Suddenly Paris and Lindsey don't seem so bad

Imagine being young, good-looking, adored by tens of thousands of people (if not hundreds of thousands) and fabulously wealthy.

Who hasn't fantasized about such a thing?

Some of us might put our fame and fortune to good use --- maybe take up a philanthropic cause. Others might go a less admirable route by buying mansions, fancy cars, throwing lavish parties ... carpe diem all the way. And perhaps a few of us might succumb to self-indulgent vices like drug or alcohol abuse and end up destroying our own lives.

And each of those outcomes to having, well, everything, would seem to be in the realm of possibilities for almost anyone.

What is unfathomable to me, however, is that anyone with a world of options before him, would choose to promote ... dog fighting.

I don't care for Michael Vick. I think he is an outstanding athlete but only a mediocre quarterback. And I've long had questions about his character. I was also put-off by the inevitable hype that accompanied his every game appearance. (It was like sportscasters thought they were being paid a nickel each time they mentioned his name and yet were determined to earn seven figure incomes.) So when the allegations against him first arose, I was quick to assume the worst.

But damn ... running a sideline business where dogs fight each other almost to death? And then finding the the most cruelly inventive ways to ultimately dispatch the loser? Why on earth would anyone do that?

It's so incredibly incomprehensible to me, I almost think Vick might be innocent.

Almost.

Words Off a Blue Tongue

I went to the dentist today — fourth visit in the past two months. That’s what happens when you wait four years between check ups.

Before going, I brushed my teeth (for the second time in two hours) and swished Listerine around in my mouth long enough to give my tongue a nice blue tint ("It burnses us, it burnses!"). My thinking was, “If I were going to be poking around in some stranger’s mouth, I would appreciate any effort on his part to make his breath “minty fresh.”

Thus I can claim to be motivated by the Golden Rule.

The problem with the Golden Rule though, is how do you treat someone who doesn’t share your attitudes about a particular situation. The easiest analogical question might be, do you spank a masochistic lover even though you find hitting anathema to the act of making love?

While you’re working that out, It hink Jesus meant something kind of different with the whole “do unto others” thing. I doubt he was actually talking about specific acts of intended kindness. As my example demonstrates, that can be a tricky proposition.

Also motivations might not be pure, even when we do something nice that is also appreciated. For instance, it’s true I didn’t want to subject my dentist and her assistant to any lingering cigarette odor on my breath. But ego was involved as well. I would be embarrassed to be thought of as “the guy with stinky breath.” That’s basically a self-centered consideration.
The Golden Rule is a proactive hedge against self-centeredness or in the extreme, narcissism. Rather than trying to guess what will make another person “happy” (whether you think it’s your Christian duty or whether you're looking to be someone’s Man-of-the-Year) at the core is an admonition to understand that another person’s life — their hopes, dreams, and aspirations — is every bit as important to them as yours is to you.

That’s really a hard thing for me to remember, and even harder to incorporate in how I deal with other people. Most days, I’d rather just smack somebody, and stop at feeling proud of myself for doing it.

For One Thin Dime

I owe my sister a dime.

In truth, I owe her a lot more than that, but there’s really no adequate monetary compensation for betraying a loved one. Given the circumstances, the 10-cent piece I pulled out of my pocket the other day is about the only thing that comes close to being appropriate.

This particular dime was in change from the four dollars I paid for a pack of cigarettes at a seedy U Save convenience store. It’s a wonder I even noticed it before dropping it in my coin jar at home. But I did hold it apart, and examination led me to remember 1970. I was eight years old.

Pleasant Hill Baptist Church has having an Easter egg hunt for the children. We all contributed dyed eggs which the menfolk hid in the little wooded area behind the cementary. Before we began our search, we were told there was a prize egg --- an uniquely marked yellow one --- and who ever found that particular egg would get a very special reward.

There were probably about 20 -- 25 kids there, and I wasn't a child who ever had much luck when it came to winning prizes. Plus. I never seemed to be as good as other kids at any kind of contest. I couldn't imagine coming away with anything more than a few less eggs than I originally brought. I just hoped not to embarrass myself with an empty basket.

Fortunately there were so many eggs --- spread out, but in relatively plain sight --- that soon after we got the start signal, I had gathered three or four. If worse came to worse, that would have been good enough for me. I kept looking though, and found a few more. Then my little sister found me.

She had spied an egg in a space between the ground and a boulder, but her five-year old arm was to too short to reach it. She asked me for help, so I pulled it out for her. It was the prize yellow egg.

I was overwhelmed by greed and a chance to finally be the child who won. I kept it for myself.

She protested, obviously, but really not that much --- probably so stunned that her big brother could flagrantly cheat her that she didn't make much of a fuss. But the look on her face as I turned away remains an ugly brand on my soul.

Nevertheless, when the hunt concluded I presented the special egg to collect my grand prize.

Sometimes we are most blessed by God when He lets us be disappointed. Had I been given a Hot Wheels race set, a G.I Joe action figure or a non-gender-specific $5 bill, I might have taken the wrong lesson from thievery. Instead, (with no fanfare) I has handed one of those little plastic eggs and told to open it. I found it stuffed with a bit of green plastic grass that lines Easter baskets, and under that I found one shiny new ... dime.

Even back in 1970, a dime wasn't much money. Still, I respectfully thanked the elderly lady who give me my prize and I said nothing more. Eight-year olds can recognize justice too.

Growing up, my sister and I fought a lot --- mostly out of boredom, I believe. We lived in a rural area, far from playmates, and a good fuss was one way to break the monotony. Sometimes she "started it" and sometimes I did, though in explaining it to our parents, it was always the other one's fault. Looking back though, if I added up every "bad" thing she ever did to me, it would amount to less than ten cent's worth of transgression.

Well anyway, I've found the dime I've set aside to acknowlege my long-ago betrayal at Easter. By the way, it isn't stamped 1970. It’s several decades older than that --- a piece of silver.

Hurry Up With That Virgin!

Okay, I'm skeptical about global warming.

Best I can tell from what I've read, people are responsible for producing about 2.5 percent (.025) of the so-called greenhouse gases going into the atmosphere.

Also best I can tell, the earth's temperature (how the heck do you even measure such a thing?) has risen 0.6 degrees Celsius since about 1880. That would be about less than 1 degree Fahrenheit--- if I remember my conversions correctly, and I don't feel like looking it up.

Also it appears that most of that warming took place prior to 1950 --- long before George W. Bush became president. (That doesn't account for Dick Cheney who is the devil and everyone knows Satan is really, really old.)

That means people (and Dick Cheney) are responsible for the earth heating up by a sizzling 0.025 degrees Fahrenheit in 127 years.

The global warming folks must be used to much more finely attuned thermostats than me, because they sure get very worked up about the whole thing. So much so that they propose wrecking our economy, changing our whole way of life and "getting right with nature."

Get "right with nature?" Fine, I don't like making old Indians cry, and "waste not want not" as the saying goes. But it's that sacrificing the economy and turning our backs on technological and industrial development that bothers me. (I like air conditioning, and iPods and living beyond the age of 40.) Besides, there's a darn good chance global warming (and cooling) is normal. (Remember the Ice Age? Oh wait, forgot, Cheney=devil.)

It reminds me of island natives, as stereotyped in old movies, sacrificing a virgin to a volcano to keep it from erupting. And if any rational person tries to stop them, they want to kill him too. Environmentalism is a take-no-prisoners kind of religion.

Think about it. The vast majority of Bible-thumping, Christian fundamentalists reacted a lot less strongly to a picture of the Madonna made out of elephant dung or a crucifix dunked in urine than the way the Earth First folks respond to anyone not towing the global warming line. The Christians simply don't want their tax dollars spent on sacrilegious displays. The Earth Firsters push for real censorship (here's an interesting article, Up against the Global Warming Zealots) and we have Robert Kennedy Jr. wanting the skeptics convicted of treason.

Since we’re talking about “theories,” I have one of my own. I think the real thinkers behind the global warming movement know there are reasons to be skeptical. It’s about seizing power. Just like the wise old witch doctor who knows the volcano rumbles every few years without going off, they know that the Earth isn’t really going to be destroyed if we don’t give up our sinful (Western) ways.

It’s all a big Voodoo show to keep the natives scared and in the thrall of charlatans. Throw in the girl, the volcano goes quiet, and the medicine man gets to stay topknot on the totem pole.

But if the villagers don’t hurry up and sacrifice the virgin before the volcano goes quiet, then the witch doctor is up the creek without a paddle and folks are likely to find a new medicine man.

The shamen pushing global warming know they have a limited amount of time to remake the world to their liking before we realize it’s all a big hoax. And that’s why they are so adamant we do something NOW!

Stoic? Now That's Science Fiction!

If you can’t suspend disbelief, you can’t watch science fiction. So I was okay with a 35-foot gator being cloned from a 100-million year old fossil. Afterall, there’s something about turning into rock that makes DNA amazingly resilient. (Imagine all the crimes in closed-case files that could be solved if the FBI hired a few Medusas!)

And sure, regular bullets striking lizard skin can explode like little firecrackers.

And prehistoric species all had an insatiable hunger for human flesh --- especially swim suit models in T-back bikinis. Though apparently they’re not very filling. Maybe it has something to do with the low nutritional value of breast implants. I guess it makes sense that an oversized reptile would soon run down to the nearest resort and eat three times it weight in tourists.

And in a country where you can’t water your lawn on the wrong day without getting a citation, it’s no trouble at all to conduct outrageous experiments that put civilization at risk.

All those are acceptable fictions. But when a father finds the partially devoured corpse of his son, you expect a little more reaction than a single exclamation of, “Ohmygod!”

It wasn’t even a gut-wrenching “ohmygod.” It was more of an “I left my fork in the bowl of chili I’m trying to warm in the microwave” kind of utterance.

At that point, the Sci Fi Channel’s original motion picture, Supergator!, lost me.

Science fiction and fantasy are appealing because it’s the realm of the strange and unfamiliar. I’ve never stayed at a Holiday Inn Express so I know next to nothing about cloning, the dietary habits of dinosaurs, or government oversight of mad scientists. But I do know that people tend to react strongly --- even, perhaps, emotionally --- when other people die in a horrible manner, especially when the victim is a close family member. (Even sensitivity-challenged men typically don't hit on the pretty girl 15 minutes later. Or if they do, she probably isn’t finding them very attractive.)

On the other hand, I could certainly do with fewer histrionics. Remember Meryl Streep’s “Think of the children!” when the nation was gripped in mortal fear by Alar on a few apples?” (What the heck was Alar, anyway?)

A peeved Brad Johnson, star of Supergator! hasn't locked his keys in his car. No, his son has just been eaten by a dinosaur.

Mourning is practically a profession in a nation of aspiring victims. A person may be the worst kind of cold-hearted SOB (e.g. hitting on a girl half his age before the indigestible gristle of his loins is even cold), but any American nowadays would still manage to squeeze out a few tears for the news cameras. It’s considered one’s duty as a responsible citizen. There always need to be new government agencies to deal with every “crisis.” If you don’t scare people half to death they might not realize there’s even a problem --- like that one-degree rise in global temperature during the past 100 years that may or not be part of a normal cycle.

Of course if the producers of Supergator! did try to inject more realism into their film, our cad of a hero would never have won the day, the monster would have gone on killing, and the movie would have lasted until 2009 when the Democrats take complete control of the government and set up an ineffective bureaucracy that ultimately declares Supergator an endangered species.

On second thought, who want's reality? Damn fine movie, that Supergator!

Blog, Thy Name is Wilson

A few months ago, I left my steady “8 – 5” job to work at home as a freelance writer. Probably the thing I miss most is talking to co-workers during the day. I have observations on a lot of things, and I’m not particularly reticent in keeping my opinions to myself. It’s a testament to her human kindness, that my former cube-mate didn’t try to strangle me with an Ethernet cable in a last ditch effort to make me shut up about any of an enormous assortment of topics.

So now I have this blog thing, which is effectively not much better than talking to myself or my cat, and much more complicated. Yet because it’s being posted on the Internet, I can enjoy the illusion of a engaging in conversation. And the fantasy made me feel better.

But I’m remembering Wilson.

Wilson, in case you’ve forgotten (or didn’t see the movie) was Tom Hank's “companion” on the desert island in Castaway. Most significantly, Wilson was also volleyball with a face drawn on it. And though Wilson couldn’t talk back, Tom Hanks talked to Wilson all the time. They became best of friends, until that tragic moment when Wilson fell off the raft and was lost at sea. Maybe you think Terms of Endearment was a tear jerker, but Debra Winger had nothing on that half-inflated ball of rubber.



Is it crazy to talk to yourself, a cat or an inanimate object? Probably no --- strictly speaking --- but typically we still try to steer clear of those people, especially if they are standing on a street corner and are talking really, really loudly.

Yet here are bloggers, frequently typing furious rants to essentially no one but themselves, and they (I) get a pass in the sanity department because our “Wilsons” are high tech.

Maybe I should get a mynah bird.