I understand you feel strongly, and I want you to know I don't care

I have never had any patience with politically correct terms. For the life of me, I can’t understand why “people of color” is a preferred designation but saying “colored people” will get you sentenced to six months of sensitivity training. And I will die and go to hell before I seriously refer to a short person as “vertically challenged.”

By the way, I also refuse to call American Indians “native Americans.” A person is a native by virtue of where he or she is born and continues to live. I’m as native to this country as any Cherokee or Apache out there.

But “oppressed” minorities and other officially recognized victim groups don’t have a monopoly on this silliness. (Believe me, I have a whole different rant lined up for “victims.”) We can add small business owners to the list of hyper-sensitive goofballs.

In a couple of jobs I’ve had, I’ve been told that small business owners object to the word “small.” C’mon people, get a grip. It’s merely a comparative term — a simple and useful designation to differentiate the business owner with five employees from the fellow with a staff of 100. I promise; no one is making a subtle inference about your penis size.

(I once worked for a company that had its franchise owners categorized by market as micro, small, midsized and large. I wonder how the poor micros ever got a date.)

I’m a professional copywriter. I need to be concise and clear in written communications for my clients. If I write “physically handicapped” my reader has a general idea of what I mean. If I write, “differently enabled” however, the average person will be left scratching his head, possible muttering, “What the f …?”

Writing to a specific audience is also critical to what I do for a living. I have to know what sets that group apart from any others, and let my target audience know my message is specifically for them. The last thing I need to do is blur the lines by invoking some idiotic new euphemism for a term that’s not derogatory in the first place. No way should I write, “As the owner of a midsized company that’s not as large as some businesses that have been traditionally regarded as such, you probably …”.

One of the best things about being a conservative-libertarian is that no one expects us to go along with all the stupid crap that others (mostly liberals) take seriously. But if my attitude still bothers you, don’t think of me as rude; think of me as “alternatively sensitived.”

The Multicultural Trap

There is saying — probably dating back to the early part of the 20th Century — that goes something like this: Heaven would be French cuisine, German engineering and English law. Hell would be French engineering, German law and English cuisine.

I doubt I told it exactly right, but I think that old joke will still help make my point. Different cultures do some things much better than others; each with relative strengths and weaknesses. Ridiculously, multiculturalism demands that we accept all aspects of all cultures as equal.

Fortunately most of us know enough to pass on the spotted dick and opt instead for a nice French pastry. (Admission: I have no idea what “spotted dick” is, but how can any food that sounds like a late-stage venereal disease possibly taste good?) We might be politically correct enough to pay lip service to the merits of strange, illogical, or even disgusting practices from alien cultures, but given the freedom of choice, we’ll go with what we find more appealing.

On the other hand, if we keep an open mind, we may try something that’s completely novel. Then, making an assessment on how well a culturally different approach meets the objective, we might adopt it as our own for the future. By maintaining key values and setting certain standards we become cultural eclectics, and that is a very good thing. The infusion of new ideas leads to widespread progress and personal growth

It’s the values and standards though, that multiculturalists disdain. They recognize that if a certain culture's approach consistently comes in second, third … or even dead last when compared to some other society’s way of doing things, that culture would — and should — be deemed inferior. And since it’s usually a distinct race, ethnic group or religion that is most closely associated with any particular culture, multiculturalists fear that the members of that classification of humans will also be judged inferior by association. It’s a legitimate concern, but it does the individuals within an inferior culture no favor to have their second-rate choices propped up by politically correct platitudes. All people should be encouraged to grow by becoming more eclectic.

There is also a trap for people who are made to feel comfortable with their inferior culture when an aspect comes into conflict with one of the few standards that are almost universally required by the larger majority. I propose that Michael Vick’s condemnation for his grotesque dog-fighting exploits is an example of this trap in action.

The “rap or hip-hop’” culture is routinely celebrated and promoted by the popular media despite being virtually without objective merit. (Really, what are the chances that a child who is submerged in the hip-hop lifestyle will grow up to be doctor, lawyer, teacher, scientist or engineer?) Members of this community become effectively crippled from operating outside a very constricted and dysfunctional world. And so Michael Vick, despite his great athletic talent, was brought down.

Our society never did Vick the favor of saying, “Your culture sucks and if you don’t break away from it, it will destroy your chances for the kind of future you could enjoy.” No instead, he was fed a steady diet of Snoop Dogg and Ludacris ... et al as role models because they celebrate the very culture he came from. Any young person might think, “If just rapping about a lifestyle can make a person rich and famous, then living that lifestyle must be even more fulfilling.”

Michael Vick grew up in an inferior culture which the multiculturalists kept telling him was just as good as anyone else’s. I can understand why he must feel blind-sided. He could have been a great individual, but instead he was encouraged and pressured to subjugate his individual potential to a group identity. Now Michael Vick the individual is paying a price, while the culture that produced him remains sacrosanct.

Motivation Matters

Recently inspired by a friend’s blog, I took a little personality test based on Myers-Briggs. It turns out that I’m an INFJ. My profile — according to one write-up — includes this statement:
“Accurately suspicious about others' motives, INFJs are not easily led. These are the people that you can rarely fool any of the time.”

As this is rather flattering, I’ll accept the comment as true (perhaps thereby disproving its validity?). But whether or not I’m more attuned to motivations than most people, I do consider them to be very important.

There was an episode of South Park in which Kenny was brain-dead and in the hospital. Kyle and Stan wanted to keep their friend hooked up to life support. Eric (Cartman) wanted life support turned off so he could inherit Kenny’s video game. Meanwhile Kenny was needed in Heaven to help fight off an army of demons. (Hey, this IS South Park after all.)

In Stan’s “I think I’ve learned something today” moment, he realizes Eric wanted to do the right thing for the wrong reason, while he and Kyle wanted to the wrong thing for the right reason.

LOOKING PRESIDENTIAL

Is Eric Cartman the candidate for you?

From a practical standpoint, I suppose it's usually better to do the right thing for the wrong reason. But the disconnection between motivation and outcome demonstrated in the South Park episode points to an inherent flaw in representative democracy.

If you’re forced to vote for Eric (bad motivation, good outcome) or Kyle (good motivation, bad outcome) who do you choose? As an elected representative, Kyle may get it “wrong” on a single issue, but his heart is in the right place. Cartman is only out for Cartman. God only knows (and He's busy fighting the Devil Army) what Cartman would do when another problem needs to be resolved!

On the other hand, how important is this particular issue? And maybe your motivations are every bit as pure as Kyle’s. (F’rinstance, you happen to KNOW Kenny is needed in Heaven.) In the critical situation, do you vote for good-guy Kyle and risk destruction of the entire Spiritual Plane?

Politicians today are occasionally driven by ideology themselves, but more often, they are beholding to groups that are completely wedded to a specific agenda — most no better than Cartman’s. That means we might get what we want on one particular issue … say withdrawal from Iraq. But the representatives who’ll withdraw won’t stop there, and soon we’ve been transformed into “cheese-eating surrender monkeys.” (Feel free to substitute your own example — leftist or rightwing — I just like the Bart Simpson phrase “cheese-eating surrender monkey.”)

I don’t think there's an easy answer, but I’m pretty sure that unless Heaven is about to fall, it’s a good idea to skeptically appraise the motivations of the people who most stridently support a particular candidate ... or oppose the other one.

Who really, really wants Rudy or Fred and who really, really wants Hillary or Barack? Go beyond today. Do you think you’ll want the same thing those folks want tomorrow?

Freddy Kruger, where are you?

I love horror movies. I liked Aliens and all the Night/Dawn/Day of the Living Dead movies. I even have an affinity for the outrageous cult flicks like The Devil's Rejects or The Hills Have Eyes.

I appreciate a good disemboweling, torsos in the freezer, or the ubiquitous man-eating monster in the closet. I'm also quite the critic of cinematic (fake) blood. (It's usually too bright, and too watery.)

But I can only last about 15 minutes with the dramas on Lifetime. Incest, child abuse, spouse beating ... I can't take it.

Maybe it has something to do with it being a "channel for women." There's no doubt in my mind that females are tougher than males. (That's why God put them in charge of child birth. Men wouldn't be able to handle it.)

SPACE

Scary stuff.

I was flipping channels this evening and stopped ever so briefly on a Lifetime movie. I was soon "treated" to seeing a psycho mom spraying oven cleaner on a kid's back and then scrubbing with a scouring pad.

That was it ... I quickly had my channel clicker in high gear. Comparatively speaking, Saw III is good family entertainment.

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.