For a Reason?

"Everything happens for a reason."
This mindless statement has become extraordinarly fashionable as a catch-all for those moments when most of us have absolutely no idea what to say. It is usually attached to some equally mindless palaver about "God's Plan" or some such idiocy. Most of the time, thinking people are gracious enough to allow the stupidity to go unchallenged, although there are times when it is utterly painful to let it pass.
Here's a newsflash, boys and girls: there is, indeed, a reason for everything. It is not, however, the same reason for everything. Let's consider a couple of examples.
A child is born, mother and child both emerge healthy, the child is loved, provided for in every way, and grows to adulthood well in the care of a church family? Indeed, the grace of God is at work, and God's intention has been fulfilled. A child is born, only to die, suffocated by his mother? How about two children, for good measure? (If you've been in a cave, this happened, in our country, earlier this week) Yeah, there's a reason for this. A human being, operating under whatever set of circumstances that will be presented in court as a defense, did an evil, evil thing. Don't blame this on God. The God I know was disregarded totally on this one.
A person makes mistakes in life. Becomes substance-dependent. "Comes to himself" as Jesus said in the Prodigal's story. Asks for help, finds it, and proceeds to live a redeemed life? Again, God's grace on display, available to all. Another person, substance-dependent, comes to himself and asks for help. But he's unemployed, has no insurance, and cannot get a placement for care, and that, after appeals for help to both of the prominent church-named hospitals in the community? Not God's fault! God was not considered in this; a throw-away person was, simply, thrown away. This is not God's Plan, God's intention, or in any way an expression of God's presence in the world.
These are both very small examples, nothing on the scale of the Holocaust, the Killing Fields of the Khmer Rouge, Stalin's purges or the Rwandan genocide of the last decade. Or, for that matter, any of the evil that you and I encounter and wrestle with on a daily basis, inflicted by petty, evil people who are determined to abuse and destroy and abandon? I would never, ever, consider working for a God who would include such circumstances in his/her "Plan" and neither would you.
So, how about a little more honesty and integrity? The next time we feel "There's a reason for everything" or "It's part of God's Plan" or any such horse excrement, about to escape our lips, decide, instead, to tell the truth: "I don't know what to say, but I love you, I believe God does, and God and I are here." Because that's actually God's plan for us to care for one another.

Excuses or Explanations, the Truth is the Truth

After the games of Sunday, August 15, the Boston Red Sox are 67-52, the fifth best record in the American League. They are third in the AL East, trailing the first place MFYs by six games (seven in the loss column), and the Wild Card leading Tampa Bay Rays by five games (six in the loss column).

Here's a quick trip around the diamond.

Catchers: Victor Martinez, 4 time AL All-Star
Jason Varitek, 3 time AL All-Star

First Base: Kevin Youkilis, 2 time AL All-Star, 2008 Hank Aaron Award, best AL hitter
Mike Lowell, 4 time All-Star, 2007 World Series Most Valuable Player

Second Base: Dustin Pedroia, 3 time AL All-Star, 2007 AL ROY, 2008 AL MVP

Short Stop: Marco Scutaro

OF: Jacoby Ellsbury, Franchise single season stolen base record holder
Mike Cameron, 1 time All-Star, 3 time Gold Glove winner

Pitchers: Hideki Okajima, 1 time All-Star, 8th inning set-up specialist
Josh Beckett, 2 time All-Star, 2007 ALCS MVP

These players have all spent significant time this season on the Disabled List, with Youkilis and Cameron being lost for the season. Only 3b Adrian Beltre, DH David Ortiz, and (ironically) RF JD Drew among the everyday players have avoided the DL this season, and Papi forgot how to hit in April.

The fact that the Sox are still in contention is a miracle, and points to only one thing: Terry Francona is the Manager of the Year in the American League.

Guided by Gibby

In 1967 Cardinals' Hall of Famer pitcher Bob Gibson suffered a broken leg when he was struck by a ball off the bat of Roberto Clemente. Gibby was never known to be the most patient man. One legendary story about Gibson's on-field disposition finds catcher Tim McCarver being dispatched by manager Red Schoendienst to go to the mound and talk to Gibson during an opponent's rally. As McCarver tells it, he got a couple of steps toward the mound only to hear Gibson bellow, "What the hell are you doing?" McCarver told his pitcher of the manager's instructions. "Get back behind the plate," came the answer. "The only thing you know about pitching is that you can't hit it."
As you might guess, Gibson quickly tired in the summer of 1967 of being questioned repeatedly by reporters about his injury. Finally, he made a small sign that he taped to his shirt. On the sign:
"1. Yes, it is off." (meaning his cast)
"2. No, it doesn't hurt."
"3. I don't know how much longer." (before he could pitch again)

I have developed a better understanding of Gibson's frustration in the last month than I ever had before. The questions have been frequent and awfully repetitive. I don't have a sign (yet), but if I did, here are the answers:
1. No, I don't know who I ticked off.
2. Yes, it hurts a great deal.
3. No, I'm not sure how we'll manage.
4. No, thank you, I haven't been accused of anything.
5. No, I don't think you can be embarrassed unless you worry about the opinions of people whose opinions don't matter.

I am grateful for the well-wishes of a few kind people; less so of those who also stop on the interstate to gawk at the crash victims. I wish I had better answers. I wish even more that I didn't need them.

Remembrance of Things Past?

The whole clan, very nearly, spent a glorious week in Gulf Shores, enjoying a spectacular house, the gorgeous white sand beach a few steps out our back door, and the wondrous water of the Gulf of Mexico. From the Saturday prior to Memorial Day until the Friday after, we had an incredible week, courtesy of my parents. (All anyone needs to know about my parents: Dad, his sister, and the heirs of their late sisters sold Granny and Granddaddy's farm a few months ago, and he and Mom decided to spend a fair chunk of their part of the proceeds taking all of us on this trip. A lot of people do a lot of lip service to the value of family; my parents have always and invariably put their money where others only put their words.)
Dancing Baby provided a great deal of the entertainment to the whole crowd. My younger niece seemed to have been singled out for particular attention from the 16-month-old. Alie must have heard her named called several million times on this trip, but she never showed anything but good humor and patience with her littlest cousin. DB's uncle has been away at college for most of her life, so she's been a bit hesitant with him. At least prior to the trip. Bubba, as she named him, took her out into the Big Water, where Granddaddy and Grandmommie were only willing to go along the edge of the water. Bubba is now a god on the Dancing Baby scale. So is Emmie, for the same reason. These poor old people who won't venture out, well, DB was patient, but the feelings were clear. Bubba and Emmie are where it's at!
Tacey was the partner for the never-ending "Uh-oh Game." You know the one: the hair band/bracelet/spoon/whatever is at hand is "accidently" dropped, again and again and again and again, with the requisite "Uh-oh" from Dancing Baby, to see how many times the playing partner will pick the darned thing up. Tacey is a very good, very kind, very patient partner for the "Uh-oh Game." Bike-a-Bike (DB's version of Mike-a-Mike, my brother's name since DB's mom was 2 1/2) taught DB how to build sand castles, and that was the least of the challenge. Just getting her to sit down in the sand (she shares her grandfather's aversion to sand) was a major accomplishment! We, and by we I mean DB, fed the deer at the little Gulf Shores Zoo. We looked, unsuccessfully, for alligators along the nature walk; checked out the fish on the walls in all the restaurants; listened to the musicians at the West Beach Grille; had DB's first encounter with flying food at Lambert's Cafe.
It was an utterly delightful week, and something we hadn't all done together since my kids were little.
That was from Saturday to Friday.
On the second Saturday, going home day, we awoke to look out at dark stains on the beach. The Deepwater Horizon oil spill had reached Gulf Shores.
We knew it was coming, and, yes, we hoped it wouldn't arrive until we were gone. But it still hurt my heart to think that Dancing Baby could well be in her mid-teens (at least) before the beaches and the Gulf would look again like they looked during our visit. As little use as I have for sand, the Redneck Riviera has been a big part of our family's life, just as for southerners from all over. And if it is a loss to us, just visitors to the area, what of the people who live there? We had the beach to ourselves on several days of our trip, in the early days of June. I'd never seen that before. People were cancelling trips even before the oil arrived on the beach. Nobody will book now that it has hit.
Will BP pay the waitstaffs who will be laid off when the restaurants close? What about the people hired to clean the rental properties that won't need cleaning? How about the properties that will be foreclosed upon, as there will not be nearly enough income to meet the mortgages? How can the fishermen be made whole? We've all seen the pictures of the pelicans and other creatures who depend on oil-free water to live and thrive. How do we fix that? They can't cash checks.
I don't understand how this happened. And I don't mean the spill. How do we still allow corporations to destroy the world around us, unregulated, unaccountable and unrepentant? Is it alright for the Gulf to be turned into a toilet, with the oil and the chemicals from the dispersants? What of the plumes of oil still underwater and drifting?
I can still see my granddaughter standing at the edge of the Big Water, her face declaring the joy in her heart at seeing such a thing. At least she was spared knowing that she may never see that sight in the same way ever again.
And pretty much the only thing that's getting reported today: BP's stock is down a fraction of a point. Their assets should have been seized immediately after the pipe started spewing oil into the Gulf, as has become our practice with other terrorists. Instead, BP will, of course, declare bankruptcy, so they won't have to pay a nickel to the millions of people whose lives they have destroyed.
And they will never even apologize to the little girls and boys who will never have the experience that has been so important to families all across the south.

Disconnect

Superbly talented Florida Marlins' shortstop Hanley Ramirez has summed up the zeitgeist neatly. A day after totally dogging the retrieval of a ground ball that he had misplayed, being removed from the game by Marlins' manager Fredi Gonzalez, and being benched by Fredi for a couple days after, Ramirez shared his learnings from the whole experience: "He (Gonzalez) doesn't understand. He never played in the Major Leagues."
See, I'm now indebted to Hanley. I saw the highlights show review of the whole situation, and I thought I was seeing an immature, rich, catered-to young man having an unnecessary and unacceptable mistake brought to his attention. I just didn't understand that I was watching the persecution of the righteous by the ignorant. I remember sometime in 1997 watching Bobby Cox of the Braves pull Andruw Jones out of a game for nonchalanting a short fly ball into a game-losing triple. I thought Cox was helping Andruw grow up into a Major League player who could enjoy a productive 15 year career. Turns out, Cox was mistreating the poor baby. At least according to Hanley-Think.
But the truth is that Hanley Ramirez is in the shallow water when it comes to the "You just don't understand me, and can't possibly understand me, because you aren't fortunate enough to be me" way of looking at the world.
Pat Buchanan, considerably older than Mr. Ramirez, has announced that Elena Kagan is not acceptable for the Supreme Court because she is Jewish, and the rest of the court is made up of Catholics and Jews. The devoutly Catholic Mr. Buchanan is disturbed at his sudden discovery of the dearth of Protestants on the Court. Now, in my adult life, we've typically identified Court nominees by their abortion opinions. And your side doesn't want anyone from my side on it, and vice versa, because we, obviously, cannot communicate or understand one another about anything. I'd never been aware of the concern Pat Buchanan has for the spiritual descendents of Martin Luther and his colleagues, but good ol' Pat wants to make sure that we WASPish types have our representative on the Court.
Thanks, Pat, but I just don't feel that where somebody goes to church on their holy day, if they go at all, and if they observe any holy day at all, is the qualification I want to run to when considering Supreme Court nominees. Rather than understanding the theology of The United Methodist Church (Which is impossible, as we don't understand it ourselves; that's why we are perpetually studying and rewriting standards and policies and trying to turn ourselves into those "real" churches that have been around a whole lot longer than we have. Like Pat's. But I digress.), how about somebody that understands the law? Somebody who has given her/his life to the study of the law in America, how that law is to be applied, and what that old Constitution's about, anyway? Somebody like, oh, I don't know...a former Dean of the Harvard Law School?
As a citizen, I don't care where or if Elena Kagan goes to church, temple, mosque or whatever else is out there. I just want to know if she knows the law.
As for the rest, we used to have this thing called "Empathy."
Empathy was that human quality that let a more mature man, say, a Joe Torre, relate to a young bi-racial man, let's call him Derek Jeter, and help him get established as a Major League baseball player in the world's toughest media market.
Empathy was that human quality that let a judge like John Paul Stevens envision the circumstances of the young, the poor, the woman, and new immigrant, and anyone else that didn't match up molecule by molecule with a 90 year old man who has served on the Supreme Court since 1975.
Empathy was that quality that allowed Pope John XXIII to consider the plight of Catholics world-wide, still sitting in services every Sunday that were being conducted in Latin, which was understood by just about no one outside the clergy. His empathy led him to call for the Second Vatican Council, and start the process toward allowing people to actually understand the liturgy and homily they were faithfully attending.
Empathy was that quality that led Abraham Lincoln to look at the plight of the slave and know that the Peculiar Institution was wrong and had to end.
Empathy was what led Mother Teresa to care for the incurables.
It's what kept Nelson Mandela from treating the white South Africans during his Presidency the way black South Africans had been treated for generations when the white folks were running the show.
It's what caused my grandfather, a West Tennessee sharecropper trying to move out and up to his own farm, to cry upon the death of President Roosevelt, as aristocratic a President as this country shall ever know, because Granddaddy believed that Mr. Roosevelt was on his side.
Empathy is what enables us to see beyond ourselves and our own limited experience to know something of the lives and experiences of the other people who make up this world.
And Empathy is sorely lacking in our divided, angry, frustrated world. And that lack is revealed in every Hanley Ramirez, Pat Buchanan, Tea Party, terrorist, you and me, whenever we lack the will, the energy, the time or the desire to try to grasp the reality of anyone's life but our own.

No Fool Like an Old Preacher Fool

People in my line of work have, generally speaking, a bizarre fetish. No, not the Bakker/Swaggert one. Or the one the Pope tried to cover up. There is, however, a deep, entrenched, time-honored notion among many that if you can come up with a few pieces of information that in a very few weeks are going to be published openly in the church's version of Pravda, then you...what? Win something? Should be a detective? Are the smartest person in the room? What? (for starters, participants in the fetish should heed the words of Hall of Fame baseball writer Peter Gammons: "I don't care about being first; I just care about being right)
Those pieces of information are, and I kid you not, where the preachers will be assigned for the new year. I don't get that. In the first place, who has time to go around chasing this alleged treasure? In the second place, who cares? Because, as I mentioned above, in about six or seven weeks, it will all be very publicly published!
Usually this fetish is played out in coffee cliques spread around throughout the conference. Typically it is harmless, just shop-talk among people who don't know enough about anything else to carry on a normal conversation. Occasionally, it has become malicious. There are even stories that have circulated about people using their discoveries to sabotage colleagues, which is pretty sick, to state the obvious.
My course in life has generally left me out of these types of speculations. My assignments haven't been interesting enough to generate conversation. Hooray for me. One night recently, however, my daughter came in and said she had seen one of my retired colleagues. One we've known forever. One known to be a bloodhound-type loudmouth when on the track of some insignificant piece of SOON TO BE PUBLISHED INFORMATION. He slithered up to my daughter and asked, "Where's your dad going?"
She did great. She told him she had no idea. He pushed and prodded for a couple more sleazy attempts at the nugget of gold. She finally just told him we don't discuss such things. Which was wonderful, because there are never, ever any secrets of significance between my children and me. I was completely and totally proud of her for her dealing with that old fool.
Because that's what he is.
And if, sir, you should ever happen up on this, and you know who you are just as I do, that's what you are. Maybe, especially in retirement, your life is so devoid of meaning that you have to spend all your time chasing down this utterly useless information. Have a big time, you dope! But if, in the future, you want to know something about me, call me. What do I care? I'll tell you what you're breathless to know. Just spare my children any display of your fetish! Why in the name of the God you pretend to serve do you need to show young people just how petty and stupid the clergy can be? Why would you pull back the curtain to reveal the sorriest part of the church to someone who's already got plenty of reason to be suspicious of it?
To amend the wise old saying, There truly is no fool like an old preacher fool!

The Changing of the Guard...Soon

There was a poignant moment in the telecast of tonight's Red Sox v. Rangers game. The camera caught David Ortiz and Tim Wakefield together. The two great players were in the dugout as Mike Lowell served as Designated Hitter and Clay Buchholz pitched.
With the signing of Adrian Beltre to play third this season, the Red Sox had announced to the world that they didn't want or need Mike Lowell anymore. They, indeed, had traded the former World Series MVP to the Texas Rangers, only to find the deal voided because Mikey's thumb needed ligament surgery. Now, not quite three weeks into the season, Lowell has supplanted Big Papi in the Sox' lineup.
43 year old Tim Wakefield, fresh off his first-ever All Star Game selection, was signed last winter to a two year contract. This should have provided more than ample opportunity to Wake to surpass Cy Young and Roger Clemens as the winningest pitcher in Red Sox history. Tim has 175 wins in a Sox jersey; Young and Clemens sit at 192. Seventeen wins in two years for a pitcher who has won 17, 10 and 11 in the seasons since his 40th birthday? No problem! Except that the Sox signed John Lackey, bringing the total of starting pitchers to six. And the Sox are clearly determined to keep Clay Buchholz in the majors this season.
Papi doesn't seem able to hit anymore. The Greatest Clutch Hitter in Red Sox history (quite a title for a player on a team that's had Teddy Ballgame, Yaz, Pudge, Rice, Lynn, Nomar, and a whole lot of other great hitters) has lost his batspeed, his knowledge of the strike zone, and, seemingly, his confidence.
So the unwanted Lowell plays, and Papi sits. With Wakefield.
The camera showed the two veterans together, Ortiz' arm draped around Wakefield's shoulder, Wake speaking and Ortiz in rapt attention.
I wish I could have heard that conversation. I suspect that I know a fair percentage of it. Things that neither of those consummate professionals will ever, ever say to anyone else. Things that each understands about the other's predicament. Things that are borne of frustration and demotion and humiliation. Things that come up when you're wondering, "Can I get this done anymore?"
I treasure each of those men. There would have been no 2004 without the two of them. No 2007, either. The Red Sox might well have continued as a moribund franchise had they not come along. They may very well have made it possible to persuade Schilling to come, and Manny to stay, and given Theo the courage to trade Nomar in the first place.
But time marches on.
And time can be so very cruel.
I hope Papi can find his swing, and I hope Wake gets his turns in the rotation. I want these old friends to continue forever, productive and effective.
It will all end sometime, and the NESN camera strongly suggested it won't be long, but I can still hope and root like hell for one more season of glory for two Champions who led the eternally-suffering Red Sox Nation to the Promised Land, not just once, but twice.
Come on, boys! I'm with you, and always will be! Calendar be damned!

Happy Thoughts

1. Reason enough for them Internets to exist: http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/
Roger Ebert's natural voice doesn't work any more, due to multiple bouts with cancer, but his writing is an excellent as always. The man is insightful and brilliant on a great many things beyond film.

2. Reason enough to carry hope for the old home town: http://ilovememphisblog.com/
Kerry Crawford is a young woman I've never met. Count me, however, a big fan. A young white person open about her love for Memphis! Who'd a thought? And if that's not enough, she's a member of the local Roller Derby team! Roller Derby, people!

3. Reasons enough to treasure raising the grandchild in Memphis: http://www.levittshell.org/
Free music series, including a day for kids, each May/June and September/October
http://www.southernfolklore.com/
Judy Peiser may not be God, but she's sure doing the Lord's work!
http://www.memphiszoo.org/home
Disregard the histrionics of the local dog trainer, and check out the treasure that is our zoo. I started going there when the elephants still had chains around their feet. How far things have come!
http://www.memphisbotanicgarden.com/index.cfm?section=12
The Botanic Garden (Goldsmith Gardens forever to those of us who still refer to Memphis State) has put its time, money and energy into a great place for children...in addition to feeding the koi!
http://www.dixon.org/
Need an object lesson on the beauty of God's creation for your little one? Pretty good place to begin teaching the value of art to the soul, as well.
http://www.hueyburger.com/music.cfm
Need a good, smokeless place for your Dancing Baby to discover the fun of live music? (Not to mention a great burger, to boot.)

4. Reason enough to keep an old-fashioned radio around: http://www.wevl.org/
Community radio, with as eclectic a playlist as you'll ever find anywhere.

5. Reason enough to carry some hope for the soul of the church: http://www.churchhealthcenter.org/
As we abandon the city, at least somebody's still trying to make a difference for the working poor and forgotten of the community.

6. Reason enough to enjoy summer: http://www.minorleaguebaseball.com/index.jsp?sid=t235
No, I can't explain why the Memphis Redbirds are in the Pacific Coast League. But hey, we won the PCL Championship last year!

7. Reason enough to enjoy some creativity: http://www.artsmemphis.org/
All the arts that are arts, right here in river city.

There, I did it. Seven happy thoughts.

Things an Insomniac Just Doesn't Need

1. A beloved baseball team that does not wish to win its games.
2. A beloved granddaughter who is not required to take naps or go to bed for the night when visiting another grandparent, thus rendering her internal clock destroyed for the next four or five days.
3. A goodbye gift from the current Finance Committee. Try being told in the month when the IRS expects to be paid that the workplace will not pay your family's insurance for the quarter. Which brings the current workplace's theft of salary and benefits to $22,141.69, not to mention the salary promises and staff additions lied about prior to arrival.
4. Three months up in the air as to whether there will be a workable job available for the coming year.
5. Being told to "leave well" in the face of numbers 3 and 4 above. Huh?
6. Having three more sermons to preach on lectionary passages that can't be followed where they lead, due to number 5 above.
7. Having to face the wife and kids, two in college already and the other who wants and needs to be this fall, when the current income has never lived up to what was promised, and the next income is dropping like a rock.
Sleep tight!

We Had 'Em All the Way!

And if you believe that title, would you like to buy a bridge?
Josh Beckett didn't pitch like an ace tonight. By the time he left in favor of Scott Schoeneweis in the fifth, the Sox were down 5-1. That's the bad news. The good news is that Carsten Charles Sabathia didn't pitch like an ace tonight, either. CC took it to 5-4 in the fifth, before David Robertson let Adrian Beltre tie the game.
Take a look at Theo's additions. Beltre was 1-3 with two RBI and a handful of nice plays at third. Mike Cameron was 2-3 with a walk and a run scored. Marco Scutaro 3-4 in the 9 slot, with a run and an RBI. Nice pickups, Mr. GM!
Concerns: Papi was 0-3 with a walk. Two of his outs, a couple of groundballs to the right side, came with runners in scoring position. Jacoby Ellsbury went 0-5, but we had glimpses of just what our jackrabbit outfield is going to deliver in terms of fly balls going to die in their mitts. Ramon S. Ramirez gave up a couple of runs, but the rest of the relievers were fine in their initial outings.
Need I point out that Pedey and Youk are just ridiculous. As a Memphian, I can direct you to the moment the Grizzlies regressed from the low-rung playoff team that they were for three years: the Shane Battier trade. Every sports team has to have at least one guy who doesn't mind doing the dirty work, brings energy and intensity to every single game, is the first man there for practice, game or the airplane, and is the last one to leave when they turn out the lights. Battier brought that ethic to the Grizzlies. Youk and Pedey are both that guy for the Sox. They started out the season pounding on the MFYs. How about 5-8 and a walk, 2 doubles, a triple and a homer, 5 runs scored, 5 RBI. People speculate about whether they'd take TheRod or Pujols or Ryan Howard to start a team. How about a couple of All-Stars whose uniforms are always filthy, who never give away atbats, and play like their lives depend on it every single night? I'll take Youk and Pedey over any pair you can show me.
Game One: Red Sox 9, MFYs 7. What a wonderful world!

New Life

If you want a profound Easter post, you can probably find one with very little effort, but, then again, nobody comes here looking for profundity.
No, the new life I'm excited about at the moment is that which begins at 7 pm, CDT, on Sunday evening. Jon Miller and Joe Morgan will welcome ESPN viewers to Fenway Park. The Boston Red Sox will host the MFYs in the opening game of the 2010 Major League Baseball season. And all will be right in my world again.
It has been a long time since November 4, when the MFYs beat the Phillies in Game 6 of the 2009 World Series. An insufferable football season was played to completion. College basketball and the NBA slog on and on. Do they still play hockey? Does anyone care?
This Sunday night, baseball will be back. Baseball means Spring. Baseball means that the Cubs have a chance to play in the World Series. Shoot, they could even win another one after 102 years. The Red Sox have done it twice after 86 years, and the White Sox got one after 88.
Bobby Cox will begin the last season of his Hall of Fame career on Monday. Tony LaRussa and Joe Torre will continue their progression towards Cooperstown. Albert Pujols will continue his reign as the best all-around player in the game. The Phils will seek their third straight NL pennant, and the Cards, Dodgers, Braves and Cubs will try to stop them. The MFYs will look to repeat, but my Beantowners will be hot on their trail. The Rays still have the core that took them to the Series in 2008, and in a new, openair ballpark in Minneapolis, Ron Gardenhire will find a way to keep the Twins in the chase in spite of already losing Joe Nathan for the season to Tommy John surgery.
A kid named Jason Heyward will play right field for the Braves, coming off a spring where he has looked every inch the best prospect in the game. Old veteran Mariano Rivera will try to be the Sandman for one more season. Chipper Jones will try to be Chipper Jones again, and Joe Mauer will try to be worth that contract.
I'll be visiting with old friends each evening. Vin Scully will call Dodger games for the 61st consecutive season, and Chip Caray will go back on Braves TV. Joe Castiglione and Dave O'Brien will keep Red Sox nation informed, while the execrable John Sterling will prove, once more, that all the money in the world can't buy class in the Bronx. John Rooney will try to make sense of the beloved Mike Shannon, and the Brennamans will see Reds fans through another season. Jon Miller, bound for the Hall of Fame as this year's Ford Frick Award winner, will once more provide the San Francisco Giants' fans with the best broadcast in Major League Baseball, while his protege, Dave Fleming, just gets better and better. Pat Hughes' good humor and Ron Santo's utterly blind loyalty will encourage, or more likely, comfort Cubs' fans all summer long.
Locally, we will occupy our seats at AutoZone Park throughout the summer as our Redbirds try to defend their Pacific Coast League championship. My granddaughter's baseball education began before she could possibly have known that she was at the ballpark. Baseball Second Grade will commence on April 16.
The next six months will be grand. The Perfect Game is back, and just in the nick of time. The old water heater flooded the house last week. The Career (sarcasm intended) is on the rocks. The winter doldrums have been brutal this year. My country lost its freaking mind over the idea that everyone should be able to get healthcare. Bush's idiotic wars have become Obama's idiotic wars, and for reasons that I will never understand, people still send their children to die in them. Patriotism? As though there is any reason we and our enemies see the world as we do other than the geographical accident of birth.
But Baseball is coming. Tony Campolo made a forture preaching that "It's Friday But Sunday's Coming." Good for him.
My message of hope tonight: It's still March, but Baseball's Coming!
Hallelujah!

Who Would You Like to Be?

For several lengthy portions of my life (those not crowded with the exploits of various sports or political figures), if I had been offered the opportunity to be anyone in the world, my first choice would have been Jim Lovell. Long before he was immortalized by Tom Hanks and Ron Howard in a very, very good movie, Jim Lovell was an honest to goodness hero. Lovell flew fighters in the Korean War, and, familiar to the stories of many of the astronauts, became a navy test pilot later. He missed out on being in the Mercury 7 over a marginal medical problem. It wasn't enough to keep him out of the Gemini program. He flew Gemini 7 with Frank Borman, and again, with Borman and Bill Anders on Apollo 8.
Apollo 8 flew around the moon.
They flew around the moon.
Three American men in a tin can flew around the back of the moon, that part that faces away from Earth and out into space.
They were the crew that made the Christmas Eve broadcast back to us in 1968. They (and it depends on whether Lovell or Borman is telling the story of just who held the camera) got the first shots of the "Earth-rise" over the moon's horizon. They are breathtakingly stunning photographs to this very day.
Apollo 8 and the Christmas Eve telecast are the earliest memories that I have, outside of family life, of something good and positive. The first memories that I carry, outside the family, are of the murders of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy. Perhaps that's why our parents were so determined that we watch Lovell, Borman and Anders on Christmas Eve. 1968 had been a horrible year of assassination, Viet Nam, Chicago and Nixon.
Lovell flew next on Apollo 13.
He, Fred Haise and Jack Swigert had the rollercoaster ride of all rollercoaster rides. An explosion in an onboard oxygen tank cost them their opportunity to land on the moon. It very nearly cost them their lives.
Their survival is testimony to the intelligence and training of the astronauts and the Mission Control staff, and the sheer determination and leadership of Jim Lovell. He willed that spacecraft home.
Lovell is a modest man. His wit is self-deprecating. He is often to this day applauded for his strength and toughness in that toughest of circumstances. He often pokes fun at being lauded for a failed mission.
Lovell is a man of courage. He is a man of science. He is a man of intellect, loyalty and character.
Jim Lovell is 82 years old today. And he is still one of my heroes.
Happy birthday, Sir. And thank you, again.

Alex Chilton is Gone

Is it a needless redundancy to say that Alex was an artist, and a different sort of bird? Of course it is. But he was.
Alex was working with Chips Moman and Dan Penn when he was barely old enough to drive. The band was the Box Tops, and another group of Memphis kids changed music, again. The Letter and Cry Like a Baby are the most enduring cuts. They stand up to this day. The lead vocalist is a big part of the reason why. (The Box Tops went through several incarnations, one including a drummer named Thomas Boggs. He would later take his TGI Friday's experience and open a restaurant in his home town, and then a series of them, called Huey's. And he gave additional generations of Memphis musicians a place to play.)
After the Box Tops went their separate ways, Alex bounced around before landing in Big Star with Chris Bell, Jody Stephens and Andy Hummel. There would have been no alternative music movement without Big Star. Period.
Where did Peter Buck's jangling guitar come from? Big Star. Where did Michael Stipe and Eddie Vedder find their inspiration as lyricists and lead singers? Big Star. Or, more specifically, Alex Chilton. Where did the model for records lost as record companies went to pieces or turned on their own artists? Big Star.
#1 Record changed music. Third/Sister Lovers blew music up. By that time, the band was a conspiracy between Chilton, Stephens, Jim Dickinson and a lot of Memphis musicians, the great Richard Roseborough in particular, but Richard's another story.
Everything that would arise in Rock and Roll for the next 40 years has its roots in Third/Sister Lovers. That's not just my opinion. Michael Stipe said so. Peter Buck said so. A Who's Who of the alt rock generation agreed.
Alex had a third career as a solo artist. Like Flies on Sherbet is the pick here. It is weird. And brilliant. And free. Like Rock is supposed to be. Alex got it. Or it got him.
Chilton managed to keep the relationships alive no matter how the artistic temperament affected him and his colleagues in the various bands through the years. He and Stephens picked up Jon Auer and Ken Stringfellow to perform and record as Big Star off and on for 15 or 20 years. Several versions of The Box Tops have appeared at the Beale Street festival and other settings recently.
Big Star was set to play a benefit for the Overton Park Shell (corporate name ignored intentionally) on May 15. I hate like hell that we won't get that show.
Thanks, Alex, for keeping the faith. Thanks for bearing witness to the truth that still lives and breathes at this weird, funky, inexplicable doorway to the Delta. Thanks for everything you shared with us. And thanks for that moment you shared with me at the Beale Street Festival, when the sound wasn't set up to suit you, so you jumped down off the stage and signed autographs, posed for pictures, talked and laughed until it was brought to your liking.
Rest well, brother, even if it is far, far too soon.

A Personal Note

I'll give you a couple of options. You can consider this a belated anniversary valentine, or you can consider it a comment on how life has been the last month or six weeks. Take your pick.
Now, down to business.
Thanks, honey!
Thanks for eight years of this partnership. Thanks for loving my girls, and now our granddaughter. Thanks for buying in to my goofy life, and treating it with far, far more respect than it deserves. Thank you for hanging in with a migraine sufferer. Thanks for learning baseball to details you had never imagined existed. Thanks for your encouragement when I see no point or hope. Thanks for believing when I'm ready to give up. Thanks for doing your job all day and then getting home many nights and helping with mine, too. Thanks for tolerating the calls that come at weird hours and during the birthday parties and other celebrations. Thanks for making room in your house as well as your heart for my kids and the baby. Thanks for enjoying some of the more peculiar of my acquaintances (or at least pretending to), because I love some of these whackos dearly. Thanks for ignoring my devotion to rasslin' and roots music and especially Levon Helm-I know how his voice grates on your nerves, and I really am trying to remember not to play him right after you get home from work. Thanks for trying to smile as I drag you to every Dylan show in a seven state area. Thanks for reminding me not to yell at the television during Red Sox-MFY games after the under-30's have gone to sleep. Thanks for pretending to tolerate cajun/creole food, moroccan food and whatever kinds of critters are skewered on those kabobs from the cuisines of various parts of the world. Thanks for pretending to think it's a good idea to visit those neighborhoods in Chicago that contain the great blues clubs. Thanks for letting me rant when I need to. Thanks for your patience with Zevon and Dickinson and Cash and Grohl and Earle and Snider and Hiatt and Guthrie and Haggard and Lovett and Waits and Kimbrough and Burnside and Willie and all the others you really don't care for.
And for all I've left out, thanks for that, too!
I love you more than I can ever explain.
Me

Tiger, The Women, and Apologies

A young man, married, twice a father, the best (perhaps ever) at his job, wealthy, handsome and as famous as anyone in the world: Awesome!
The same young man, outed as a philanderer, facing the loss of his wife and children, reputation, half his wealth (at least) in a divorce settlement, seriously damaged earnings potential for the future: Stupid, arrogant and sinful.
The same young man, emerging momentarily from therapy, owning his behavior, apologizing profusely to everyone he disappointed and wounded: Hopeful.
Some (any) portion of the Other Women involved in his philandering asking for the young man to apologize to them, women who wanted to be with a famous man they knew to be married, women who demonstrated no restraint or morality themselves: Absurd!
If there are to be additional apologies in Tiger Woods' case, how about Tiger's girlfriends, all, some, or any of them, summon up an attempt at decency themselves, and apologize to Mrs. Woods?
One thing that hasn't been said anywhere by anyone about Tiger Woods is that he forced or coerced anyone into his bed. That being the case, they were, at the bare minimum, willing participants. With a married man. And twice a father.
There is a lot of speculation in the media about Tiger's body language, choice of words, eye contact with the camera, and everything else about his statement last Friday. He brought that on himself. But what must be said is that whatever his motivation, he seems to be trying to get his life together.
We must applaud anyone who makes such an effort.
But there is no sympathy here for any of those who shared in his misbehavior looking to play the victim. They all knew who he is. That's why they made themselves available to him.
Instead of asking for apologies, ladies, how about growing up and making one?

Hey, Pat: Just Shut Up

This is an 80 year old fool named Pat Robertson who has been a boil on the ass of Christianity for a very, very long time. Pat believes that God does very bad things to people.



Pat believes that 200 years ago, some Haitian people made a "deal with the devil" when the French came calling to try to re-enslave the Haitians. Pat believes that God has a very long memory.



Pat believes that God sent an earthquake to destroy one of the poorest, most impoverished areas in the Western Hemisphere and kill as many Haitians as possible.



Pat Robertson couldn't recognize Christianity if it came up and bit him on the ass. This is one moment when I wish that I could see the world the way Pat does. Because if God treated evil people the way Pat thinks God does, I would really love to see what God would do to Pat.




If you have a clearer image of God than Pat (and that wouldn't be difficult), and believe that God identifies with the poor and destroyed of the world, then give to UMCOR or the Red Cross or any other agency that will tell the Haitian people that God is gracious and loving and knows what it means to hurt, and that God's people are in the business of caring for life's victims.

Happy Birthday!

One year ago today, our whole family raced to Jackson to await this little lady's arrival. Today, she enjoyed a good chunk of birthday cake thoroughly. And we all still wait on her moment by moment.

Happy Birthday, Dancing Baby!
I love you!
Granddaddy

Decade? What Decade? Or, 9/10 of the Way There!

Remember The Count from Sesame Street? When he began to count cookies, did you ever hear him point to the first and say, "Zero cookies" the second with, "One cookie" and so forth? I didn't think so.
When you count noses in whatever setting you do that, be it family members at the dinner table, passengers in the vehicle, children in the classroom or worshippers in the pews, have you ever started your count with person zero? Me, either.
Then what in the world are all these people doing with their "End of the Decade" lists of music, movies, historic events and so forth?
Unless we have moved to some sort of base nine numeric system, which would mean the thing would never be called a "decade" in the first place, then we haven't reached the end of anything.
All this nonsense results, of course, from the inability of the world to wait for the actual turn of the century-wait for it-nine years ago. The real "Y2K" disaster was in missing the end of the twentieth century by a full year! The end of 1999 didn't complete anything, and certainly not a century. HENCE THE FREAKING "99" AT THE END OF THE NUMBER!!!
The 100 years started with a "1" at the end of the beginning number-1901-and ended with "00" at the end-at the midnight that lay between December 31, 2000 and January 1, 2001. Which, of course, is then when the current decade began, along with the new century. Just as we never start counting with "0" in other areas of life, so do we not do so when counting years.
I understand that what passes these days for the Great American Press has gotten so lazy that they opt, invariably, for the easy, simple story (decade Top Ten lists in addition to annual Top Tens) instead of covering, oh I don't know, the wars that we're still involved in? But I digress.
Unless there's been some sort of vote that I missed, we still start out counting with "1" and complete decades with "10" or its multiples, and centuries with a "00" at the end of the number.
So let's all just settle down, wait for the appropriate time, and FOLLOW THE STINKING RULES!

Tiger

I don't like golf. Don't play it. Never think about it. Except when Tiger is playing. Tiger playing golf must be what it looked like when Babe Ruth walked up to the plate, John D. Rockefeller sat down to negotiate a deal, or Thomas Jefferson took pen in hand.
We now know that Tiger isn't as good at some of the other parts of life as he is at golf.
What a shock.
A rich, handsome man took advantage of the situation when women made themselves available to him, even though he was married.
What a shock.
I have been at my job long enough to know that people with none of Tiger's advantageous adjectives get themselves into the same predicament on a fairly regular basis.
And yet, a great many wise (heavy sarcasm intended) people want to tell Tiger what to do now. Some say take a break from golf (Hey, Rick Reilly: I genuinely cannot wait until you get caught doing whatever it is you do! Your piety over Tiger is way, way, way past getting on my last nerve). Tiger announced today he will do that. Others suggest he perform the Great American Penance, go on the Oprah Winfrey Show and grieve over his hideousness. No such appearance has been announced. I hope it isn't forthcoming.
Others just want him to appear in public and own the whole problem. I don't think he can do that.
I don't know anything about Florida law, but in Tennessee, if the cops arrive and see any evidence of violence on the person of one spouse, the other is arrested. The last thing Tiger is interested in right now is causing Elin to be arrested. So we will see him when his injuries from (ahem) "the car crash" are healed, and not before.
I am the father of two grown young women. Truth be told, I kind of hope Elin did take the three wood to him. She's entitled.
The rest of us aren't.
May I remind all of us that we are in the season of Advent?
Advent is the time of preparation for Christmas, the birth of our Savior. As in, the One Who Saves Us. As in, We Need A Savior. As in, We Are Sinful. As in, All of Us Are Sinful!
I mentioned Schadenfreude a few posts back. May I suggest that any of us who are taking delight in Tiger's very, very public confessional (not sought, but inflicted), should be very grateful that we are nobodies? May I suggest that the only difference in Tiger and you and me is that we aren't headline news when we screw our lives up? May I remind us all that what Tiger did doesn't matter in sin terms. He decided to make himself God in this particular issue, just like you and I do in our sins. That's why Tiger's behavior, and yours and mine, is sin. And may I remind us all that this is the very season when we of the Christian faith affirm that God had mercy on all of us, took the initiative that we wouldn't/couldn't, and acted to save us in spite of everything?
Good News, Tiger! Good News, Self! Good News, the Rest of You! God knows, but God loves you/me anyway! And in Jesus Christ, wants to save us from ourselves!
Merry Christmas!

29

December 8, 1980. 29 years without John Lennon in the world. Could it have been so long? It remains tragic for Yoko, Sean and Julian. But we're all poorer for what we lost in that moment, in a still-young life, and for all that hasn't been heard, and never will be, from the spectacularly gifted composer.
John Lennon, Public Figure, was everything we all wanted to be when we grew up. Imagine if those dreams still lived in us...

Midtown Huey's Sunday Night, Part 2

Midtown Huey's Sunday Night, Part 1

Thanksgiving 2009

Counting away...
Kaly has to head any list like this, and probably will for the next...oh, I don't know, rest of my life? Becoming a grandfather is just the coolest thing. I recommend it wholeheartedly. Nobody has ever been crazier about their children than me, but this grandchild thing...it's just different. And awesome.
My girls are home. A year ago, I had no idea where we were headed. But this is a really good place. I'm humbled by the grace that has my household where it is. I am proud and utterly delighted at the young women my daughters have become. Sara is an attentive mother, totally committed to her baby. And God knows, apart from my mother, she didn't have a lot of instruction or example on that sort of thing until Shannon and I got married. Em continues her preparation to teach little children. I couldn't possibly be any prouder of either of them.
The older woman in the house has put up with me another year. That's no small thing. She's also put up with my job for another year. That's a huge thing. This job sucks for the family of the person doing it, but she is as gracious about it all as anyone could ever be asked to be. No kidding, I have been called away on every single holiday, the birthday of every member of the household at least once, and I'm still working with a group that hasn't lived up to even one of about 28 significant promises that were made before I agreed to go there. And she hasn't blown a gasket yet. Well, not over that stuff.
My parents are well, active and able. Most people my age can't make all of that statement, if any of it. What a blessing and a joy. I'm not sure there has been any single part of my grandparenting that's been more fun than watching my Dad with his great-granddaughter. It's just absolutely and utterly the coolest thing I've seen in my whole life. Mom's always been Mom, to the extent of most of us taking her totally for granted. But that's Mom. I knew how she'd be as a great-grandmother, because nobody's ever been better at being a Mom or Grandmother. She sets the example every single day, now, to the third generation in her wake.
I'm grateful for my friends. There aren't many of them, but boy, they are quality. Mike (non-brother, but might as well be) and Dave, I love you both, your wives, and Mike's Bryce. I apologize for my long silences, and your disregarding of them whenever they come. My life is infinitely richer for your presence in it.
In the sibling category, I am also thankful, as always for and to Mike (brother) and Laurie. I love both you knuckleheads, too. We've hung the longest, and I fully intend and expect that to last until it doesn't matter any more.
Thanks, Boss, for these and all other blessings this Thanksgiving!

But most of all for Kaly! Hey, a wise friend once pointed out that Grandbaby Is Life!

Schadenfreude

I'm not a big fan of things German. My aunt was one of those people whose family braved the barbed wire and Russian rifles when word circulated in East Berlin that a wall was going up (to be taken down 20 years ago today, oddly enough).
But it's time to dust off a great German word: Schadenfreude.
It is usually translated as "enjoying the misery of others" or some such similar phrase.
And boy, have I got it these days.
Jay Leno has turned into one royal stinkbomb at 9 pm Central Time on NBC. I couldn't be happier.
Now, some feel the need to bring up the recent turmoil surrounding David Letterman in this conversation. Well long story short, Dave apparently acted like an idiot, and he should have known better. But then again, the best President of the United States of my lifetime behaved worse than Dave, and he was in a job just a bit more significant than late night comedian.
I am enjoying Leno's loser-dom for one simple reason: disloyalty.
Is there a single human trait that is worse than disloyalty? I'm not aware of what it is. And I'm not talking about disloyalty in the sense of a Nixonian, enemies list, I'm right no matter what I do, America: love it or leave it kind of crap.
I'm talking about basic gratitude.
Common decency.
Grateful for food on your table kind of stuff.
A little history: Jay Leno couldn't get arrested prior to David Letterman's creating Late Night, with the blessing of, and at the behest of, Johnny Carson. Dave gave that ugly goof Leno, with his irritating accent and act a career. And kept it going with routine appearances on his, Dave's, highly rated and highly reviewed program.
And Leno repaid that extravagant gift with a craven act of piracy against his friend, Dave, and the god of Late Night Television, Mr. Carson.
Johnny wanted Dave to succeed him. Common knowledge. Dave wanted the job. Obvious. And Leno connived and schemed, plotted and planned, to snake the thing out from under the man to whom he owed everything.
Leno got his prize. Dave went to CBS to host The Late Show.
Johnny's Tonight Show became, under Leno, the lamest hour on television. Jay cribbed everything he did from Dave, Howard Stern and anyone else with a creative bone, which Jay never had. See, he didn't have Dave to make him look good any more. Instead, he staged such a bland program that middle-America was thrilled.
Dave just kept winning Emmy awards.
Then Jay got turned out. NBC wanted to keep Conan O'Brien. He brought in the young viewers. The ones the advertisers want.
Jay had an old audience.
That was in the good old days. Now he has no audience.
Apologies to John Lennon, karma isn't always instant. Sometimes karma, like revenge, is best served cold. Now, NBC has wrecked 9 pm every night, has damaged the ratings in every market where local news follows Leno, and 10:30, the sacred Tonight Show, has tanked as well.
Letterman, at long last, stands as the King of Late Night.
I'm thrilled.
Not at O'Brien's plight. I think he's a good guy, and he was funny on Late Night. Haven't seem him since he moved to 10:30, and won't.
But Jay Leno deserves every bad thing that happens to him. Cancellation won't be humiliating enough to suit me. Of course, he wants to go back to Tonight. It's the only place his alleged humor can draw flies.
You just don't spit in the face of a person who gives you a life and a career.
Ever.
Schadenfreude, Jay.
'Cause payback's a bitch!

The Conversation

Kaly (waking up from her nap, heard on the baby monitor): la la la, la la la, la la la.

Grandparents: (giggling on the couch in the den)

Kaly: la la la, la la la, la la la.

Granddaddy (unable to wait any longer): Ah-ooo (think howl of Carol in Where the Wild Things Are)

Kaly: (sudden silence)

Granddaddy (halfway up the staircase, and a little louder): Ah-ooo

Kaly: (giggling)

Granddaddy (at the bedroom door, louder): Ah-ooo

Kaly: (laughing out loud now, like great-uncle Mike [think Eddie Murphy's laugh if you don't know Mike])

Granddaddy (at the now open bedroom door): Hi!

Kaly: (total laughing meltdown)

Granddaddy: Do you want to get up?

Kaly: Yeff!

Granddaddy: (lifting her out of the crib) Let's go see Grandmommie!

Kaly: Yeff! (melting into laughter again)

Granddaddy: (hiding around the corner of the bookshelf at the den door) Let's get Grandmommie!

Kaly: (vigorous nodding)

Granddaddy: (leaning around the corner of the bookshelf before jumping back) Where's Grandmommie?

Kaly: (giggling)

Granddaddy: (leaning out again) Where's Grandmommie?

Kaly: (breaks out laughing)

Granddaddy: (jumping out into plain view with the baby) Grandmommie!

Kaly: (arms out for Grandmommie, laughing her head off) Yeff!

[Playing ensues, with Grandmommie and Granddaddy being climbed, lots of laughing, baby being tickled and tickling back]

Granddaddy: Are you hungry? Do you want some bites?

Kaly: (nodding hugely) Yeff!

Grandmommie: Kaly, you want Gabba Gabba?

Kaly: Yeff!

Granddaddy: (returning with a jar of Bananas and Strawberries while Grandmommie turns on the tv to Kaly's favorite show) Bites! Bites! Bites!

Kaly: MMMMM!

[Fade out: grandparents feeding the baby while they enjoy DJ Lance Rock and his friends on Yo Gabba Gabba]

Life is Good!

Mr. Tony is on the radio!

Does Curb Your Enthusiasm speak to your life as closely as it does mine? Do you have even a passing interest in sports? Do you know what PTI stands for and watch it daily? Are you a big timer? Are you a little who wishes to be a big timer?
Get over the iTunes bias, and subscribe to The Tony Kornheiser Show podcast.
Mr. Tony is the doppelganger of Larry David. He is wonderful. He is paranoid. He is totally and completely out of touch with real life. And he is hysterically funny.
You should be listening to him every single day of your life.
What will you get out of it?
Hypochondria.
Whining.
Social Climbing.
Sports (occasionally).
World Wide Wilbon.
D.C.
Bruce Springsteen tickets. (Thanks, Nils)
Bedtime.
No flying.
Off Monday Night Football.
The littles.
Hoda and Kathie Lee.
Night of Quarterbacks.
Here Comes Tony's Mailbag. (Thanks, Darius)
I Need a Driver.
Dana Bash needs a sandwich.
Old Guy Radio.
Get with the program! iTunes. Podcasts. Audio Podcasts. The Tony Kornheiser Show.
Thank me later!
Remember, it's all for the kids!
And if you're out riding your bike tonight, please wear white.

Congratulations, Mr. President

Dear Mr. President,
Congratulations on being named the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize. You now stand with a number of the most remarkable women and men in human history. I hope and pray you will now go out and earn it.
You campaigned, victoriously, on twin themes of hope and change. The nation endorsed that vision. So, now, has the Nobel committee.
I did not vote for you in the Democratic primary. I'm almost seven months older than you, and I'm still not sure people my age should be in charge of anything, much less be left in charge of the whole world. It's just a little hinky. But age notwithstanding, I listened and watched, and by election day, I enthusiastically cast my ballot for you.
You see, I want every American to have access to quality health care. I want us out of Iraq. I want Guantanamo closed. I want us out of Afghanistan. I want us talking to Iran, North Korea and all of those other people we had been accustomed to just bombing, or planning to bomb. I want the banks regulated. I want business watched like a hawk. And I want our civil liberties protected.
These are some of the things you named as your priorities as a candidate. I liked the laundry list. Clearly, folks in Oslo, and all over the world liked the vision you described.
As you know, we hadn't had a lot of hope in the world in a long time. Oh, say, eight years. You seemed like a breath of fresh air. We need the hope you talked about. We certainly need change from where we were and where we were headed.
Again, the whole world is longing to emerge from our own mini-Dark Age of ignorance, arrogance and fundamentalism.
So I encourage you, in the strongest possible terms, to take our endorsement, and that of the Nobel committee, and that of the tumultuous crowds that have followed your travels around the world, and fight for what you invited us to believe in.
The Republicans are not your friends, and they never will be. You cannot depend on them or wait for them. The same applies, increasingly, to the Blue Dogs. You're the boss. They aren't. Look up Lyndon Johnson, circa 1964-1965. "Get on the bus, or we'll find somebody to take your seat who will." It is time for some party discipline, even if we are Democrats.
If I may be so bold, sir, get health care done. Stop these perverse and illegal wars. Make it clear that we are part of the human race and know it.
Many, left and right, are saying that you received the Nobel Peace Prize because you are not George W. Bush. Granted, that is a good start. But it is time to act on your promises, your vision, in such a way that at the end of your term, the Nobel committee will be as proud of your selection as they are hopeful with it today.
Yes We Can?
Only with your leadership!
From one middle-aged white southern male (that's redneck to you and me): Git'er done!

Polanski

I don't get it.
Why is Roman Polanski's situation even being debated?
The man drugged a 13 year old girl. He had sex with her. He had anal sex with her. She repeatedly asked him to stop. He did not. These seem to be the stipulated facts of the case that Polanski acknowledged in his plea bargain, in return for being allowed to plead guilty to a lesser charge. (He was originally charged with heavier crimes, but in our legal way of doing business, he pled to a reduced charge. That does not change the facts of the case, that he owned in the plea agreement.)
He was to get no jail time. Simply a period of psychological evaluation prior to sentencing. 42 days into that process, word got out that the judge was likely to throw out the plea agreement and require some serious jail time. At that point, Polanski fled to France, where he had resided ever since. That's from 1978 to 2009.
At that point, he became a fugitive. Fleeing is a crime. That makes two crimes.
Roman Polanski was 43 years old when he raped the 13 year old child.
Some people who appear to be adults argue that since Polanski is an artist, he is somehow a victim of prosecution for his art. Huh? He isn't charged, and never has been charged, with making seditious films. He raped a 13 year old child.
Some have suggested that he should be given a pass given the brutal murders of his wife, Sharon Tate, and their unborn child at the hands of the Manson Family. Huh? Elie Wiesel survived Nazi Germany's concentration camps. He has spent his life working for peace and justice in the world. John Walsh suffered the kidnapping and murder of his little boy, Adam. He has spent the last 20 years working to catch criminals who perpetrate such crimes. Nowhere in the world is a victim of crime given license to commit crime. Polanski raped a 13 year old child.
To state the obvious, the only reason that Roman Polanski was ever offered a plea deal under the circumstances of his crime was that he is a wealthy and famous artist. The only reason that Roman Polanski was ever able to flee the US during such a prosecution was that he is a wealthy and famous artist. The only reason that Roman Polanski was ever afforded the protection of the French government for 30 years was that he is a wealthy and famous artist. To somehow argue that he is being mistreated for being an artist is just stupid.
As it is to argue that since he suffered crime, he should be excused for committing crime.
As the theme song to a police drama told us every week back when Polanski committed his offenses, "Don't do the crime if you can't do the time..."
And I wonder whatever happened to that Baretta guy, anyway???

A Reflection on Health Care

I woke up Wednesday morning to my daughter's screams. She was shrieking from the pain in her side. She hadn't felt well for several days; by Wednesday, it could no longer be ignored. We sought aid from the hospital that bears the name of the denomination that I have served for 25 years, my father has served for 50 years, by uncle has served for 30 years, and my grandfather served for 54 years.
Sara was there for six hours. She was barely examined. She was, for the most part, ignored. Then, at 2:30 pm, with no explanation whatsoever for what was causing her pain (which had not subsided), the nurse came in with her discharge papers and wished us well. We asked to see the doctor. He came in with a thoroughly condescending smile on his face, and told us, graciously but pointedly, to get out.
You see, Sara is a sinner. Her sin? She has no health insurance.
My daughter works an average of 46 hours a week at a local restaurant, for $2.14 an hour plus tips (and if you eat at restaurants and don't tip the waitstaff, your tongue should fall out). Those fine folks terminated her health insurance last fall when Sara was eight months' pregnant. They said she wasn't working enough hours to qualify for insurance. Which was interesting, given that they made out her schedule each week. My guess? Someone was ordered to cut costs, so they did.
Another family in our church has incurred an incredible amount of medical neglect. That neglect has caused significant damage. One of the doctors in that instance dropped a tirade on his patient, screaming at her that if she had better insurance, she'd have gotten better care!
Other families in our church have lost their insurance when the business closed. There are few scarier places in life than finding yourself unemployed and uninsured when you are several years away from qualifying for Medicare, or have young children, or you or your spouse already have health issues.
Shannon and I do not use the Annual Conference insurance program. The Conference program penalized us in ways we cannot afford for Shannon using brand name insulin rather than generic insulin. When there is no such thing on God's green earth as generic insulin. Fortunately, we have access to her collectively bargained program, that of the Mississippi teachers' union. But as good as it is, we can't put Sara on it, as she is 23 and not in school.
In Sara's case, we are fortunate. My father is still somebody within our little world. So this morning, he was able to call on a friend and former church member of his to get Sara examined, diagnosed and treated. She has a respiratory infection that, left untreated, could have gone into pneumonia and killed her. But she's going to be alright, because Dad knows somebody.
How many people don't know somebody?
How many people are being left to suffer and die because they are inunsured, and, therefore, in the eyes of far too many medical professionals, untreatable?
How many people are suffering needlessly, and becoming sicker than they should have to, because they don't even seek medical care, knowing they are uninsured and can't pay?
How much more expensive is it for all of us for the poor and indigent to show up at The Med when they are at death's door, bur never should have gotten so sick in the first place?
How much of the exorbitant premiums that we all pay are due to the expenses of those uninsured, whose "care" has to be covered somehow?
How long will the greatest and wealthiest nation in the world allow tens of millions of its people to suffer misery, physically and emotionally, over health care?
Do those who wring their hands over the prospect of "Death Panels" run by the government (which do not exist in any of the plans being considered) not understand that the insurance companies are, by their refusal or approval of procedures or tests that doctors deem necessary, acting precisely as the kinds of boards that they fear?
I don't know what the answer is. I wish I did. I just know that there has to be something better than the way we are (barely) functioning now.
Again, Sara will be alright. I'm thankful for that. But as we consider our church family, our community and nation, there are an awful lot of people who cannot say tonight that their loved one will be alright.
Because they don't know.
Because they cannot afford to see the doctor.
And may God have mercy on all our souls if we continue to accept this perverse and unjust system with our silence, selfishness and inaction.
With prayers for God's just future to come speedily,
+Bro. Joe
(from the September edition of our church newsletter)

Edward Moore Kennedy, 1932-2009

We all know his failings, one horrific, others, things he should have been above.
We all know his family's tragedies, almost more than can be counted or believed.
But since Ted Kennedy entered the United States Senate in 1962,
If you have worked for a paycheck, and especially a minimum wage paycheck,
If you have worked in a safe environment,
If you have been fairly treated in your workplace,
If you have needed health insurance,
If you have sought redress after being discriminated against in any way,
If you have voted easily and without challenge,
If you love someone who has special needs,
If you have borrowed money to go to college or graduate school,
If you have purchased a home,
If you have had a problem with a landlord,
If you have been to public schools, and sent your children and grandchildren to public schools,
If you have treasured your individual liberties,
If you have lived in this nation, and this world,
you should say a prayer of thanksgiving for the life of Ted Kennedy, and another for comfort for his family.
He was, simply, the greatest Senator in our nation's history.

Jim Dickinson, Part Two

In response to a couple of questions, your humble blogger is back to gather you kiddies around the rocking chair to relieve you of your ignorance. (Please remember, ignorance isn't bad unless it's willful. It just means you don't know. And some things, you need to know.)
Jim Dickinson wasn't God, but he certainly was about God's work.
How does a body go about explaining Jim Dickinson?
Jim was one of those rich souls who was born old. Not in the rigid, dead-to-the-world sense, but in the wise, seen-it-all-twice sense. In the "I remember everything" sense. He was a rocker. And a Bluesman. And a crooner. And country and jazz and...well, you get the idea. The music was in his bones. Then again, if it isn't in your bones, what the hell are you doing being from Memphis?
The city cannot be separated from Jim Dickinson. He loved it, just as an awful lot of us do. That would be the ones who don't sit around afraid to go downtown, whining about the former/future Mayor, the City Council, the School Board and whatever else you've got, no matter how much all that deserves to be whined about.
Memphis' sole excuse for existing is the music. You either get that or you don't. God help you if you don't.
Jim got it. He lived it. He preached it. He played it. He produced it. Jim was the music!
When he sat down with Lee Baker, Sid Selvidge and Jimmy Crosthwait and they became Mud Boy and the Neutrons, miracles happened. When he decided to make a solo album, a good 1/3 of the wonder was finding out what songs he had unearthed to include. Dixie Fried, Free Beer Tomorrow, Jungle Jim and the Voodoo Tiger, Killers from Space and Dinosaurs Run in Circles...if you want to get Memphis, get those discs and wear them out as quickly as you can. Then you'll know.
He was a piano player. Like Lincoln was a President. Jim Dickinson at a keyboard could haunt your soul. He did it on The Rolling Stones' Wild Horses. He did it on almost all of the cuts on Dylan's Time Out of Mind. Dylan has been crazy powerful and prolific since crossing paths with Jim in 1997. I'll go to my grave believing that's no accident. That's Dickinson.
On The Bob: there's a line in his song I Feel a Change Coming On from the new album Together Through Life: "Some people say I've got the blood of the land in my voice." Long before Bob had totally blown his voice out, Dickinson had the roar, the earth-shaking, never smooth, instrument of apocalypse that was his voice. Listen to Mud Boy's Shake Your Money Maker or Money Talks, complete with his childhood experience of Rev. Robert G. Lee's Payday Someday sermon, the judgement of God delivered bluntly and as an End Time lecture to a beat you can dance to. Make that, you have to dance to.
Jim nurtured musicians. Look at his boys. Luther and Cody are ridiculously gifted musicians. They paid attention. They learned well. The North Mississippi All Stars are an experience every single time out. I'm getting redundant, but if you're not in the audience whenever the All Stars play the Home Town, you have no soul and you need help. Immediately.
But the sharing was never confined to the family.
Big Star, Calvin Russell, The Radiators, Mudhoney, Beanpole, Alex Chilton, Paul Westerberg and a thousand others, all found their music better after passing it through Jim Dickinson's hands. Not for Jim, the neurotic "Mine is the only" or "Why should I help anyone else" approach to art and life. Never Ever.
Mose Vinson was my point of contact. Jim's work with Mose taught me about the man.
Mose was an old man when I met him. He came to live in one of our retirement homes. He had gotten too well to keep his Medicaid in the nursing home where his niece had dumped him after his stroke. One of God's great saints, Mary Lee Moore, called me to her office to back up her judgement that the old man wasn't capable of living independently. When she asked the standard questions, the old man grunted, monosyllabic at best. Finally, divinely inspired and seeking any response from him, she asked, "What do you like to do?" The head lifted off the chest, the voice became strong, the one good eye fired to life, and the man said, "I play the piano!" Mary Lee being Mary Lee, she challenged him: "You can't play the piano; you're half dead." A smile played across the old man's lips. "You got a piano?" was his question. We led him into the dining room, to the pathetic old excuse for a piano that some Sunday School class had dumped on us when they bought something nice and new. Old hands became young on the keyboard. He ripped into Howlin' Wolf's .44 Blues. When he was done, our mouths were hanging open, and he was claiming to be the real composer of the great Blues standard. Later, Jim Dickinson told me that the Wolf may well have taken the song from Mose at Sun Studios.
Mose had been used his whole musical life. Sam Phillips had hired him at Sun Studios. To be the janitor. That way, any time a piano player was missing, Mr. Sam could have Mose sit in. Ike Turner often wasn't in shape to play when he actually showed up for a recording date at all. That sort of problem wasn't rare in the old days. But the janitor had to be functional. And God only knows how many of those incredible Sun sides actually featured Mose Vinson on piano, regardless of whose name was listed on the label. Mose certainly never got paid for any of that work. Somewhere along the way, Mr. Sam did credit Mose with a few sides, but they were never released until they were included in Bear Family's fabulous box, Sun Blues. Yeah, the Germans know their Blues. Who'd a thought?
Jim Dickinson gave Mose his moment in the sun, no pun intended. Jim produced, for Judy Peiser and the Center for Southern Folklore, the only album that ever carried Mose Vinson's name, Piano Man. Jim talked Mose through the recording. It sounds like two old friends sitting and talking in the parlor, around the piano. They even play some four-hand piano on the cd. Jim and Judy threw a cd release party for Mose. He was a star, if only for that night. Because Jim Dickinson said he was important.
Jim was a real-life Yoda. He spoke his own language. He saw and heard things others couldn't fathom. He lived richly and always saw the possibilities. He told Chuck Prophet, "You can burn out, but you can get lit again. I've seen it happen."
I knew Jim Dickinson just slightly, and that, only because of Mose. But I love him. I pretty much adore him. Jim was pretty much everything I'd love to be when I grow up. On several occasions, he'd spot me at one of his performances, and he'd ask, "Reverend, how's the Good Work going?" I'd say to him, "You ought to know. You're the one doing it."
I believed it when he was alive. I sure believe it now.
There's your lesson on Jim Dickinson.
Now you know something that matters!

James Luther Dickinson, 1942-2009

Our "celebrity culture" is a royal load of crap, because any society in which Paris Hilton, Britney Spears and any number of teenaged vampires are followed breathlessly from moment to moment deserves to be blown up. Filming your sex acts, not wearing underwear in public and teen angst over who is dating whom are not bases for choosing objects of worship.

That said, I have been thrilled to meet exactly three legitimate celebrities, truly accomplished people, in my life: Sam Phillips (not the woman who sings; the Real One), Stan Musial, and Jim Dickinson.

Jim Dickinson was Memphis Music. His resume is being widely rehearsed in his obituaries. Would Bob Dylan have had this late-career renaissance if he hadn't crossed paths with Dickinson during the recording of Time Out of Mind? Could he?

Would Alex Chilton have become, well, Alex Chilton without Dickinson at the board for those Big Star albums?

Would Furry Lewis, Bukka White, Son House and so many others hold their hallowed places in American music history without the efforts of Dickinson and several other young white boys in the 1960's to find them, get them performing again, and fight for their just due?

Would the Beale Street Festival have been conceived without the Blues festivals Dickinson staged and performed in at the Overton Park Shell?

Would anyone care about Wild Horses without Jim's piano?

And there is still the film scoring with Ry Cooder, the upbringing of the North Mississippi All Stars, the performances all over creation (Brownsville with Luther and Cody at the dedication of Sleepy John Estes' cabin, all the times at the Memphis Music and Heritage Festival, hundreds of others that I was privileged to hear), the gift to Mose Vinson of finally giving him an album under his own name, and so much more.

Jim was Memphis Music. Jim was American Music. And I'm sick that he's gone.

But as he left his own epitaph: "I'm just dead. I'm not gone."

Amen, brother! Amen!

Differences

Country Club: charges dues
Church: offers chance to give gladly to God's work

Country Club: exists for members' enjoyment
Church: exists to change the world

Country Club: members are to be served
Church: members are to serve others

Country Club: private playground to ensure members don't have to associate with anyone below an acceptable income status
Church: public Body of Christ intended to bring together people of all incomes, races, ages, genders, backgrounds

So why is it so often impossible to tell the difference in a Country Club and a church?

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Michael Jackson

Coincidences being coincidences, three pretty substantial personalities in the American public life of my lifetime have died in close proximity. I don't know if there ever was anyone better at his or her particular job than Ed McMahon. If you ever saw The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, you know what I mean. Farrah Fawcett was the poster girl who was famous for being famous, along with being the subject of a great Steve Martin joke: "I wrote a letter to Farrah Fawcett. She never wrote me back. And after all the time I spent holding her poster up with one hand!" (And before you accuse me of bad taste, may I remind you that she posed for, sold and got rich and famous off the poster, not me.)
And Michael Jackson.
My first memory of Michael and his brothers is on Ed Sullivan's stage, in the theater where David Letterman now holds court. The Jackson 5 were amazing. And, obviously, not least because of the little brother with the big voice. Michael was just a couple years older than me, and was the first person of my generation to become publicly accomplished. Maybe the Osmonds were out there, but Donny? Really? Not so much.
Michael was cool. He just got cooler and better through the years. At his peak, with the albums Off the Wall and Thriller in the early 1980's, Michael really was the king of pop, and not just as some dopey marketing slogan. Those records were awesome. Pure pop perfection, guided by Quincy Jones, whose importance to American music simply cannot be overstated. Michael was one of the forces behind We Are the World, raising buckets of money for Great Causes.
Then things got weird.
Everybody knows the details. You don't need me to restate them. Michael Jackson became the poster boy for the dangers of immense wealth, immense ego and the power to make sure there is no soul in sight who will tell you "No" about anything. Somewhere amidst the accusations, the surgeries, the Howard Hughes-type behavior, Michael lost everything that mattered. His music got stale and self-serving, his wealth apparently was squandered, his behavior grew ever-more bizarre.
Our culture of celebrity worship is sick. It's pathetic for every person who has actually wasted enough of their lives to know that Jon and Kate, much less the plus 8, exist. But it is even more costly and dangerous for those who become the objects of such worship. You tell people they are God for long enough, most of them will start to believe it. It rarely ends well. It just tends to end.
And it has, again.
Pardon me if I just choose to remember the little boy who could sing his tail off, or the young man who could make perfect music and dance like he didn't have a bone in his quite tall body. The rest of it makes me sick.
R.I.P. Michael. Maybe now, at long last, you are at peace.

Annual Bleeping Conference

It's two days away. I just can't wait (insert sarcastic tone and rolling of the eyes here).
We're now looking hard at two and a half days none of us will ever get back.
We will do several things. We will be led in worship by someone who has done Spectacular Things in other places. Things that most of us would be moved from our churches for doing back home, as a result of complaints from the natives to the same conference leaders who are bringing The Star in to show us how to do things right.
We will listen to arguments about money. Specifically, arguments from pastors and members from our largest, wealthiest churches who have every bell and whistle on their properties and staffs, telling the rest of us why they shouldn't have to pay the lion's share of the way, in spite of having the lion's share of everything.
We will listen to (largely) mindless debates on way too many constitutional amendments, conducted by (largely) misguided people who think they are doing the Will of God, who will have their talking points from whatever interest group they represent well-memorized for easier regurgitation. And both ends will try to scare the middle with the Secret Intents of everyone who disagrees with them. And at the end of all of it, we will find, to paraphrase The Bob, "I looked beneath the sofa, beneath the chair; looking for them Gays/Homophobes everywhere; I looked up my chimney hole, even looked deep inside my toilet bowl; they got away!" And we will be left with nothing again, as, to quote the late, great Billy Preston, "Nothing from nothing leaves nothing."
I, for one, will leave Annual Conference calculating again at what speed Mr. Wesley must be spinning in his grave. Because we haven't done much of anything in the last decade, at least, except take the temperature of the institution that has become the bloated, dying carcass of The United Methodist Church, and find it to be lukewarm. As in "spew you out of my mouth" lukewarm.
So all is lost? Not so fast.
I went to church this afternoon.
John Kilzer played at the Italian Festival in Marquette Park on this glorious Friday afternoon.
John is like many of us, a middle-aged guy, but young in ministry, with an old soul nurtured by the collision of music that enriches our native turf. He, like the rest of us, knows some parts of the world too well, but writes, plays and sings spectacularly of the hope and promise and joy that are supposed to be at the heart of this faith we profess and are supposed to share.
John reminded me that the faith isn't Annual Conference. Hell, the faith certainly isn't my short-sighted, terrified congregation. God's ability to change lives through the presence of the living Christ is the story.
And one of these days God may even get around to bringing church to Annual Conference.
Hey, they say stranger things have happened...

Melancholy, Fun and Weird

It's been an up and down couple of weeks. While I am (slightly) happier with my government today than I was prior to January 21, I'm not really thrilled with the Department of [doublespeak=Defense, honesty=War]. Two truly fine families have been reassigned from our local Navy base to far away locations. This makes the tote board read three families in my current assignment ripped from our congregation. Of the first departure, the wife and mother is the most able and knowledgeable lay person I have ever been privileged to have serve alongside me in any setting anywhere. Anne is awesome, and should be a church professional in some capacity, and she is far more than competent to be a church professional any number of capacities. The husband and father in family number three is one of a group of active duty Navy men who made a commitment to our Cub Scouts, and then did stupendous things. Like growing the pack in one year from 37 to 84 boys. Like standing up with those kids for some of the genuinely good values in the world. With his colleagues, Tom made a huge difference in this program, and that means in the lives of each of these kids. Family number two is comprised of one of the neatest 4 year olds on the face of planet earth, a mom/wife who is as creative and generous as anyone you've ever met, and a dad/husband who was the best partner I've had (so far) in a Lay Leader in 24 years under appointment. Joe, you know who you are, and I know you look at this from time to time, so...THANK YOU, AGAIN, FOR EVERYTHING!
And there's your melancholy.
For the fun...we baptized two and confirmed four young people last Sunday, and we will be baptizing two more and confirming five more this Sunday (don't ask--it's about vacation schedules, custody decrees and the like). In four years at the current stop, I've had the high privilege of baptizing and confirming significantly more people than in the other 20 years combined. Yeah, seven of those other years were spent pastoring in the retirement homes, but still! I just don't think that it gets any better for Christian minsters than being allowed to participate in the growing of the faith of such a group of young people. It is, after all, pretty much the point.
And the weird...this year about to start should be the last one here. By the time four years are up, there are always people who are after your rear end, and I've got two or three of those. When you combine what will be five years of chewing by the same sets of teeth, with the growing pains of a quickly-expanding community, with the frustrations of being unable to implement the painfully obvious and simple changes that would allow the church to grow into what the community needs it to be, I feel strongly that five years will be enough. For them, I believe, and certainly for me.
I remember the sports reporting that Pat Riley had lost the ear of the players on the Miami Heat before he went back to presidenting the club last year. I think I'm starting to understand what they were talking about.
A few years ago my father had a church in a community that was about 15-20 years ahead of where we are right now. He had a very tough three years there, perhaps the most difficult years of his working life. He buried a few saints that had to go for things to move along, and when they were gone, and his work had taken him to a new assignment, things did indeed smooth out and run well so that that church became what its town and our conference need it to be.
I expect something similar to take place in my assignment. It just feels a little weird that I probably won't get to share in it myself. I have laid and am laying some of the groundwork. Someone else may have to drive in the connecting spike, to use an image from the completion of the Transcontinental Railroad. How's that for obscure, Dennis Miller?

Thanks, Mom!

Yes, it's Wednesday night after. But that's pretty close for me.
One of the really fun things that goes with my getting used to being a grandfather is watching my parents become great-grandparents. Mom has taken to keeping Kaly just like she did with Sara and Emily a generation ago. Every time I see my granddaughter in my mother's arms, I am reminded of just how much Mom was my partner in raising my kids. On the occasions when something work-wise came up during all those afterschool afternoons (God Bless Paul Eubanks, a truly great man!), Mom was there. Every trip to the zoo or the Pink Palace, Mom was there. Vacations-especially the first couple of years when I was paying for the divorce and they paid for everything-couldn't have taken place without Mom every year and Dad most of them. We never could have made the Disneyworld trip with the girls being 9 and 6 without Nana going, too. It's just not simple being a single dad of two little girls in a public place without an adult woman. Mom made it work. Mom was always there.
She still is. Sara's working hard. Shannon and I have to work, too. Same with Emily, although she holds an amazing amount of time for her number 1 niece. Nana still fills all the gaps. But that's what she has spent her whole adult life doing, from the time she married while still a college student, to becoming a mom without a car or even a drivers' license while her husband was several hours away all week every week in graduate school, to being a mom to three kids all under the age of 4, to becoming an outside-the-home-working mom with that same husband and those same kids to take care of, to all I described above, and as much attention to her other four grandchildren from their births to the one she added when he was 12, she has always been there.
And I am grateful. Much more than I can say.
And we're all better people for her commitment to each of us.
Thanks, Mom! I love you!