Marking Time

Caught this Napoleanic figure on Inside Washington tonight, on the lesser of our two Chicago PBS stations, WYCC. The Kraut’s long been on my radar as a conservative pundit with cajones the size of bowling balls (and his bubble of denial is just as impervious to puncturing as a bowling ball).

On the “success” of U.S. foreign policy in Iraq: Krauthammer cites a 91% reduction in IEDs and acts of violence in Baghdad since the troop surge. First of all, where’s he getting that number? Predictably, he doesn’t say.

I’ve heard reports that over the past 1-2 years, the counting method itself has changed. Now they can do things like calling an instance of somebody shot from the front a “criminal” act, not a terrorist act. So any Sunni/Shi’ite conflict where there’s not literally a classic “execution style” murder can potentially be reclassified to massage the military’s numbers.

Additionally, we all KNOW the surge troops mostly went into Baghdad. So locking down the city, and building viable (if temporary) relationships with the indigenous leaders in the neighborhoods, would naturally result in a reduction of violence. But what about the situation in other parts of the country, where the violence has not dropped off– where, for example, Britain has essentially given up on Basra? Why do conservatives point toward little subsets of the numbers, rather than the handful of big numbers that matter most? Why do they focus on numbers at all? Because those focused on “victory”, rather than something as tenuous and valuable as peace, or diplomacy, need to quantify everything to measure whether or not they’ve won.

 Not to mention, claiming such short-term gains as a success may be foolhardy, as the manipulation and activities behind closed doors by the locals are probably not bringing that nation any closer to actual, maintainable peace and proper governance. It seems to me (and I’m admittedly not that well-informed, but at least I don’t have my head in the sand) that the insurgents are now re-strategizing, mostly waiting around for us to leave before making their grabs for power.

On Iran, and the recent report that they stopped all efforts to build a nuclear bomb in 2003, Krauthammer dug in yet again. He said they stopped “only one of three” components of nuclear development: weaponization of the nuclear material. So they’re still trying to develop atomic power. Big deal. They’ve said so all along, asserting their right to do so like any developing nation. No reason to demonize them. I’m not inclined to believe Iran will be any great ally in the near future, and some of the religious leaders there are definitely stoking the fire of sectarian violence in Iraq and elsewhere. But in that, Iran is no different than our so-called “allies”, Saudi Arabia and Pakistan.

And is anyone going to finally throw in the towel on Pakistan and admit we got into bed with the wrong guy? Whether his people killed Bhutto or not, he’s a military dictator who took over in a coup. Always has been. Haven’t we been burned enough by men such as Musharraf, in Central and South America, in Africa?

All I’m looking for is somebody to admit they were wrong, and they are now ready to change directions. Clearly, hawkish paranoiacs like Krauthammer are not going to do so. People like Robert Gates are at least rethinking what our priorities and methods need to be, which is good to see. But why can’t any of these classic conservatives see the chinks in their own armor?

Thank God for the inevitable march of history, which will reveal the obviously poor choices of the past eight years (and longer… Clinton and Bush Sr. were no angels in bungling foreign policy matters, either). Unfortunately, by then, no one will care. Either that or they’ll claim they don’t want to play “the blame game”.

Day after Christmas, we finally broke down and bought an HDTV. A 40″ Sony Bravia, 720p (1080 is overrated & overpriced… the improvement is not that noticeable over 720, which is the way most broadcast programs are shot and distributed anyway). It’s got great color processors, multiple connectivity, blah blah blah, …you don’t care about all the specs, but I do, thus I paid about 20% more for the bells and whistles and better overall engineering on the Sony (as opposed to a Magnavox or some middle-of-the-road brand). It set up pretty easily, looks great when watching a movie, just barely fits on our entertainment center, and now we’ve got that new 21st century problem: the destruction of our innocence about our favorite celebrities, as all their warts and wrinkles show up crystal-clear in HD.

Then came one of those early-stage “senior moments” (though I’m only 42). It went like this: while flipping channels and testing the new tv settings, we saw a promo for VH1’s “My Fair Brady” show. Sue asked me what it was, and while trying to explain, I could not for the life of me remember the name of the character Christopher Knight (now age 46) played on The Brady Bunch. Must be that whole “forgettable middle child” syndrome.  I remembered cooler-than-cool Greg, of course (aka Johnny Bravo … has anyone ironically given their band that name yet?). And little Bobby. And the girls. Even Alice’s boyfriend Floyd (Whoops. I mean Sam… I just looked it up. Sorry, Sam.) But until this morning, the name Peter just evaded me completely, hiding in the dark corners of my mind…. cobwebby corners which seem to be creeping steadily toward the middle of the main rooms lately.

I hate getting old. I now grunt when I bend over to pick something up. (I hate that!) I have the predictable hair growing in my ears, a few freakishly long eyebrow hairs, hair on my back. My hearing has changed slightly, and my night vision and ability to read in low light. I have arthritis in my knees, I can’t remember diddly, and my feet hurt constantly. And yet somehow I still have to contend with pimples, like some pathetic adolescent. That’s thanks to my oily, half-Italian skin, the main benefit of which is probably that I am not wrinkling as fast as your average WASP. Big deal.

So as 2007 slowly wends it way to an end, I hereby make the following resolutions: to savor some of Spencer’s chocolate cream Christmas pie from Benison’s Bakery while I can still taste it, to appreciate wrestling with my five-year-old on the bed before he gets big enough to pull my flabby old arm from its shoulder socket, and –when the opportunities arise– to take this decrepit mind and body out for a few more crazy, kicking-and-screaming, pushing-the-envelope spins around the block before I completely fall apart, eventually turning into mild-mannered superhero Paunchy Limping Suburban Bad Golfer Man, sometime around 2010 (otherwise known as the Eve of Armageddon).

Or I could try to get in shape in 2008? Naaaah. Sly Stallone’s already cornered the market on pathetic pumped-up has-been Italians trying to pretend they’re still twenty five. (Another Rambo? 20 years later? Is he kidding? What circle of hell did I wake up in after my long winter’s nap? And can we at least send him into Iraq to clean up that mess? He went to Afghanistan for Rambo 2, didn’t he?! And we all know how well THAT country is turning out (NOT) … but the Iraq surge is “working”, let’s not forget… ha!)

No sir. No exercising and eating right for me. The “raw” diet? Uh uh! I’d rather find a less taxing way to be boring and ridiculous.

Some great little things about Christmas this year:

1) Wacky, irreverent Christmas rock and roll from days of yore on the drive home last night. It was featured on a special “Christmas A’ Go-Go” installment of Little Steven’s Underground Garage, the syndicated radio brilliance of Steve Van Zandt (of Springsteen’s E Street Band). The Sopranos may be gone, but this paisan from Jersey still keeps the surreal spirit of Christmas like no other.

2) A sweet and honest column from Garrison Keillor, at Salon.com. In fact, from here, you can click to read three great weeks worth of Christmas columns and snarky Keillor social commentary.

3) James Taylor at Christmas, released last year… especially the songs “River” (a Joni Mitchell classic), “Some Children See Him”, and “In the Bleak Midwinter” — all three fairly obscure choices, all great songs. Even the other old standbys here have interesting arrangements. I saw half of an interview with James on Tavis Smiley a few months back (on PBS) … he’s a remarkably humble guy, and pretty wise by now, given the many ups and severe downs of his 35-40 year career.

4) Last night’s big family get-together, with aunties, cousins, and kids of cousins, and even the typically cranky great-great aunt in a cheerful, amused mood. Featured snapshots: playing carols on guitar with cousin Dan (he covered my ass, since I’m slow on the changes); teasing Mom about her providing a quarter-stick of butter for over thirty people; gathering the grandkids for a photo and then watching them scatter again within twenty seconds of the photo-op; making snide comments with my brother-in-law about the bookshelf contents, and our parents’ generation of hack writers (including Tom Clancy, Jacqueline Susann, and Erma Bombeck [yeah, she's funny, but probably severely dated by now] ); teasing cousin Tom about his highly unexpected third child (now on the way). Quote of the night, from my 7th-grade nephew Bill: “This isn’t a circus, this is a carnival. Carnivals are more orderly.”

5) Warm, home-made rolls, fresh from the oven this afternoon, compliments of my wife. Mmmmmmmmm!

6) Very little outside responsibility, for once. Somebody else handled the church pageant, we’re not hosting much family (except my sister-in-law Holly, an easygoing guest), and we didn’t go overboard on shopping for gifts. Who says we have to obsessively make ourselves miserable, just to have a little shot at some idyllic, unreachable “comfort and joy”? The 1994 Star Trek Generations movie, with Picard’s ridiculously sappy “perfect Christmas” in the Nexus as his version of heaven, is all the proof I need that we should lower our holiday standards. (Gawd, that movie sucked, didn’t it?!) Contrary to what Billy Crystal once said on SNL, “It’s better to feel good than to look good.”  

7) A quiet Christmas morning, with Graham actually taking time to enjoy each of his gifts a bit, instead of just throwing one aside and rushing on to the next one. The highlight for him: a simple $10 LED flashlight that he can wear on his head, and a package of solar system planets he can hang from the ceiling in his room. My sister Laura says no, he won’t be an astronaut… he’ll be the Ed Harris guy, the mission control specialist telling everyone else what to do.

I suppose seven’s a lucky number, so we’ll stop there. Have a safe, happy and restful holiday. And if not, may Jesus help your “bleak midwinter” pass as swiftly and painlessly as possible.

Today, the last in our “fancy archaic words from Christmas carols” discussion series.

First song up: We Three Kings of Orient Are, by John H. Hopkins

Before looking at the carol itself, a reminder: officially, scripturally, there’s nothing in the text that says they were kings, or that there were three of them. The text in Matthew more strongly suggests that they were astrologer/astronomers from Babylon, at least according to my old Harper’s Bible Commentary book here. But they would at least have been wealthy, maybe even powerful or tribal leaders of some kind, in order to have the resources to make the journey in the first place (and to bring such nice gifts). As for the number three, that comes from the three gifts mentioned: gold, frankincense (is that some French version of incense?), and myrrh (a sap or tree resin, probably from Ethiopia, whose scent was highly valued). But who’s to say there weren’t six Magi, each with two pots of these gifts? Or twenty Magi, with various amounts of these substances, plus maybe some food or other essential baby gear… since this was after all Jesus’ baby shower!

Anyway… on to the song itself. There’s only three words I want to point out: Orient, moor, and yonder.

First, Orient: while in the modern era we’re used to thinking of China,  or maybe India, as “the Orient”, all the word really means is “east”[from the Latin word oriens meaning "east" (lit. "rising" < orior "rise"), as in where the sun rises. ] And in ancient times Orient referred to the Middle East, moreso than to the Far East. So traditionally, the Magi were thought to have come from Babylon or Persia (modern-day Iran). But Ethiopia, mentioned above, is also east of Palestine. So one or more of the Magi could just as easily have been African as Middle Eastern. Anyway, the fun of these guys is that theoretically they’re from anywhere, from everywhere –they may even have been from “enemy” nations– but still they came to honor the birth of the Hebrew Messiah. See? Jesus was always meant to be “a uniter, not a divider”. President Bush and his cronies seem to have lost track of that part of God’s plan, apparently.

Second word study: “moor”, referring to a muddy, maybe even foggy, stretch of land. [Merriam Webster: "a boggy area; especially : one that is peaty and dominated by grasses and sedges" ] With this word we see that this is primarily a British Christmas carol, because there are probably very few boggy areas that the Magi would have had to cross anywhere near those arid, Middle Eastern climates. The word is poetically used, followed by “mountain”, to suggest they had a long hard road to get to Bethlehem, lots of ups and downs. So they probably didn’t literally slog through the mud, but it paints an effective picture for any Brit (or anyone else) who ever had to walk a long way.

[Side note: I checked whether this word had anything to do with Moor, the term often used to refer to the Muslim conquerors of Spain and various European regions. On quick glance, it does not - the capitalized version has it's roots in the name "Mauritania", a region/nation in Africa.]

Third word: yonder, as in “yonder star”. [Etymology: Middle English, from yond + -er. Date: 14th century ] The meaning refers to something that is somewhat distant, yet visible or otherwise known to the speaker and the hearer. It’s loosely related to the word beyond. I just wanted to look at it because here in the U.S., yonder, said with a certain drawl, is one of those classic words that suggests (maybe in a negative way) someone from the South who has a funny way of talkin’. (Remember Sling Blade? - ”I like the way you talk. Mmm hmm.” …Good ol’ Karl.) It’s unfortunate that “yonder” has dropped out of Northern usage. It’s just a good word. We don’t have another synonym that really means the same thing. A thesaurus says “farther” will work, but I disagree. Farther does no imply it’s an object or area that we can still see.

Finally, a look at my favorite carol: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

“God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” was first published in Britain in 1833. It’s another “author unknown” carol, and it’s mentioned in Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. I love it for two reasons: one - the melody uses alot of minor key notes, so it has a certain somber, winterlike mood I like alot; two - the essential theological points made in this carol are really strong. Stuff like “to save us all from Satan’s pow’r when we were gone astray” really hits the nail on the head, not to mention the line “the Son of God by name”, a slap in the face to all those who would reduce Jesus to just some well-intentioned itinerant preacher or mere human prophet. 

As for individual words: we’ll look at only two –”dismay” from the first verse, and “efface” from the last verse. It’s a very long song if you sing all the existing verses, and I assume very few people do anymore.

The Wikipedia entry suggests this song was written partly to remind drunken revelers not to get too rowdy or fight with each other, but to honor the day and what it means. If you think about it, it does have that steady, rolling-along, drinking song kind of feel about it. So in that context, “let nothing you dismay” basically means: “Hey you dopes, don’t take offense at each other’s drunken insults and go ruining the party for the rest of us!” Or to use a post-modern phrase: “Give it a rest!”

The lesser-known last verse ends with these four lines:

The first two lines again reflect the peacemaking role the song is meant to play, reminding the “merry” gentlemen (merry as in drunk, either giggling or brawling, depending upon whether one is a happy drunk or an angry one) to REST. And then tacked on the end, the final trump card: “all other doth efface”. This essentially means that on God’s calendar, this day (this “tide”) is more important than all others, in that Christ’s coming effectively erases all our sins (drunken or otherwise) and gives us a fresh start. God became human, took a real flesh and bone face, thus ennobling the human race, finally — and in dying a human death and rising again, God/Jesus became a sacrifice for us, to erase our guilt. The word origin is from Latin. [Etymology: Middle English effacen, from French effacer, from Old French esfacier : es-, out (from Latin ex-, ex-) + face, face; see face.] So it means to un-face, or in this case, to rub out or take away the shameful face of sin from our human character. So basically, God Rest Ye is a forgiveness song: forgive each other, as God first forgave you, and as God continues to do, if you will accept it.

So as we launch into the homestretch this Christmas season, whether you’re crossing moor and mountain or just driving across town, pray for peace while you’re enjoying that ham or turkey; forgive your crazy family (and friends, and enemies, and all nations everywhere, drunk or sober, Christian or not) for they’re still God’s gift to you; and above all, take “comfort and joy” in both Jesus’ birth AND in His final gift, the deliverance of our flawed and foolish race from Satan’s power. This was a delivery and a gift that came not on Christmas, or even on Epiphany (when the Magi and their contributions are honored), but on Easter morning.

Merry Christmas! And God Bless Us, Every One.

Heard a radio news item earlier this week about Chicago Bears’ star linebacker Lance Briggs having an “amicable” paternity suit filed against him, for having dropped off in his support level for one of a possible three children out of wedlock (by three women, as if I had to say so…)  Predictably, Lance is calling the mother a golddigger. But I’m not inclined to trust the credibility of a guy who abandoned a crashed Lamborghini last summer, presumably to avoid a DUI charge at 3am.

I also read a Rolling Stone interview not long ago with musician James Blunt: a fine, thoughtful singer and songwriter, but to my chagrin also a sex-crazed drug fiend playing with fire, in deep denial, and apparently looking to burn out quick. Here’s James on why he never tires of performing his hit “You’re Beautiful”: “Every single night the song continues to get me laid.” I’m sorry, but a jerk is a jerk, no matter what decade you’re living in, and only a jerk would make such a shallow, piggish statement. An honest jerk, but still a jerk.

Now, I’m a big boy. I usually try not to get all huffy and judgmental about the stupid stuff grown men and women do. For one thing: I’ve had my moments of weakness over the years, doing slightly stupid things, usually while under the influence – and that’s even with the solid “moral foundation” of a steady life of faith.  So I certainly get it, that many people without that clear code of ethics (or a relationship with God) would occasionally put the “right now” pleasures of the flesh ahead of the “right” kind of respect for the opposite sex, or for themselves and their bodies.

But “getting” this foolishness and ignoring it are not the same thing, and sometimes people’s behavior is just too rotten or too stupid to ignore. This is especially true for a parent or teacher trying to help impressionable kids sort it out. Knowing what you stand for in terms of drinking, drugs and sexual behavior –and saying so, without becoming judgmental or prudish, yet also without apology– gets tougher every year, at least for me. But standing by and saying nothing can be construed as approval of this selfish, short-sighted behavior, so some of us have to keep talking about it, even if it’s just amongst ourselves or with our kids. I know I can’t make the rules for everybody, let alone enforce them, but I still maintain it’s okay to want us all to play by some basic rules of decency, respect, responsibility and honor.

Western cultural products put out so many mixed messages that it’s not hard to understand why the protective and conservative approach taken by most Muslims, for example, has resulted in so many international shouting matches — and worse. In certain U.S. subcultures, the confusing messages can be even more extreme (like the machismo of a sports locker room, the hedonism of the entertainment industry, the experimental atmosphere of most colleges, and the carefully-crafted but contradictory slogan-slinging of political figures who are later revealed as hypocrites and sex fiends).

There are certainly exceptions –big stars with stable long-term marriages, or those who make clear their beliefs through the roles they take or refuse, or through the projects they’re gung-ho to produce or direct themselves (Go Denzel! Go Oprah!… for once I can say something good about her…) Add to these the handful of politicians who walk the talk and make clear that for them it’s a character choice, and even a costly one, not a political stance. And then there’s the occasional confessional songwriter or filmmaker who will actually say “I was a bad guy”… or ”I was lost”… or “Respect yourself” or, to paraphrase Charles Barkley: ”I shouldn’t be anybody’s hero or role model.”  But these exceptions rarely make for juicy tabloid fodder, and so we end up talking about them one tenth as much as the latest starlet who showed her privates in public.

Many of these exceptions/confessors come out of substance abuse and recovery programs, where if they’re doing it right, they’ve faced their demons and seen how many tentacles these demons have. Two of the more compelling examples of “this is my awful life” reality television I’ve caught the past few years involved radio/tv guy Danny Bonaduce (aka Danny Partridge… ah yes, now you remember) and actor Tom Sizemore. I don’t think either show is on anymore, but the combination of chutzpah and brutal honesty that comes through on camera with these two struggling guys is both interesting and instructive (in a “what NOT to do”/Scared Straight sorta way). When volatile recovering booze/sex addicts or meth addicts turn the camera on themselves, it can be quite engrossing. It’s like watching a car crash, except in slow-motion, with the participants enthusiastically admitting all along: ”Look what an ass I’m capable of being.”

I can even admit to a bit of envy toward people with, shall we say, “flexible” ethics and morals. I like sex as much as the next guy. I also think the “altered states” brought on by drink and drugs are weird and fascinating. In short, throwing biological caution to the wind increases the chance of unpredictable things going down, potentially with little ol’ me at the center of some tornado – or at least leaving me with an amusing story to tell for a long time afterward.

But it’s not about me, is it? I can’t do whatever I want– whatever I feel like doing– if it’s putting other lives at risk, or knowingly causing pain, either present or future pain. Liberty doesn’t equal license, and license leads too easlily to licentiousness (look it up). Lance Briggs and his ilk (and the baby mamas, lest we let them off the hook too easily) are bringing an innocent child into the world. There’s no excuse for not taking responsibility for that, and the social costs of so many unplanned pregnancies (celebrity or otherwise) are beyond measure.

Even when there’s not a baby involved, sexual intimacy still, at some deep level, tends to automatically create a bond and an implied promise: not only that we accept the other, but that we’ll be around in the morning, that we’ll stay in the other’s life. It’s an exchanging of spirits, not just an exchange of fluids. At least it’s supposed to be.

The same goes for excessive drinking or doing drugs. The extent to which it leads to irresponsible behavior in the long run is why we have to make and enforce laws, and practice tougher love in our families. An eighteen-year-old kid may not drive drunk or pull a dumb prank out of boredom the first nine times he gets high… but that tenth time, in the heat of the moment, with all the usual rational defenses and inhibitions pushed aside –that’s the night on which a kid’s life can take a sharp left turn, a turn after which there’s no getting back to the road he or she was on before.

We trample each other’s spirits all the time, yes. And we do things we’re later ashamed of. But we shouldn’t be celebrating it, or making excuses for it (he’s young, she’s lonely, he’s “a guy” and plays by his own rules, “it’s a victimless crime”, “I was drunk”, etc.). The courage we show, in taking responsibility or in facing our inner demons, is probably the best way to judge the health of our society.

So keep your eye on the ball, Lance… in your life, not just on the field.

A few little recommendations today, is all:

Wire Tap, a radio show premised on “listening in” on pretend phonecalls and voicemails, is one of those fun, slightly cheeky but not too dangerous Canadian products. Canadians can take some pretty good potshots at the U.S. precisely because they so much like us… only smarter. It’s like how your brother or sister knows how to tease you better than anyone else, getting right in there where it hurts, but not so much as to be unforgiveable.

I cracked up yesterday while listening to Wire Tap’s exchange of angry messages and phonecalls between Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble, which was featured this past weekend on This American Life (another public radio show I also highly recommend). A minor highlight: Barney tells Fred that Stony Curtis (see picture above) made out with Wilma. 

Nothing better than an adult look at some of our most juvenile behavior, or vice versa… like developing a drinking game around the watching of presidential debates… (gotta love that Wonkette! — even though this link’s three years old, it’s still very good; just change a few of the names and voila…)

I found a high school sophomore’s wallet tonight on the street in front of my house. I went inside and used Anywho.com, plus her driver’s license, to check for her home phone number. Good thing for her, it was listed. So I called her house. A man answered. Probably dad, but maybe a brother. It was nearly 10pm, and she wasn’t home yet.

Long story short — man calls teen on cell, teen calls me for my exact address, and in 20 minutes or so she’s at my door. I give her the intact wallet, she asks no questions, offers sincere (but embarrassed) thanks, and goes on her way.

Now I’m usually not one to judge, but I gotta say this: 

-letting your kid stay out late on a Sunday night,
-not knowing where she is (the man on the phone was surprised to hear she’d been in Skokie… a good half-hour from their North Side address),
-giving her credit cards and a gas card (both of which she had), and
-in general trusting a sixteen-year-old to be as competent as an 18 or 21-year-old…

these are all questionable parenting choices in my book. I may be lenient on some things with my son when he’s that age, but not to this extent. Parental convenience is good, but child safety is better, especially in the age of identity theft.  (The kid kept her Social Security Card in the wallet, too!)

I certainly didn’t have any credit cards during high school. This was in the days before cell phones, as well. And I survived high school just fine. So the usual claim of giving kids these adult things for emergency purposes doesn’t hold much water with me. For here was a minor emergency that could have become a major one if I had decided to use the lost credit card instead of calling it in. A kid’s main focus may be to assert their independence at this age, but that doesn’t mean Mom and Dad should be pushovers and forget how to say “no”.

Coincidentally, earlier tonight I had been thinking about how my own wallet and mp3 player were stolen last spring. I had strong suspicions that the thief was a certain teenage employee of the business where I set my bag down, but nothing was ever proven. I then had to go through the headache of canceling cards, getting new i.d.’s, etc. So I know how bad it feels to lose track of one’s essentials.

Every teen’s going to do a few stupid things now and then. But that doesn’t mean we should make it easy for them. The high school where my wife teaches is rife with parents who have no clue what their bratty, drinky North Shore kids are up to. Either that or they enable their kids to grow up too fast, with everyone in denial, pretending these are near-adults in full control of their brains and bodies, when in fact they’re hormonally-challenged morons who are incapable of that level of maturity.

 And don’t try to argue: they are morons, but they’re OUR morons, and they’re sweet and funny, so we love ‘em anyway, and we put up with their crap ’till they’re old enough to –hopefully– realize what morons they were at 13, and 16, and 18, and can finally say “Thank you for helping me get through.” (BTW, if you haven’t said that yet, go call your parents and do it right now. Go ‘head, I’ll wait…)

Yes, keeping a teen on a shorter leash is hard, but if you aren’t going to do the hard work of parenting and do it right, then don’t have kids. Especially if they’re going to turn out to be the kind of kid that steals my wallet and fanny-pack from a shoe-storage cubby at the indoor kiddie gym.

Fatigue.
Long day.
Long drive home, just begun.

On Cicero Avenue five minutes north
A car is stalled in the right-hand lane.
I’d do the Good Samaritan thing
If I wasn’t so damned tired.
I throw up a prayer for the driver,
Not entirely certain if it’s for him
Or to soothe my own guilt.

A hundred yards on:
A group of Latino boys
Shuffling down the sidewalk,
Under the Ogden Avenue viaduct.
They’re all bundled in black,
With black hair on their heads–
Heads now pulled down into their coat collars
To ward off the gray, the wind, the cold.
They look like a murder of crows,
At the same time both swaggering and beaten down,
Having walked or taken buses a whole lot more than I ever did at their age
(or at any age, really).

I wonder if they stopped to see if that driver needed help?
They certainly could have,
If this city didn’t harden people like it does.

Then again, maybe they were in that car,
And they’re off to get some help.
I’d like to think so, anyway.

How many hundreds of people
Do I see like this each day?
From a distance of ten feet or less
Here in my sound-proof, trouble-free, glass-and-steel box on wheels
(Where I might as well be a million miles away).

While driving to a friend’s yesterday, we pointed out to my son how tbecause of the fog, the lit-up, plain cross on top of Lutheran General hospital looked like it was floating in space. Then he said one of those great lines that come from some mysterious place inside a kid’s head that we can never fully get to after a certain age. He said:

“That’s the cross that God fell off of.”

We weren’t sure how he meant it. Maybe he had previously looked at my Grandma’s Roman Catholic crucifix hanging in our bedroom, and now noticed that the hospital one didn’t have Jesus upon it. Or maybe he was putting the sinfulness of mankind, or The Resurrection, or some complex theological concept, in the simplest and most poetic way a five year old can put it.

Either way, that quote will be my theme for the month. They tried to put my Lord on a cross, but he didn’t stick. He fell off, and the stink of death fell away from him.

As MC Hammer once said, so Jesus first said to death and sin: “Can’t touch dis!”

No real danger here. I just like catchy titles. Caught you, didn’t it?

Today, a report on new developments in Graham the Boy Wonder’s sense of humor, followed by more word studies of uncommon words from another classic Christmas carol.

Graham told his first real joke to me recently. It went like this: “Dad, what animal can jump higher than a house?” Me: “I don’t know. A kangaroo?” Graham: “No. All animals, because HOUSES CAN’T JUMP!”

I laughed very loud because it caught me by surprise, and was at least a little clever. But I was also beaming and proud, because he was finally old enough to understand why the joke was funny.  Up until then, he had tried to imitate jokes when older people told them, but he made random, toddler-like word and nonsense-sound substitutions that came out more surreal than genuinely funny. But this time, his timing and delivery were pitch-perfect, because he got the joke himself… he wasn’t just mimicking somebody else. Next stop, The Improv!

Our carol for today: Away In a Manger, words and music by none other than Martin Luther himself!

First up, what’s a manger? As kids perhaps we got used to thinking of the stable or the structure itself as the manger. But that’s not accurate. The word actually refers to the feeding trough that the barn animals used.

But then, maybe we shouldn’t think too hard about this, because what if that trough or box recently contained some moldy, rotten scraps of food, the leftovers or peels cast off from the inn’s kitchen? Not exactly the most sanitary place to put a newborn. Good thing Jesus had such a tough-guy constitution.

Verse 2 begins “The cattle are lowing,” and it’s another one of those moments where I much prefer my own amusing image to the official one. In my version there are some cows, drawn by Sandra Boynton of course, doing the limbo under a bamboo pole after a few too many drinks at Jesus’ birthday bash. But no, lowing merely refers to the low, gentle, deep mooing sound made by the cattle. [Etymology: Anglo-Saxon hlowan ] Or hey, how ’bout this: they may have actually been saying “Oooh!”, because they were so impressed with the kid.

The last word in the song is the word nigh: “I love thee, Lord Jesus, look down from the sky,/And stay by my cradle till morning is nigh.” It’s a word that’s also used in verse 4 of The First Noel (”This star drew nigh to the northwest, o’er Bethlehem it took its rest…”). Nigh means near, as even a child can guess from the context. So why not say near? Because it doesn’t rhyme with sky, my dear.

And think about that whole “look down” line above. At first, it seems the singer is asking Jesus to look down from the sky upon himself. But it says “my cradle”, which clearly indicates two things: first, that the song has shifted from singing about baby Jesus toward singing directly to the resurrected and ascended Jesus; second, that the song was conceived as a lullabye by Martin Luther. And doesn’t it really sound like one, after all?

Sleep tight, my friends. Dream the perfect dream. And don’t throw your sugarplum scraps out… the cattle and sheep need a bit of variety in their diet.