I got a comment on a previous post about the movie “Ragamuffin”. It was a very nice post from a very nice guy who was disappointed in the movie. He was disappointed that they didn’t show more of Wayne’s funny, charming side. That seems to be a fairly common complaint, so I thought I’d post my response to him here. Keep in mind that I don’t speak for any of the folks who made the movie. This is all my opinion, and mine alone. That said . . .
Hey Tom – I think you’re kinda missing the point of the movie. They could have gone with a different angle (and actor) and shown Wayne’s charming, witty, funny side, but that’s the side everyone knows, and the side everyone (well a lot of people anyway) emulates. The side that I think most of us look at and say, “Why aren’t I like that?” But the upshot of making that movie would have just been preaching to the choir, and ultimately just glorifying Wayne as some kind of paragon of Christianity. Let’s face it, if you want that kind of stuff, you can find a shitload without really even trying. Just go to U-tube. What they were trying to do was make a movie that we could all watch and say, “Holy shit, I am just like Rich Mullins in so many ways! Maybe God loves me too.” A movie that ultimately glorifies God and not a musician who sang about him. Don’t get me wrong, I think Wayne was a good man, and a good Christian, if there is such a thing (at the very least, he was a better Christian than me), but I think part of the problem today is this whole cult of personality that has taken over. Even the “real” news is inundated with pointless pablum about celebrities and how great this one is or how bad that one is. The reason for this is that’s what the people apparently want. To hold up Miley Cyrus or Lindsey Lohan as examples of how terrible people are, or to hold up Tom Hanks or Princess Diana or Rich Mullins as examples of what we all ought to try to be. At the very least, us Christians ought to know better, but instead, we make heroes out of guys like Wayne or Amy Grant or Billy Graham, and have the nerve to be offended when we find out they’re just as jacked up as we are. It’s especially bad once somebody like that dies, whether that someone is a celebrity or just a family member. Once they’re dead, we sanctify them. We block out all the bad stuff about them, or, if we can’t block it out, we make it funny and endearing. I’ve lost both parents, a brother and a sister, and did that to all of them. Only when this movie came out did I really start dealing with all of it. Up til now, recognizing the bad aspects of their personalities and behavior seemed like a betrayal of their memory. Now that I’ve started actually dealing with it though, I realize that to deny those aspects or to try to laugh them off is really robbing them of their humanity, and that is unfair to them, and unfair to myself. I love and miss them all, but if I could have them back, I’d want them back warts and all, because that’s who they were. I think if you really want to know who Rich Mullins was, then the movie they made tells a necessary part, especially when taken in context with all the truly wonderful things about him that everyone already knows.
Well, sorry about getting on my soapbox. I do understand where you’re coming from, and I hope my little rant here won’t stop you from reading more (normally, I’m a lot funnier). Anyway, take care and thanks for reading.
Just in case you’ve been wondering why I haven’t been posting anything recently (all 34 of you), it’s not because I’ve run out of things to say, or stupid stories. I just started an internship at the Palladium-Item for the summer, so it’s keeping me pretty busy. It’s a completely different type of writing for me, and to be honest, not nearly as much fun. It is however, great experience (for me anyway, I’m not so sure about for the Pal-Item). Anyway, I’m going to try to keep posting something up here every week, so don’t give up on me. To all of you who’ve been reading my blog, thanks. It’s nice to know there are still some people out there with good taste. Actually, since I think there are only about 30 of you out there who read this regularly, I guess that kind of indicates that there are roughly a little over 7,000,000,000 people out there with good taste. Thank God for the rest of you!
For those of you who want to be notified when I post something, down at the bottom of the page, where you can post comments, just under the comments block are a couple of boxes that you can check that will send you an e-mail when I post something.
By the way, thanks to those of you who have commented on some of my posts. It’s nice to get some feedback from readers. I’m a little surprised that I haven’t apparently angered anyone yet. Guess I’ll have to try harder. At any rate, I’ve enjoyed reading your comments.
I’ve been trying to figure out how to attract more readers to my blog. I noticed that the one post I published with Rich Mullins’ name in the title got like 1,000 views. I think the next most popular post has had maybe 100. Oddly enough, that post was about me running around without pants to keep the relatives away. I think we can all tell which post resonates most strongly with my regular readers (you sick, sick people). So anyway, for a while there I thought, “I’ll just put the name Rich Mullins in the title of every post!” Then I realized that was at least a little bit cynical, even for me. If any of you have any suggestions for me on how to lure more suckers readers into my world of stupidity, please let me know.
Anyway, I’d better close for now. It’s a little hard to concentrate on entertaining you all with my wife, the sensible and right 99.9% of the time Jess, arguing with my grand-daughter about whether she farted or not (the grand-daughter, not Jess. Jess knows when she farts, there’s really no denying it.).
Also, I have to start work on my next public apology to the not-nearly-as-forgiving-as-she-used-to-be but still wonderful Jess.
The delightful and smokin’ hot Jess and me at the Abbey Ruins in Cong, Ireland
It has been a long winter, a “Game of Thrones” kind of winter. A vile, nasty, brutal, enough to make me think about moving to Florida and you know how much I hate Florida (a lot, in case you didn’t), kind of winter. It has not, however, been all bad. At least when the weather is that bad, people tend to stay at home and hibernate, which means less company for my wife, the privacy loving and likes-people-but-let’s-not-get-carried-away-with-it Jess and I. Not that we don’t like company, but when you live in the midst (literally) of a large and socially-inclined family, there is always somebody who just “drops by”. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere. For years now, I’ve drawn it on Friday night. For the 1st few years that we lived on “the compound” everybody avoided our house on Friday nights for fear of walking in in the middle of our carnal exploits, a fear I intentionally fostered through off-color stories about what we got up to, and dropping hints about aberrant behavior and deviant proclivities. Unfortunately, as the years went by, my allusions to deviance seemed to lose their effectiveness, or maybe they just remembered that I’m not quite as wicked as I say (or maybe I just don’t have the energy that I used to).
I next tried just warning them off. I told them all that unless they were bleeding or on fire, to stay away. This may sound callous, but nothing screws up an evening of whisky, woman, and song (along with maybe a good game of strip cribbage) faster than being invaded by a horde of kids and grandkids. It really throws your groove off. It’s not that I don’t love my kids and grandkids, I do, but, (as most of you have probably noticed as you’ve gotten older) that old, romantic groove comes along a lot less frequently than it used to. At any rate, a straight-up warning was even less efficacious than hints and innuendo. People just kept dropping by on Friday nights.
Adding insult to injury was the fact that pretty much every time they did, Jess and I weren’t really up to anything more scandalous than eating pizza with too many jalapenos on it, and that’s just embarrassing. Not the jalapeno pizza part, the not doing anything scandalous part. The embarrassment of being caught repeatedly with my pants up, so to speak, was just more than I wanted to face. Not to mention that I really do feel that we should be engaging in the “Carnal Olympics”, as I like to think of it, in order to amuse ourselves, and not to horrify my progeny. It’s really just too much pressure for a man of my age, dignity (?), and blood pressure.
So, I have devised a new ploy, one that requires virtually no change on our part, and guarantees a horrific experience for any untimely visitors. I call it “No Pants Fridays”, kind of the home version of casual Fridays. I told my family that they were welcome to visit any time, but if they come by on a Friday evening, Jess and I will not be wearing any pants, and we aren’t putting any on if they show up. It works like a charm, especially since I told them that I have a pair of mesh bikini briefs that I save just for Friday nights (good luck getting that visual out of your mind). There is no pressure on Jess or I to get up to anything we don’t want to, seeing the voluptuous and alluring Jess walking around sans trousers certainly puts me in a good mood, and the knowledge that I’m sitting around in my drawers certainly keeps the visitors at bay. I have to say, it’s a very effective way of deterring visitors.The only down-side is that it doesn’t work during cold weather, especially since we don’t smoke in the house, and everyone knows that we’re not going to go all night without going outside for a smoke. Therefore, I’m doubly happy that warm weather is back.
This post is not intended to imply that we are anti-social or misanthropic in any way. We’re not. We genuinely enjoy company, and have no problem with people visiting, even unannounced, so feel free to just drop by. Just not on Friday after about 4:00. Unless you think I’m kidding.
There’s a phrase you never thought you’d associate with me. Try to get it out of your head though. hahahahaha. Seriously though, I look like an Irish Buddha. Kinda disturbing, huh?
I wrote this a few weeks ago during a showing of “Ragamuffin: The True Story of Rich Mullins”. I’ve put off publishing it because I’m afraid it’s a little bit muddy. I know what I want to say, I’m just not sure that this says it. I hate to be misunderstood. I hope this makes sense. Feel free to let me know what you think.
I’m sitting in Mr. Coblentz’ old Sunday school classroom in our church basement. Upstairs we’re playing the 3rd showing of the movie “Ragamuffin”, the story of the gospel musician, Rich Mullins, my brother Wayne (sorry, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to call him Rich). This being the 3rd showing this weekend, I’m kind of reaching critical mass with it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good movie, in many ways, a great movie, but it’s painful to watch, for me anyway. It’s even more painful, or maybe difficult, or emotional, or uncomfortable are better terms, to watch it here, in the church we grew up in. Not only does it bring back memories of Wayne, but also of Mom and Dad, my sister Deb, Harold and Martha Coblentz, Bill and Betty Cox, Naomi Green, and so many more that I’ll never see again, at least not in this life. It makes me remember how much I miss them all, and how much I owe to them, and to the folks who are still here. I’m not going to mention any of their names; I’m pretty sure that would just embarrass them. Suffice to say, they are the ones who were here when I was growing up. These are the people who, when I moved back home after being gone for 20 years, welcomed me back with friendly smiles and open arms. The people who, most of all, should have known better. These are the heroes of my own paltry faith, and, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say, of generations of kids who’ve been lucky enough to grow up in this church.
As far as the movie goes, much has been made of Wayne and Dad’s broken relationship in the movie. I can assure you that it was both much worse, and much better than it’s portrayed in the movie. The movie’s portrayal of their relationship seems, as far as I can gather from reading people’s comments on the Facebook, to be helping a lot of people who had dads like mine, and I’m glad. I’m also glad that Mel Fair is a good enough actor to show the pain Dad felt over that relationship. I think he gave an outstanding, nuanced performance in a very tough role. I think though, that a large aspect of that broken relationship has been missed (or maybe it’s just me. I’ve seen this thing about 6 or 7 times, and just realized it this weekend). Everybody seems to get that Wayne’s broken relationship with Dad is symbolic of his broken relationship with God. That he kept trying to get Dad to love and accept him, and Dad just couldn’t do it. That’s true, as far as it goes, but it seems to me that that is the smaller part. To understand the bigger part, I think you have to understand how we all felt about Dad (please keep in mind that this is all based on my own feelings, and my perceptions of my siblings feelings. I do not presume to speak authoritatively for any of my brothers or sisters). When I was little I saw my Dad as God. Not the touchy-feely, “footprints-in-the-sand” God of the New Testament, but the wrathful, “I love you, but for your own good I’ll kick your ass if you don’t do as I say” God of the Old Testament. Dad was everything a man should be, everything the Old Testament said God was. He was stern, he was tough, he was pissed. He was DOING THIS FOR OUR OWN GOOD. He was also perfect, or at least a perfectionist. Dad could make anything, he could fix anything. Things that he fixed lasted longer than one fresh from the store. He could look at a fistful of nuts, and pick out the exact size and thread that he needed. A lot of the reason for the disconnect between Dad and me (and I’m pretty sure the rest of us), wasn’t that Dad was tough, or that he was emotionally distant, it was that we could never measure up. We were all, in slightly varying degrees, totally incompetent at anything practical. We tried and tried, but we were all trainwrecks, a danger to ourselves and others. I think that was the root cause of the disconnect between all of us and Dad. We felt inadequate. It wasn’t that Dad never said he loved us, we knew he did. It wasn’t that he expected us to be as good at things as he was. It was pretty obvious from an early age that none of us were very good at anything practical. He did expect us to do our best, and REALLY our best, not that “I’m doing my best” that we all pull out when we’re half-assing something we don’t really want to do at all. Dad yelled at me all the time when we were working together, but as I think back, I can’t think of a time when he ever said a cross word to me when I really was doing the best that I could. He had more confidence and faith in us than we did. I think a lot of the problem was not that Dad rejected Wayne, but that Wayne rejected Dad, and it is in this that I think Wayne and Dad’s broken relationship represents the broken relationship with God. Of course, it’s possible that I’m just projecting my own issues.
Most of the problem between me and Dad came not from Dad, but from me. I knew I couldn’t be as good, or as tough, or as hard-working, or as right as he was, and so, I rebelled. I couldn’t understand how he could love me as I was, because I knew I wasn’t good enough. I’d find some other way to prove I was good enough. So, as years went by, I found myself constantly looking for his approval. I tried so hard to do the right thing, on so many things, and fell short on pretty much all of them. It never occurred to me that it wasn’t him I was failing, it was myself. Dad loved me just the way I was, even when I was doing some just remarkably stupid things (and if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s finding remarkably stupid things to do). Unfortunately, Dad died just as I was getting old enough, or mature enough, to really appreciate him, and to really know that, although he didn’t approve of the stupid things I did, that he loved me just as I am. I think that a lot of the reason that Wayne didn’t feel God’s love, that many of us feel that way, is that we believe in God, but we KNOW us. I mean seriously, how could a perfect God love me? I know what kind of stupid things I get up to. I know that a lot of the things I really want to do are things I shouldn’t do (but man, do they look like fun!). I know I don’t measure up to God even in my everyday life, when I’m trying to do the things I’m “supposed” to. I know I’m not cutting the theological mustard even on the little things. I know I eat too much, drink too much, cuss too much, smoke too much, don’t pay enough attention to my kids or wife, don’t make enough money, aren’t a good steward of my blessings, and God help me if he comes back in the evening, because it’s far more likely he’ll find me watching Game of Thrones or The Wolf of Wall Street than reading the bible. I also suspect strongly that I am not alone in this. How could God love losers like us? You’d have to go all the way back to Exodus to find another bunch as venal, fickle, unfaithful, self-righteous, and dim-witted as I am. And I’m talking about those of us who go to church regularly, and really try to follow God. Well, you might not have to go back to Exodus. Take a good look at the disciples sometime (I know I don’t measure up to those guys, and they lived with Jesus for 3 years and still didn’t seem to get it, so how much do I suck?). So a lot of us rebel. We’ll be as good as we can, and that’s gonna have to be good enough for God. After all, we’re still a lot better than a lot of people we could mention. I mean, aren’t we all the way God made us? Then, because we know in our heart of hearts that that’s just a load of rationalization bullshit, we feel even worse, like even bigger losers, and push God farther away. It seems to me that what appealed to Wayne about Brennan Manning’s message is that it seems to say (to me anyway),“You are as God made you. You’re not perfect, but he loves you anyway. So stop trying to make him love you, and be the YOU that God made. Do your best, your REAL best, and when you fail, and you will, remember that God will always love you.” Now I’ve read that some people believe that the Ragamuffin Gospel is just a lot of new-age hippie, I’m ok, you’re ok bullshit, but I disagree. I don’t see it as a license to just do whatever you want because, “That’s how God made me.” It seems to me that it is a way to move the stumbling blocks that keep us from loving God, to keep from just giving up. To remind us that God is bigger than we are, is bigger than our sin, our weakness, so that we can always see him, always find our way back to him. I think the question we’re really asking isn’t, “How can God love me?” but “How can I make him stop?” Because we just get tired of feeling like losers all the time, and if we can get him to turn his back on us, we won’t be reminded constantly of how far short we fall. Fortunately, it’s not up to us. He loves us whether we want him to or not, whether we deserve it or not.
A common (I think) way of referring to God as “our rock”, and he is. He is always there, and always Himself. But there’s a big old ocean of crap out there too, and we’re us. We’re prone to want to slip down the Rock, just to soak our feet, and end up getting washed off. But when you get washed off, you don’t say, “Well, that’s it for me, I don’t deserve to be on the Rock. I’ll just drown in this ocean of crap. In fact, I think I LIKE this crap. This is great crap! I can’t believe I was missing out on all this crap!” Well, you shouldn’t anyway, but that’s exactly what a lot of us seem to do, and so, down we sink, sucking in as much crap as we can, all the while congratulating ourselves on how much smarter and more sophisticated we are than all those poor saps sitting up there on the Rock. In fact, we’ll just be our own rock, or make our own rock, out of sex or drugs or booze or money or power or whatever trips our own particular trigger. Some of us even manage to be quite happy in our ocean of crap, sitting on our own personal rocks. But it is all a lie. There is only one Rock. Accept no substitute.
All of which brings me back to Dad. Dad didn’t bust our asses because he was mad at us. If he was mad at anyone, it was himself (most of the time anyway). He was hard on us because he loved us, and he knew the world wasn’t about to give us a break. If he hadn’t taught Wayne the value of hard work, Wayne wouldn’t have worked so hard at writing and performing. If he hadn’t taught Wayne to be tough, the music business would have chewed him up and spit him out like it has so many others. If he hadn’t taught Wayne that there are more important things than success and money, Wayne wouldn’t have been able to walk away and stay himself, the Wayne that God made and Dad trained.
And that brings me back to Whitewater Christian Church. I let myself get washed off the Rock as a young man, and I sucked down as much of that ocean of crap as I could. It took me quite a while to recognize my mistake, and as a result, I did a lot of damage, both to myself, and to those I love. Eventually though, I found a tractor big enough and powerful enough to pull my head out of my ass, and I started swimming back to the Rock. Our church has helped guide me back. Thinking about the example that those wonderful, loving, flawed people had set for me when I was a kid gives me hope for myself, and I think about them every time I set foot in that church. I know that they weren’t perfect (and to be honest, most of them would probably horrified at the pedestal that my generation has put them on), but they had the courage to try, and the patience and love to keep trying. I’m also comforted when I look around and see so many willing to take their place and continue the tradition established by our forebears. I don’t know that any of us will ever have the positive impact on the kids that those older had on us, but it’s encouraging to see so many willing to try. I feel lucky to be a part of it.
Well, ‘lil buckaroos, there’s good news and there’s bad news. Not for you, of course, this has nothing to do with you. This is all about me (sorry, my narcissism is showing). The good news is, I’m not losing my mind. I’ve discovered that I am NOT the victim of a vast and nameless conspiracy to make me think I’m fat (for more information on all the vast and nameless conspiracies that I AM a victim of, stay tuned for future posts!). For the longest time, I have suspected that someone (or something, DUH DUH DUHN) has been changing all the mirrors in my house, at church, and at school with fun-house mirrors, and warping all the windows on the front of my house. To make things even worse, it looked like it wasn’t a one-time change, but an on-going process, increasing the illusion of fatness in tiny increments. I had also noticed that everytime anyone took a picture of me, they used a wide-angle lens, even for close-ups. It was annoying and, frankly, kind of hurtful. It was really starting to freak me out. Jess was no help. When I mentioned it to her, she gave me that look, you fellas know the one, the one that says, “I’ve married an idiot”. They give you that look so that they don’t have to say it. What she said was, “You’re an idiot.” Obviously, experience has taught her that I’m not all that good at picking up on non-verbal communications. As it turns out, she was right (of course), it was all a false alarm.
The bad news is, I’m fat. I’m just going to have to face it. It’s really aggravating. In some ways, I almost wish that someone was messing with me. For one thing, I’d have to be way more important than even I think I am to rate that kind of large-scale torment, not to mention effort and expense. But no, I’m just fat. A year and a half ago, I realized I was kind of reaching maximum density, so I went on a diet, and lost 40 pounds. I was looking good (well, better anyway), and really kind of proud of myself. People (doctors are people, right?) had been telling me for years that I needed to cut back on my food, exercise, lose weight, etc., you know, all the things they tell you, that they know good and well you’re not going to do, just so they can say, “I told you so.” Let’s face it, if I was capable of moderate behavior, I wouldn’t be in this shape to begin with. I finally took it to heart though, and got serious about taking care of myself. Guess what the reward for all that weight loss and effort was. That’s right, I HAD A FREAKIN’ HEART ATTACK! It wasn’t even the fat-and-out-of-shape kind of heart attack! The cardiologist told me I had the kind that even skinny, in-shape people have. It was the too-stressed-out-with-blood-pressure-that-could-inflate-a-tractor-trailer-tire kind of heart attack. Now I ask you, how’s that supposed to make me feel. I could have died, and after months of depriving myself of bread, grease, potatoes, pasta, snacks, cake, salt, and some of the other food groups, as well. To be perfectly honest, it kind of killed my motivation. I mean, what’s the point in stopping doing so many of the things you love, when you’re just going to die anyway, apparently just so that fate can thumb its nose at the medical community at your expense. So I backslid a little. I’m happy to say that I didn’t regain all the weight I’d lost, but I did gain some. It turned out that it wasn’t my mirrors that need recalibrated, it’s me.
I began to suspect the horrible truth as I was walking in to school one day. You know how, when you look at your feet when you’re walking, they disappear underneath you, and then come back when you take another step forward? It’s kind of a steady foot-no foot, foot, no-foot rhythm. This one day, I noticed that my rhythm was off. My foot was spending a lot more time invisible than visible, like foot, no-foot, no-foot, foot, no-foot, no-foot. I wasn’t immediately alarmed, since I’m a middle-aged white guy, I just take it for granted that I’m extremely rhythm impaired. The more I thought about it though, the more I realized something was wrong. I know I can’t dance, but I’m kind of an old hand at walking. So I tried an experiment. I stood still and looked down. You guessed it, no feet.
The next sign I noticed was that when I was in the shower, I was having to lean forward a lot more than I used to in order to see “the boys”. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m just standing there staring. It’s sort of like running into an old friend on the street. You know, You smile, say “Hi, how are you,” maybe a quick handshake, and then it’s, “Have a good day, good to see you,” and you get on with your day. It would be rude to just ignore him. You fellas know what I’m talking about (it’s ok, you can deny it. We both know the truth).
The clincher came at school the other day. I’d had to get a little dressed up for a thing after school. Nothing formal, just a nice shirt, dress pants, and good shoes instead of my standard t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Still, I thought I was looking pretty good. As I walked down the hall, a kid I was in a class with last semester came out of a classroom, so we went through the “how are ya” routine I already described. As we were about to go our separate ways, he asked why I was dressed like that. I told him, and he laughed and said he thought I was going to a costume party. “You look just like Peter Griffin,” he said, “You know, the hair, the white shirt, green pants.” Even worse, the whole time he’s telling me this, he’s making rolling gestures in front of his stomach. I was back in class before I realized who Peter Griffin is (for those as culturally unaware as me, he’s the main character on “Family Guy”). It was doubly painful to me because, not only is Peter Griffin fat, but I hate that show! It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d compared me to Homer Simpson, at least I like the show, but I’ve got too much hair. Damn these luxurious, flowing locks of mine! On the other hand, of course, there are fewer and fewer guys my age who still have this much hair, so I guess it could be worse.
Anyway, the upshot of all this is that I’m afraid I’m going to have to get serious about losing some more weight. It’s for purely aesthetic reasons of course, although it will be nice to be able to tie my shoes again without having to stop to breathe.
Good news friends and neighbors! My wife, the reasonably understanding and slightly-less-than-normally forgiving Jess, has decided not to kill me. I know that you’ve all been worried sick about it. I can just picture you all, unable to eat, the sleepless nights, all life become suddenly meaningless because of your grief and concern for me. Well, rejoice, ‘lil Buckaroos, your suffering is at an end (actually, it’s probably just deferred, because what are the odds that I’ll never end up in that situation again?) Granted, I could have ended your suffering as early as Saturday afternoon, but I thought it best to wait a few days in case Jess suffered a relapse of her homicidal impulses. Plus, as I said at the end of my last post, it really was all your fault.
How, you may ask, did I avoid an unspeakable (and let’s face it, well-deserved) fate worse than death? Well, I started out by pouring on the old, infamous Moon Mullins charm. As when I first began my relentless pursuit of the luscious and delectable Jess over 20 years ago, that was a near-fatal mistake. Again, some people just never learn. Then I fell back on the same tactics that ultimately bagged her in the first place. I sucked up. I begged. I pleaded. Once I’d softened her up with my barrage of pitiable penitence, I brought out the big guns, the tremendulous trio of whiskey, hot oil massage and unequaled (at least as far as she knows) sexual prowess. I don’t like to brag (well ok, I do.), but she was still smiling Sunday morning, and not just because she was looking forward to Church. Not that my efforts are without a downside. My standard heavy-handed approach (if some is good, more is better!) has pretty much turned our entire bedroom into a giant Slip-and-Slide. It may be weeks before we can walk through it without cleats. However, I’ve always felt it is better to be enthusiastic than good, so “Mission Accomplished” I say. There is no domestic difficulty that can’t be overcome by whiskey, a sense of humor, and a 55 gallon drum of lube (If you think I’m kidding, check this out. You’re welcome! Don’t forget to read the reviews.)
Needless to say, I was pretty pleased with myself. I didn’t even have to resort to my last-ditch tactic of enticing her with my Bob and Doug Mackenzie album, which is a good thing, because that never worked the 1st time around either. I’ve never understood her resistance to the soothing tones of Bob and Doug’s Canadian accents and beer-based comedy. The woman obviously has a soul of stone, but that notwithstanding, being married to her is still the best thing by far that’s ever happened to me. I’m a lucky guy.
So, friends, fans, loyal readers, and those of you who stumbled upon this humble blog by accident, let your hearts be filled with rejoicing and gladness. I have survived to screw up another day.
I must say “Farewell” to you good people, for this morning, I committed the cardinal sin against my wife, the no longer long-suffering and understanding Jess. As a result, I have absolutely no confidence in my chances for surviving the day. I thought I’d take this opportunity to say goodbye while she is distracted by my granddaughter because, from the looks she’s been giving me for the last couple of hours, it will only take 1 more stupid mistake to push her completely over the edge. Those of you who know me will understand that the odds of my going even 2 or 3 hours without doing something stupid are virtually non-existent. Those of you who don’t know me will understand, after reading this. So, just in case she smothers me with a pillow in my sleep tonight, goodbye.
I wish to say that I in no way blame her. She has been the best of wives, loving, patient, and kind up to now, and God knows, it can’t have been easy for her. I also want to say that my mistake was a mistake of omission, not intention. Perhaps I should explain. We’re having a special event at church next weekend, and I volunteered her (strike 1) to contact people about it. Jess, while a charming and personable woman, is possibly the only person on earth who hates talking on the phone more than I do. However, she soldiered on uncomplaining, making calls, and leaving messages when necessary. Then we realized that there were several people who’s numbers had changed, or were not in our church directory, which is several years out of date. We (I) then decided that the best way to contact them would be through the Facebook (DUN DUN DUNNNNN. strike 2.) This morning I thought I’d help her out, since she never uses the Facebook. I went through the Friends list, and set up the messaging thing so that all she’d have to do was type in her message and send it. I got her going on it, and then went to take care of some personal business. Mere seconds after I’d set down to business, I heard her yell for me. Then my granddaughter took up the call. Now, those of you who know me will know that I was in no position (literally) to jump up and run immediately to her assistance, but as soon as I heard her yell, I realized that she had hit “enter” at the end of her first line (strike 3). As soon as I could, I went to see what was wrong and discovered that I was right, she had hit “enter”, and sent the message “Hi Guys” to 27 people. She was not happy. I explained to her what happened, that hitting “enter” sends the message, and then apologized for forgetting to tell her that beforehand. Then I told her to just go ahead and type her message and hit “enter”. Now, what I heard her say was, “I’ve already typed it, but was afraid to touch anything because I didn’t want to screw it up again.” Trying to be helpful, I said, “Oh, Okay,” and hit “enter” (strike 4). You would have thought I’d hit the nuclear launch button in the White House. She just exploded. Apparently what she had said was, “I’ve already started typing it…,” a small, but key difference. It took me a while to figure out just what I’d done, since I couldn’t really understand anything she was saying as she stormed out of the den and through the house, roaring. The effect was added to when my granddaughter chimed in on her side, since I can rarely understand anything that kid says anyway. However, when Jess is upset, having Little Sharon around is like having our own tiny, incomprehensible Greek chorus. It’s kind of funny, but only adds to the confusion.
Eventually, she calmed down enough to speak coherently, and explained that, thanks to me, now she looked stupid to those 27 people, and that she didn’t appreciate it at all. Unfortunately, lulled by her normal good nature, I thought she was kidding, and laughed (strike 5). Big mistake, perhaps my biggest of the day. It set her off on an entirely new tirade, as incomprehensible as the previous one. After she had calmed down (again), I told her not to worry about it, that it happened to me all the time. This did not serve to make her feel any better. She pointed out to me (again) that she didn’t appreciate being made to look stupid, that’s what she’s got me around for. I mounted a counter-attack, based on her inference that I’m supposed to look stupid so that she doesn’t have to, but my heart wasn’t really in it, due to the unassailable logic of her position. I am obviously much better at stupid than she is, so I didn’t push it. She, of course, was not amused by my pretended ire (strike 6).
I told her not to worry about it, that I’d take care of it when I got home from class, and she agreed vehemently that that would be best. When I got home however, she, being the dutiful and persistent woman that she is, had done it herself. Schmuck that I am, I noticed a mistake in the times she had listed, and, after I had corrected it, told her about it (strike 7. Some people just never learn), reigniting the flame of her displeasure (it burns rarely, but when it does, it burns hot). At this point, it was not looking good for the home team, so I decided to go ahead and say goodbye to you good people, in case I never have a another chance, so again, Goodbye. Of course, when I started to write this, I had told her that I was going to work on a paper for school. She came in to ask me about something, and saw what I was really doing. Again, she was not amused. I tried to assuage her anger by telling her that, as far as anyone knows, I’m the idiot, since the Facebook message is in my name and nowhere did she identify herself. I really thought that would do it, right up to the point where she pointed out that they would only think that until I posted this (strike 8). So now I’m doomed, hoist by my own petard, because of my loyalty and obligation to your entertainment and edification. Mom always said I was my own worst enemy, and she was right, at least up to now. I hope you’re happy. If you don’t see me again, think kindly of me for, after all, this is really all your fault.
Sometimes I think we’d be happier if we could (or would) make some serious changes to the bible (or, preferably find someone else to make the necessary changes. Why should we take the wrap if it’s a bad idea?). Some of the changes are obviously no-brainers, like adding “God helps those who help themselves.” I mean, how did that get left out in the first place. I think it’s obviously an editorial error. What kind of God would want to help the helpless? It’s just un-American. George Bernard Shaw once said something along the lines of, “The average Englishman thinks God is an Englishman.” Well, the average Englishman is wrong. God is not English. The English had to imperialize most of the known world just to get something decent to eat. Then, when the rest of the world got around to kicking them out, the English brought all those foreigners home with them, put them on the dole, and gave them health care. Doesn’t sound God-like to me. God is obviously American, and very likely a Southerner (after all, they seem to be about the only ones who REALLY believe anymore.) Just look at the evidence: 1.Try to find a real American (and I mean a REAL American, not one of them commie, sissy liberals) who doesn’t know (not just believe, but know) that Americans are God’s chosen people. 2. We don’t drag all manner of foreigners in here to corrupt our values, take all our good-paying fruit-picking jobs, and overload our welfare system. Hell no! We do everything we can to keep ’em out of here, up to and including building walls hundreds of miles long. And, 3. We’re the best cooks. We really know how to take God’s bounty and make the most of it. Just look around you. How many skinny Americans do you see? Not many, and those that are have to work like maniacs to stay that way. Look at all the poor schmucks out there running, biking, Tai-Boing, Pilates-izing, etc., trying to resist the American way and God’s blessings. It’s really kind of pathetic. Remember, “Whoever tries to save their life will lose it…” It’s right there in the Bible.
Now granted, a lot of the things that make us God’s Chosen People originated in other places, but we improved on them. Everything becomes better once we’ve made it our own. We may get our inspiration from foreigners, but we take care to bring home the ideas and leave the foreigners at home. The Chinese took hundreds of years to build their wall, we should have ours finished in less than a decade or two. The Italians invented pizza, but have you ever had pizza in Italy? It doesn’t even deserve the name pizza. It’s nowhere near the same class as our American pizza, be it Chicago-style or New York, or frozen in a box at the grocery. Look at plumbing. The Romans may have invented it, but have you ever tried the plumbing anywhere else? At it’s best, it’s complicated and confusing, at it’s worst it’s primitive and downright scary. These are just three examples of our superiority. I’m sure any real American could think of dozens more.
But I digress. What I’m getting at is this. We’re innovators. We’re not satisfied to take something as it is. We have a God-given compulsion to improve things. It’s what we’re here for. That’s why I think it’s up to us (or somebody, not necessarily you or me. See the parenthetical comment at the beginning of this post.) to man up and make some important and necessary corrections to the Bible. Some additions I’d like to see are as follows:
1. God helps those who help themselves. Let’s face it, most of us think it’s in there already.
2. A little clarification on how that whole “Hate the sin but love the sinner” thing is supposed to work. The prevailing idea seems to consist of “I love you, and this is why you’re going to hell.” Is that enough, or should we be throwing things at them to make sure they get the point?
3. Something about the right to keep and bear arms. Just having it in the Constitution isn’t cutting it. If God didn’t want us to be armed, then why did he give us so much cool stuff to protect. “I’ll keep my Xbox after I pry it from your cold, dead fingers. God Bless.”
There also are some things that need to be condensed, heavily edited, or removed altogether.
1. “For the love of money is the root of all evil.” Yikes! How’d that get in there? If we don’t have money to keep score, how are we going to know who God loves the most? Besides, haven’t we sanctified our money by putting God on it? If you think about it, isn’t spending money just another way of witnessing? Isn’t accumulation of money just another way of keeping God close to our hearts? Maybe it’s talking about foreign money.
2. Everything Jesus said. Now before you panic, I’m not saying we should take it all out. Obviously, whipping the money-changers out of the temple needs to stay. Beating up bad guys is something we can all get behind (also, it could be seen as an indictment of the evils of foreign money. See, it’s all starting to come together.) The whole Son of God thing is cool, as is the dying for the forgiveness of our sins, but have you ever read the stuff he said? A lot of it is just downright un-American. I know, I know, you’re thinking Son of God, infallible, etc., but think about it. Would a Christian God really say that stuff? Look how much of it is completely counter to conventional Christian wisdom. Even his words are printed in RED. You know what else is red? Communism. So, since we’ve already established that God is an American, I think it’s far more likely that Jesus’ words, as represented in the Bible are much more likely to be the result of an either accidental or intentional bad translation. Maybe a Franciscan editor? We may never know how it happened. It’s enough to know we can fix it.
At any rate, you get the idea. Feel free to use the comments section below to suggest other changes. I’m sure there are lots of areas open to improvement and good old American innovation. Enjoy!
I think I may have poisoned myself. My guts are wrecked, and it’s not safe for me to be more than a short run to the bathroom (and if you’ve ever seen me run, you know how short a distance that is). My poor wife, the lovely and talented Jess, is suffering as well. She’s not poisoned, just suffering from being in proximity to me. Jess is normally very sympathetic and caring about the state of my health (much more so than I am), but after being subjected to the miasma of fetid air that’s been following me for the last 3 or 4 days, vented not only from the usual suspects, but seemingly from my very pores as well, she doesn’t seem much inclined to feel one bit sorry for me, or even concerned really, which seems a bit unfair, considering that it’s really all her fault. For Christmas, she got me a box of Grippo’s. She wrapped it up and put it under the tree. On Christmas Eve, we went to church, and when we got home, Harry (her dog) had dug it out, gnawed through the wrapping paper and the box, and eaten virtually the entire contents. It was a very disappointing Christmas for me. I blame Jess because, if she had shown the proper regard for Harry’s voracity, I would have had to share the box with holiday company. At any rate, I found myself obsessing about the lost Grippo’s ever since, and since I had to drive right by Marsh grocery store (the only place in town that carries Grippo’s, for some inexplicable reason) to pick up my granddaughter, I caved in and picked up a box.
The fact that they are the only chips I’ve ever seen that are sold in a box says something about Grippo’s BBQ potato chips. Of course, they are available in the traditional bag, but those are only for the weak at heart, the dabblers in exhilarating flavor. For the true aficionado, there is no substitute for the box. When I was in the Air Force, I was frequently deployed to Kuwait, Turkey, and sundry other uncivilized places. My mother got in the habit of sending me a box of Grippo’s as a care package. I made the mistake early on of inviting some of my friends to try them, as none of them had ever heard of these delightful deep-fried and seasoned-to-perfection crunchy slices of heaven. Their first hesitant bites quickly turned into a piranha-like feeding frenzy, and, in a matter of minutes, left me once again, Grippo-less. After that, I learned to have Mom send me two boxes, one to share and one to hoard.
The superiority of the boxed Grippo’s as opposed to the bagged, is two-fold. For the most part, it is merely a matter of quantity. The boxed chips do seem to have somewhat more seasoning on them, but not significantly. It is the sheer increase in quantity that attracts the novice to the box. The true Grippo’s freak is drawn to the box for an entirely different reason. At the bottom of every box lies, like buried treasure, the true appeal of the box. It is the fine mixture of crushed chips and raw Grippo’s seasoning powder that has settled to the bottom, like gold at the bottom of a river. It is delicious and highly addictive. I call it the Grippo Crack. There are few gustatory joys equal to that of dipping a wet finger into that delicious, delectable sandy-red powder, and then licking that finger clean (Your own, of course, using someone else’s would just be gross).
Therein lies the peril of the Grippo’s overdose from which I’m currently suffering. Although I actually eat less at a single sitting than I used to (this box took me 4 days to eat. It used to only take 2.), now that I’ve gotten older and apparently frailer (digestively anyway), I apparently just can’t handle them. The chips themselves did sufficient damage, but on day 4, I got stuck into the Grippo Crack. It is impossible to summon the willpower necessary to stop at a mere 2-3 finger dips. It would be like trying to eat 1/2 of a fun-size (and by the way, who came up with that stupid name? A true fun-size candy bar would weigh at least a pound.) Hershey bar. It can’t be done, or at least can’t be done without an overwhelming sense of your own inadequacy and despair. No, once you’re on the Grippo Crack, you’re on it ’til the sweet, tangy end. It’s an immoral imperative. The only real downside, other than the physical effects of eating 1/2 a pound of crushed chips and seasoning, is that it doesn’t last. Sooner or later, you run out, and, as soon as your guts recover, start planning to get your next fix.
I blame Jess for my current state of ill health because, if she had shown the proper regard for Harry’s voracity, I would have had to share the box with holiday company. Since she was so careless, I had this one all to myself. Sometimes I think she’s trying to kill me.
Fortunately, we’re leaving soon to visit my brother in Florida. It would just be rude not to take him a couple of boxes, since he can’t get them down there. You know how I hates to be rude. Jess is gonna kill me.
By the way, if you haven’t experienced the ambrosiac flavor and majestic burn of the Grippo’s BBQ potato chip, you owe it to yourself to try them. You can thank me later. Check them out at www.grippos.com.
Here’s another paper I wrote last semester. Enjoy!
Let Them Eat Donna Reed:
Family Values As A Diversionary Tactic.
America is in terrible shape. We cannot even keep our government open. Our economy seems to be perpetually on the brink of collapse. Unemployment rates are high. We have been at war with terror for 12 years and counting. We have been at war with drugs for even longer. Our industrial base is being eroded by overseas competition. What are the reasons for our current predicament? Right-wing politicians, pundits, preachers and those who aspire to leadership want us to believe that it is the fault of the government, the unions, the gays, the Muslims, the single mothers, and the “takers” in society who are getting rich ripping off the welfare system. They would have us believe that we need to return to those good old family values represented in our collective sub-conscious by The Donna Reed Show and host of others like it, and our problems will fix themselves. By embracing and promoting the myth of the Donna Reed American family, politicians and religious leaders have manufactured an unimpeachable moral high ground that solidifies their power base while effectively hampering efforts to cure the societal ills that they bemoan.
Historically speaking, the stay-at-home mom is a largely a myth. To be sure, there have always been some women who were just homemakers, but they were in the minority, and usually in the middle to upper class. Poor women have always been major contributors to the family income, either through conventional employment in the work-place, or through under-the-table cottage industries, like providing child care in their homes for other working mothers, and manufacturing food and goods for their families to stretch the cash a little bit further. In fact, founding father Alexander Hamilton recommended women and children as cheap sources of labor in his 1791 report on manufacturing (Leckie, 2013). Not until the progressive movement of the early 20th century were many real steps taken to protect the working man, let alone working women and children, from blatant exploitation. National tragedies like the Homestead Strike in 1892 (Foner, pp 629-631), and the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire in 1911 (Foner, pp 672-674) gave Progressive reformers the impetus to enact legislation restricting working hours, child labor, and unfair business practices, establishing work-place safety standards, minimum wages, unemployment insurance, a graduated income tax, and many other things that we now take for granted, like women’s suffrage, and the right to unionize (Foner 629-712). Although the power of the working class has ebbed and flowed, the times of greatest prosperity have been proceeded by further empowerment of the working class. However, today’s crop of family values advocates would have us believe that only unrestricted business can restore our economy. Government restrictions and regulations are presented as the enemy of prosperity and freedom. They conveniently ignore the fact that “We the People” are (or at least are supposed to be) the government.
One advantage of taking a simple (or simplified) stance on complex issues is that a simple rebuttal requires your opponent to at least appear to endorse what you stand against, and vice versa. Thus, liberals seem to be saying that abortion is good, and the “traditional American family’ is bad. When they try to explain their often quite reasonable views, liberals appear wishy-washy, unsure of themselves and their arguments, because articulating their views is necessarily more complex. To quote Manhattan Institute researcher Kay Hymowitz on the subject of non-traditional families, “Even if you’re just neutral on the subject, you are still saying it’s basically fine, that it’s of no importance difference whether a child grows up with a father or not” (Green, 2013).
Another advantage of the simple, conservative approach is that the simple approach appeals to personal justice, while the more complex, liberal approach appeals to societal fairness. To conservatives, if a teenager is pregnant and unwed, it is because she cannot keep her legs together, and she is only getting what she deserves. The fault is hers. To liberals, while most would agree that abstinence would have been a good policy, the reasons for her pregnancy stem from many things entirely beyond her control, i.e. poverty, lack of education, social marginalization, and the hopelessness that accompanies these things. The fault, in many ways, lies with all of us. To most of us, societal causes are many-faceted and hard to understand, while personal justice is simple. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time is a philosophy that most of us understand and agree with.
Yet another advantage is that it is able to rely on public perception and popular beliefs rather than cold hard facts. Warnings of a takeover of America by gays, Muslims and immigrants appeal to the feelings of insecurity that we all feel in this post 9/11 era. For example, Gallup polls have found that Americans think that homosexuals make up 25% of the population (Franke-Ruta, 2012). This is reinforced by the constant news coverage of gay issues, from political battles to gay pride parades, as well as the rapidly expanding numbers in homosexual-based programming and homosexual characters in TV shows and movies. The prevalent sensationalism, particularly in news coverage, from political hyperbole to the images of homosexuals parading down the streets dressed in outlandish and often disturbingly revealing costumes, ramps up the tension and insecurity even more. These days, everyone is much more aware of homosexuality than they were even 20 years ago. The fact is that homosexuals (and bisexuals) make up only about 5% of the population (Franke-Ruta), a much less intimidating number, but one that flies in the face of public perception.
It also appeals to Americans’ vision of ourselves and our nation. We see ourselves as moral, hard-working, independent-minded people who do not need government or anyone else to take care of us. All we need is a chance to get in the game, and an even playing field, and we will be fine. Dependence on government hand-outs will turn us all into slaves. We just need the government to get out of our way. The fact that most of us are living paycheck to paycheck, one car accident or illness away from destitution does not seem to enter into our thinking, politically speaking. The thought that, “There, but for the grace of God, go I” seems to be forgotten.
Finally, it is tactically sound. Choose the battleground, entrench yourself on the high ground, and make your enemies come to you. It worked for Lee at Fredericksburg during the Civil War, and it works for politicians today. For example, a right-wing pundit can say abortion is bad. Even moderate conservatives will agree with him. The problem for liberals is that even they basically agree with him. They generally see it as a necessary evil, or the best of two bad choices. Even most the ardent pro-choice advocates usually see it as a matter of women’s rights, not as a good thing in and of itself. Thus, the left is hobbled by seemingly vacillating, morally untenable, and therefore weak, positions.
In conclusion, by diverting people’s attention with “Family Values” the conservative right have managed to focus that attention on issues, rather than on the people affected by those issues. It is a tried-and-true political tactic that is often effective, but not without its risks in the face of rising support for reform. In the face of similar drives for reform, Marie Antoinette said, “Let them eat cake,” and look how that ended for her. In a time when even the Pope advocates a shift in focus from rules and dogma to concern for people (Spadaro, 2013), it may become even more dangerous.
References
Foner, E. (2012). Give me liberty! : An American history (3rd edition, Vol. 2). (pp. 629-
712). New York, NY: W.W. Norton & Company.
Franke-Ruta, G. (2012, May). Americans Have No Idea How Few Gay People There
Are. The Atlantic. Retrieved from http://www.theatlantic.com/
Green, E. (2013, July). Why Is It Hard for Liberals to Talk About Family Values’? :
Racial tensions, a fear appearing judgemental, and the sexual revolution…?
The Atlantic. Retrieved from http://www.theatlantic.com/
Leckie, S. (no date available). Women in the Workplace: A History. The Labor Site.com
Retrieved from http://www.thelaborsite.com/
Spadaro, A. (2013, September). A Big Heart Open to God. America: The National
