Congratulations, Mr. Foxx

Turns out Jamie Foxx has a sister with Down syndrome. Small world, huh?
That’s the “4 foot 11 inches” of pure love” he mentioned in his Oscar acceptance speech. Some of the buzz in my little community is that now he’ll become some sort of advocate, another champion to further the cause, whatever that is. I’m still not entirely sure. That’s another blog, someday soon. He is a successful, African-American who has the resources and ability to have his whole family live with him, and he does. I’m sorry, but that’s advocacy enough, and the expectations that this revelation have sparked leave me a little cold. Barbara Walters has a “mentally handicapped” daughter living with her; she neither denies, capitalizes, nor openly campaigns for any causes, as far as I know. That is her right (and mine, too, I might add). During her interview of him, was I to expect that she’d share her family situation as she asked Jamie about his? No, but knowing this made the moment somewhat poignant for me. Did they discuss this off-camera? I’ll never know. We are all collections of what we are, have been, and want to be. Is it important that it all has to be revealed? I don’t think so.
Congratulations, Mr. Foxx. A well-earned award. I thoroughly enjoyed”Ray”, and I don’t often say that after plunking down $9 to see a movie. It ends there.
And, from a parent of a girl with Down syndrome, thanks for being such a loving brother. It means a lot to me.

Whichways?

Ever just have thoughts running around in your head that are just too big and ugly to write down? You start to think you might have something to say, when you realize that either someone else has already thought it, said it, written it so much better than you ever could have? How futile it all seems. Well, do you? Answer the question.
I’ve been feeling pressure to add something here, but keep coming up empty. I’ve been pretty flattered by those who’ve complimented me on some of these, I envision them coming to the site, seeing nothing new, sighing (it’s how I express disappointment), and then leaving. Fortunately, with the advent of TV, and Seinfeld in particular, I feel free to write about nothing. So that’s what I’m doing, and I guess that makes it something.
We saw "Sideways", Mrs. G. and me, on Valentines’ Day. It was a matinee. Not exactly a "romantic" comedy, but a good movie, nonetheless. Almost too much identification with the main character for me, though. I was really hoping to be more like a Riesling. You’ll have to see the movie to understand that. I’d love to become an oenophile, but it’s a lot like golf or snow skiing. There are so many expensive accessories and travel costs. The wardrobe alone puts me off. Anyway, there’s a great review at http://www.rogerebert.com. That’s what I meant by my first paragraph. That man can write.
I just finished watching "Casablanca", with Mr. Ebert’s commentary "over the top" of it. Now, granted, this is one of the most-dissected, written about, viewed over and over films of all time, but I was completely entertained by his combination of factual reportage and personal observations. Voyeurism multiplied. Watching someone watching someone and explaining why we like to watch someone, even if it is a movie.
Identification with characters. Political themes. Light and shadow. Conflicted emotions. Midgets walking around a cardboard cutout of an airplane. Movie Magic. Something from nothing.

Happy Ash Wednesday!

Having grown up in a particular (and peculiar) evangelical tradition, I've been a little confused by the recent emphasis of our last two pastors (the latter is a protege' of the former - but that does not make him a latter-day saint) on Ash Wednesday and the concept of Lent. I always considered that to be a construct of the infidel, not the true church as founded by inspired Texans at the turn of the last century. I suppose the idea of depriving oneself of a pleasure to achieve greater holiness is a time-tested formula, but my upbringing leads me to think that most of these "pleasures" are inherently sinful in and of themsleves, and therefore should not have been indulged in in the first place. This, of course, means that the gesture itself becomes a hollow practice that is merely self-serving to one's sense of piety, as it is re-instated at the end of what is an extended month.
Now, think of a lifetime where, each Lenten season, a vice could be permanently excised from one's repertoire, forever banished. Now there's a concept worth pursuing! Can I have an "Amen!"
Oh, sure, there are those that will say that I just don't get it, that I don't understand the true nature of using deprivation to focus on God and his plan for my life, to use the time released by giving up whatever it is in meditation and prayer. That's a great idea; I just don't think it's gonna happen.
So, I've decided, I'm going to give up "trying" for this Lenten season. I know, it's a little outside the conceptual guidelines, but a) it's suppposed to be up to me and God to decide, and b) I think I can acheive it, with divine help. I think, by not adding any extra effort, I can relax and focus on what's important, like cleaning off the top of my dresser, and organizing my shoes, and defragmenting my hard drive. To accomplish this, I will need pie, ice cream, candy, gum, breakfast, lunch, dinner, TV, NASCAR, Starbucks, Spaghetti, and all of the important aspects of my existence to be able to focus on not trying for the next 39 and a half days. I'm hoping that this will not be a trying time for my family, but I am committed to accomplishing this goal. I'll try and let you know what I learn - - no, I guess I won't. Not until after Easter. This is going to be harder than I thought. I almost blew it before noon the first day. Whew.

No Title - No Words

I sat in a waiting room yesterday, reading an 8-month old Sports Illustrated article praising Pat Tillman, the NFL player who was Killed in Action in Afghanistan. Here's the rest of a different story you may not have heard. It's taken from an unreferenced newspaper article on another site. I trust this source.

Amar was 19, but he had the mind of a four-year-old. This handicap didn't stop the insurgency's hard men as they strapped explosives to his chest and guided him to a voting centre in suburban Al-Askan. And before yesterday's sunrise in Baghdad, his grieving parents loaded his broken remains on the roof of a taxi to lead a sorrowful procession to the holy city of Najaf. There, they gave him a ceremonial wash, shrouded him inwhite cotton and buried him next to the shrine of Imam Ali, the founder of their Shiite creed. On Sunday we witnessed an act of collective courage by an estimated 8 million Iraqis as they faced down terrorist threats of death and mayhem to vote in Iraq's first multi-party election in half a century. But the election day story of Amar is from the other side of human behaviour - in a region where too many have knowingly volunteered for an explosive death in the name of their god. He was chosen because he didn't know. He had Down syndrome or, as the Iraqis say, he's a mongoli, and when his parents, Ahmed, 42, and Fatima, 40, went to vote with their two daughters Amar was left in the family home.They presume that in their absence he set out to fill his day as he always did - wandering the streets of the neighbourhood until, usually, a friend or neighbour would bring him home around dusk. Al-Askan is a mixed and dangerous suburb. Yesterday the Iraqi police allowed The Age to advance only a few blocks into the area before ordering us out.The area around the family's home was the centre of a running gunfightbetween Shiites of the Al-Bahadel tribe and Sunnis of the Al-Ghedi tribe. But one of Amar's cousins, a 29-year-old teacher who asked not to be named, retreated to a distracted state in which Iraqis often discuss death to tell their story as best they can. "They must have kidnapped him," he said. "He was like a baby. He had nothing to do with the resistance and there was nothing in the house for him to make a bomb. He was Shiite. Why bomb his own people?" He was mindless, but he was mostly happy, laughing and playing with the children in the street. Now, his father is inconsolable; his mother cries all the time," the teacher said. After voting at 7.30am, Amar's parents joined their extended family for a celebration that became a lunch of chicken and rice, soup and orange juice, at the home of a relative.The sound of the explosion interrupted the party. But, the cousin said, it was assumed to be a mortar shell, a follow-up to the barrage across the city in the first hours of voting." Everyone was very happy and excited, but news came that a mongoli had been a bomber. Ahmed and Fatima became distressed and they raced home. They got neighbours to search and one of them identified Amar's head where it lay on the pavement and his body was broken into pieces." I have heard of them using dead people and donkeys and dogs to hide theirbombs, but how could they do this to a boy like Amar?" Apparently, Amar triggered the bomb before he got to the intended target. It exploded while he was crossing open ground. Amar's father served in Saddam's army, but now he sells cigarettes in a street market in Al-Askan, an area of the city that also displayed braveryin the casting of votes on Sunday.

Puss 'n' Booze

The reason I wrote this is not important - let's just say that it is for an audience older than my children, but younger than I am, and leave it at that. I'm posting it here in the hopes that you'll know that I'm not, well, dour is the word that comes to mind . . .

He was a tired, old Tom. He’d seen enough alley scrapes to fill 9 lives. He took another pull from his bottle of Night Train, and wished that sleep would overtake his aching bones. He’d known that it was going to be a long night when he saw the three of them coming down Second Avenue. He wasn’t sure how many of them it was going to take to kick his ass, but he knew how many they were going to use. The orange one had come at him first - he was fat and soft, and soon turned tail to nurse the new gash in his left ear. "Sticky" was next, a patchy mongrel who seemed to always be scrapping just to fit in. His problem was that he couldn’t fight, and was dispatched with only a couple of swift kicks to the head and the promise of lost blood. That left only Art – a badass black and white with attitude to match his sharp claws. "Lessssss getiton, essssssayyyowww" he hissed, hunkering down, his tail hairs standing on end, waving slowly back and forth. El Gato turned, and let loose the kind of ‘green cloud’ fart that only an old, dumpster-diving, unwormed alleycat can muster up on a Saturday night. Art hesitated, and it was his undoing. Old Smelly dove under the two-tone, and swiped a clean gash across one of Art’s testicles, long ago rendered useless by the Veteranarian’s knife. They were his pride and joy, just the same. The one-two punch was more than he could take, and he skittered off sideways toward the Hardee’s at the end of the block. Gato hated Hardee’s, and Art knew it. "Eessss not over, fatso!" Art screamed, as he led the battered trio past the battered cans and creosote-stained fences.
"God, I could use a drink" he muttered, and limped back to his lair behind the BBQ Pit. The food and the accomodations were pretty good, and the owner kept him in beer and cheap wine as long as the rats kept their heads down during inspections. "Come on, Night Train," he thought, as he slipped into another fitful night’s sleep. Purrrrrrrrrr.
Good night, young punks, wherever you are.

Music in my Head

All I hear, in the background of my thoughts these days, is Marvin Gaye: "Mother, Mother, there's too many of you crying. Brother, brother, brother There's far too many of you dying. . . Oh, what's going on, What's going on?" You know the song, or you should. I know that the context is not the same, but between the natural and personal disasters of late, and the daily death toll from Iraq, I’m just, well, not even sure what I’m supposed to think and feel anymore. Even my sustained employment has been made uncertain in the last couple of weeks, the implied contract of a full paycheck in return for my promise to show up when I'm supposed to has been voided. What’s Going On?
I want to believe, with the faith of a sixth-grader who says the pledge of allegiance proudly, that we are paving the way for self-determination and democracy, despite the Iraqis’ own efforts to blow each other and us back into a state of ignorance. Increasingly, I just want our young people to stop dying. And I sure as hell want to stop teaching our children to torture those that are powerless into whatever it is we want them to do. Talk about sending mixed messages. Which one do you think will be remembered, longer? I used to make TV repair calls to a clientele that included a fairly large contingent of Holocaust survivors here in town. I can never forget seeing the tattoos on their forearms, with the smallest inkling of recognition of what that might represent. What scars are we creating for Iraq? "You see, war is not the answer, For only love can conquer hate . . . Don't punish me with brutality. . ."
I know, you’re just supposed to keep on keepin’ on, and that’s what I do. Keep the faith. Hang in there. I’m proud of , support, and thank God every day for those who place themselves in harm’s way for me. I’m for freedom. I can’t help but think, though, that people who don’t want to be free, or can’t see it for what it is, don’t deserve it until they do. That’s the difference between Brezhnev and Gorbachov. "Oh, you know we've got to find a way To bring some understanding here today. . ."
I’m just saying.

The Road Less Traveled

I didn’t know what to do. I was standing in the street. I really wanted to just walk down the hill, get into my car, and drive home to my wife, two kids, and the afternoon I had planned. Instead, I walked across the street into the building and took the elevator to the 8th fl.
I found him in the hallway, with her Dad. I was really here to see him, to offer whatever support my words and physical presence could provide to a man about to lose his wife. His children sat at the end of the atrium. "How’s it going," I said; nothing else to say. "This sucks." "Yup." "Let’s go see her," he said.
We entered the room, and he leaned over, kissed her, and told her that I was there. I held her hand and tried to tell them both how much they had meant to me and my family, their faith and encouragement to us as we battled our own problems, that we were able to share and support each other a little. I felt what was either a spasm or Jerri respond with her hand, I will never know for sure. I’d like to think so, but I’m a skeptical guy. I’m not trying to paint a romantic picture. I looked at her, knowing that it was probably the last time I’d see her. Her head was turned to the side, as I’ve been accustomed to seeing her, at church, at parties, here and there with groups of friends. I tried to burn her profile into my memory. Even in this condition, she is a graceful beauty. As much as it still hurts, it was a privilege to hold her hand and be present with her.
We left the room and returned to the hallway, windows open to the bay. It was a clear day, I could see the Coronado Islands. I have come to deeply respect Brad, our common backgrounds and suffering have given us a way of connecting past the awkward things that most people say. We are two intelligent, able men who are powerless against these forces, and I hope that I in some measure return the strength that he provides me. As we spoke of our different-but-connected perspectives on life, I looked out over the city to the water. The water. The water that had taken so many lives just a couple of weeks ago. This wave was only going to take one.
I left him, and went home to my wife, 2 kids, and the afternoon I had planned. I learned of her passing, last night, as I write this this morning. I am saddened, and will continue to greive for her, but I am glad, today, that I did not take the easy path. I do so hope that you are in Paradise, today, dear Jerri.

Computer Karma and Backups

I am a firm believer in both. As someone who has had a near-Information Systems career (I never mastered the secret handshake, so I don’t get to go to the seminars where they chortle over "Petals over the Rose" and drink Jagermeister and Red Bull at the same time till their heads hurt), I consider myself "computer-savvy." Which means that I can talk about computers the way guys used to talk about cars. "I been thinkin’ about upgradin’ my P4 at 1.6 Gig, ya know, should I go with the Celeron 3.2 or stick with Intel? Hafta get another motherboard, but then I could go SATA and that would kick ass. . ."
As such, I have the privilege of often helping others, as well as helping myself. This can have serious, detrimental consequences with relationships; to forget a friend’s birthday is one thing, to lose all of their children’s baby photos is quite another. I do do a better job of protecting others’ data than my own; I’m getting better at backing up my own stuff, more often. While I’ve found that one can often mitigate the course of general entropy in the universe, which includes computer problems, disaster usually strikes at a point where and when it is least expected, or desired.
I managed to goof up my Dad’s computer last Tuesday, while trying to troubleshoot a problem. I did so, foolishly, before making a backup. I’d only managed to mangle the operating system, Dad’s data was still o.k., so I did a backup THEN. I put the files on my hard drive, and went to bed.
Next morning - Jury duty. I get up and push the "Power on" button on my computer, intending to copy some MP3 files onto my Pocket PC to pass the time in the jury room. No boot. No reboot. UNABLE TO BOOT FROM DRIVE. PLEASE INSERT BOOT DISK AND PRESS ENTER. I’m thinking that things aren’t so great in the computer world. How’m I going to explain this to dear old Dad?
Sigh. Off to the courthouse, where I at least have a couple album’s worth of songs, but then one earphone pulls apart when I abruptly remove it to hear some inane announcement. Monophonic just doesn’t cut it. But I digress. Later, back at the data center –
I was able to recover all but the last week of my computing (the important parts had, thankfully, been sent to clients upon completion, whew!). Restored Dad’s system from a year-old backup (thankfully he doesn’t tweak his system around the way that we "savvy" folk do), and his data from Tuesday’s. All's well that ends, well, well.
I’m now back to daily backups – it is the gift that keeps on giving.

A Quick Program Note

Thank you for checking in. I'm told that I'm averaging about 5 visitors a day, I'm pretty pleased with that, even at this low production rate of mine. I have to say that it's been hard for me to work up a good gripe lately, I just keep thinking of all of the people just looking for safe drinking water on our planet right now - it just shuts me right up. We were talking last night about some of the depravity and exploitation that these events seem to expose, compounding the natural disaster to create wider human tragedy. The spectrum of our abilities to both uplift and degrade each other, often in the same moment, is simply overwhelming me.
I've added an RSS feed for those of you that know what that is; I'm still looking for a decent, free reader to find out for myself. Let me know if you've found one.
And, as always, any answers to the above questions would be sincerely appreciated.

"Crap on a Stick", or "So, Tsunami", or "When Bad Things Happen to Everyone"

This response to a post on a forum about the killing of "Dimebag Darrel", the former lead singer of "Pantera." My poster- friend also has just lost a friend and musician who died Christmas Eve, not from violence but heart failure. The question, as I understood it, was "why is all of this stuff happening" - which is a simplification of what she was asking, but the one that I reacted to:
I have to say that the events of this holiday season have me in a pretty deep "funk", to say the least. I've been reading at andrewsullivan.com (a link from Tom's blog) - there's a collection of links under Tuesday's heading, "TSUNAMIS AND THEODICY" that struggle with this subject from a mostly religious perspective. I think that it is one of the most incomprehensible things that we deal with - this feeling, and the teachings of many - that we are immortal, while the life and consciousness that we call experience is fleeting and fraught with uncertainty and peril. Is is real, or simply a series of beliefs? Today, I don't really know. I just feel alone.
Specifically, our society is not doing well with "the mentally ill" at all these days. The well-meaning opening-up of mental institutions and policies of the 1970's has resulted in several things, not the least of which is a nearly-hidden population of street dwellers, secure in nothing but their freedom to be ignored and uncared for. From what I have read, this individual displayed several characteristics of mental illness, but who then is responsible for reporting it, making sure that he was evaluated? Even then, claiming that Pantera had stolen his music is not cause enough to remove him from circulation . . . and only the police have carte blanche when a civilian even points a gun at them. Shifting gears to a silly example, the behavior in "The King of Comedy" with Robert Deniro and Jerry Lewis - - it is often a very fine line that can separate our aspirations and desires from criminal action.
I'm rambling now.
I'm looking for meaning amidst the chaos, myself. Any clues you could spare would help.
"Ever feel like the world was a blue suit, and you were a pair of brown shoes?"
- George Gobel, appearing on "The Tonight Show"

Not a Creature was Stirring

The rat is gone. It brought excitement, it brought excrement, it brought us together in a special way for nearly two weeks, and now it’s over. I think.
Fade to a Sunday afternoon not long ago. Each member of the nuclear family is doing their own thing, which for me was a nearly engaging football game, which actually means a nap. My focus shifted quickly to the sound of hurried steps down the hallway. “There’s a Rat in the cupboard above the microwave,” she said, with all the certainty of one who’s security has been shattered in an instant. “It looked me in the eye,” she shuddered at me. The message was clear. I now had to offer, at minimum, sound advice, or, more to the point, DO SOMETHING. This was not the last time that this creature would interfere with my favorite pastime.
After a measured period of strategizing ways to safely encourage our rodent raider from his elevated position to the great outdoors, it became a matter of holding a large box in one hand while poking a broom handle into the cupboard, while balancing on a stepladder. It became obvious that I would not be able to balance both myself and a box filled with cookbooks, chip bags, chewed-empty peanut shells and rat poop; it became a matter of taking what I could hold, backing out, tying the doors shut, sorting the box empty (outside!), and repeating until the cupboard was bare. Guess what. No rat.
The plausible and popular theory was that El Vermin had escaped the way he’d gotten in, which had to be the gap between the vent pipe going through the cupboard roof and the top itself, leading to the attic. It was quickly sealed with foam, the mess was cleaned up, and our apprehension was tempered by a sense of security. Until the next morning,
as two fresh “presents” appeared on the kitchen counter. A call to an exterminator, fulfilled several uneventful days later, revealed no evidence in the attic of our freeloader or his extended family, and his expert opinion was that we had successfully withdrawn our invitation to this opportunistic drifter. All was well again.
Wednesday night. Children all snug in their beds, and “The West Wing” engages us as we recline. Suddenly, what I’ve come to recognize as the “heebie-jeebie” sound from my beloved severs my reverie. She calmly informs me that she’s just seen a rat run from the cat food dish to what has to be under the oven. While she says this, she sees it repeat this trip. The next hour is spent, kitchen door open, other doorway blocked, removing the boards from under the cabinets, moving the stove, finding the smelly calling cards of our guest, but no rattus rattus. This guy is good. Possible pathways are temporarily blocked, and a commitment is made to solve the problem in the morning.
Morning comes, and the day is spent rooting around, adding barriers, foaming the smallest possible ports of entry at pipe openings and outlets throughout the house. Aside from the original vent, I don’t see where this relative of the gopher in “Caddyshack” is getting in – or out. It’s not anywhere in the kitchen, if it ever was, now.
I go to bed, shortly after the children do, with the satisfaction of a day’s work done well.
My dreams are shattered to reveal my mate standing over my side of the bed – I’ve come to recognize this, over our time together, as - not a good thing. She’s just had the nerve shattering experience of sending a rat – the rat – from under her desk into the Living Room. I believe the word “peeved” comes to mind.
Peeved, I groggily make my way to the Living Room, festooned with the furnishings and decorations of the Christmas Season. Grabbing a broom, and enabling the only possible means of exit to the front door, which now stands open at 11 p.m., I begin disturbing furniture. One, two trips around the room produce nothing. I shake the lit Christmas tree, momentarily wondering if I’m going to have a rat jump me like the raccoon in “Christmas Vacation.” “Joy to the World” as sung by Clark W. Griswald, rings in my ears.
We have a few cats that grace our lives. Cleo has been summoned, and she wanders around the room, contributing absolutely nothing. Olie (no I don’t remember why he’s named “Olie”, he just is, o.k?) has been banned from the house for reasons relating to his need to mark territory within what is clearly ours, not his. He now watches this late-night show with interest from the front porch. At this point, he is a welcome addition to the hunting party. Pee all you want, buddy, just GET THAT RAT!
Third trip. It’s time to start dismantling the furniture. The next – to – last cushion from the couch reveals a tail, which quickly disappears into the superstructure of the couch.
Man of courage, I pick Cleo up off the floor and toss her onto the couch. She stands up, looks at us, and walks back under the table and sits down. Thank you so very much.
I grab the handle to unfold the sofa bed-works, and it runs out from underneath, heading for the door and Olie, accompanied by the aforementioned encouragement from my helpmate, behind the barrier to the Family Room like a picador waiting in the wings of an arena. Seeing Olie, our perpetrator dives under the stack of guitar cases behind the piano. I can see him trying to be small. The good news is, now Olie is interested.
I encourage the rat out into the open, whereupon he heads back to the couch. I’m tired, and I’m tired of this. I go to the couch, give it a yank, and the meteor streaks out, past Clio lounging, toward the door, and BAM! Olie fulfills his destiny. Taking the prey within his jaws, he trots out the front door. Picking up, putting away, we make it to bed about 1 or so.
I want so badly to think that this is over. I guess we’ll find out tonight.

She's My Girl

I mentioned in one Private Message to this fellow - the one that is apprehensive about his unborn child - that I thought that my daughter possesses some "spiritual gifts" that set her apart from the rest of us. My correspondent asked what I meant:

It's hard to explain, of course. Here's an example. We were selling some kittens through the newspaper. In the course of a few hours, we probably had 8-10 different groups of people come in the front door to see them. This kinda scruffy looking guy (to me) walks in the front door, and here comes Emma, full speed down the hallway, and she just throws her arms around him. He gets down on the floor and she just hugs him and won't let go. He then explained that he has a younger brother with DS. She knew.
She has a sense and an empathy for certain people. She's only 5, and she cannot speak more than about 8 words, but she communicates love and compassion in ways that defy description. People are drawn to her, not repelled. You cannot meet her without smiling. I've seen her melt the hardest people I know. Understand, she is also a stubborn little girl, and it is often very hard to deal with her. She pulled over the Christmas tree a couple of days ago. It's like, the highs are higher, the lows are lower. But it's so much better than I expected when we got the news when she was born. She's my girl.

Why, Again?

I then received a Private Message from the same guy, asking me how God could allow babies to be born with defects, etc. I may be repeating myself with this one, but it's same song, third verse. By the way, his wife is pregnant with their first child, pre-ultrasound. There was concern in his post :

I'm glad you PM'd me. I was afraid that you'd think I was picking on you.You have to know that I've asked myself those questions until I can't ask them any more. I'm no theologian, but here goes.I think that sin, defined as separation from God, exists and affects everything we know. That includes genetics, be it from pollution, poor choices, or our gaining knowledge and expertise with manipulating it without ethical consideration. The Old Testament describes "the sins of the fathers will be visited on the subsequent generations" (something like that, I'm sure you know what I'm talking about). I think that this was a way of stating that our actions do have consequences, but I don't think it means that we can take liberties in ascribing stuff we see to prior things we might not approve of, if that makes any sense. Speaking personally, we had our daughter when my wife and I were both 40. The possibility exists that the DS was a result of our age. Does that make us responsible? Yes, in a way. How many healthy babies are born to 40+ year olds in this world. A lot. Am I being punished for something, or did I just win some sort of twisted lottery? Should I feel guilt about what may or may not be, ultimately, my fault? I sincerely don't know.It is so easy to get messed up by semantics. I once thought, "will I recognize my daughter in heaven, if she is "made perfect", would I be able to know it was her? Then I thought the reverse - would she know me?" - as I'm pretty imperfect here, too. How am I to know that she is not more "God-like" than I am, with her simple mind, capacity for love and acceptance that she shows everyone?Just as one can stare into the stars of the Milky Way in the desert (something I love to do), I think that our lives, sin, our direct choices, those things that we can't control, the good that we do, weaves a web that we can't really unravel. That's the best explanation I've come up with. We do the best (usually) with what we have.There's too much that happens, I think, that defy any explanation. That goes for miracles, as well as the bad stuff. I sat in a Sunday School class, about 10 months after Emma was born, and heard an old friend give God the glory for helping his family find his daughter's retainer that week. It made me kinda wonder what the hell I did to deserve this, if you can understand that. One more thing. To your first question, I think he allowed it when he introduced sin into the mix. He wanted us to have a choice to love him or not, which meant accepting/allowing the consequences of us choosing not to. I don't think it's fair, and I hope to hear an explanation from Him myself, someday.I hope all is ok with your child. My testicles lurch up into my body every time my son runs across the street in front of our house. Worrying is part of being a good parent.Does any of this make sense to you?

Ironically, Enough

The same day I read the afore-referenced editorial, I happened upon a discussion in a gaming forum, of all places, about religion, homosexuality, and the like. In response to what I considered to be a fairly ignorant post, I wrote the following, repeated here for your morbid enjoyment, if you read my blog regularly. The dilettante philosopher rails on:
haven't seen this thread in oh, say 26 pages or so. But I feel a need to comment here. As the son of an evangelical pastor, I have seen and heard enough arguments on enough subjects to kill several horses, and then beat them. As a student of behavioral psychology, I know of and agree that there is homosexual behavior in the animal world. As the parent of a daughter with Down Syndrome, I am fully aware of the impact, variation, and social stigma of genetic variation. To use a previous example, what if baldness had been labeled as sinful, evidence of wrongdoing? My daughter, in the Old and New Testaments, would have been labeled as "demon possessed", many of her behaviors could be interpreted this way to the apprehensive, uneducated mind. Thank God that she now lives in a world that is beginning to see her as a person who belongs, not a being to be warehoused.
To make my philisophical argument more plainly, DS and perhaps homosexuality are evidence of sin on our planet, not necessarily the actions of individuals. I fully accept the reality of genetic homosexuality. I think that there is an entire spectrum of human sexuality. And I believe that God loves us all. There's more, but enough for the moment. IMHO, in the New Testament, Jesus does not address homosexuality, Paul does, and I think he takes liberties with his Savior's intentions. I think we need to look to the cliche "WWJD" rather than impose the legalistic, arbitrary judgements that Christ came here to turn out (if you believe it at all).

And Now for Something Completely Different

One of the more intelligent things I've read in some time. . .
The subject is Gay Marriage, one of my favorite subjects.
http://www.signonsandiego.com/uniontrib/20041214/news_lz1e14rasp.html

Christmas Pageant, Draft #1

It’s time for the Christmas Pageant.
Who will you be, this year?
Will you be Joseph, confused and unsure of what is really going on, events dictating your actions, bound by obligations, taxes, and the duties of your relationships?
Will you be Mary, amazed and apprehensive, trusting God while faithfully serving an unknown future?
Will you be the Innkeeper, showing compassion to those in need?
Perhaps Herod, threatened by the coming King, filled with jealousy and fear that truth often brings.
Will you be a shepherd, able to lifted from your everyday world and be filled with the awe of a heavenly host?
A Wise Man, maybe. Seeking after and bearing gifts to the newborn King of Kings, affirming the hope and promise of a followed star.
Christmas and the baby are coming, as sure as each day is crossed off the calendar.
What will you be bringing to the manger, this year?
Perhaps a little of all of the above?

Something I saw this morning

Like an ant drowning in a drop of rain,
Freedom closer than I know.
Lost and gasping for something so near,
Yet farther than I can go.
Through the lens of my prison,
Magnified for me to see.
All the things that I yearned for
But will never be.
Soon the struggle will be over.
Waving, swimming soon will cease.
Soon the drops will run together
And my soul will find release.

Ray Charles and Life as We know it.

saw the movie "Ray" the other night. For all intents and purposes, Jamie Foxx is Ray Charles.
My purpose here is that this biopic relates what I’ve come to recognize as some greater truths, perhaps greater questions that I see repeated in the stories of "Successful" people:
Great Art often comes from great suffering, usually over time.
What causes certain individuals to not only overcome, but excel as a result of a handicap/injury/devastating event? Was the talent always there, was it "blind luck", were they exploited, were they driven by it, or ??
(The answer is, it depends. I’ll save my theory for Ray, for the moment).
Successful individuals are usually driven, beyond conventional restraint. This, of course, is what sets them apart.
They (alive or not) are recognized and enabled by another. This relationship typically ends poorly once success is achieved.
There are always others looking to exploit the talented. It colors and poisons all of their relationships.
They are usually lonely people, alienated by the same abilities that make them singular, including their appetites, which often defy convention as well. Addiction is a remedy for loneliness, which in turn ultimately serves to further their isolation.
Fame begets or intensifies isolation. Intense feelings of love and approval from thousands, followed by the absence of same when offstage.
Those who choose to live with these individuals must either accept these appetites and behaviors, or risk rejection. As this is not an option for children, their lives are usually dysfunctional by nearly any definition.
While their legacies influence, comfort and please millions, their own lives are fraught with tragedy equal to or greater than their power, influence, and stature.
So, what do I want from this life?
Ray Charles was a very lucky man, and for these reasons:
He had a Mother who was willing to put his life ahead of her own happiness, to the point of her own heartbreak and isolation from him. She, according to the movie, was the drive for him to succeed, as well as to conquer his addiction to heroin.
He had the intelligence to recognize and learn what he needed to know – how to hear, how to navigate.
Someone taught him how to play the piano.
He learned to imitate the styles of the times – to make a living making music.
He had someone to help him find his own voice, and supported his doing so.
He found an extraordinary woman to love him.
He was able to overcome an addiction that has killed so many in their prime. This movie could have very easily ended where it did, with his death.
I do not admire him any more, or any less as a result of this movie. His is an extraordinary life. The fact that he was famous is only part of it. That he could face his demons and conquer many of them sets him apart from most of us.

Happy Birthday, Sam!

Chuck E. Cheese is one of those one-of-a kind places, a formulation of design and implementation that has heretofore not been duplicated – although many have tried. Most adults do not understand it, but those who do have created a gold mine that exploits children and families for the maximum profit imaginable. The promise of a stress-lessened, provisioned party has been proven, once again, to produce a logistical nightmare akin to standing in the midst of a cattle stampede – holding a birthday cake. Although the warning signs are clear to those that would observe them, this appears to be a lesson that each nuclear unit has to experience for itself. This assures the CEC franchise a long and prodigious future.
We were victimized last Saturday, and the fact that we did so willingly and without reservation – actually we had reservations for 10 kids, a cake, party favors, pizza and tokens – makes it all the more disturbing. My duties as Dad consisted of policing Sam’s little sister and taking a few pictures, which was exhausting enough. Mom bore the brunt of the inattentive, immature, and at times, incapacitated staff. Her aplomb never ceases to amaze me when it comes to taking care of our children. I was ready to get back in the car and drive it into the ocean, before we even got in the front door.
I do not know what reason could possibly compel you toward another "Rat Palace", as my brother-in-law calls them, after reading this. IF YOU DO, please understand that probably every other grandparent and divorced dad with his kids for the weekend is going to head there WHEN IT RAINS. I am not the type of person who loves crowds to begin with, and I would rather eat rolled tacos in my car than wait in line for more than 20 minutes outside any restaurant. I digress – back to our story.
Our plan was simple: invite our young guests a half an hour before our reserved table at the feet of his Chuckness was scheduled, allowing them to "be a kid", as promised. We, arriving even earlier, found a line trailing out of the front door. As the manager explained, they were at capacity, and, because there was and is no time limit – he did not say that the limits lie only in one’s bank balance and ability to absorb noise - that no one was to be admitted until some of those inside had had enough. He attributed their success to the rain that, fortunately, had passed through earlier. When pressed by those of us holding cakes, presents, small children, and reservations, he admitted that we would be admitted 15 minutes prior to our pre-arranged time. This set the tone for the rest of the afternoon. "Being a Kid" in a parking lot isn’t nearly as much fun.
Shifting your attention, I would just like to say that I was filled with gratitude that I had not selected the career of managing one of these franchises as my life’s work. I do not know what that poor man earns; my sincere hope is that he’s involved in some short of profit-sharing program. "Middle Management" only begins to describe his predicament on this, the anniversary of my son’s birth. Caught between irate parents and the befuddled youngsters in his employ, swirling in a sea of token-toting midgets with tickets trailing, lines inside and out, door alarms sounding, shoes littering the floor, beer-swilling post-adolescents to keep an eye on. . . I have to admit it brought a cruel smile to my lips every time I saw him bustle by.
The kids got in, they got pizza, cake, goody bags, tokens, and I think a decent time – 7 and 8 year olds kinda thrive on the chaos for a while, anyway. I took pictures, helped serve a little pizza, got to hug my Mom &Dad a couple of times, and exchange a few sentences with the inlaws and outlaws. All of the hassles of putting on a party at home or the park were just crammed into an intense 3-hour melee in a big, noisy room with 10 other families and their closest friends. I did get to see Sam’s face when he got the present that he wanted, and it made it all worthwhile.
We just won’t ever do this again, unless, of course, Emma wants one. On a Tuesday. In July. Maybe. If we can’t talk her out of it. I’ll even offer Legoland. Please just don’t make me go back there.

I Don't Know

I had a bit of an epiphany today - well not exactly, more like an epiphonette, epiphonista. I was attempting to tell one of my co-workers something, and he finished my sentence for himself and me, with a completely different ending from the one I was going to put on it. I was trying to provide him with information that was in his best interest, but, because he had already decided what I was saying, I smartly drew my own conclusion to our social intercourse. Communicatus interruptus. I was, well, not pleased.
It dawned upon me how often I do this to other people, more often than I'd like to admit, and probably most often with those I love the most. I don't know why this has occurred to me so clearly on a Tuesday morning. We weren't even talking about anything important. I guess in my own, selfish thinking, finishing someone else's sentence was evidence that I was engaged in the conversation. What I was being was impertinent.
I resolve to make my best effort to let you finish your sentence. I'm not sure how I'm going to do it, but I will try. I realized, maybe for the first time, today, how important it is to let you say it, even if I think I know what it is. I wonder how many sentences that I've finished the way my co-worker did, and the other person just let it go at that. As Bugs Bunny says, What a Maroon."