Oh, What a Lucky Man He Was!

It’s hot out there! (102 Fahrenheit, to be precise) I know this because I just walked back from having lunch at the Strip Sandwich Shoppe (urban legend has it that some of the 9/11 terrorists ate there when in Las Vegas). On very rare occasions I eat my lunch out. The rest of the time I fare much better on the chilled “brown bag” salads that Mary lovingly prepares for me most workdays. It was an oversight on my part not to mention this when I was explaining that I was taking up lunch-hour blogging. If Mary didn’t send lunch with me each day, I would be much more pressed for writing time like I have been the last two. There’s real merit to the notion of daily counting your blessings, and among my greatest is Mary—not because she packs me a lunch every day, but because she loves me so much that she wants to. There definitely is not enough time or space here to regale at length of Mary’s attributes, so suffice it to say that I am one very lucky dude.

Happiness is...

The older I grow, the more apparent this profound truth becomes: The source of my genuine happiness is the happiness of others. This is utterly consistent with my understanding of the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth, and, for that matter, with all of the faith traditions known to humankind. It is the ethic of mutual reciprocity. It is the Golden Rule. It is the Kingdom come on Earth as it is in Heaven. It is the kind of authentic happiness I experienced when Rachel received her good news (go to Anxiety to read it for yourself). The “fun” things I may do to try to achieve personal happiness are never as successful as sharing someone else’s happiness. From the Beatitudes one may conclude that Jesus saw nothing wrong with happiness—indeed, he encouraged it. For two-thousand years and counting we have not comprehended his straightforward direction to happiness. Let us pray that it will not be another two or three millennia before we finally understand how to make ourselves happy.

Summertime, and the livin' is...

It’s officially both hot and summer in Las Vegas. Summer ushered in yesterday with the solar solstice, and since living here I’ve learned that it is not considered officially hot until it’s 105 degrees Fahrenheit or hotter. But it is a dry heat.

Next week Mary and I will sojourn to Lincoln, Nebraska to spend some time with her mother, and I’m already dreading the humidity that will more than likely triple to quintuple what we experience here in the desert. Not only does such high humidity make things like taking a shower a rather fruitless endeavor, but it spawns a myriad of pests like mosquitoes and gnats. Only getting to be with my mother-in-law for the Fourth of July will make it all worth it.

While attending school in Nebraska it was suggested that it would be a perfect destination for terminally ill patients because those with only six months to live would feel like it was six years. I normally try to refrain from such derogatory remarks, but I must admit that I’m looking forward to my eight-day vacation seeming like I was gone for as many weeks.

Join me, please, in hoping that Mary doesn’t read this before I get home for supper tonight.

How Will We Answer?

I’m guessing that his readers either love or hate what Joe Klein writes. I’m of the former ilk, and it stands to reason that the latter probably don’t spend much time reading Klein’s column. Case in point is his current essay, Why Bush Is (Still) Winning the War at Home. How do we explain that in spite of the criminal immorality of the Bush Administration he remains in office? Nixon and Clinton’s transgressions combined pale by comparison to Bush et al’s invasion and occupation of a sovereign nation, but “architect” Rove seems to know how to manipulate the masses into passive acquiescence. Not even $3-a-gallon gas seems to be getting anyone worked up. Klein seems to answer the question by pointing out the confusion and disunity that currently defines the Democrats, but we really need to wake up to the fact that those politicians are but representatives of their constituencies. I’ve asked it before, and I am compelled to ask it again, what the hell is wrong with us? The pressing question after World War II was how an incredibly intelligent, creative culture such as Germany succumbed to Nazi propaganda and turned a blind eye to the atrocity of the holocaust. It makes me sad to realize that fifty years from now, the world will be asking the same thing about us.

The Fun of Dying

“I didn’t know dying was this much fun.” So says Art Buchwald in an interview found in the June 26, 2006 issue of TIME. He was speaking about the book he’s writing, Too Soon to Say Goodbye, since his surprising survival of his decision to refuse dialysis last January when he moved into a Washington hospice in preparation for an end that hasn’t yet come. I find his outlook both refreshing and inspiring.

I have long felt that there is a strange dichotomy in mainstream Christianity that proclaims eternal life on one hand but makes death the ultimate tragedy on the other. I find myself in agreement with Buchwald’s response to the question; do you have any religious belief? “Yes, I believe there is a God, but he’s not the one all the religions claim. The Christian religion, the Jewish religion, the Muslim religion—if you believe in their God, other people will say you’re an infidel. There’s a God out there, but not the one that causes all the trouble in the world. The people who fight all the wars now—not just Iraq but all over—believe that their God told them to.”

Good living is really about dying well. The sooner that we get that through our thick skulls the better it will be. If King George and his court really think that Iraqi freedom is worth dying for, then I suggest that they be the ones to go over there so that the men and women they are murdering can come home. If ‘W’ is sincere in his convictions then he, too, can proclaim “I didn’t know dying was this much fun.”

Thanks for the Memories

Yet another memorable weekend is now history. Last Friday Mary and I drove to Flagstaff to help Rachel and Steve move to Phoenix, and even though we were on the road at 6:10 AM we arrived after the bulk of the loading was finished. Steve took the lead with his Budget rental truck and handled it with the aplomb of someone who had been driving over the road for years. Rachel and Mary followed in the Subaru, and I dutifully took up the rear with the Prius which meant I got to try out the sound system at heretofore prohibited levels. We finished the day as guests of Alex and Michelle at Ajo Al’s and checked in to the Camelback Marriott Courtyard that was about four blocks from Rachel and Steve’s new apartment.

Saturday, I cleverly got us out of unloading the truck by managing to lose track of my wallet. After turning our hotel room upside down and inside out, after thoroughly searching both cars, and checking the lost and found at every place we had been the night before, I finally remembered that I had left it at Pie Zano’s where Mary and I had eaten breakfast. Returning the wallet to me intact, I tried (really! I tried) to reward the staff for their honesty and restoring my sanity, but they wouldn’t hear to it. My senior moment left just enough time to get ready to attend Kyra’s second birthday party, hosted by her parents. Just as at Steve and Rachel’s wedding, it was most enjoyable for our two now-united families to get together for a celebration.

My Father’s Day treat was breakfast at Melanie’s French Bakery & Café (Rebecca had already provided me with a shrimp dinner and a dozen classic rock albums the previous Wednesday), and then off to worship at Ikea where Rachel and Steve have identified many of the furnishings they want for their new apartment. The apartment is centrally located with deluxe amenities which include a garage! I am so happy for them that they were able to find a place so much to their liking. We learned that the drive home to Las Vegas should begin no later than noon, but we had such a pleasant trip that it more than compensated for arriving well after my Sunday bedtime. I know that there are many more trips to Phoenix in our future, but there’s only one first time. As Bob Hope was famous for saying, “Thanks for the memories!”

A Day in the Life (finale)

The absolutely best time of my workday is 6 PM! That’s when I get to go where I most want to be: home. I am well aware of how blessed I am to belong to a family that makes it possible to feel this way. I know that there are many that think of “home” as the last place they want to be. But I love Mary, Rachel and Rebecca, and most of the time they love me. That’s what makes going home the best part of my day.

This may understandably come as news to my family, because I probably don’t exude joy upon my arrival at the homestead the way that I should. Indeed, being the creature of habit that I am, my “I’m home” routine is way too predictable. Unload my backpack, drink my Profibe cocktail, change into my “leisure suit,” and settle down in the La-Z-Boy to watch the NBC Nightly New with Brian Williams. Then I’ll watch other pre-recorded programs until it’s time to hit the sack at 8:30 (except for Thursday night when I may manage to stay awake until 9).

I just finished reading Daniel Gilbert’s essay in this week’s TIME, “Does Fatherhood Make You Happy?” Although I understand the point he is trying to make, it strikes me as just a little on the cynical side. I’m not happy to be a father because it is the only way I can reward myself for all the trials of parenthood. I’m happy to be a father because that’s what I get to be when I’m home!

A Day in the Life (cont'd)

Don’t know who the daddy of your kid is? Who you gonna call? Family Support! Momma left you with the kids and you think she ought to pay? Who you gonna call? Family Support! Is the ex not paying the support ordered in the Divorce Decree? Who you gonna call? Family Support!

We were admonished in the Law Enforcement Training Academy not to be caught smiling at grizzly accident or crime scenes. It seemed an unnecessary warning until investigating a horrific multiple fatality accident on I70 when it became apparent that if you weren’t going to break down and cry you probably fought it off with a stupid grin. That’s the same way I feel about what I do at Family Support.

Each morning I power up the mighty Dell Optiplex GX620 at my desk and start bringing up IBM Reflection sessions along with Outlook and an extensive array of links available through my Explorer browser. The purpose of all this state-of-the-art technology is simply this: determine who the parents of children are and find a way to make them financially responsible. Part of our public relations spin is that we are saving the taxpayers millions of dollars, which is probably true in that the State has somehow become obligated to support these kids if their parents won’t.

Our office alone has nearly 90,000 cases, and if you conservatively estimate two children per case then you’re talking 180,000 kids that unknowingly look to DAFS to keep their family finances afloat. I’m not a math whiz, but I think that figure is knocking on the door of 10% of the metropolitan population. It’s a sad indictment of what is happening to our society (but I’m sure that King George’s amendment to ban gay marriage will make it all right when he manages to get it railroaded through). So, if you happen to see me between 7 AM and 6 PM each Monday through Thursday I’ll just be sitting here with a stupid grin on my face. It’s a better public image than sobbing.

A Day in the Life (cont'd)

This morning’s commute covered 9.1 miles in 14 minutes and the Prius averaged 46.4 mpg. I really can’t complain. Compared to what many commuters have to endure, my hop, skip, and a jump to work barely even qualifies as real. About 95% of the drive is on freeways that—while perpetually under construction—as a rule are not subject to the stop-and-go irritation of surface streets. If one can stay clear of the idiots that I always caution our daughters to watch out for, the start and end of my working day is not all that unpleasant.

I do, however, begin to experience the discriminatory classism that defines my working environment as soon as I reach the parking garage. Now, given that I do not have to pay for covered parking in the County garage, I’m not expecting any sympathy. What is not so obvious, however, is that there is a garage just across the street from the building in which I work. To park in the Clark Place garage would save having to walk the three blocks from the County garage, but I simply count it as phase two of my morning exercise routine. The rub comes from knowing that only the “privileged” class (attorneys, administrators, etc) have access to Clark Place, and from the constant memos reminding us commoners that we are not to integrate with the chosen ones.

Again, I am just trying to explore the dynamics of what I know. I wish that my offering was a tad more exciting, but perhaps that will come in tomorrow’s breathtaking installment in which I will elaborate on exactly what it is that I do with forty hours of my life each week. Try to get some sleep tonight…

A Day in the Life

Awakened this morning by my alarm at 4:30, I arose to my workday routine of walking to our complex’s fitness center where I exercycled exactly 18 minutes at Level 8, resulting in the burning of 162 calories in the course of 6.48 virtual miles. I walked back to our kitchen where I stuck a can of black cherry vanilla diet Coke in the freezer and prepared my concoction of 8 ounces of Albertson’s vegetable juice with a tablespoon of Profibe powder. I poured just the right amount of filtered water into the fountain in our dining area, and then filled the container to the top to be used later for brewing the coffee. All of this now being done set the stage for my morning reading time which I efficiently combine with a bodily function that is best performed on a daily basis. Having read three pages of the most recent issue of Christian Century (and also being successful in the other) I was ready to shower and shave. Upon completion, I dressed, ate my bowl of Nature’s Path organic multi-grain flakes covered by organic 2% milk, took my daily regimen of prescription and vitamin pills and headed back to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Catching one last glance at the traffic report I proceeded to load my backpack, say goodbye to Mary as she handed me the coffee and lunch she had just lovingly prepared, and pulled out of the garage.

It has been said that good writing is the result of what the author knows best. If this is true, then the above paragraph is a dandy. Be sure to tune in for tomorrow’s spellbinding installment when I will relate the commute to work. I really have no business thinking about politics, religion, or life in general, because these are subjects that I know painfully little about. Take heart, dear reader; I have discovered the secret to writing a page turner!

Sabbath Soliloquy

I wasn’t a big fan of the Beatles at the outset. I’m guessing that I wasn’t the only adolescent male of the day that was more jealous than admiring. There was no question that John, Paul, George and Ringo were a revolutionary new phenomenon on the socio-music scene, but how that translated into mustering up the courage to actually tell Cathy Bodfish that I wanted to hold her hand was confused by the fact that she was obviously more interested in holding the hand of one of the Fab Four. It wasn’t until Mr. John Harris introduced Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band to our high school music theory class that I entered into an ongoing love affair with the greatest musicians of the twentieth-century.

These thoughts are prompted by last night’s viewing of Cirque du Soleil’s newest extravaganza: The Beatles: Love (I suppose I should gratuitously mention that it is now showing at The Mirage). Rachel and Steve very generously gave Mary and me tickets to the performance for our wedding anniversary, knowing how profoundly the Beatles’ music both shaped and described the story of our lives. I found myself wishing that our dear friend, Don, had lived long enough to have joined us, but I also concluded that if such things can be witnessed from the other side he was surely there. I don’t often use the word “perfect” (except for when I’m in one of my uncharacteristically sarcastic moods) but it was the only way to express my feelings at the end of the show.

Peace and love. How ironic that this powerful concept (I’ll say it: the spirit of the Christ!) is so quickly put down as bleeding heart sentimentality. If the true American values are war, violence and destruction, I am not ashamed to proclaim that I no longer desire to be a citizen of the country so obviously possessed by the anti-Christ! Beyond perfect, two other words came to mind as I exited the theatre surrounded by a throng—albeit momentarily—transformed by what we had experienced together: salvific, redemptive! We can build a better future for ourselves, for our children, for the world: all we need is love!

PS
I pass along this link that Dad shared with me. Again, love is the key:
http://parentswish.com/index.html

More Wedding Pictures

I finally figured out how to edit the pictures my sister sent from Billings, Montana, and have added them to our Flickr account which you can reach by clicking on the "photos" link. Enjoy!

Worlds of Wisdom by Will Rogers

Will Rogers was probably the greatest political sage this county has ever know. Following are just a few of his insights.

Never slap a man who's chewing tobacco.

Never kick a cow chip on a hot day.

There are two theories to arguing with a woman...neither works.

Never miss a good chance to shut up.

Always drink upstream from the herd.

If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging.

The quickest way to double your money is to fold it and put it back in your pocket.

There are three kinds of men: The ones that learn by reading. The few who learn by observation. The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence to find out for themselves.

Good judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.

If you're ridin' ahead of the herd, take a look back every now and then to make sure it's still there.

Lettin' the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier'n puttin' it back.

After eating an entire bull, a mountain lion felt so good he started roaring. He kept it up until a hunter came along and shot him. The moral: When you're full of bull, keep your mouth shut.

Eventually you will reach a point when you stop lying about your age and start bragging about it.

The older we get, the fewer things seem worth waiting in line for.

Some people try to turn back their odometers. Not me, I want people to know "why" I look this way. I've traveled a long way and some of the roads weren't paved.

My thanks to Mom for sharing this with me so that I could share it with you.

Gimme Shelter

The City of Las Vegas’ Centennial Plaza sits adjacent to the scenic Lewis Avenue Corridor commemorating the centennial of the city’s incorporation in 1905 (there are some pictures in the “My World” group on the “photos” link). It is somehow fitting that this monument to Las Vegas’ century of progress has (quite unintentionally, I’m sure) become the showcase of the city’s homeless and disenfranchised. Cattycorner to the Mexican Embassy, the park’s benches have been staked out as places of refuge for those who obviously have nowhere else to go. Well-dressed professionals (many of them lawyers making their way between the county and federal courthouses) don’t seem much bothered by the wretched humanity that occasionally musters the courage to ask for spare change. If the city has ordinances prohibiting loitering and soliciting, they aren’t enforced here. Sometimes I think that I’m second only to Mayor Oscar Goodman when it comes to being pro-Las Vegas, but there’s something deeply unsettling about the way this affluent Mecca treats—or more accurately, ignores—these painfully obvious vagrants (it is reported that Las Vegas is second only to the United States Treasury in the generation of revenue). For a city so utterly dependent upon its public image, maybe it would be money well spent to buy out the next implosion and convert it into a shelter for the homeless. At least that way we wouldn’t have to step over their mangy bodies on the way to Starbucks.

Am I Crazy?

Okay, I admit to a continuous inner monologue that ceases only when something from the outside interrupts it. This may be grounds for being committed, or it may be normal human behavior. The rule of thumb when I studied psychology was that talking to yourself is okay, it’s when you start answering yourself that you need to be worried. Zen, of course, is incomprehensible to me.

I’ve spent a significant portion of my life trying to theologize, a subject matter which vainly attempts to encompass the infinite. Alfred North Whitehead’s concept of panentheism has led me to wonder if God (for lack of any better term) has the ability to “eavesdrop” on these inner thoughts. Whether or not God has any desire to do such a thing is a separate matter. But if we allow for the possibility, then does this introspection constitute prayer?

One of the things that impressed Francis Asbury about the Methodists was the ability to pray without a book, a rather remarkable contrast to the Anglican Book of Prayer that was central to the liturgy of the day. History is replete with examples dating back to the dawn of civilization—and before—of how prayer was to be conducted and what purpose it served in the scheme of things.

It all leaves me wondering whether or not I am really alone with my thoughts. If I am, then it’s really no big deal. But if I’m not, the old admonition of being careful what you pray for takes on a whole new meaning.

Have a Happy Holocaust!

Giddy apocalyptic Revelationists seem to be reveling in today’s date, 06/06/06. Given the average lifespan in the U.S., this truly is a once in a lifetime experience except for that handful that were around on this date in 1906 or may live to see 2106. What exactly is supposed to happen on this day that (when one stretches the imagination) coincides with the biblical mark of the beast is unclear. I personally regard it as rather ominous when I stop to think about who is occupying the White House. Has anyone actually seen any documentation to refute that at birth ‘W’ was originally dubbed ‘Damien’? Has anyone really gotten a good look at his scalp?

As if the real world isn’t scary enough, we seem to have an insatiable appetite for the bizarre and the spooky. If Al-Qaeda isn’t enough to worry about, let’s dig up some of the most misunderstood scripture that’s ever been written and see if we can’t frighten ourselves with that. The doomsayers have been calling for the end of the world for thousands of years but they just never seem to be able to pull it off. Maybe, finally, this is the horrifying eschaton we’ve all been dying for (the pun is intended).

I would encourage any of those who are really buying into this nonsense to go proclaim their apocalyptic tripe to the people of Darfur. I’m guessing that they will find a rather receptive audience there, filled with people who have truly stared evil in its ugly face. Oh, but wait! I forgot! Jesus didn’t die for the Africans, he died for the… Well, who did he die for? And who is he coming back to get? As messed up as things are right now, perhaps he’s decided to postpone until June 06, 6006.

Surprise, Surprise, Surprise! Not!!!

What a shocker! Within weeks of repositioning Karl Rove’s focus the constitutional amendment to ban same sex marriage is back on the burner. Pundits don’t give such an amendment much chance of ever being ratified, but once again the Bush Administration put its fear machine into high gear to draw attention away from all of the many things they are royally screwing up. Senator Joseph Biden (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/13085904/) gets it: “You know, think about this. The world’s going to Hades in a hand basket. We are desperately concerned about the circumstance relating to avian flu—we don’t have enough vaccines, we don’t have enough police officers—and we’re going to debate, the next three weeks, I’m told, gay marriage, a flag amendment, and God only knows what else.” I’m sorry to do this to you, Senator Biden, but you’ve got my vote to be our next President.

Sabbath Soliloquy

As the Consumer I admit to being I worshiped today at Costco (which is the secular equivalent to the currently popular mega-churches of Christianity). In this vein I suppose that Neiman Marcus customers are akin to Episcopalians, Sears to Methodists, Wal-Mart to Baptists, and so on (I will always love that explanation from A River Runs Through It that a Methodist is nothing more than a Baptist than can read). I prefer the privileges of membership that require no greater commitment than annual dues; Costco has yet to solicit any “tithes and offerings” from me in order to meet its annual budget.

It is strange to look back on all those years I faithfully spent in the Christian closet before coming out to openly proclaim that I’m really a Consumer. Gone are the guilty years of wondering what my purpose in life was and whether or not I was living up to my Creator’s expectations. Now I know that Costco loves me unconditionally and asks nothing of me but my cash or credit. There is no meaning to life other than consumption, and Costco has shown me the way to the most cost-efficient consumerism known to humankind.

President Bush:

Initially I was going to ask, what the hell is wrong with you? But giving myself some time to reflect (I can appreciate that this is a notion probably foreign to you) helped me to realize that the question really needs to be, what the hell is wrong with us? Why does the citizenry of this country continue to retain your pathologically immoral self in the world’s highest office? We impeached Bill Clinton for getting head in the Oval Office, but we give our implied consent to your treasonous and deadly agenda.

I was simply flabbergasted yesterday when you once again righteously proclaimed that if there was any atrocity committed by U. S. Marines in Haditha you would see to it that the perpetrators would be held accountable. How does your phony Christian ideology purport to remove the speck from your neighbor’s eye when you obviously can’t see past the log in your own? How does your Pentagon keep a straight face when it proposes to inculcate our deployed troops in the ethical and moral conduct of war? You, sir, are a hypocrite of the highest order and it is evidence of the reality of evil that you remain in office.

My appreciation for Dietrich Bonhoeffer (a genuine Christian) has continued to grow over the years, and you have helped me to better understand his belabored decision to eliminate the evil personified by Adolf Hitler. You haven’t yet had your crack at the holocaust, but then you aren’t through yet, are you? John Valder* powerfully speaks the truth which you understandably are so determined to silence. (http://www.smh.com.au/articles/2003/12/01/1070127355348.html)

I understand that my status as a citizen in good standing of the United States of America does not make me worthy of a reply from the High and Mighty George W. Bush, but I’m going to ask you anyway: What the hell is wrong with you?

*UPDATE: With Josh Schulz's assistance I have corrected the link that should now take you directly to Valder's 12/01/03 speech.

Thoughts for Today

Perhaps it’s my imagination, but I’m feeling my disease more these days. To save the casual reader an archival search (yeah, like that would ever happen) a year ago I was diagnosed with chronic myelogenous leukemia (CML). 800 mg per day of the miracle drug Gleevec has held the cancer’s progress at bay, but this oral chemotherapy is not without its side effects. With every passing day my stamina is diminished a bit, and the gastrointestinal upset brought on by the drug occasionally seems like its going to evacuate my insides altogether. I surmise that my preexisting depression contributes to the sense that things are not getting any better.

I am truly grateful that it was possible for me to witness Rachel and Steve’s wedding, and while the end is not imminent it certainly looms larger than it once did. It only seems responsible to focus my attention on getting my affairs in order to make sure that Mary and Rebecca are provided for to the best of my ability. I have such great respect for the way my good friend, Don, left things when he died of cancer a couple of years ago. His was such an untimely death, but he left his mark on family and friends alike.

What I find most disturbing is to ponder whether or not I have lived the good life. It seems that so many of the things to which I aspired when I was younger will likely not be fulfilled, and yet in the spirit of Emerson I remind myself that success is not so much measured by material things as it is by the relationships that have been cultivated and nurtured along the way. To have loved, and to have been loved, this is what really matters most!