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.)

I’m reading real books again this summer, for a change. There’s a sort of weight and permanence to the printed word, on real paper, especially when bound in a hard cover. Maybe I’m a romantic, an old-fashioned old coot, but books still matter to me –in this age of dying newspaper conglomerates, bad novelizations of bad movies, and blogs (including this one) that seem outdated within mere minutes, as we move on to the next topic or political fetish. 

True to form, I’ve chosen some classic books and highly “literary” authors for my current reading binge: To Kill a Mockingbird. (O Harper Lee, Where Art Thou?) . Americana, a recent John Updike poetry collection. Grace (Eventually)  by Anne Lamott, which is my current book (I’ve slowed down, to savor it, not wanting to be done yet). And A Man Without a Country, a terrific, short, memoir-ish, doodle-filled, social critique sort of thing by the late great Kurt Vonnegut, the last book he ever put out. You might say it was his “parting shot”.

Kurt is someone I need to learn more about, partly because I am hoping to include him as a key minor character in my slowly-evolving Cape Cod novel (he lived there in the late Fifties and early Sixties, the time period of my novel). He’s the perfect mentor for one of the teenage kids in my disgruntled Eisenhower-era family, the McKittredges.

Vonnegut always lived the tough questions and contradictions: he was a WWII vet who became a pacifist, a scientist/anthropologist in disguise as a novelist, a pragmatic Midwesterner in spirit right up to the end (he was from Indianapolis) even while living in New York, a great American who knew that patriotism need not be reduced to jingoistic sayings and blind acceptance of stupid policies, an unapologetic Socialist sympathizer (but only the old 1930s brand of idealistic socialism), and one of the funniest mo-fos ever to walk the planet.

And it was a planet he loved dearly, too. A Man Without a Country has some of the best rhetorical arguments against fossil fuels that I’ve read anywhere. Though he’s cynical, too (or realistic, depending on your outlook), and doubts we can actually save the planet, one which he ruefully reminds us it took a mere hundred years for us to ruin.

Here’s a few choice quotes from Man Without a Country:

“Humor is an almost physiological response to fear. Freud said that humor is a response to frustration - one of several… I used to laugh my head off at Laurel and Hardy. There is terrible tragedy there somehow. These men are too sweet to survive in this world and are in terrible danger all they time. They could be so easily killed.”

“How do humanists feel about Jesus? I say of Jesus, as all humanists do, ‘If what he said is good, and so much of it is absolutely beautiful, what does it matter if he was God or not? …But if Christ hadn’t delivered the Sermon on the Mount, with its message of mercy and pity, I wouldn’t want to be a human being. I’d just as soon be a rattlesnake.”

“For some reason, the most vocal Christians among us never mention the Beatitudes. But, often with tears in their eyes, they demand that the Ten Commandments be posted in public buildings… ‘Blessed are the peacemakers’ in the Pentagon? Give me a break!”

“Speaking of plunging into war, do you know why I think George W. Bush is so pissed off at Arabs? They brought us algebra. Also the numbers we use, including a symbol for nothing, which Europeans had never had before. You think Arabs are dumb? Try doing long division with Roman numerals.”

“There are two sorts of artists… one responds to the history of his or her art so far, and the other responds to life itself… what you resond to in any work of art is the artist’s struggle against his or her limitations.”

This last quote was actually Kurt quoting another friend of his, Saul Steinberg, who he called the wisest person he ever met. For me, Kurt may be the wisest man I never met, except through his books. His novels take a long view of human history, and they expose our species as the beautiful fools we’re often too afraid to admit we are. He can speak eloquently about science and deny the existence of heaven in one breath, and then by the end of that same paragraph express more genuine gratitude and appreciation for the life and words of Jesus than most Christians I know. In other words, he was wise: he knew enough to admit that he really only knew very little, with any certainty. As an avowed skeptic and misanthrope, he didn’t have what one could call “faith” — in God, in politics, in humans, in anything, actually. But he had the guts to keep asking the tough questions, to stay focused and informed, and to express his brilliant, hilarious opinions, right up to the end (which was in April of 2007).

I can only hope to be so lucky, or even half as gifted.

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”.

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?

If you weren’t paying attention, you may have missed the fact that about two weeks ago, the U.S. took the first step toward putting a man on Mars. Yup. No little green men. Us. On Mars. By 2025, I predict.

Over at Science Daily is a story on the various analyses being done this week by the superbly engineered (but imperfect) ship that took that first step toward colonization, the Phoenix Mars Lander. It landed near the polar cap of Mars on May 25, and will be functioning there for three months or longer, if all goes as planned. The deceptively difficult process of landing it without crashing or damaging it was a major feat and their biggest worry, as important as the robotic arm design or the analytic processes it can do.  But now that it’s there and safe, it’s analyzing soil samples and searching for microscopic signs of former life on the red planet. We’ve sent smaller craft there in the past decade, which sent back some cool photos and video. But Phoenix is the more promising technology, as it has a wider variety of ways to collect scientific data, and more detailed visual/photographic capabilities. And if it actually finds evidence of previous life forms on Mars… ooh baby, people will definitely sit up and take notice then. It will slightly alter our view of ourselves, God, and the universe from that day on. How could it not, right?

Regarding putting humans up there: the full trip, using current technology, would take about eight months and cost a minimum of $320 million. Various proposals are circulating and competing among NASA-types and academics, and nobody’s making any firm decisions yet, but I’m betting we’ll get there in a few years and start building the actual transport vehicles.

Regarding the present mission, the big splash will be if Phoenix actually finds any organic material in its explorations of the surface. Philosophically, theologically, and scientifically, all heaven could break loose if we have confirmation, finally, that life exists in the universe beyond our own planet. Some stuffed shirt will probably still find a way to take all the fun out of exploring the galaxy (”too expensive… besides, what if we discover others and it turns out they hate us?”), but at least we’ll potentially get out of the present rut and start looking up again, with hope instead of dread.

If we don’t kill our own planet first, that is.

Other tangential, Phoenix-related recommendations:

1) I finally saw Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix this week. Pretty good, dramatically-speaking, though the plotline is seeming kind of Star Wars-y  by now, and this one’s not as humorous as some of the former films. I’m a complete Muggle when it comes to all things Potter, but for fans of interesting acting, one can’t do much better than Michael Gambon (Dumbledore), Alan Rickman (Snape) and Gary Oldman (Sirius Black), not to mention Emma Thompson (whatever her goofy character is called). Even Daniel Radcliffe holds his own against these all-star Brits, though. The kid can act.

2) One of my three or four favorite pieces of classical music is Igor Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. I’ve never heard it performed live, or seen the ballet, but it’s so dramatic and mood-altering on CD that I rise up from the ashes of my own sniveling, burnt-out self every time I hear it. Find anyone’s version. The one I use was recorded by the Boston Symphony, and as a bonus has Stravinsky’s stormier, louder Rite of Spring on the same CD, recorded by Chicago Symphony Orchestra.

May the fire of the Phoenix, a passion for artistic and scientific greatness, burn in our hearts.

Laughing about the clumsy attempts of a five-year-old to understand and use the weird English language is a long-established American pastime. Art Linkletter (in the Sixties?), and later Bill Cosby (early Nineties?), did a popular weekly television show called Kids Say the Darndest Things, based solely on this premise. Cosby has also done many a successful standup routine about the tendency of naive but inherently spiritual children to ask challenging questions. An early favorite that I once had on an LP was called Why Is There Air? 

Like many parents, I’ve noticed — and on occasion written down — some of the misunderstandings and invented words that Graham comes up with. The above-mentioned forevergreen is just the latest example, taken from our ride back from Wisconsin yesterday. A prior occasion of amusement was when he discussed his “flam-o” pajamas as his favorites. (That would be flannel, dear.) In both of these cases, I found it so cute that I didn’t have the heart to correct him.

If anything, his word is better than the one we normally use. Even though trees don’t live forever, there’s something really deep about Graham’s version. His implied belief, that some things really can  last forever, is a reminder of why the hope and innocence of children should be highly valued (for their ability to give us all a bit more hope and joy each day). The discussion we then had about evergreens, where I tried to explain somewhat scientifically why evergreens don’t lose what he called their “leaves” in the fall (I did re-introduce the word “needles” to him here), was a highlight of my day.

Soon after that, we saw some deer along the side of the road, and had a lengthy discussion about the two words, “dear” and “deer”, and which spelling to use for various situations. He was very intent on getting this right. Learning a concept in school is one thing. Figuring out real life is sometimes another.

If you have kids, or when you do have a chance to talk to them, always put your best ears on, to hear what they’re really saying. “Out of the mouths of babes…” as they say. Or “Of such as these is the kingdom of heaven made…” If you listen closely, sometimes they’ll end up teaching you, instead of the other way around.

Anyone who lives in a midwestern neighborhood where there are lilac bushes has had a fun couple of weeks of late. It’s not Twilight Time — as the great singing group The Platters once sang in the 1950s– but it is Lilac Time. The color, the scent… there’s just nothing like it. I’m not the most dedicated of gardeners, but when something is this perfect, it’s just got to be acknowledged. Hurray for lilacs, of any and all varieties.

Meanwhile, politically, the Democrats are grinding their way toward the convention, with the scent neither horribly sweet nor foul, but definitely generating continued interest. And with the other shoe dropping for Ted Kennedy  cancer-wise (click for cancer-sufferer and feminist Elizabeth Edwards’ take on things), an interesting wrinkle now begins to take shape in the national debate on our medical/scientific/financial priorities. Do we want to spend our money and time saving American lives, or taking Iraqi and Iranian lives?

On the campaign: I’m now of the opinion that it’s actually good Hillary did not drop out earlier. All these late primary states finally get to feel like they matter. \Maybe it gets traditional Democratic voters nationwide feeling like their vote and their voice will also matter in November, when hopefully we will get more than the pathetic 64% 2004 voter turnout coming out for a presidential election, to voice their opinion in a context where they feel it actually matters.

Please, people… I KNOW we could do worse than McCain, but God knows WE COULD DO BETTER. We don’t need the working class abandoning the Democratic Party again, like they did when they were duped by Reagan. Sure, Hillary’s competent. But Obama’s a once in a lifetime candidate. Get on board, people, or get left behind. Race and class don’t matter. Progress… that’s what matters.

Apropos of nothing, my family had an intense discussion of our favorite numbers tonight. Here’s how they fell out:

Graham: 5, 11, 100

Sue: 3, 17 (her birthdate), 2002

Mark: 3, 11, 23, 34, 1118 (two of those are Chicago sports related… guess which two…)

Maybe those numbers mean nothing at all. Maybe they mean alot, on some deep spiritual level that none of us understands. Either way: each of us has a favorite number in common with at least one other family member.

Workwise: Sue’s teaching Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities to her freshmen this quarter. She did some background research – Around 1780, in France, the total amount of chocolate available (keep in mind that the New World was the only source of cacao at the time) was 16 pounds. Worse yet, eight pounds of it was owned by one company/family. If that ain’t an indictment of the aristocracy, and the concentration of power and marketable goods in the hands of a minority, then I don’t know what is…

Last but not least, amusement in the Nielsen household has finally degenerated to this: Mom, Graham, Gato and I are each currently wearing a pair of Graham’s pull-up diapers on our heads. It’s a true Solidartity of Silliness. I would post a photo, but it would most likely kill any political aspirations I might ever have, …so we’ll pass on the visual evidence, thank you very much…

Enjoy your Memorial Day weekend. Personally, I’ll be chillin’ in Wisconsin. I’m grateful, to a point, for the courageous sacrifices of our veterans in previous and even current wars. It still doesn’t change the fact, however, that military power is the dumbest and most outdated manner of political and social control known to mankind.

Are we ready to move on yet, friends?

Seems World War II is back in the news again. First off, there was an
argument about Hitler and Britain’s Neville Chamberlain - a televised
ten-minute bludgeoning of conservative pundit Kevin James (no, not the
King of Queens) by MSNBC’s Chris Matthews. The Daily Show also did some good coverage of the tiff. Matthews can often be a self-serious blowhard, but he looked smart and sassy challenging James
to name specifically what Chamberlain did to appease Hitler (which
James was unable to do, trading in historically questionable
conservative clichés as he does). For the record — as Matthews
informed him - Chamberlain basically gave away part of Czechoslovakia
to Hitler in 1938 or ‘39. “That,” bellowed Matthews, “is what
appeasing looks like, sir. Not trying to simply talk to the leaders of
Iran or Cuba, as Obama has suggested he would do as president.”
Matthews then advised James to stop trying to use facts to make his
case when he didn’t really know what he was talking about. You go,
Chris. Show ‘em what you intended when you called your show Hardball.
We have enough wimpy reporters out here.

Remember the Manhattan Project? The first scientific effort to harness
the atomic power of uranium for destructive purposes? The bombs that
led to millions of civilian deaths in Japan? Well it seems the nuclear
waste from that project (which was conducted mostly in New Mexico at
Los Alamos) was shipped to upstate New York and nestled comfortably in
some short-term storage facility. Only they never fixed it up for
safe, long-term storage after  that. And now the civilian neighbors are
complaining. Here’s a quote from the Buffalo area tv news site that put together the report:

Bill Kowalewski (United States Army Corps of Engineers) said, “The interim waste containment cell is functional as designed; it is safe. We’ve identified the nature of the contamination, there’s no imminent health risk to anyone and we’re laying the building blocks for the next step which is for a long term solution.”

The Corps of Engineers? The same guys that New Orleanians trusted to build and maintain good dams? Not sure I want them having the safety of Niagara COunty in their hands, either.
Let’s see… from 1941 to 2008. That’s sixty seven years, guys. Don’t
you think that once it got to be fifty years, that automatically meant
your long-term solution was forty years too late?

Finally, it’s not a World War II reference, technically, but a great 1940s reference
nevertheless: A hilarious sketch/fake phone call last week on Harry
Shearer’s Le Show, using Abbott and Costello’s most famous bit (which I know at least half of from memory ) to
great effect. He used it in a conversation between George Bush Sr. and Junior…Let’s call it ” Hu’s on First?”. They were discussing strategies for
how to press Chinese President Hu, so he would press the Burmese
government to accept more international aid for cyclone victims.
That’s Hu, who apparently said he won’t be dictated to by the same guy
who neglected his own country’s hurricane victims in New Orleans.
Touche’, Mr. Hu! What’s on second?

Warning: Explicit amusement and foul, rampant stupidity ahead. Eject now while you still have your dignity.

Streams of consciousness lazily winding their way toward nowhere in particular, except my own amusement.

For example, my son’s dentist is named Robert Johnson… only instead of a black Missisissippi blues player who sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads, Dr. Bob’s a chunky, mustachioed Bostonian with a large model train running around his exam room, and a clubhouse in the waiting room. He must have sold his soul to Geoffrey the Toys R’ Us giraffe.

Last week I was arguing about the shape of Lake Michigan with Graham while we looked at his globe. He said it looked like a hand. I said a pudenda… and even as I said it I realized I had never noticed it before. Apparently too busy snickering at cliches about the shape of Florida to notice that my very own state had another slightly dirty shape right next to it.

I think that was the same day Graham took out his dice and played in the aisle with them during church. (Seriously.) I joked with Dave, sitting in front of me: “I keep telling him to stop playing craps during worship, but he just won’t listen. Last week he took ten dollars from an eight-year-old.” Maybe if I made him put a dollar into the collection plate, it would be okay?

Am I the only person (besides my brother-in-law Brez) who finds it funny that Pabst Blue Ribbon beer is suddenly hip again among Generation Y?

Graham’s tee-ball team photo session featured a “baseball card” option. We jumped at the chance, of course. Then they asked for some physical characteristics to list on the card. Height? I dunno… try 44 inches. Weight? Let’s say 44 pounds, just for the sake of symmetry. He may never again have the opportunity to have matching height and weight. 55 inches and 55 pounds? Now that would be a string-bean of a kid. 66 inches/pounds… a sure sign of anorexia.

Funnest part about coaching tee-ball so far has been teaching the boys about rally caps, and how to hang a bat in the holes of a chain-link fence. Second is watching the ridiculous things they do… like the opposing player who stepped off second base to pick up a wayward ball during our first game and throw it back to the pitcher… or our kids’ pathetic attempts at learning how to slide yesterday at practice… third place: taking Graham for ice cream after his first game, putting a quarter into a gumball machine, and out came a wide, fake-silver chain. Instant bling! So I taught Graham the word “bling”, explaining that every baseball star has to have some. [Not so fun: one of my players asking me: "Did you shower today? You smell like peanut butter."]

Cinco de Mayo sounds much more exotic if you don’t actually speak Spanish. Like moquitos verdes…

I popped into my old student union building at Northwestern last week, just while I was out walking by the lake. Much to my chagrin, the main change from the “front desk” of a few years ago is that now there’s a Starbucks counter right around the corner from it. They’re everywhere, I tell ya! It’s like a virus, or a Commie plot.

Mars is MY planet, y’all. I called it. We’re both named after the same Roman god, so I can do that. Just so’s you know…

Peeked into a second floor of the conference center on NU’s campus: the enormous night manager or maintenance chief was sitting there on the leather couch, watching hockey on a bigscreen tv (at $18 an hour, probably), while his underlings walked around the building with vacuums on their backs sweeping up (probably filling their canisters with this moron’s Cheeto crumbs).

Walking past the Evanston Taco Bell, I noted their hours: 9am-midnight on weeknights. Who the heck wants a taco at nine a.m.?! Not even a college student is that strange.

I mentioned in passing at church a few weeks back that I like to pop over to Evanston on weekends for a cup of coffee and an Onion. The woman I was speaking with misunderstood for a moment, thought I was talking about a small “o” onion, and therefore thought I was really weird. If only she knew…

Cyclones in Myanmar, and an oppressive dictatorship digs in its isolationist heels before finally beginning to accept international aid. Earthquakes in China. Earthquakes in Illinois last month?! Florida and California wildfires every time we turn around. Devastating storms last week in Oklahoma, Georgia, … heck …find me a state in the past three years that hasn’t faced billion-dollar damages due to extreme environmental conditions. Again and again we’re faced with questions about the climate, the global infrastructure, and humanity’s ability to sustain itself on a planet that we’ve wrecked, like a teenager treats his bedroom.

Is the writing on the wall?

I was teaching my students a few things last week about ancient Aztec culture, specifically the complex glyphs or picture-writing system they used to record their history, laws and religious ideas. Not surprisingly, a couple of my junior high kids asked if I thought the world was going to end in 2012, the last year accounted for on the Mayan calendar (and probably the Aztec one also, though I’m too lazy and rushed to look it up at the moment). It was the first time the question had been posed to me by anyone, child or adult. I responded that I did, in fact, think something huge for the entire world would happen in 2012. It’s been an idea circulating among “pagan prophecy” buffs at least since Erich von Daniken’s 1968 bestseller Chariots of the Gods. I think I was in junior high myself –and therefore ripe for the picking with regard to sensationalist ideas– when I stumbled upon this book. Plus there was also a film version, awhile after the book’s release, which caught my imagination even more.

So despite all rational argument and education to the contrary, I’ve still gone through the past thirty or so years with a vague but noncommittal sense that yes, I would be around to see the end of the world in around 2011 or 2012… despite Jesus’ assurance that we would not know the time or the place of his return, nor of the Apocalypse or Armageddon (not words Jesus himself used, by the way… one reason I take most attempts to interpret John’s Revelation with a grain of salt, because it didn’t seem to be much of a concern for the Son of God when he walked among us).

Yes, I believe I will be here to hear the fat lady sing. It’s an interesting stance to take, precisely because it can’t be proven or disproven until that dreaded/long-awaited target year arrives. It’s fun– in a weird, dark kind of way that only twisted minds like mine can understand– to let that anticipation build as if there’s some kind of grand fireworks display on the way, which I will be priveleged to see firsthand. (Never mind the grinding and gnashing of teeth and the Left Behind and all of that… rapture or no rapture, I don’t believe Yahweh is looking to judge and test and hurt those who willingly choose to follow Him… and He might not even allow those who don’t follow Him to be lost forever. He’s that merciful.)

I know it’s nearly impossible to reconcile these two worldviews (the “pagan” and the Christian, the predictive/magical and the “don’t worry about tomorrow” pragmatism of Christ’s own advice). Nevertheless, whenever things get real messy — either politically or environmentally — I can’t help but experience a moment of both thrill and mild terror, thinking, “This is it! Isn’t it? Wait, let’s look for the signs…” And then I look, checking off items on some unwritten mental list that has no clear qualifications for what IS a sign and what IS NOT. Silly, I know. But probably harmless.

As I mature (a theoretical concept, I will admit…), it’s mostly the environmental stuff that sets me off on that train of thought, not so much the human or political turmoil. When humans mess up, I take that “nothing new under the sun” attitude, like the writer of Ecclesiastes, and dismiss it as just this year’s manifestation of the latest trends in sinning, both personal and global. For example, remember all the people who dug up strange new “after-the-fact” interpretations of Nostradamus in the weeks after Sept. 11th, 2001? Where are those people now? How much does mass hysteria contribute to the snowball effect, once such ideas get started? How many people are out there fearmongering right now, quietly circulating emails proposing that the U.S. presidential election and its outcome will be a sign of the end times? [If you get any of these emails, forward them to me... I'm a big fan...]

With every transition or large-scale human undertaking, superstition inevitably gets mixed in with fact, and we come out the other end with more questions and vague fears than we had going in. Let’s call it a “philosophical earthquake” effect. That’s why, when it comes to “wars and rumors of wars”, that’s one area where I really do let Jesus have the last word:

” Many will come in my name, claiming, ‘I am he,’ and will deceive many. When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is still to come. Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be earthquakes in various places, and famines. These are the beginning of birth pains.”

(Mark 13:6-8, New International Version)

See, nice and vague, just the way I like it. Leaves room for conjecture, but says not to be alarmed. Could be in 2012, …or else the “beginning” could be something that lasts a thousand years, all by itself.

Which is not to say that some well-intentioned but lazy Christians won’t stretch these words of Jesus in their efforts to scare more people into becoming his disciples. Sure, I’d like to see God have more followers, too. But I want those who genuinely love God, and love their fellow man sacrifically, not some shallow, frightened hanger-on just looking to cover his ass in case this end-times stuff turns out to be true.

I’d rather be a brother to someone interested in serving those in the cross-hairs of history, the ones upon whom these wars are perpetrated, who go hungry or die as a result of these extreme weather conditions. If they’re concerned only for people’s eternal souls, and not their present-day minds and bodies, then they’re not my brother or sister. No, sir. I serve the prophet and Lord who fed the 5,000, who calmed the storms on the seas, who saved Jews, Samaritans and Romans alike, who healed the lopped-off ear of the soldier trying to arrest him, then told his armed disciple not to live by the sword, lest he die by the sword.

To walk in the Spirit of the Lord is to lose your life while you’re still living it. It’s a daily decision not to care if today’s your last day. As long as you live it with integrity, in service to God and His people, take it on faith that you’ll be fine. Make the world a better place, in spite of the fact that it has a limited expiration date.

So I guess it’s okay to be curious about the end of the world, whether you’re 12 years old or 92. But don’t let it keep you up at night. It ain’t worth it…