FOURTH WALL
The imaginary wall of a box set through which the audience see the stage.
from theatrecrafts.com, a glossary of theater terms
Television and mass media create a false intimacy. We watch celebrities, actors and athletes, and we feel as if we know them. We see their appearances on talk shows and read their sanitized, prepackaged stories in People magazine, see their shining smiles on the red carpets and award ceremonies, and without even thinking we buy into their image. Tiger Woods, golf prodigy, on the Mike Douglas show at age 2. The Chosen One. The boy genius. Born to be a champion. Learning his perfect swing watching his father from his high chair. Now a grown man and the greatest golfer ever, with a withering glare of determination and an indomitable will to win, the fierce focus of perfect concentration, willing the ball into the hole, hoisting the trophy into the air, his pretty devoted wife proudly at his side. Go Tiger! the gallery shouts, as if his victory was their own.
When an athlete falls from grace, he breaks through that fourth wall of the human drama of athletic competition. Disturbing reports of his real life intrude upon the storied image we've bought of him, the grace and courage we assigned to him. There are several glaring examples. O.J. Simpson, Heisman trophy winner, NFL record holder and hall of famer, once one of the most popular athletes in the world, became a brand name in the seventies, doing Hertz commercials with everyone's likable grandfather, Arnold Palmer. Go Juice! Go Arnie! He made madcap silly movies with Leslie Nielsen. How grimly ironic it is to think of O.J. Simpson in a funny chase scene or running through an airport, now revealed as a nutcase and a savage beast.
In sports the examples are endless. We've witnessed the semi-tragic collapses of Mike Tyson and Michael Vick, brought down by their own crude appetites. Vaunted baseball sluggers, Barry and Big Mac, A-Rod and Slamming Sammy, were all found to be cheaters fueled by illegal juice. Kobe Bryant made a sleazy conquest of a hotel maid. A NBA referee fixed games, and star point guard Allen Iverson staggered through whole seasons in one long drinking binge. More recently, former Super Bowl hero Ben Roethlisberger revealed himself to be a crude trolling thug, raping a drunken college girl in the bathroom of a bar. She had to hospitalized after their sordid liason. Naturally he denies it all. "She hit her head," was his blithe explanation. No, Ben, no. Say it isn't so. I'm afraid it is, kid: Shoeless Joe Jackson legendarily said on the steps of the courthouse, in the illegitimate father of all sports scandals, when the Black Sox fixed the Series. By now the story is nearly a hundred years old but the story remains the same. I'm afraid it is, kid.
Yesterday at the University of Oregon two of our heroes have been found guilty. On Friday star Quarterback Jeremiah Masoli pled guilty to burglary, a second degree felony, and freshman sensation LaMichael James, who rushed for more than 1500 yards last season, pled down to fourth degree harassment to avoid a trial for domestic violence. Coach Chip Kelly suspended Masoli for all of next season, and James for one game.
The shock is, we thought they were such good kids. But why did we think that? Because they play for our team? Because they say the right things in interviews, or politely hand the ball to the referee after scoring a touchdown? I don't know these young men. I never did. I only thought I did, because I read about them and watched their games. I was prepared to like them because they wore the green jerseys instead of the black, and gave them more attention than my own children.
Both young men are fools for messing up their careers in such a shameful and public way. And I am a fool too, for investing myself so fervently in their scores and highlights. It's clear they never cared about any of us. Our investment in their lives and outcomes was full of false hope and a willingness to be fooled.
I remember Russell Crowe in "Gladiator," sword and shield thrust out, demanding of the crowd, "Are you not entertained?" He'd given them what they wanted, the blood of Legions on his swordpoint. Wasn't it enough? But the crowd wanted more. They wanted a reason to love him and believe he was noble and sympathetic. He hadn't given them that. When he broke through his fourth wall, demanding their approval, they fell uncomfortably silent, shocked to find their gladiator had been cynical about them all along. Maximus cared nothing for their love or approval, and to see him show that so openly on the arena floor, brought the whole arena to stunned silence. Bread is scarce. We want to be distracted from our woes. We want to believe in a champion.
And when the champion shows himself to be low and grasping, we are indignant and outraged. Stay behind the wall, heroes. We want the image and not the man. We are already intimately acquainted with human failings, because we live with our own every day.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Movies Have the Power to Move Us and to Heal
Marie and I love the redbox. For a dollar you can buy two hours of intimacy, happiness or hope. We plug in the string of small white Christmas lights she wound around the headboard of the wrought iron bed, pop the dvd into our thirty nine dollar player and turn on the 150 pound tv we got free for helping our friend Steve move. His deplorable ex-roommate SpongePolly Squarepants had left it behind after ditching him for $8000 back rent. She was a devout Christian but had no sense of honor or responsibility, just a fervent desire to volunteer at the church and a willingness to exploit the kindness and misplaced affections of a vulnerable man with a weakness for alcohol and cheap women. You see how stories are intertwined with stories, wound around like the Christmas lights adorning the wrought iron frame of our lives.
The movies are the bright light in the dimness. We hold each other and laugh or cry together. Under the safety and comfort of a warm quilt and snacks we put ourselves in the story and consider honor and love and loyalty, what it means to choose someone and wait for them and overcome the inevitable obstacles and disappointments. Through our tears or our laughter or the arousal of our senses and emotions we consider what's worth living for. And we kiss with new tenderness and hope. They are the most delicious hours of our fractured, wounded lives. They ease the tension and regret and disappointment.
We watched "The Proposal" with Sandra Bullock and "Hachi" with Richard Gere. "The Proposal" is a flawed and predictable movie but we loved it anyway. We loved Sandra Bullock with her genuineness and spark and spunk. You knew where the movie was going but didn't mind the stunts that moved it along. Underneath our busyness and our business, we all have a vulnerable core. We want to be chosen and loved. We want to become part of a family and have hope and traditions and a place to go on holidays. We want to be kissed, chosen, cared for, and most of all, we want someone to believe in us and our dreams. The movie had a good heart. I don't care about the Oscars or the Raspberries. I celebrate anything with a good heart, anything that encourages the heart in us.
"Hachi" was an incredible story of tenderness and devotion, a story of the power of finding room within yourself for vulnerability and friendship. It reminded Marie of her mother's love for her father, and that is the highest compliment I can think of. Sixteen years have passed and she is still his devoted bride. Her memories of him and his gentleness and strength are the most treasured possessions in her life. He is still standing behind her shoulder, still gazing at her as if she were the most precious and beautiful women on earth. Genuine love is more powerful than all our flaws and limitations. It changes lives, communities, destinies. It is enduring and transcendent. The power to believe and to care can smash through our pretensions, the veneer of cynicism and bitterness we use to hold the world at bay. To believe in something, to care for someone, to accept the hard work of loving them and the risk of losing them, it's worth waiting in the cold. Ultimately we become a monument to our devotions, whatever they are, no matter how carelessly we misplace them. Reclaim your devotions. Hold them close.
My daughter says good-bye to her husband today. He leaves for Fort Lewis and then for Afghanistan. His son Ethan turns two in thirteen days. He's not the first father to leave his kids for war, nor the last, but it's desperately sad that leaders and nations do THIS so carelessly, send young men to The Hurt Locker for an ill-considered cause and an uncertain and unattainable objective in a hostile and far away place. Afghanistan won't be any safer or more secure and neither will we, no matter how many strong good young men we send to dismantle explosives in the street. There will always be more C-4 and newer and more sinister ways to hide it under a coat or in the trunk of a parked car. Of all the senseless dramas we play out, this is the most cruel and idiotic, and unfortunately, timeless and inevitable.
I don't want my daughter to hurt. I don't want her husband to come to harm. I hate the sophistry and rhetoric and false certainty that sends him there. I hate the military machine that deems it expedient, the crazed religionists and their senseless rage and the glee and fervor they stoke to keep this insanity in motion. I'm afraid there's not enough tenderness and hope in the world, and too much greed, too much fervor to destroy. The imbalanced hateful evil is winning the day. But Ethan and his puppy will wait for daddy to come home. May the days of waiting pass quickly and end with mercy and grace.
The movies are the bright light in the dimness. We hold each other and laugh or cry together. Under the safety and comfort of a warm quilt and snacks we put ourselves in the story and consider honor and love and loyalty, what it means to choose someone and wait for them and overcome the inevitable obstacles and disappointments. Through our tears or our laughter or the arousal of our senses and emotions we consider what's worth living for. And we kiss with new tenderness and hope. They are the most delicious hours of our fractured, wounded lives. They ease the tension and regret and disappointment.
We watched "The Proposal" with Sandra Bullock and "Hachi" with Richard Gere. "The Proposal" is a flawed and predictable movie but we loved it anyway. We loved Sandra Bullock with her genuineness and spark and spunk. You knew where the movie was going but didn't mind the stunts that moved it along. Underneath our busyness and our business, we all have a vulnerable core. We want to be chosen and loved. We want to become part of a family and have hope and traditions and a place to go on holidays. We want to be kissed, chosen, cared for, and most of all, we want someone to believe in us and our dreams. The movie had a good heart. I don't care about the Oscars or the Raspberries. I celebrate anything with a good heart, anything that encourages the heart in us.
"Hachi" was an incredible story of tenderness and devotion, a story of the power of finding room within yourself for vulnerability and friendship. It reminded Marie of her mother's love for her father, and that is the highest compliment I can think of. Sixteen years have passed and she is still his devoted bride. Her memories of him and his gentleness and strength are the most treasured possessions in her life. He is still standing behind her shoulder, still gazing at her as if she were the most precious and beautiful women on earth. Genuine love is more powerful than all our flaws and limitations. It changes lives, communities, destinies. It is enduring and transcendent. The power to believe and to care can smash through our pretensions, the veneer of cynicism and bitterness we use to hold the world at bay. To believe in something, to care for someone, to accept the hard work of loving them and the risk of losing them, it's worth waiting in the cold. Ultimately we become a monument to our devotions, whatever they are, no matter how carelessly we misplace them. Reclaim your devotions. Hold them close.
My daughter says good-bye to her husband today. He leaves for Fort Lewis and then for Afghanistan. His son Ethan turns two in thirteen days. He's not the first father to leave his kids for war, nor the last, but it's desperately sad that leaders and nations do THIS so carelessly, send young men to The Hurt Locker for an ill-considered cause and an uncertain and unattainable objective in a hostile and far away place. Afghanistan won't be any safer or more secure and neither will we, no matter how many strong good young men we send to dismantle explosives in the street. There will always be more C-4 and newer and more sinister ways to hide it under a coat or in the trunk of a parked car. Of all the senseless dramas we play out, this is the most cruel and idiotic, and unfortunately, timeless and inevitable.
I don't want my daughter to hurt. I don't want her husband to come to harm. I hate the sophistry and rhetoric and false certainty that sends him there. I hate the military machine that deems it expedient, the crazed religionists and their senseless rage and the glee and fervor they stoke to keep this insanity in motion. I'm afraid there's not enough tenderness and hope in the world, and too much greed, too much fervor to destroy. The imbalanced hateful evil is winning the day. But Ethan and his puppy will wait for daddy to come home. May the days of waiting pass quickly and end with mercy and grace.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
A Game of Decisions and the Turn of the Cards
I play small stakes poker online for extra money. I made four hundred last month and another hundred so far in March. I enjoy doing it and it passes the time, and there's always the lure of hitting a big jackpot that eases the drudgery and uncertainty of my unpleasant job and our one-income household. Every day I live with the certain knowledge that we're just scraping by. The rear end of the Vista Cruiser is making an ominous noise and my wife is wearing a wedding ring with a fake stone. I want to do better. Like an athlete with a talent for breaking free on the off tackle slant, poker is my dream, my way out of the ghetto.
Mass media gives a lot of people elusive dreams. There are plenty of athletes who never make it, and plenty of poker players scuffling for a buy-in. In my case I don't dream of a big final table under the tv lights and a pile of cash sitting there on a tray festooned with a glittering bracelet. I just want to outlast the field in an online tourney for a few extra hundred, or six or seven thousand in one chunk, a windfall out of nowhere. It could happen. I finished 38th in a field of 2100 the other night after work, busting out with AK all-in before the flop versus an ace and six offsuit. Six on the the river for a hundred thousand chips, about 35 times the blinds and good cushion to the final nine. The six blinked up, after three and half hours of grinding and careful decisions, and some donkey hauled off with all my chips, congratulating himself on his bold move. Nothing I could do or say. I could have blasted him in the chat that crawls below the game, but what's the point?
A writer named Jesse May once said that poker is part skill and part luck, and the chief part of the skill is how you manage the luck. You have to assess your chances, and when you're playing with clarity, your opponents. You have to keep yourself on even keel when things defy probability and your perfect logical assessment falls stone dead on its ass to a death card on the river. You have to keep yourself from impulsiveness or frustration. The big stack calls a raise in early position with king-eight suited, a piece of trash, and walks all over your pocket jacks. You know he's calling with a rag. He has more confidence with his rags and calls with them to the river, and no amount of maneuvering or logic or hope can keep you from busting to this guy, who always hits his hand and always has enough, except when you fold some marginal beauty that would have notched him to double up. I'm always leaning the wrong way.
I'm beating the game for steady but unspectacular money just based on persistence and a knowledge of the fundamentals, but at this rate I'll never get out of poker's minor leagues. I have days where the game breaks my heart, where it gets me screaming at the screen of my laptop like a deranged crack addict who just lost the forty bucks he stole from his brother. The game torments me and punishes me for inattention or lax decisions. When I'm playing good they outdraw me and when I'm out of line the cards fall red when I'm black and leave my stomach in a knot. Even when you're making a profit a tournament usually ends with a hand you lose, and in a four hour session there are 250 hands and most of them you'll lose. Good starting cards draw three rags. The best hand gets counterfeited. Just now I went all in with a king and queen and some clown called me with a queen and a ten. He's a three to one dog, more or less. I flop a king and now he's in a world of hurt. But a jack falls on the turn for a gut shot straight and he busts me. In the turn of one card I go from second place money to third, and every one in the circus parade of donkeys dances madly to the calliope at my expense. It's maddening. All morning long I've looked at running flushes and miracle outs, and I've lost ten bucks despite patience and sound decisions and intelligent raises and folds. Boldness and stubborn stupidity have won out every time. I win money, but there's a lot of suffering along the way.
My wife's getting tired of my bad beat stories and sniveling. Somehow I have to let go of the compulsion to expect everything to be logical or fair. Just now I got short stacked and plunged all-in with nine-eight offsuit, figuring two live cards first in in late position was better than waiting for the blinds to devour me. I got three calls, a bad sign for a rag just trying to pick up the blinds. The flop came a jack, an eight and a four, and one of the big stacks bet three quarters of the pot. The rats all scurry into the muck. I'm cautiously elated when he turns over two red sixes, half expecting a six on the turn or the river. He misses, and suddenly from the brink of extinction I have four thousand chips, thirteen times the blinds with 600 to go to the money. I might eke out another small win or get on a rush and make the top 200, stay alive till eleven. Tournament poker is a game of survival and avoiding traps. For the best players it's a game of creativity and aggression, but for me it's a grind and a slog and taking my lumps till I catch a break. I keep doing it, because money won is ten times as sweet as money earned.
There's a cost to it though. I don't get to the gym enough, and I hardly ever read a book. For a variety of reasons my wife and I have sex maybe three times in a month, and it's a heartbreak to realize she doesn't have any fire for me anymore. Like that old country song I miss the old days when we were crazy in love, before him and the hurtful fights and the regrettable words. In poker and in life I keep grinding along, trying to stifle my small worries and moments of failure, hoping to choose the right time to go all-in. I can usually get my money in with the best hand, but you can't control the outcome of each successive confrontation. Deep down I fear I'm not a lucky guy. Or maybe I'm just not smart enough to win the big money. I need to win a big jackpot, boost my confidence and take the pressure off. Once you win one your outlook changes. You have a little cushion and lose the self-defeating caution that leads to mediocre results. You start making the bold gamble at just the right time. And those hands where you get burned don't have such a devastating effect on your psyche. I have to learn to let go of the small defeats and play for the long run. But I can't let go of the nagging realization that in the long run we're all dead.
Mass media gives a lot of people elusive dreams. There are plenty of athletes who never make it, and plenty of poker players scuffling for a buy-in. In my case I don't dream of a big final table under the tv lights and a pile of cash sitting there on a tray festooned with a glittering bracelet. I just want to outlast the field in an online tourney for a few extra hundred, or six or seven thousand in one chunk, a windfall out of nowhere. It could happen. I finished 38th in a field of 2100 the other night after work, busting out with AK all-in before the flop versus an ace and six offsuit. Six on the the river for a hundred thousand chips, about 35 times the blinds and good cushion to the final nine. The six blinked up, after three and half hours of grinding and careful decisions, and some donkey hauled off with all my chips, congratulating himself on his bold move. Nothing I could do or say. I could have blasted him in the chat that crawls below the game, but what's the point?
A writer named Jesse May once said that poker is part skill and part luck, and the chief part of the skill is how you manage the luck. You have to assess your chances, and when you're playing with clarity, your opponents. You have to keep yourself on even keel when things defy probability and your perfect logical assessment falls stone dead on its ass to a death card on the river. You have to keep yourself from impulsiveness or frustration. The big stack calls a raise in early position with king-eight suited, a piece of trash, and walks all over your pocket jacks. You know he's calling with a rag. He has more confidence with his rags and calls with them to the river, and no amount of maneuvering or logic or hope can keep you from busting to this guy, who always hits his hand and always has enough, except when you fold some marginal beauty that would have notched him to double up. I'm always leaning the wrong way.
I'm beating the game for steady but unspectacular money just based on persistence and a knowledge of the fundamentals, but at this rate I'll never get out of poker's minor leagues. I have days where the game breaks my heart, where it gets me screaming at the screen of my laptop like a deranged crack addict who just lost the forty bucks he stole from his brother. The game torments me and punishes me for inattention or lax decisions. When I'm playing good they outdraw me and when I'm out of line the cards fall red when I'm black and leave my stomach in a knot. Even when you're making a profit a tournament usually ends with a hand you lose, and in a four hour session there are 250 hands and most of them you'll lose. Good starting cards draw three rags. The best hand gets counterfeited. Just now I went all in with a king and queen and some clown called me with a queen and a ten. He's a three to one dog, more or less. I flop a king and now he's in a world of hurt. But a jack falls on the turn for a gut shot straight and he busts me. In the turn of one card I go from second place money to third, and every one in the circus parade of donkeys dances madly to the calliope at my expense. It's maddening. All morning long I've looked at running flushes and miracle outs, and I've lost ten bucks despite patience and sound decisions and intelligent raises and folds. Boldness and stubborn stupidity have won out every time. I win money, but there's a lot of suffering along the way.
My wife's getting tired of my bad beat stories and sniveling. Somehow I have to let go of the compulsion to expect everything to be logical or fair. Just now I got short stacked and plunged all-in with nine-eight offsuit, figuring two live cards first in in late position was better than waiting for the blinds to devour me. I got three calls, a bad sign for a rag just trying to pick up the blinds. The flop came a jack, an eight and a four, and one of the big stacks bet three quarters of the pot. The rats all scurry into the muck. I'm cautiously elated when he turns over two red sixes, half expecting a six on the turn or the river. He misses, and suddenly from the brink of extinction I have four thousand chips, thirteen times the blinds with 600 to go to the money. I might eke out another small win or get on a rush and make the top 200, stay alive till eleven. Tournament poker is a game of survival and avoiding traps. For the best players it's a game of creativity and aggression, but for me it's a grind and a slog and taking my lumps till I catch a break. I keep doing it, because money won is ten times as sweet as money earned.
There's a cost to it though. I don't get to the gym enough, and I hardly ever read a book. For a variety of reasons my wife and I have sex maybe three times in a month, and it's a heartbreak to realize she doesn't have any fire for me anymore. Like that old country song I miss the old days when we were crazy in love, before him and the hurtful fights and the regrettable words. In poker and in life I keep grinding along, trying to stifle my small worries and moments of failure, hoping to choose the right time to go all-in. I can usually get my money in with the best hand, but you can't control the outcome of each successive confrontation. Deep down I fear I'm not a lucky guy. Or maybe I'm just not smart enough to win the big money. I need to win a big jackpot, boost my confidence and take the pressure off. Once you win one your outlook changes. You have a little cushion and lose the self-defeating caution that leads to mediocre results. You start making the bold gamble at just the right time. And those hands where you get burned don't have such a devastating effect on your psyche. I have to learn to let go of the small defeats and play for the long run. But I can't let go of the nagging realization that in the long run we're all dead.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Saturday Night's All Right For Fighting
I love my wife more than anyone or anything in the world. I desire her more than any celebrity or starlet or ghost from my past. I want to be with her. I crave her company, her presence, and the light in her eyes is a tonic to my soul. Her curves entice me, her laughter delights me, and I want to be where she is.
But we can't get along.
Old hurts get in the way. The discouragements and trials of daily living beat us down. We are too sensitive. We are too different and too alike. We say just the wrong thing at just the wrong time. The devil torments us with our demons and insecurities. I've failed her in ways she can never forgive or forget.
My pride gets injured and my back goes up. I set my jaw and lapse into a sulk or storm off. I wound her when I should comfort her. She turns away from me when I need her most. The old hurts are right below the surface. We can be blissful and happy, but a misery gets triggered by a random reminder and we are right back in the stew, stewing and murmuring to ourselves, dwelling on all the wrong things.
I would give anything to take her in my arms and make all the hurt go away, to create a moment or a gesture or a tenderness or a passion that settles things forever, that takes us out of our awful patterns and destructive habits. I wish I could love her in a way that makes her forget all her old loves, or our old hurts. I wish I had the right blend of confidence and tenderness to conquer her heart forever.
Instead we stumble along and stumble into fights and squabbles and tiffs, misunderstandings and hurt silences and sorrowful blowups. We waste precious hours and damage tender mercies. Last night I said something hurtful and banished myself to the couch.
I need her and I want her. I want us to belong together and be united against every trouble and difficulty that comes along. I want to renew my vows every day with gestures of kindness and moments of grace.
I wish I knew better and did better and could stop screwing up. I love her with all my heart.
But we can't get along.
Old hurts get in the way. The discouragements and trials of daily living beat us down. We are too sensitive. We are too different and too alike. We say just the wrong thing at just the wrong time. The devil torments us with our demons and insecurities. I've failed her in ways she can never forgive or forget.
My pride gets injured and my back goes up. I set my jaw and lapse into a sulk or storm off. I wound her when I should comfort her. She turns away from me when I need her most. The old hurts are right below the surface. We can be blissful and happy, but a misery gets triggered by a random reminder and we are right back in the stew, stewing and murmuring to ourselves, dwelling on all the wrong things.
I would give anything to take her in my arms and make all the hurt go away, to create a moment or a gesture or a tenderness or a passion that settles things forever, that takes us out of our awful patterns and destructive habits. I wish I could love her in a way that makes her forget all her old loves, or our old hurts. I wish I had the right blend of confidence and tenderness to conquer her heart forever.
Instead we stumble along and stumble into fights and squabbles and tiffs, misunderstandings and hurt silences and sorrowful blowups. We waste precious hours and damage tender mercies. Last night I said something hurtful and banished myself to the couch.
I need her and I want her. I want us to belong together and be united against every trouble and difficulty that comes along. I want to renew my vows every day with gestures of kindness and moments of grace.
I wish I knew better and did better and could stop screwing up. I love her with all my heart.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Are We Living in the End Times?
"For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom, and in various places there will be famines and earthquakes."
Matthew 24:7
In the last ten years of the 19th century, in the period of relative calm before The Great War and and the Russian revolution, there was only one major earthquake recorded in the entire world. In the last sixty days we've had three and their aftershocks, and the middle one moved the axis of the earth. The polar ice caps are at their second lowest level in modern history. Entire regions are besieged by famine and war and uncertainty. Religious hatreds seethe. Plagues and killer bacteria overwhelm our advances in medicine and science. Nature is seemingly reclaiming the planet. Something is up, and far beyond our control.
From our primitive beginnings, from the discovery of fire and tools to the age of reason to the ages of machines and industry and information technology, we've taken great pride in our mastery of the elements. We've built talling buildings and awesome weapons, only to be reminded again and again that most powerful weapon on earth is the simple rhythm and gathering of the tides.
When Napoleon's armies raged over Europe many feared it was the end of the world. When Hitler plunged the world into ultimate evil, burning the innocent, living out his twisted and unholy obsessions, infecting an entire country with his madness, people wondered if time had reached its darkest hour. Only the brave and amazing sacrifices of many ordinary people turned away his darkness. Millions gave their lives to save humankind from despotism and blood lust.
This too is a terrible uncertain moment in the history of humankind. We can't march against the tides or build a foundation strong enough to withstand the rending of the ground beneath our feet. We don't have the wisdom to control the fierce hatreds we've stored against each other, or the knowledge to turn back the terrible ill effects of our poor husbandry of our world. We are like polar bears swimming frantically for 150 miles. We're the birds growing quiet before the next cataclysm. We are confused and overwhelmed and faithless. What will save us? Where will we turn when it happens here?
Our leaders posture and argue in the margins. Money buys its influence as if everything will go on as before, as if the currencies of today will matter on the dark morning and the awful hour. Yesterday I saw a man walking through the health club with a .44 magnum tucked into his pants, stuffed against his hip, held there by the waistband of his jeans. People take a gun with them to buy their morning coffee. How long before someone starts shooting, angry because the waitress smirked or there was no cream or their unemployment has run out? What have we become, when everyone carries a weapon? How far are we from the rule of lawlessness and greed? Where will the earth shake next, and who will pull the trigger first?
My son-in-law leaves for Afghanistan in a week, to make the world safe for democracy, one successfully defused IED at a time. The tremors and rumblings of that desolate place are no place for a kind man with two babies, but that is his duty and his training. He will go, and rely on fierce bravado and steady hands, and the pictures tucked in his helmet. Like many other young men before him he's called to execute the will of politicians and fools. From the solid rock where I stand, the two are the same thing.
Matthew 24:7
In the last ten years of the 19th century, in the period of relative calm before The Great War and and the Russian revolution, there was only one major earthquake recorded in the entire world. In the last sixty days we've had three and their aftershocks, and the middle one moved the axis of the earth. The polar ice caps are at their second lowest level in modern history. Entire regions are besieged by famine and war and uncertainty. Religious hatreds seethe. Plagues and killer bacteria overwhelm our advances in medicine and science. Nature is seemingly reclaiming the planet. Something is up, and far beyond our control.
From our primitive beginnings, from the discovery of fire and tools to the age of reason to the ages of machines and industry and information technology, we've taken great pride in our mastery of the elements. We've built talling buildings and awesome weapons, only to be reminded again and again that most powerful weapon on earth is the simple rhythm and gathering of the tides.
When Napoleon's armies raged over Europe many feared it was the end of the world. When Hitler plunged the world into ultimate evil, burning the innocent, living out his twisted and unholy obsessions, infecting an entire country with his madness, people wondered if time had reached its darkest hour. Only the brave and amazing sacrifices of many ordinary people turned away his darkness. Millions gave their lives to save humankind from despotism and blood lust.
This too is a terrible uncertain moment in the history of humankind. We can't march against the tides or build a foundation strong enough to withstand the rending of the ground beneath our feet. We don't have the wisdom to control the fierce hatreds we've stored against each other, or the knowledge to turn back the terrible ill effects of our poor husbandry of our world. We are like polar bears swimming frantically for 150 miles. We're the birds growing quiet before the next cataclysm. We are confused and overwhelmed and faithless. What will save us? Where will we turn when it happens here?
Our leaders posture and argue in the margins. Money buys its influence as if everything will go on as before, as if the currencies of today will matter on the dark morning and the awful hour. Yesterday I saw a man walking through the health club with a .44 magnum tucked into his pants, stuffed against his hip, held there by the waistband of his jeans. People take a gun with them to buy their morning coffee. How long before someone starts shooting, angry because the waitress smirked or there was no cream or their unemployment has run out? What have we become, when everyone carries a weapon? How far are we from the rule of lawlessness and greed? Where will the earth shake next, and who will pull the trigger first?
My son-in-law leaves for Afghanistan in a week, to make the world safe for democracy, one successfully defused IED at a time. The tremors and rumblings of that desolate place are no place for a kind man with two babies, but that is his duty and his training. He will go, and rely on fierce bravado and steady hands, and the pictures tucked in his helmet. Like many other young men before him he's called to execute the will of politicians and fools. From the solid rock where I stand, the two are the same thing.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Jim Bunning Throws Struggling Americans a Fastball Under the Chin
This morning at the breakfast table my lovely wife said to me, "We need to buy some guns. We need to stock up on ammunition."
This week in Congress retiring Kentucky Senator Jim Bunning is blocking an appropriations bill that would extend unemployment benefits for millions of Americans. His job affords him free medical care and lifetime postage, and he is thumbing his nose at hurting people and flipping them off on the way to the elevator.
People are angry. They can't get jobs, the roads and bridges are crumbling and the trains are antiquated, and the people in charge of making decisions and providing solutions are grousing about missing a college basketball game. Jim Bunning says, "Tough shit." He's not worried. He has a fine home and lots of money.
It's frustrating to many, because they watch the news and see we have money to help Haiti and Chile, and we print money to finance an unending war in the Middle East, but the ordinary citizens of this country are living on $325 a week and wondering how much longer they can go on.
My granddaughter Kourtney reads about the earthquakes and disasters and historically extreme winter weather and she thinks we're nearing the end of the world. She's in sixth grade now, twelve years old. What a world that children have to carry such thoughts in their heads. They hear the whispers of their parents. A knot of uncertainty never leaves their stomachs.
One day soon a father living this mean and stark existence is going to get angry in a way he can no longer control. He's going to look across town to the hills where the fine homes, the homes with the seven big screen tvs and the bathtubs that look like the spa of a prince, and he's going to think about how easy it would be to take everything the rich man has. Morality won't mean anything to him any more. Civilization and society won't. Society has failed him. And in the primitive part of his brain the law of survival will take over, and he will spew all of his anger and empty his rage out in the street.
Jim Bunning has flipped off the wrong people. He may touch off the road rage that clogs every freeway in America, and sends the posh Senate elevators crashing to the basement. The earthquake of rage and frustration that hits this country will be a magnitude never seen on earth.
This week in Congress retiring Kentucky Senator Jim Bunning is blocking an appropriations bill that would extend unemployment benefits for millions of Americans. His job affords him free medical care and lifetime postage, and he is thumbing his nose at hurting people and flipping them off on the way to the elevator.
People are angry. They can't get jobs, the roads and bridges are crumbling and the trains are antiquated, and the people in charge of making decisions and providing solutions are grousing about missing a college basketball game. Jim Bunning says, "Tough shit." He's not worried. He has a fine home and lots of money.
It's frustrating to many, because they watch the news and see we have money to help Haiti and Chile, and we print money to finance an unending war in the Middle East, but the ordinary citizens of this country are living on $325 a week and wondering how much longer they can go on.
My granddaughter Kourtney reads about the earthquakes and disasters and historically extreme winter weather and she thinks we're nearing the end of the world. She's in sixth grade now, twelve years old. What a world that children have to carry such thoughts in their heads. They hear the whispers of their parents. A knot of uncertainty never leaves their stomachs.
One day soon a father living this mean and stark existence is going to get angry in a way he can no longer control. He's going to look across town to the hills where the fine homes, the homes with the seven big screen tvs and the bathtubs that look like the spa of a prince, and he's going to think about how easy it would be to take everything the rich man has. Morality won't mean anything to him any more. Civilization and society won't. Society has failed him. And in the primitive part of his brain the law of survival will take over, and he will spew all of his anger and empty his rage out in the street.
Jim Bunning has flipped off the wrong people. He may touch off the road rage that clogs every freeway in America, and sends the posh Senate elevators crashing to the basement. The earthquake of rage and frustration that hits this country will be a magnitude never seen on earth.
Monday, March 1, 2010
The Doo Doo, The Dah Dah Dah Dah Dah
Oh no! Apolo Anton Ohno is gliding, gliding, looking for an opening, trying to slide inside or around the Canadian in the 500 meter short track. He puts his hand on the Canuck's hip and the red-jerseyed fatback-eater goes careening out of control. Ohno and J.R. Celski, the guy who survived when a skate blade slashed his leg in a nasty fall just five months before, skate on to silver and bronze.
But wait! The Canadian judge is looking at the tape. After further review, Ohno is disqualified, and the Canadian, despite being in a heap along the boards, wins the medal. O Canada, we stand on guard for thee. Never mind that in the same replay the Canadian gold medal winner is seen delivering the same hip nudge to a Korean skater. God keep our land, glorious and on the medal stand.
Like nothing else the Olympics embodies the human drama of athletic competition, with a little home cooking stirred in to spice things up. Ohno certainly has skated on the edge of the rules more than once. His gold medal in Salt Lake was questioned vehemently by the Koreans in a similar incident.
Imagine training for four years for one moment, and having it come down to a split second, a missed gate, an errant shot after 20 kilometers of skiing. I loved the Olympic coverage, particularly the human drama of Bob Costas and Al Michaels trying to share the commentary. They're doing the "wasn't it all wonderful" signoff and the facial gyrations of Michaels waiting to break in with his thoughts as Costas elocutes were marvelous. Costas talks, talks, pauses, no wait, he's starting another paragraph, and Michaels' face does a triple lutz and triple salchow as he looks for his opening.
He should have put his hand on Bob's hip and nudged him out of the way.
But wait! The Canadian judge is looking at the tape. After further review, Ohno is disqualified, and the Canadian, despite being in a heap along the boards, wins the medal. O Canada, we stand on guard for thee. Never mind that in the same replay the Canadian gold medal winner is seen delivering the same hip nudge to a Korean skater. God keep our land, glorious and on the medal stand.
Like nothing else the Olympics embodies the human drama of athletic competition, with a little home cooking stirred in to spice things up. Ohno certainly has skated on the edge of the rules more than once. His gold medal in Salt Lake was questioned vehemently by the Koreans in a similar incident.
Imagine training for four years for one moment, and having it come down to a split second, a missed gate, an errant shot after 20 kilometers of skiing. I loved the Olympic coverage, particularly the human drama of Bob Costas and Al Michaels trying to share the commentary. They're doing the "wasn't it all wonderful" signoff and the facial gyrations of Michaels waiting to break in with his thoughts as Costas elocutes were marvelous. Costas talks, talks, pauses, no wait, he's starting another paragraph, and Michaels' face does a triple lutz and triple salchow as he looks for his opening.
He should have put his hand on Bob's hip and nudged him out of the way.
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photo by Kajo123 from the website flickr.com
The Hawthorne Bridge at sunrise, Portland Oregon. Photo by Joe Collver, from flickr.com
"It's a Wonderful Life"
George returns home to everything he ever wanted.
