Marking Time

Fill in the blank.

We’ve all said it. Many times, probably beginning the first month we could string a complete sentence together. Of course, at that point, we were probably saying, “When I grow up, I’m going to eat ice cream for every meal, nothing but ice cream.” 

What I never expected, though, is that I would still be using this phrase at age 42.

Some people, the George Baileys of the world, are just “born older”. Let’s call them the Settlers. I don’t mean anything negative in using this term. All I mean is that they find a groove early, they mostly stay in it, and they take whatever success or failure comes from this basically straight arc of a life path they have “settled into”. If they can get past that nasty old “midlife crisis” thing, they do pretty well for themselves, interpersonally and financially.

Some settlers start working at a young age, maybe even helping support their parents or siblings. Maybe they get married young or have a baby. Maybe they just have a clear vision and an ambition to get exactly what they are after, and they chase it down. High school, college, maybe grad school, then a steady climb up the ladder in a single field of work, until they hit some ceiling either within themselves or in society. They take a pre-worn path that makes sense to them, they have few regrets, and they take for granted certain “facts” and necessary compromises. Many existential questions, for a settler, are easily settled. There’s one right answer, and they live it out as best they can. They may not even be inclined to ask a lot of those kind of questions in the first place. Settlers are do-ers, and generally this is the type of person that makes the world go. 

And then there are the Searchers. I’m a searcher. I envy those damned settlers, with all their certainty and success and non-rebellious bliss. But I’m afraid I can never be one.

Searchers are internally tuned to search, to experiment, to wander through life a bit, to question what the settlers take for granted. A searcher can be like an advance scout, sent out to identify an entirely new path and test whether it’s safe or not, and where it will lead.

Except most searchers are self-appointed. We don’t often choose to be a searcher. No sane, responsible person would do something so foolish. To be a searcher is to agree that it’s okay to be lost for a time. Most seachers either intentionally leave or compulsively lose track of the path, a path that previous settlers so kindly laid out for them.

Sometimes a searcher is enticed to leave those well-worn paths by the promise of something exciting out in the woods, or just over the horizon in the other direction.

Other searchers are just dissatisfied with the path itself, and are compelled to strike out on their own by some vague internalized calling. They leave the path with a hope, and a faith (however they define it), that there is something better out there for them, and perhaps for everyone else as well. 

Searchers are not all narcissists, though. Most still want to play a vital role in the world. They hope to contribute to the community, but they have no choice but to do so by being a maverick (to borrow one of McCain’s favorite words), a discoverer, an outsider, a reformer, an advance scout in previously unexplored territories, using a machete to cut a wide and sometimes painful swath through the jungle.

[Since I brought up MCain, let me say I think the 2008 election may be the first in history, or at least the first since Reagan v. Carter, to pit two searchers against each other. Neither Obama nor McCain has proven themselves a true insider, entirely beholden to or accepted by their traditonal constituencies. If McCain's sidestepping of religious postures and Obama's "oreo" branding by Jesse Jackson and the black community has shown us anything, it's that these candidates are not afraid to go off-script in forging a political path for themselves. Certainly McCain is more a "company man" than Obama, but I think his basic identity is to be a reformer, which places him somewhere to the left of the neo-conservative movement. (My conservative ex-brother-in-law once called him a commie, but he was mostly just being the inflammatory jerk he's always been.) ]

Back to ordinary settlers and searchers like you and me:

I know several searchers now, over 35, who are in a similar place emotionally, professionally, or spiritually. One is adopting a child from Russia, at age 43. One is going to med school - she’s also about 43, though in a recent email she said she still feels 26 on the inside. My sister, now 36, is also back in school to get more training in some sort of design field. Whe she grows up she’s going to be some unique combination of artist and inventor, creating the next Furby, iPod, Post-It note, or other such triumph of creativity through new technology. Even my pastor, a classic searcher, is going back to school full-time to fill in all the gaps he’s felt for years in the what and how of his daily work.

While many searchers do have that hope that I discussed earlier, at our core we are perpetually dissatisfied. It may be a dissatisfaction with the world, and what all those doggone settlers have done to the place. It may be a dissatisfaction with ourselves, a drive to better ourselves, to find some essential answer to that age old question: Why am I here? It may just be a dissatisfaction with one particular area of life, like Dr. Richard Jarvik’s frustration over losing his father to a heart attack, which drove him to create the first artificial heart.

Whichever you are, searcher or settler, the bottom line is that we need each other. I’m married to a settler, for example. She’s very organized, high-functioning, and quite good at helping other settlers and searchers become smarter, stronger, more complete versions of themselves (myself included). But at her core, I don’t think she’s looking to reinvent the world. She’s just living in it, adapting to it, and whenever possible, admiring and appreciating it.

Whichever you are, go be the best you can be. And forgive the other type. They’re only doing what they gotta do, just like you. (Like my wife, who just kicked me off the computer, since I took too long to write all this up, and the day has 101 other little responsibilities that I have to take on.)

For those who don’t watch tv, or live under a rock (not that I blame you), the “more flags, more fun” slogan is part of the current ad campaign for the Six Flags amusement park franchise. There are 17 total parks, including Six Flags now in Montreal, Mexico City, and Dubai (United Arab Emirates). So it’s not strictly a U.S. phenomenon anymore. But it’s very much a product of what can be called “American” thinking — the kind of “more is better” thinking that leads to a slogan like the one above, as well as leading to a far-reaching corporate influence that offers a window into the most current marketing techniques. Six Flags wants to be the new Big Brother, in other words, or at least reduce the Disneys and all their own marketing muscle to a bunch of flashy plastic made-in-China rubble. (Speaking of China, and this dangerous “growth at any cost” mindset, who watched Ted Koppel’s Discovery Channel series on China this week?)

This year’s first lesson about the iron grip of commercialism happened for my sister before she even entered the park, when she was faced with the choice of parking in the back lot for $15, or in the closer-to-the-entrance front lot for $25. As we recall, all parking was one price last year: $10. Even Disneyworld in Orlando, where my sister went last year, only charges $10 to park.

I on the other hand, found a way to beat The Man: I parked for free in an out-of-the-way spot outside the park and rode my bike in. Considering that there was only one small bike rack, and mine was the only bike that was locked there all day, I think this was the biggest sign that the “car culture” and the U.S. amusement park experience are inextricably linked. I wonder if they’re running scared now? Are they trying to figure out ways to seem green, while distracting us from the fact that they’re plopped down in no-man’s-land — on an interstate fifty miles from each of the two major nearby cities (Milwaukee and Chicago)? Probably not scared, though. They’ve got sort of a monopoly, and are likely benefitting from the high price of airfare by getting more regional vacationers who have to stay closer to home this summer.

Speaking of the car culture, the GEICO gecko has apparently joined Bugs Bunny, Batman, Scooby Doo and other Time/Warner mascots at Six Flags to make my experience more… um… fulfilling. I first noticed the annoying product placement campaign when I saw that all of the 30+ bumper cars on Rue le Dodge had a bumper sticker which read: “My other car is insured by GEICO.” Then later, they had posted a picture of the gecko on a sign that advised it would be 15-minutes wait-time from that point to get to the front of the line. Next to that, of course, was the reminder that in those same 15 minutes, I could be saving 15% on my car insurance by switching to GEICO. Thanks, mate. Got any sunblock on you? That would be more useful at the moment.

This was just one example of the unrelenting corporate cross-marketing extravaganza we were exposed to, in concentrated form, all day long. It’s like being on The Truman Show, where the godlike planners have thought through every possible angle, dressed it all up nice and pretty, and yet all you want to do is escape as soon as possible. (If not for the rides, that is… which are fast becoming just a part of the background for all these other money-making schemes; they’re the reason we go, but not the reason The Man wants us there.)

I know I must sound like a crotchety old man. Fact is, that’s what I am now. Maybe I’m just pissed that the five pounds I had put on since last year made it impossible for me to fit into the seat and shoulder harness on my favorite coaster: Batman. Add to that the chafing on my thighs from walking around sweaty all day, and the problems with my feet and left knee, and suddenly I’m the All-American Whiny Stick In the Mud, the last guy I ever thought I’d turn into. Getting old just sucks. And I’m not even that old.

Okay, enough whining. A few highlights:

1) American Eagle, a huge old-style wooden roller coaster, has still got the goods, even after twenty years. A tad more rickety in one section, but a nice long ride compared to some newer coasters, yet still with good dips and decent speed.

2) I didn’t notice much ridiculously bad behavior from kids and teens this year. In the past I’ve seen line-jumpers and heard pretty foul language on occasion, or else general brattiness from the spoiled younger ones. But it wasn’t so bad Friday, and most kids were dang cute and pretty gleeful, so I guess the park still remains what I would call “family friendly”. People may finally be learning civility, in these tough times when we all feel a bit nervous about what’s next (Orange Alert, a Second Great Depression, or maybe a flood that takes out the entire city of New York). 

3) I had a grand time reminiscing and catching up with my two younger sisters, for whom this Six Flags trip is a tradition that they put right up there with any religious obligation or national holiday. Myself, I was just along for the ride, not looking to do everything in the park, …twice (like the 18 times my nephew Bill rode the Batman coaster). I see them alot, but not as often in a context where spouses and little ones aren’t around. So we got to pack three months worth of uninterrupted storytelling and complaining about life into one day, as we waited in line, moving five feet every five minutes. It’s nice to have people to do that with, people who know me that well, and aren’t wanting something from me.

It’s always an eye-opening experience for me to go to a big, sprawling amusement park like Six Flags Great America (where I went yesterday), or one of the Disneys.

All the blinking lights, the noise, the walkingwalkingwalking, the junkfood, the tall purple-faced people dressed as comic book villains I don’t recognize, and of course the rollercoasters! It all hurts one’s brain and beats up on one’s body, but it’s a mildly pleasurable and necessary pain… the “no pain, no gain” type. The intra-body wave you ride, trying on purpose to get dizzy and euphoric and sugar-buzzed without going so overboard that you lose your lunch, is part of the fun.

So is the “taking the pulse of the country” aspect of being there, at least for me. Once again, the park reminded me that the culture I was born into is often simultaneously fun and toxic, brilliant and stupid. For example, I am often in awe of the scientific prowess and heavy-duty marketing knowhow it takes to build these rides and to run such a place, even as I bemoan the unconscionably high prices, and whine that the new Dark Knight coaster really sucked.

Yup, sorry to be the one to break the news, people, but Dark Knight-The Ride was not worth the 1+ hour wait (yes, an hour, …no I’m not crazy, just stupid, …and keep in mind that’s the wait on a non-crowded weekday). It’s an enclosed coaster which runs mostly in the dark, with mediocre blacklight effects and more of a semi-predictable, neck-thrashing jerkiness than genuine thrills, speed, or haunted-house scares.

I didn’t mind the “you’re in Gotham City now” pre-boarding total-immersion room, complete with a mock “live” press conference featuring characters/actors from the new movie shown on a courtesy screen in the mock subway station, with a red dot matrix fake Gotham news crawl running below it. But the letdown of exiting that room, only to board a coaster that doesn’t even equal the creative engineering of the Magic Kingdom’s Space Mountain (now over 30 years old), soon takes all the wind out of any Dark Knight rider’s sails. (Did someone say Knight Rider? I hear KITT came back again this year, too, but still sucked as much as the original… ha! The Hoff is such a joke.)

It wasn’t just our multi-age, middle class white party (ages 8-42) that thought the Dark Knight ride stunk, either. I made a conscious effort to listen to people as they were getting off, and also later that night when I again rode Superman next door (an awesome ride, BTW, day or nite). Both rides dump exiting passengers into the same DC Comics-oriented giftshop, and as people exited, it seemed nobody was impressed with Dark Knight-The Ride. It’s barely half the fun of the original Batman coaster on the other side of the park, which is a much underrated marvel (comics pun intended) of design and execution.

Maybe they just tried to squeeze DK into too small a space in the park. Maybe in their enthusiasm about all the high-tech pre-ride stuff, and the up-to-the-minute tie-ins to a summer 2008 Hollywood blockbuster, they thought the coaster itself wouldn’t matter to us. But it does. And it sucked.

That disappointment was piled on top of my already low-boiling chagrin over the massive “Virtual Army Experience” recruiting building Six Flags has allowed in the front parking lot. Apparently, existing propaganda that blurs the line between real violence and simulated violence still hasn’t been enough to fill the Army’s recruitment needs — not even with all the new Army-developed and endorsed “shooter” videogames on the market.

So now they are “taking their message to the people”, to where people show up by the thousands. I can almost hear their fatigue-clad carnival barker now :

Hey all you gung-ho twelve-year-olds! Hey you paintball fans! Come on in! Shoot at real holographic enemies! Test your speed and toughness! Plan a mission to take out the freedom-hating terrorists! Then go get youself a free t-shirt and a Coke, take a pamphlet, and go on into the park for other equally intense amusements, all at the low price of  $54 per person. Just think of it as your personal boost to our sagging economy,son. Amusement is your duty, and your right, as a red-blooded American. Now go do your duty, soldier!

Tomorrow: more reflections on Six Flags Great America, including how my body let me down, how the Geico gecko ruined my day, and the blessing of being with siblings who know you “by heart”.

It’s hard to know exactly when it happened, but sometime between January and June of 2008, my five-year-old (now six) outgrew most of the post-toddler “kid” shows on Playhouse Disney and PBS, and became a crazed fanatic about Cartoon Network.

It would be easy to blame it on my wife, since she does not share my mistrust of the network itself, and started turning it on for him when I had previously been steering him away from it. But it’s my fault, too. For one thing, I’m doing what we said we would not do: using the tv as a babysitter, to keep him occupied and safe while we try to get other things done (like this damned blog! …which magically turns minutes into hours!). Or rather, his body is safe… his mind may be another matter.

I’m trying to nip it in the bud by setting some time limits, but I fear Pandora may already be out of the box, and my kid’s a budding cartoon junkie. He hasn’t asked  to read a book in months. He blurts out random non-sequitr quotes from unknown shows while we’re riding in the car. He doesn’t want to go outside when it means turning the tv off. I don’t want to sound alarmist, but I’m concerned Cartoon Network will make my child into a brilliant idiot.

There are two reasons I don’t like and don’t trust Cartoon Network’s daytime programming:

1. commercials for junkfood, bad toys, and more crap we don’t need but that he will bug us to buy. He’s being groomed as a consumer, and I don’t want the corporate monstrosity that is AOL/Time/Warner reprogramming my child and undoing the good work we’ve done for six years
2. too much ‘toonified violence… watered down, bloodless, but aggressive nonetheless, and pushing values I definitely don’t share. There’s a marked difference between the spirit of conflict between Wile E. Coyote vs. Roadrunner, and the power rays, magic and kung fu of today’s cartoon violence. I can’t always put my finger on it, but something about most of the current “drama” and adventure ‘toons just seems to rub me the wrong way as a parent and a pacificist-leaning Christian. Plus it’s mostly just bad… badly written, badly drawn, badly acted. For example, I won’t willingly let Graham watch Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs until he’s 17… but when he does see it, I want to be the one to show him how good movie and tv-makers can do up violence and double-crossing with great intelligence, humor and style, instead of the cartoonish hollowness and CGI flashiness of The Incredible Hulk.

Just as an experiment, though, let’s switch on Tuesday morning’s Cartoon Network offerings for awhile and see what we get:

7:56am   Ben 10  is just wrapping up. Or is it Ben Ten: Alien Force. I don’t know. There are two current series featuring the same characters, and I think Ben 10 is Graham’s new favorite show. He clearly idolizes Ben, who is ten. (How’d you guess? No wait –on Alien Force, Ben is 15. I’m confused now.) It’s not bad overall. Fairly innocent, with today’s villain being a midget hypnotist who wants all the people at the mall to rob the cash registers and bring him cash. Ben has some wristband thing with a button he can push to transform himself into other entities, like Fireball Guy, or Plant Guy. Silly, but not all that different from the animated adventure/superhero stories that formerly appeared only on Saturday mornings or after school. The downside: I put on Playhouse Disney as Little Einsteins was wrapping up today, and Graham howled, “No! I don’t like this show anymore!” It used to be his favorite. Poor innocent little glasses-wearing Leo, cast aside in favor of one of the “cool kids”, complete with a shape-shifting gizmo and a preteen’s smart-aleck attitude.

7:59am        Wedgies. I had neither seen nor heard about this show until just moments ago. Oh wait, I see – it’s only a little bumper, a time-filler, a 1-2 minute mini-toon called Flapjack. Maybe these pilot-y sorta things are called Wedgies ’cause they’re wedged between two other shows. And unless I miss my guess, that’s Brian Doyle-Murray I hear voicing one of the two featured Flapjack characters. Brian is Bill Murray’s older brother. He’s a fairly decent, funny actor in his own right. But apparently nowadays, in an era where scripted tv comedy is third in the pecking order, behind hourlong dramas and semi-scripted reality tv, A-list character actors like Brian have to take what they can get. That means voicing car commercials (Matt Dillon is the current voice of one of the major car companies), or little wedged-in bumpers, or cartoons, just to keep working steady. (Brian’s done some Sponge Bob, some Disney tv stuff, a wide range… his scratchy voice is good for cartoons.) It used to be that movie actors (I think) did this type of work on the side, for fun, or after their biggest career successes were well in the rear-view mirror. But with increased competition, for fewer on-camera jobs, I’ve noticed more and more recognizable actors slogging away on cartoons. Take the PBS show Cyberchase, for example. It has two: Christopher Lloyd (Back to the Future’s Dr. Emmett Brown) and Gilbert Gottfried (better known as a stand-up comedian, and for that aggressively annoying voice). Now maybe these two actors actually like working on a quality show that subtly builds math skills into the plotlines. And I know Mr. Lloyd has done stage work on and off for years as well. But part of me can’t help but wonder if the less expensive, less creative, tenement-style programming that is reality tv is the main reason that cartoons have become the bread-and-butter for a whole class of actors now. Meanwhile, have you looked at most of the crap that passes for live-action network sitcoms aimed at 18 to 32-year-olds these days? Big Bang Theory ? Puh-leeease!

8am      Johnny Test - (Not to be confused with Jonny Quest, for all you old-schoolers out there.) I’ve only popped my head in and watched partial episodes, but when I did watch, Johnny Test had a time machine. This is an old trick: it gives the writers permission to put their own goofy spin on thousands of years of human history. Now Graham will probably think Atilla the Hun was just a scowling ham of an actor with a beard and a clearly un-American look, unlike the dashing, blond and ironic hero, feisty little Johnny T.

8:30am    missed it - TVGuide.com says it was Skunk Fu! - probably typical of the snarky, hugely ironic and self-referential nature of entertainment in the Oughts. Everything’s a lefthanded rip-off of something else…

9am    Tom & Jerry Blast Off to Mars. A feature-length movie, produced by TBS cable network. Actually, Ted Turner and/or AOL/Time/Warner (owners of Cartoon Network) own alot of those old cartoon franchises now. When Cartoon Network first started it was mostly just an outlet for a wide range of those shows I grew up with, like the Hannah-Barbera stuff. (Now , CN shows alot of original and syndicated programming, some of which is imported, much of which is crap that definitely will not stand the test of time.) I blogged about this once, in the context of a discussion on Scooby Doo’s staying power. Meanwhile back here at the ranch, Graham just saw that Tom and Jerry were on, and got very excited. I was gratified that at least two of the more “classic” characters and situations strike his fancy as much as, if not more than, the Pokemons and Ben Tens of the cartoon universe.

Long live Bugs Bunny, Felix the Cat and Fred Flintstone!

My mom, my sister Laura and my niece & nephew are with us up in Wisconsin this weekend. Laura’s dog, too — a big, dumb undertrained yellow Labrador that my big dumb soon-to-be-ex-brother-in-law spoiled.

So my “rude awakening” for Saturday was my wife telling me that Whiskey (the Lab) had decided to get in a pissing contest with our dog Gato during the night, all over our coffee table. Gato’s a Japanese Shiba Inu, one quarter the size of a Labrador Retriever, so you can guess who won. Sue said Gato will get the last word, though, as Whiskey’s leaving first.

Graham and his seven-year-old cousin Jessica have their own pissing contests occasionally. This morning it was them contending over who gets to hold the portable DVD player on their lap. (We made them put it on the table.)

Last night cousin Billy beat the pants off everyone else at air hockey. Then he crowed about beating a kindergartener and an old fart (that would be me). He’s 13. Winning is everything.

It’s only 10am on Saturday, and I’m already mentally exhausted.

I wanna say this:

“Everybody get out! On the lawn. In the lake. Set up the hammock and have fun tumbling out of it. Anywhere but here, busting my groove during morning coffee time.”

But I don’t say that. The alternate solution is retreat. So I think I’ll set up in the hammock for myself.

Wake me if the house is on fire, people. Otherwise, leave me alone.

I hate to make light of something so serious… but let’s face it, that’s what I do. I’m a sophomoric middle class nerd who actually thinks blogs with “Aargh” in the title are funny.

But the actual news item that I base this alarmist posting on, is serious. A stranded yacht was boarded and hijacked yesterday off the coast of Africa, near Somalia.  (Or do you call it Somaliland? Or Puntland? Apparently there are a number of factions trying to carve their own dysfunctional sovereign nation out of the splintered mess that is present-day Somalia.) On the yacht were a family of three and their captain. The family is European, probably French or German, and the CNN article I got this from does not say how old the child is.

They did, however, bury the lead. Further down in the article, we get this:

Earlier this month the U.N. Security Council gave nations new powers to pursue pirates into the waters off Somalia in an effort to combat a new spate of hijackings off the Horn of Africa.

The Gulf of Aden in particular has become a treacherous stretch for shipping in recent months, with more than two dozen pirate attacks reported since the beginning of 2008, according to the International Maritime Bureau. Nine of those have been successful hijackings, the bureau said.

It’s a classic good news/bad news scenario: the good news is that this new breed are fairly inept pirates, if their hijacking success rate is just 9 for 25. And furthermore, a boat can’t fly through the air and bring down a major international pair of skyscrapers.

But the bad news is that the terrorist/pirates may have finally hired some good p.r. people, and are now using that whole Johnny Depp adventure movie mystique to improve their image among kids and morons in Europe and America.

Think of it… this kidnapping just reeks of Hollywood. A pompous French dad who drags his family out for a dangerous fishing excursion, a yacht out of gas, a vulnerable kid “saved” by the ugly yet charming captain named The Black Heron (played by Jack Black, in blackface). They’re gonna sell this turkey to Lifetime Network and make a killing (oops, maybe I should use a different word there, shouldn’t I?) .

Anyway, what differnce does it make. It should only be about a decade before the whole planet is submerged in water from the melting ice caps, at which point we’ll have to look to rogue/heroes like Errol “Fabulous” Flynn and Kevin “Waterworld” Costner to save us from the coming doom… a doom in which we will ALL run out of gas.

We now use an average of 25 barrels of crude per person per year. And we make our cleaning supplies, nylon fabric, and hundreds of other products using derivatives of crude oil, the cost of which we have not even begun to abosorb yet. (That will be the second wave of rising prices… watch for it.) So we’re either going to have to change how we make and do and travel and recreate, or we’re only going to sink this ship.

Mad Max, where are you when we need you?

For those that don’t know your arcane Hollywood film history, The Three Faces of Eve was an odd, but high-quality, 1957 take on mental illness, specifically multiple personality disorder. It starred Joanne Woodward, one of the most underrated actresses of the Baby Boom generation. If I were a film historian, or teaching college (which I may in fact do sometime soon if I get myself together), I might do a unit on the good and bad portrayals of mental illness in film over the years. For example, how many of you have seen the sweet, early Johnny Depp movie Benny and Joon (subject: late teen onset of schizophrenia… not Johnny’s, but Mary Stuart Masterson’s)?

Maybe I’m thinking about Eve and Joon because I recently watched Robert Altman’s Vincent & Theo (1990), about another cuckoo, Vincent Van Gogh and his complicated relationship with his brother Theo. It was depressing and uneven, as many Altman films are, but I liked it nevertheless. Perhaps because I, too, am depressing and uneven.

Depressing, optimistic, whatever. All of the above and more. Therefore I finally put myself out there on facebook, which I think I’ve been avoiding for the past two years in the interest of NOT doing something trendy for once. Conformists like us all have to stake out at least one way to not be a lemming, right? (Same reason I’m not going to drive a hybrid, or probably get tats and piercings… I prefer to display my distinctiveness in what I say and do, not how I look.)

The cool part about facebook though –which, I know, will be stating the obvious for those of you who participate (sorry) – is the prospect of turning up old friends and returning them to New Friend status. Perhaps even friends you didn’t know you had, people you thought had dismissed you in high school as a dope, or nice but irrelevant. That’s the experience I’m having, anyway. Acceptance (or at least tolerance) from unexpected sources.

Still, nothing beats honest face-to-face conversation, like the splendid time that was had by all at the L’Arche Chicago Eighth Anniversary event on Sunday, June 22nd. My friend Spencer Foon was honored, along with State of Illinois disabilities advocate Sheila Romano. Sue and I caught up with old friends, made a few new ones, and just enjoyed the smiling faces of the core members.

Two highlights: Spencer in a suit and tie (it will be another five years before I see that again), and Reba/Sonshine Group pal Ron Polzella looking hale and healthy… and winning a bottle of wine in the raffle! I’ll drink to that, Big Ron.

As conspiracy theorists go, I am clearly bush league.

This week’s reminder of how far one can go down this strange, winding path is one Michael Tsarion. He was proposed to me recently as a writer who advances the cause of all things Irish and/or Celtic, and thus mystically and/or politically reasonable. However, in wandering around upon his complex private “interweb” of fact and fiction, I see that he’s just another in a long line of goofy astrologists, occultists and conspiracy theorists, those colorful cats out to take wild, random potshots instead of pointing out a productive path toward the truth.

By now, a small but dedicated handful of you are saying under your breath to me: “Oh, you poor simpleton. You deluded soul, already stolen away from us, we who were only trying to free you from the tyranny of lies and deceit, perpetrated over the past 5000 years.”

Nevertheless, I must defer to a higher authority, who calls me to sing out loud and proud:

“I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see.”

Meanwhile, Tsarion and his ilk are out to convince us that every U.S. president was a Freemason, that the mystical, philosophical or biological descendents of Egyptian pharaoh/priest Akhenaton are in control of every Western government, and probably that monotheism in itself is the true enemy of mankind. 

Therefore the Yahweh of the Bible, for some of these theorists, does not love His people but has instead abandoned them to the slings and arrows of all these false prophets and tyrants. Or else the One True God is an invention by these past cults, to keep Everyman down, to keep us from accessing our inner power, which would allow us to practice magic, travel by astral projection, and tear down well-armed despots the moment we encounter them. I don’t know, maybe I’m getting it wrong though. These amateur symbologist types draw such tenuous and strange connections that it’s easy to get confused. 

For instance, did you know that Hitler was actually in league with the pre-Zionist Zionists, in England and elsewhere? Mr. Tsarion even has a photo of a young Hitler, kissing the hand of Elizabeth the Second  –though he mislabels her as Elizabeth the First! This is the kind of sloppy, stupid, ahistorical hogwash that his type loves to slip by us, under a veil of actual facts and plausible interpretations, of very vague details and far-reaching symbols.

Here’s another example, taken directly from Tsarion’s site:

The Bohemian Club - Elite members of this secret order (that includes most US presidents) meet at a time when the sun (Aton) is at its highest point during the year - at the summer solstice - June 21st. The summer solstice was adopted by Hitler and his Nazis as their most important day of ritual and celebration. It was the most sacred day in the Nazi calendar.

Dude, if you so smart, where’s my local Boho meeting being conducted tomorrow? I wanna be there! Are they really THAT good at keeping secrets?

Tsarion tries to make a case for the Nazis and others co-opting and altering many basic Druidic or similar ideas. Yeah Mike, it’s well-established already that Hitler co-opted everyone’s mythology, from India to Scandinavia to Ireland to God only knows where else. But that doesn’t mean he was secretly in compliance with some long-standing plan of the Knights Templar to rule the world. It just means he was crafty and evil, a tool of Satan, a disenchanted but brilliant nutjob who veiled his megalomania in intense nationalist, populist, pseudo-religious bullshit.

Tsarion’s not the first one to try connecting Hitler, Pat Robertson, Pope Paul VI, Satanist Anton LaVey, The Illuminati, philosopher Francis Bacon, and the ancient Persian prophet Zoroaster (it’s like some fascinating but intellectually dishonest variant of the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon  game!). Anyone with a will to think creatively can build a case and turn up potential evidence. Remember the Lone Gunmen, from The X Files? (Oh My Gawd!!!  I was such an X-Files fan… and here’s a thought: was it The Man who secretly killed off the Lone Gunmen’s short-lived spinoff show, or just really crappy writing?)

There are thousands of people like this out in the world, who believe they’re doing important work. In my opinion, a few of them actually are. But they get lost in the midst of all the noise, and because of the very nature of evil, which works to remain hidden and secret for as long as possible.

Every once in awhile, I get sucked into exploring this complex web of numerologists, Kabballah enthusisasts, astrology buffs, and ultra-conservative Christian Pentacostals on the lookout for secret but powerful cults to pray against. And again, I’m not saying these groups, alliances and spiritual connections aren’t out there. They definitely are out there (the “powers and principalities” that Paul speaks of), though I can’t claim any expertise in which theories are solid and which are misguided. Frankly, it just makes my head hurt whenever I read all the fundamentalist, neo-paganist or other misguided tripe that tries to explain every last war and historical development as part of some evil Master Plan.

Sometimes, you gotta just pick a lane and drive. The fact is, sin is real. A negative spiritual force or personality does exist in the universe. But so does the eternal Creator and Redeemer. Thus, every human ever born is capable of both incredible mercy and unspeakable evil, depending upon whom we align ourselves with, and how much ethical and spiritual discipline we are willing to practice.

Yet we are lazy and fearful by nature, and prefer to conform, so we mostly tend to aim down the middle, ignoring Jesus’ path of radical love (and political change, and true justice) because it requires us to feel like such aliens in a world gone wrong.  Even Christians, in most cases (myself included), can’t manage to be in constant, peaceful communion with the Creation and Creator, choosing instead to practice religion rather than faithful, risky, loving action and forgiveness like Jesus himself. 

On the other hand, if we are also hungry or powerless, or have not forgiven past wrongs against “our people”, we are then ripe for the picking by every jihadist, neo-con, or self-aggrandizing leader looking to play upon those fears and physical needs by promising a comeuppance for “the godless infidels”.

If you think about it, commiting to remain disenfranchised, to share equally amongst ourselves, to hang with the prostitutes and have nowhere to lay one’s head, doesn’t sound like such “good news”, does it? It’s so much nicer to sit with a big steak in air-conditioned comfort in front of an HDTV at the ESPN Zone and watch the Boston Celtics (BTW, did they have a Druid priest saying incantations, arranging for their victory?… or perhaps bribing the referees to call fewer fouls?). Fasting and praying under the stars in front of a Celtic cross, clothing the naked, taking in and feeding the orphan, admitting you’re wrong once in awhile… these are works of radical discipleship that require God’s grace precisely because  they’re so hard to perform without His help. Ignorance, of both the good and bad in the world, really is bliss. Anyone with the guts to look into his or her own soul will tell you this.

I say “his or her” above, but let’s be honest: most spinners and practitioners of these crazy conspiracy theories are men — emasculated or psychically wounded men, pseudo-religious pirates, a much different brand of “outsider” than the disciples of Jesus. They’re the fickle followers of Barrabas, the Judases who took a wrong turn, or the self-appointed shamans looking to justify themselves, while leaving others (especially in the undeveloped Two Thirds World) to fend for themselves.

Most are looking for a systemic or external explanation for why they’re forever on the outside personally. Some want power, others merely acceptance. Meanwhile they’re in denial themselves, avoiding the “dark night of the soul” that might actually transform them into credible  witnesses to the true Eternal Light and the truth. This is why other outsiders (you may call them geeks, but we all need to embrace our inner geek) find these theories so attractive. It’s cafeteria-style, libertarian, serve-yourself, super-sweet philosophical candy in an attractive package. The theories free us from any responsibility for our own situations, be they personal or political. They let immature, adolescent, me-against-the-world attitudes fluorish and find justification, irrespective of any higher authority or personal call to holiness and service.

What’s more, the anarchic, non-theistic, or factually fuzzy solutions these theorists often recommend don’t account for the contentiousness and will to power that inevitably sets in among all us sinners. They make it easier to attach blame beyond ourselves, to the eternal THEM – whether THEY are the liberal Jewish media, the conservative fundamentalist Zionist warmongers, the Black Jesus-denying racists, the imperialist/royalist/fascist aristocracy, the Wahabist (or Shi’ ite) usurpers of the true Islamic faith, the Socialist/Communist hippie baby-killers looking to give away the store and crucify Christ again, or the Christian witch-hunters out to kill every horned owl and tree sprite that ever sought to set us free.

Sure, a few modern conspiracy analysts are on a genuine quest for the truth. But many are just the next generation of pawns and liars in the eternal struggle of good and evil.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m not advocating we remain ignorant. Just that we consider the source, question authority with a healthy but non-obsessive skepticism, and then lead with our hearts … but without disengaging our heads. Be faithful first. Then be smart. And be careful not to get caught on the wrong side in this battle of disinformation and distraction, only to find out too late you could have instead been enjoying the fulfilling fellowship of true believers all along, the fellowship of the Holy Spirit.

As Peter once said to Jesus when Jesus gave him leave to abandon their difficult journey: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have words of eternal life? We believe and know that you are the Holy One of God.”

‘Nuff said.

Summer may not be beginning officially for a few more days, but for the Nielsens it has definitely begun — and with it, the sometimes delicate, often clumsy dance that we do when trying to make plans. Plans for weekends in Wisconsin. Plans for longer summer trips (which we never seem to be able to set up in February, when we stand a better chance of getting decent time-share locations, in places we actually want to go). Plans for the Fourth, our anniversary, my birthday.

And then there’s the plan for the day, or for the week: the goal being a balance of chores (now that we have the extended potential free-time) and personal interests from our individual and family lists (the beach, Millennium Park, read a book, go to the Chicago Botanic Gardens, write an overlong but hilarious blog entry, catch up on movies we’ve been meaning to rent, see a play, a concert, a class or two for Graham at the park district… you get the idea). Sue gets restless when her schedule is too open. She wants to fill it. And she can sometimes be a “work first and earn your playtime” kind of personality. That’s okay, but it ain’t me.

By contrast, I get loose and sometimes lazy. Freed from a world of deadlines and early rising, I want to make it all up as I go along. Maybe I’ll set a goal or two for the day, or the week. And usually I get to it, within a few days, or a few weeks. But it drives my wife nuts that I prefer to operate this way. In the summer, too often one of the three of us in the other’s face, or underfoot, and we can get kind of prickly. We love each other, but in seeing so much of each other, we can’t help but get under each other’s skin at least once a day. It’s complicated.

In theory, I was supposed to have another job by now, and we wouldn’t be doing this dance. And I have been looking. But it’s hard to stick with it, when there’s gardening to be done and Sue claims she hasn’t the strength to dig, and someone’s planning a camping trip I’d like to go on, and we’ve got a little cushion of money stashed away to prevent some desperate situation where I’ll have to take any old crappy job, just to make our bills. (That date is now somewhere around October, which will come quicker than I expect, I know…)

So if y’all know of a $75K per year job, at a museum or somewhere cool, one that’s a short walk from the beach, where I can spend my Friday half-days playing volleyball, and where they won’t mind that I have to drop my kid off at school at 8:30am and therefore can’t start early, be sure to let me know. Okay? And then when those pigs from the Lincoln Park Farm in the Zoo start flying, my life will be perfect.

PAPA Fest: People Against Poverty and Apathy Festival — a sort of Burning Man Festival and happening for the progressive Christian, community-oriented set. Happening June 19-22 (this weekend), in Tiskilwa, Illinois. Might be too late to register by now, but see for yourself, or read up on it after the fact. See the website for more details. Barter your heart out. If not for my friend Spencer getting a big L’Arche  service award in Chicago that same weekend, I’d be there in a heartbeat.

Here’s Martin Scorsese’s MySpace site, which I assume is fairly new and is mostly being used to promote his recent Rolling Stones concert flick/rockumentary, Shine a Light. Sure, sites like this are a boldface grab for attention, more marketing than art. But Marty’s such a fascinating guy that I just love to hear him talk or write, even if he is just trying to put butts in the theater seats. The Stones… I can take ‘em or leave ‘em. But Marty’s my main man.

They Might Be Giants takes over the world: This band still makes great, strange pop music (get the podcast). They do kids’ music and books. They did music video “bumpers” for Disney Channel, and some mighty fine kids’ DVDs. And for a couple of years now, they’ve done the music for a number of Dunkin’ Donuts commercials. The added advantage of having John & John involved with DD is that Rachel Ray just ends up looking that much more stupid and plastic… which I did not think was possible. I may go see The Giants at Milwaukee’s Summerfest next month. Anyone wanna join me?

Why we should never say never: I once mentioned here how the cutesy pictures of cats sprinkled all over the internet are nothing but a stupid, poor use of the technology, and that they show how shallow we are as a culture. Then I saw this cat site  (which I first heard about on Stephanie Miller’s radio show –Thanks, Mama!) Wilford Brimley is a golden god! (And his pal Stephen Colbert ain’t so bad, either.) Cat photo sites are still stupid… but who says brilliant and stupid can’t ride in the same car together once in awhile?

Brilliant, lesser-known foReiGN folk-rock: Kate Rusby (England), Richard Thompson (England), the late Serge Gainsbourg (France), Crowded House (New Zealand),  and Sarah McLachlan (yeah, Canada’s not so foreign, but it’s different and conscientious enough, in Sarah’s case, to merit a mention).

Men’s Rites of Passage: Father Richard Rohr and his male spirituality project is coming to Illinois this summer, August 13-17. Not clear yet if I will be able to make it. It’s a big 4-day commitment. But on the other hand, probably life-changing. Go to MALES website for details.

Wag the Dog & other David Mamet films. Tha man can flat-out write. Hands down, one of the smartest and funniest voices in American theater and film in the past fifty years. And a Chicago product, somewhat. At least he first hit it big here.

The Farrelly brothers’ Rhode Island flicks: Me, Myself and Irene; Stuck on You; and Outside Providence. For a regional (if sometimes silly) look at American culture, there’s none better than the “Something About Mary” brothers. Our smallest state delivers our biggest laughs in the hands of these distinctively odd, occasionally juvenile gentlemen.

Henry Nouwen’s books, in particular The Wounded Healer.

Anything by Kurt Vonnegut, but especially Cat’s Cradle. Here’s a glorious quote from Kurt:

“Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.”

The end of the internet: http://www.romlist.com/end/