Vacation.

I got a vacation coming up. Got me to thinking about stuff. Dangerous, I know. I've heard lots of folks saying, "Life's a journey, not a destination". Maybe. 'Course, that's not the way my dad viewed trips. Like a lot of dads, he was all about getting there. Rocketing down the highway at a few miles an hour above the posted limit, windows cracked a half inch to allow some of the smoke from the chain-smoked Pall Malls to leave the car. Bathroom breaks? "You should've thought about that before we left". Dad was a classic guys' guy, who always voted Republican and who rooted against Muhammad Ali (or, as Dad would say, "Cassius Clay"), because he was a draft-dodger. But there are other memories, too. Like on a trip to New Smyna Beach, Florida, when dad suddenly stopped the car to pick up and relocate a turtle that was trying to cross the road so it wouldn't get run over. So, we should try to get where we're going, but we need to remember, at every moment, we're also already there. Or, as John Travolta said as the angel Michael, "You gotta learn to laugh".

Take it Easy.

I don't really mind squirrels. Heck, when they're not bogarting the bird food, they're kind of entertaining. This dude was chilling out on the back porch a little while back. I've been acting squirrelly for years, but I used to feel a little guilty about my love of naps. I don't feel so bad about taking it easy as I used to, though. I used to have big plans, but it's occured to me of late that I will probably never be the President of the United States. I'm never gonna be a billionaire. Or a millionare. I have been a thousand-aire, but I managed to burn through it with alacrity. It's okay. Shoot, I even got a little support from Psalm 131:

Lord, my heart is not haughty, Nor my eyes lofty. Neither do I concern myself with great matters, Nor with things too profound for me.

Or, you can listen to the Eagles, or Alan Jackson, if you'd rather.

Blessed.

"The interest is up and the Stock Market's down, and you only get mugged if you go downtown", Hank Williams, Jr. opined in an old song. He found some stuff to get excited about, anyway (in addition to "A Country Boy Can Survive" he's unequivocally stated that, if Heaven ain't a lot like Dixie, he doesn't want to go. 'Course, if Heaven ain't a lot like Dixie, he probably won't be invited). It's all about perspective, I guess. I've found God in some interesting places, as I've mention before in myPlato and a Platypus post, but you gotta kept your ears and eyes open. Like everyone, I've got some challenges, but I'm grateful for my lovely bride, my good health, and the chance- if only a small one- to help folks once in awhile. Lucinda Williams found blessings in some strange places, too (but if you'd rather listen to Bocephus, you can).

Lucinda.

Hank.

Listen to the Pope.

My mom's mom, Gina (God rest her soul), gave her grandchildren a few nuggets of advice through the years: "Don't discuss sex, politics or religion in polite company", "You are the master of the unspoken word; the spoken word is the master of you". Obviously, I have frequently disregarded her advice, but not all of it. She also told us not to judge people too harshly for their indiscretions. See frequently cited
Alexander Pope: “Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As to be hated needs but to be seen; Yet too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.” There are others that might should've listened to the Pope, too.

The week that was: Introspection.

My dad was a "physicians relations representative" for Blue-Cross/Blue-Shield. I asked him what they do, and he said he "called on doctors". I'm still not sure what that means. He took me to his office once, and the job looked awfully dull to me, but he certainly wasn't a dull guy. Not even kind of. My dad told me more than once that you ought to love what you do for a living. He'd say that he loved what he did and he said he was good at it. While I have tough days and tough cases and, sometimes, tough clients; I love my job and I'm good at it.

I have gone through stretches in my span where I've not doubted that, as boxer Rocky Marciano said, "somebody out there likes me". As generally suspicious as I am of people's motives- all people including, especially, the "good" people and folks that are vocal in any religion or denomination- I have gone through stretches where coincidences didn't seem like coincidences and that life wasn't always random. I've mentioned before that I've felt like my prayers were heard and, on the rare occasion, even answered. I'm sure God has a sense of humor (You don't think God can use sarcasm? Check out the end of Jonah, then get back with me), and looking at the little stuff you've got a better chance to see God sometimes, than in the big stuff. Kinda like Jim Carrey parting his soup in "Bruce Almighty". Anyway, on a short, slow run today, I was contemplating my trial, my job, my place in the universe and all, and jamming to random songs on my i-Pod. As I'm limping in to the finish of a two mile saunter, I'm buffeted by Van Halen and AC/DC, and I'm thinking a little Paul Simon would sound good. I've got a quarter mile to go, about enough time for one song, and I actually asked for Paul Simon. Out of the 551 songs currently on my i-Pod, this is the song that comes on:



Right now, I got to go to Beaufort to see my baby girl. I'll talk about the trial later.

Hush Puppies are Dumb.

I always liked Hush Puppies, but I've never had any in my adult years. I bought a pair on Thursday (on sale 50% off at Belk's). Tina would not have approved. Mom would have found them inappropriate for work. Dad? "Son, you're a boy. Why are you talking about shoes?" I actually do enjoy grocery shopping, and I don't mind giving restaurants my hardly earned ducats; however, the act of shopping for items that may reflect personality (or might require spending large sums of money) has historically been painful for me. For the lion's share of my existence, I let other people define me, I guess. I enjoyed competition whether in football or in court because I could measure my value. If I won, I must be okay. If you laughed at my jokes, I must be okay. I still like telling jokes. I still enjoy being around people, but I don't need it like I used to need it. I don't mind my own company anymore. One goal (or result) of enlightenment is to quiet the chattering monkeys in our minds. A Buddhist reference, I think. Oddly, as my old Eastern Philosophy classes begin to take hold, I become a better Western Capitalist: I shop; therefore I am? No: I am okay; therefore I shop.

While searching YouTube for an old Hush Puppies commercial, I found these guys. Pretty cool.

Comedy that Brings Tears to Your Eyes.

Comedy involving football with a philosophical bent is generally a winner in my book. You gotta love the Onion.


Pre-Game Coin Toss Makes Jacksonville Jaguars Realize Randomness Of Life

Garfield Minus Garfield

Got to give a shout out to Garfield Minus Garfield. I'm pretty sure I caught this link on a post on QuakerJono's blog, Forgotten Beatitudes a few months ago. Anyway, it's a whole other kind of funny to watch Jon Arbuckle without his smart-ass cat's comments. It's also more than a little sad. Which, in a twisted sort of way, makes it funny again.

Little Bitty.

Sister Mother gave me "More One Minute Nonsense" by Anthony de Mello for my birthday one year. It's kind of a hodge-podge of religion/philosophy by a priest (now deceased) who was living in India. Some of it is a little new-agey for my tastes, but some of it is pretty good. Here's an excerpt from that book:

"What depresses me is that utter ordinariness of my existence. I haven't done a single important thing in my life that the world would care to notice."

"You are wrong to think that the attention of the world is what gives importance to an action," said the Master.

A lengthy pause ensued.

"Well, I haven't done a single thing to influence anyone for good or ill."

"You are wrong to think that influencing others is what gives importance to an action," said the Master.

"Well, then, what is it that gives importance to an action?"

"Doing it for is own sake with the whole of one's being. Then it becomes a non-profit, God-like activity."

//////////

I'm not much of a Country-music fan, but I do like Alan Jackson's "Little Bitty". I think Anthony de Mello might've liked it, too.

Confederate Memorial Day

We don't work today.

Remember war's fallen ones.

Regardless of cause.

It's Not Whether You Win or Lose...

Football Hall of Fame and Greenbay Packer Coach Vince Lombardi is frequently quoted for his "Winning isn't everything. It's the only thing". Yessir, win or go home. It's the American way. Steroids are rampant through sports, even down to high school. Charges that the New England Patriots won their championships, at least in part, because they cheated by stealing the other teams' play-calling signals persist (if you want you can read the article below).
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080508/ap_on_sp_fo_ne/fbn_patriots_walsh_tapes

Lombardi's last championship was in the mid-1960's, so you got to figure that winning at all costs has been the American way for awhile now. 'Cept that's not how I remember it. I remember when parents (even my own sweet dad) used to say, "It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you played the game". I remember when East Germany (yeah, I know, not a separate country anymore) used to be a symbol for winning Olympic contests by cheating. Every East German woman who won an Olympic medal looked like a dude (and not a handsome one, either), and everybody knew they only won because they cheated. They used steroids. It used to be a bad thing. The Cubans may have beaten us in boxing, but they used pros. The Soviets (yeah, I know, not a country anymore) may have stolen our basketball gold medal, but that's because they obviously paid the refs to give them more time (and they used pros, and we sent in college kids). You won, but we couldn't live with ourselves if we had to do what you did to win.


Here's to Central Washington's college softball team, whose players carried a member of the other team around the basepaths after she'd knocked the ball over the fence, but blew out her knee and couldn't round the bases without help. I'd read the story a couple of days ago, and saw a video of it on Kate's blog, "Out in Left Field" yesterday. None of those gals would make it on East Germany's Olympic teams, and I couldn't be prouder of them (they're prettier, too).

We Really Need the Eggs

A lotta stuff going on of late. A lot of it not too good. Too much to do for alcohol abuse (plus, I don't do more than three drinks anymore...), so I escaped to the T.V. It was 1977 all over again. VH1 had a show on 1977, and this movie, Annie Hall, was on one of the movie channels. I've watched a fair number of movies over the years. Certainly I knew all about Annie Hall (Shoot, it did win a couple of awards, I'm told), but somehow, I'd never watched it. Until tonight. Not too shabby. Jesus explained important lessons with parables. Woody uses jokes. The three jokes that Woodie used to sum up his life could apply 'bout as easily to a lot of us: 1) The two old ladies in the Catskills at lunch. "This food is awful!", says the one. "Yeah", says the other, "and the portions are so small!"; 2) Copping Groucho Marx's line to describe his relationships, "I won't join that club. I'd never join the kind of a club that would have me as a member"; and 3) A guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "My brother's crazy. He thinks he's a chicken". Psychiatrist says, "Maybe you ought to have him commited", Guy says, "Well, I can't. We really need the eggs".

"Plato and a Platypus...

I wonder what God looks like.

Like this?

Or maybe this?

Of course, the faithful believe that mostly God works through people. This is hardly groundbreaking news. Shoot, when the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob cried out from bondage in Egypt, God sent them Moses.

"Plato and a Platypus...Walk into a Bar, Understanding Philosophy through Jokes" has one story explaining the gulf of difference of understanding between the faithful and the more critical:

"A little old Christian lady comes out to her porch every morning and shouts, "Praise the Lord!". And every morning the atheist next door yells back, "There is no God!". This goes on for weeks. "Praise the Lord!", yells the lady. "There is no God!", responds the neighbor. As time goes by, the lady runs into financial difficulties and has trouble buying food. She goes out aonto the porch and asks God for help with grocceries and then says, "Praise the Lord!". The next morning when she goes out onto the porch, there are the groceries she asked for. Of course, she shouts, "Praise the Lord!". The atheist jumps out from behind a bush and says, "Ha! I bought those groceries. There is no God!". The lady looks at him and smiles. Not only did you provide for me, Lord, you made Satan pay for the groceries!".

So, how do we know the difference between a lucky coincidence and an answered prayer? Well, mostly we don't. Except that, sometimes, you just sorta do know. And sometimes the grand miracle is nothing more than a pat on the shoulder and a whispered, "hang in there buddy, you'll be alright". Which brings me to last night.

I went to the isolated Piggly Wiggly at about the midway point between mine and my BabyMamma house to pick up the Lads. Tina and my "Husband-in-Law", Daryl dropped them off, and I went to fire up SpongeBob, and... nothing. Not even a pathetic "Rrrrr-urrr-urrr". Not a sound. "Got to be the starter", expounds Tina's current husband. "Better call a tow-truck". A hundred-sixty-five dollars and two hours later, and we're back in the Boro. So, where's God in that? Well, the tow-truck driver, a thin, dread-locked African-'Mercan in his twenties turns out to be the son of my all-time favorite Beaufort jail guard. His mamma is just one of those people who sparkles. Great sense of humor; great smile; wonderfully positive world-view. As must have been apparent over the last few posts, I've not been "high on life" of late. Bumping into this gal's son was a pat on the shoulder that I really needed. Coincidence? Nah. I know better.

Public or Private?

My oldest son graduated from Thomas Heyward Academy, the largest private school in Jasper County, where I lived for twelve years before moving to the Boro. THA was founded shortly after Brown v. Board of Education came to be applied in South Carolina, and the reason for the founding of the school can be inferred from the choice of its mascot.
Jasper County used to be about 50% black, 49% white, 1% hispanic (numbers, last time I checked, changed to about 45/45/10). THA is about 98% white. JHS is about 98% black. THA was, and is, a much better school than the Jasper County public schools, with an SAT average about three hundred points higher than Jasper High School, so I didn't have to ponder what part the large racial differences might have otherwise played in mine and my babymomma's decision to send Oldest to THA. Now I got to start thinking about it. The Lads currently attend the largest private school in Colleton County: Colleton Preparatory Academy (formerly known as John C. Calhoun Academy). I like CPA. I like the Headmaster and the office staff, and a few of the Lads' teachers. The Lads are more circumspect. They are learning. They are struggling (though not as much as I did when I was sent to private schools). The public school that they would attend if they attend public school is one of the better public schools in Colleton County. Racial mix reflects the County generally (about 50/50). My friends at the Department of Juvenile Justice say that they have very few problems from that particular school. The public schools are not academically as good as CPA. They are not abysmal (about 100 points or so better on SAT than JHS), but CPA is definitely better. Extra-curricular activities? Public schools definitely have more. They have all of the sports that CPA has, and more, and offer things like band, that CPA doesn't offer.

Wonder if the boys from the band had kids?

Disillusionment Smackdown

Don't want to get to get all dark on you, but Sunday's soul searching got me thinking about pop and rock journeys into and out of faith. Know history and know yourself. The history of Israel seems to me to be a history of revelation, worship, abandonment, and reconciliation. So it goes with regular folks. We love, we embrace, we forget, we quit. Sometimes we come back. And the beat goes on. This week's Smackdown is loss of faith songs.

Many moons ago when I was scarcely older than the Lads are now, it occured to me that my then-favorite group, Three Dog Night, had put out a "religious" album: Cyan. The single from that record, "Shambala", sure did sound like a reference to heaven. Next album out the blocks? Hard Labor, featuring "Put Out the Light" which seemed to me like a falling-away single. The anti-Shambala, if you will (I couldn't find "Put Out the Light", so I'll use the equally cynical "Show Must Go On").


Bob Dylan's music has always had a spiritual side to it, but he got specific in "Slow Train Comin'". "You Gotta Serve Somebody" was not subtle. Bob Dylan has always been great, and it's not a surprise that his "back to reality" stuff is also pretty damn good. "Things Have Changed" is one of my all-time favorite songs. Embedding has been disabled, but if you're inclined to check it out: http://youtube.com/watch?v=WQDeYzUkXOU

Oh, and anybody who listened to any music at all in the 1990's heard R.E.M.'s "Losing My Religion", but the religion they lost seemed to be reflected in the single a couple of singles before that single, "Stand". Losing My Religion:


Okay, that's three loss of faith songs. I need a little help with the last one or two. Any suggestions?

Pharisees and ADD

I don't like Hillary Clinton. I'll probably vote for her if she wins the Democratic party presidential nomination, but I don't like her. It's not fair, really, because I don't know her. I don't like her because she reminds me of Ms. Green.
Ms. Green was one of my elementary school teachers. She was wan and humorless. Granted, I was a pretty awful student in elementary school (and worse in Middle school), but Ms. Green was a robot who represented all I hated about authority. "Conform", she'd say. "Why?", said I. "Because I said", she said. "It's go time!", I thought then (The Pink Floyd image at left was inspired by Mags, who included a "Floyd" link in a comment a month or so ago).

I'm pretty ambivalent toward authority. This should strike a note of irony, since I'm a lawyer and a former (part-time) Magistrate. That ambivalence is why I liked Bill, but don't like Hillary. Bill had a quality of mischief that I don't perceive in Hillary. When Bill lies to you, he's winking at you. Kind of like Reagan denying knowledge of trading guns for hostages: you figured he wasn't telling the truth, but dammit the guy had style. Anyway, Hillary, when she's not spinning things, seems a little sanctimonious to me. Which brings me to this morning.

I managed to get the lads up, showered and ready for Church today. This is not an easy thing, particularly since they didn't especially want to go. As my brother, amazing Ultra-Runner, AndyMan, used to say, "I like Church: it reminds me there's something worse than school". Frankly, I wasn't red-hot on the idea myself, but I think bringing kids up in some sort of religious environment is important. Trying to understand the meaning to life, and addressing that part of most of us that wants to understand and commune with the eternal- those are important things. Sanctimonious and superior attitudes are not.

Anyway, I leave the videogames and the Sunday paper, and get the Lads to Church. "The Peace" is a transitional part of the Episcopal service where you go from "the lessons" to the Eucharist. The priest says, "the Peace of the Lord be always with you", and where the Parish responds, "and also with you", then greets each other and shakes hands or nods or whatever. Instead of high-fives and pats on the back that I figured I deserved for getting two reluctant adolescents to Church, Sister Smellssomethingbad in the pew (maybe that's what smelled bad. Hee hee. "pew") in front of me gives me a "tut-tut" for the boys' behavior. Okay, they did sock each other a couple of times. A couple. Fairly light punches. Shoot, they didn't even raise any knots. Actually, they were more like jabs that only the gal in front of us noticed. I separated them immediately, and they made not an inappropriate peep thereafter. Here, I suppose I also owe a debt to Chase for his "Kids gone wild (and not in a good way)" post of a coupla weeks ago. Maybe this is a response. It's tough to raise kids. It's especially tough if you are trying to get them inculcated into an authority scene about which you have your own doubts.

Spring Frost

This was the front of "the Manor" eight days ago.

This is the scene this morning.

The well-flowered shrubberies of last week are the poorly tended bushes of this morning. Got me in that "Circle of Life" mood: Good, bad, inevitable, evanescent. Which got me thinking about Ponyboy, Sodapop, and "Two-bit" Mathews (no relation). What do you mean, "What the heck are you talking about?". Surely you read S.E. Hinton's "The Outsiders" in junior high/middle school? Oh, come on, I know there are more than that. Hold on, I know I got a copy of it somewhere. I'm going the kids' room. Don't go anywhere; I'll be right back.

Let's see... S.E. Hinton's "The Taming of Star Runner", S.E. Hinton's "That was Then, This is Now", St. Augustine's "City of God", Suess's "There's a Wocket in My Pocket" (apparently Dr. Suess really enjoyed his work). Hmmm. In any event, "The Outsiders" was about underpriviledged teens and preteens struggling in tough places and tough times. Soda and Ponyboy and the rest of 'em. One of the characters liked Robert Frost's "Nothing Gold Can Stay". The poem puzzled him, and described him, them, us, nature. The poem, in case you have misplaced your copy:

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leafs a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Stay Gold, Ponyboy.

SpongeBobMobile

Funny things happen to normally sane men when they fall head-long out of their fourth decade of living and into... the decades that follow. In 2000, the fortieth anniversary of the birth of Bill and Lydia's oldest son (er, that would be me), I quit a secure (if somewhat dull) job as County Attorney advising a small county on ordinances and doing a little bit of trial and appellate work, to go into solo private practice, ran for the Statehouse (I lost by about 150 votes out of about 15,000 cast), and got separated after about 14 years of marriage, and later divorced. 2001 I mostly pouted. In 2002, within the span of six or seven months following the 42nd anniversary of my birth, I, in order: ripped the tendon in my right biceps off of the bone while playing flag-football, bought a yellow mustang convertible, ran the Jacksonville marathon with my friend Cathy, and had surgery to re-attach my biceps.

My amazing Ultra-Runner brother, AndyMan met me in Jax. I asked him what he thought of my ride. He looked at me the way you are supposed to look at a 42 year old dude who has just bought a car marketed for 18 year old Marine recruits, and told me it was the ugliest car he'd ever seen. I told him its name was SpongeBob, owing to its color, and the SpongeBob airfreshener I had hanging from my mirror (We finished the marathon, by the way, though they timed me with a calendar). I went back home and got the surgery that I might should've gotten before the marathon. After my surgery, I asked the surgeon if I could play football again. He looked at me like you are supposed to look at a 42 year old dude who asks if he can still play football, and recommended golf. I don't think he liked the SpongeBobMobile either. But they love it at the Waffle House.

Happy Valentine's Day