charges of racism. Stating an opinion either way is quite dangerous.  

The mother of five’s post also praised a black teen she saw working in a Southside Works restaurant. Bell described the employee as a “young, African American teen” who was “hustling like nobody’s business” as he carried plates and picked up scraps that had fallen to the floor. Bell also applauded his attitude. ”He did all this with a rhythm and a step that gushed positivity,” she wrote. “He moved like a dancer with a satisfied smile on his face. And I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He’s going to make it.”

Bell’s commentary sought to draw a contrast between a Good Negro, the aforementioned hardworking teenager in a restaurant, and the Bad Negroes who commit violent crimes. She began her post by condemning African-Americans living in a violent hell of their own creation, offering a solution in the form of character-developing toil and self-discipline. If we are to be truthful, many Caucasians believe the same thing. In some respects, it’s a little like the old pull-onself-up-by-one’s-boostraps fabrication. Often a gaffe reveals what many think, but few dare to verbalize.

As this line of thinking goes, African-Americans are almost wholly to blame for their present condition. They should get their house in order first by looking within themselves and then resolving to do better. The best attributes are already present and these impulses should be further encouraged. The very worst parts of black identity should be cured like a debilitating disease.

Some idealistic whites continue to believe in the widely debunked white savior complex, the idea that well-meaning white folks can somehow redeem their black brethren by way of example. In this case, examining her remarks more closely, Bell does not support this particular definition of racial uplift. Her remarks reveal that she feels powerless over a situation that causes her great discomfort, even if her conclusions are wrong.

“You needn’t be a criminal profiler to draw a mental sketch of the killers who broke so many hearts two weeks ago Wednesday,” Bell wrote:

I will tell you they live within 5 miles of Franklin Avenue and Ardmore Boulevard and have been hiding out since in a home likely much closer to that backyard patio than anyone thinks. They are young black men, likely teens or in their early 20s, They have multiple siblings from multiple fathers and their mothers work multiple jobs. These boys have been in the system before. They’ve grown up there. They know the police. They’ve been arrested. They’ve made the circuit and nothing has scared them enough.

Black comedian Chris Rock brushed up against the same subject in a controversial 1996 comedy routine.

Rock began his routine by asking his audience, “Who’s more racist? Black people or white people?” Answering his own question, he concluded, “Black people, do you know why? Because we hate black people too!”

“There’s two sides. There’s black people and then there’s n*****s. And n*****s have got to go.”

The controversy caused by Rock's constant use of the word "nigga" led him to remove the piece from his act. In a 2005 60 Minutes interview, Rock said: "By the way, I've never done that joke again, ever, and I probably never will. 'Cos some people that were racist thought they had license to say n****r. So, I'm done with that routine.

It appears that no single racial or ethnic group has proposed an adequate and fair solution. Everyone has done a laudable job of spelling out the problem, but resolutions are nowhere to be found. As for myself, I don’t think Wendy Bell should have been fired. The punishment must fit the crime, and the easiest possible solution is to lop off a few heads, rather than correcting and enlightening. If she’d resorted to the kind of language and highly offensive racial stereotypes that have felled some, then that would have been something very different indeed.

In her own mind, I’m certain Bell believed she wasn’t being racist or racially insensitive. Pulling an award-winning broadcaster off the airwaves with little justification only prolongs the problem that no one ever wants to confront directly. We can’t continue to skirt this issue if we really want it to go away. We must engage in dialogue with each other.

Quote of the Week

To really be centered and to really work well and to think about the kinds of things that I need to think about, I need to spend large amounts of time alone.-Donna Tartt

Very Belated Saturday Video

I was walkin' down the street, mindin' my own affairs
And two policemen grabbed me, uh, unawares
They said, "Is your name Henry?"
I said, "Oh, why, sure"
They said, "you the boy we been lookin' for"

Framed
I was framed
I never do nothin' wrong
But I always get blamed
Framed

They put me in the lineup and let the bright lights shine
There were ten poor souls like me standin' in that line
I knew I was the victim of someone's evil plan
When a stool pigeon walked in and said, "Ah - that's the man"

Framed
I was framed
I never do nothin' wrong
But I always get blamed
Framed

The prosecutin' attorney started prosecutin' me
Man, that cat gave me the third degree
He said, "Where were you the night of June 29?"
I said, "I was home in bed"
He said, "Judge, this man is lyin'"

Framed
I was framed
I never do nothin' wrong
But I always get blamed
Framed

I deny the charges of robbin' the liquor store
Deny the charges of carryin' a .44
Deny the charges of vagrancy, too

But when the judge came down,
poured whisky on my head,
turned around to the jury and said,
"Convict this man, he is drunk,"
what could I do?

Framed
I was framed
I never do nothin' wrong
But I always get blamed
Framed

He was framed
I was framed
He was blamed
I was framed
He was blamed
I got framed