"OH FECK!"

I’ve always thought the 1st Amendment was terribly overrated. Before you start squawking about how I wouldn’t be able to bless all of you with my Nebulous@best teachings, hear me out. (This is my right, is it not?) It seems to me that current communication standards are not what our forefathers had in mind. Although unconscionable and appalling, I’m not talking about the artist who submerged a crucifix in a bottle of urine or Sarah Silverman’s latest blasphemy. In an almost un-Christian way, I must admit, I am looking forward to peeking out from behind Jesus’ robes when these people stand before Him in judgment, aware of what they’ve said and who they’ve said it about. That’s ATAB (another topic for another blog). I’m talking about the perversion of language and how it festers at the everyday level. I once went to school with a girl who loved the “F-word” (And I’m talking THE BIG F-WORD). So much so, that she would squeeze it into any sentence she could. For example, if asked, “Do you like your bank?” She would reply, “You mean, Wells Fecked-Go!” She didn’t live in the lovely city of Fontana; she had to sell her house and get out of “Fecked-tana.” (I’m assuming you are all making the necessary substitutions.) This is only the beginning. In the short time that I knew her, she told me of being a den mother for the Fecked Scouts. That’s right. She had two little feckers (Her description, not mine). She really didn’t care for the pasta at the “Fecked-ghetti Factory.” And when she was exasperated she even gave Jesus Christ a new middle name. (This chick will be standing in between Sarah and the pee-pee artist.) The breakdown in how people express themselves is happening all around us and no one seems to be bothered.
Someone tell me, what exactly is profane?
On the first night I met my future brother-in-law, he paid me a compliment and then told me, “Mark, I’m not just not packing sand up your @$$.” (I replied, “Thank you.”) When my daughter was 2 years old, my wife told me she dropped something and said the F-word (see the title of this post). Shauna tried to assure me that she didn’t say it to anyone, but used it in its proper context. I asked, “You mean she’s watching porno, too?!!” When we questioned my little poet, she said she heard Nana say the word. Now, although my mother-in-law lived in Beaumont, a town that at the time that had one traffic signal, several trailer parks and cattle at the end of the main road, she was a very intelligent woman.

She did not, however, feel the need to censure her speech. This was a woman whose favorite phrase was, “Wish in one hand, sh!* in the other and see which hand fills up first. (I’ve asked my wife to cross stitch that on a sampler for above the fireplace.) I always judge how intelligent and/or how lazy people are by the adjectives and adverbs they use while speaking. As always, I’m not throwing stones. Anyone who’s seen me hammer a nail or step on a Lego or Happy Meal toy (I hate those things) in my bare feet knows that. I tell my kids that talking is a privilege. People who go for the cheap shock or expression are lazy. There must be a better way to get your point across. When my daughter agreed, I got so excited. I thought, “fan-FECKIN’-tastic”… but I didn’t say it.

The Hating Game

"I hate the way my hair looks,” “I love pizza but I hate anchovies.” The question of the day is “What’s wrong with a little well-placed hate?” Okay, pizza and hair gel are trivial but what about big things? Evil? Shouldn’t we hate evil? Saying I hate the devil can’t be bad. What about an unscrupulous boss or the neighbor who lets his poodle do a doodie in your yard? How about Barney or the Wiggles? Give me a break! If anything should be hated, it’s those guys.

God hates. It says so in the Bible. In Malachi 2:16, God states very clearly, “I hate divorce.” Deuteronomy 12:31 talks about all the detestable things God hates. That verse alone justifies a little bit of Wiggles-hate, don’tcha think? So there! It should be settled. There is a place for hating; be it little fishies on pizza or big purple dinosaurs. Hating is the bomb. “

Right now, you should be sitting at your computer, shouting out a great big, “AMEN!” Except for one major detail, it’s a ticking bomb and it’s strapped to our very souls.

Whatever you do, do not begin to think I’m getting preachy. Believe me; I’m not sitting on my high horse, passing judgment on anyone. At this very moment, I can give you a list of things that create a knot deep in my gut. Things that would easily be classified as "righteous indignation” and stamped, “JUSTIFIED!” I can create a separate, distinct list of things that bug me. The war in Iraq; bone heads that blindly criticize or support the war in Iraq, the way hurting people are falling through the cracks at a mega-church I attended twenty years ago (okay, that’s an old one). I’ve been able to keep so many chips balanced on my shoulder simultaneously that someone should call the newspapers. I’m just getting started. I’ve got a third list (I like to call this my “Barney” list) of things that just drive me crazy; shallow things, like the guy with the dog or the kewpie-doll way a co-worker smiles at me every time I pass his cubicle. How about people who use the word, “irregardless?” If I ever go postal, it will be after I've heard that word twice in the same meeting, I’m sure.

But this doesn’t make sense. If God is Lord of my life, why do I have knots in my stomach? If He is holding me in His arms, why aren’t the chips falling off my shoulders? (Side note: These are not issues of God’s power, but of my submission.) One thing God has revealed to me this week is that the key word in the term “righteous indignation” is the first word not the second and that’s my problem right there.

So I’ve got a big steaming pile of this on my plate and it’s not very tasty. Drop me a comment. I’d love to hear what you have to say. Don’t make me beg. I hate it when people do that.

The Allegory of the Fish keeper

A young girl was entrusted with the care of a beautiful fish that lived in a fragile glass bowl. She didn’t understand why she was chosen. She had no special talents to speak of. She was as ordinary as ordinary could be. Nonetheless, the fish was hers and she loved it dearly. Others thought she was crazy to be so devoted to the fish. “Why do you give so much?” they asked. “It doesn’t swim around. It just floats in one spot. It gives you nothing back. You can never hold it in your hand. It will always be in its own world; separated from you. Just feed it and be done.” The fragile bowl had to be protected also. If it were jostled, or if the water became impure, the fish would grow sickly and pale, and sink to the bottom of the bowl. The keeper had to act quickly to fix whatever was wrong. The keeper’s days were long and tiring. As she worked, the fish just floated unaware of the keeper’s dedication or of the dangers of the world or of the lakes and oceans where other fish swam. Every night she would carefully circle her arms around the fragile bowl and tell the fish, “I love you.” While it would have been nice to hear the fish reply, “I love you, too, dear keeper,” she realized this was asking more than the fish was capable. Still, she dreamt of releasing her fish into a stream or a river and letting it swim away to a large lake or ocean. She wanted her fish to see the world, to experience life, to find a mate; to love and to be loved.

One day, the keeper came across a village of people caring for fish much like hers; each as beautiful; each bowl as fragile. She noticed the keepers. Their arms were open, but their fists where clinched; she was not sure if they had just finished one battle or were preparing to fight another. Their eyes were hopeful, but their brows were furrowed; as if they were hoping and dreaming, calculating and planning all at the same time. They had smiles on their faces but their teeth were clinched with both joy and resolve. As she looked at the keepers, both men and women, she recognized herself. Her arms were indeed always open, surrounding her fish; protecting its bowl. She too, fought one battle after the next and her fists were clinched; ready to defend. Her eyes were filled with love as she looked at her fish, but her brow was furrowed from peering the distance preparing for the next challenge. She had joy in her smile, but her teeth remained clinched; determined to go on with a steely resolve. She suddenly felt weary. She knew if she sat down, she may not get up; if she cried, she may not stop. She was baring the weight of this single fragile bowl. It might as well have been the weight of the world. As she stood there, someone came into view; a keeper walking towards her but his bowl was empty. Then she spotted another walking with his fish towards the river. She stopped the man with the empty bowl. “Was that keeper really going to release her fish? Did you release yours? This can’t be.” He assured her it was true. “Some fish go free, others stay put,” he said. “Some will move about their bowls, others will always just float. But it’s not important that each fish swim out to sea. What matters is that each fish lives a life of purpose; a life filled with love. Don’t loose your focus, dear keeper. Remember, you were not chosen for this journey because of your ability to accomplish but for your capacity to love.”

Hello In There

Ya' know that old trees just grow stronger,
And old rivers grow wilder ev'ry day.
Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say, "Hello in there..."

I’ve heard that in the Eskimo culture, when an elder member wasn’t able to contribute to the tribe, they were placed on an iceberg and set a drift. Before you judge too harshly, consider two important details. First, Eskimos believed that they were, in fact, sending these elderly people to the afterlife. I’ve read that these senior Eskimos went willingly, not wanting to be a burden or jeopardize the survival of the rest of the tribe. They took this voyage with dignity. I’m not sure if they made the connection that the price of this trip was either starving or freezing to death. But, let’s not throw snow balls at anyone’s belief system; not just yet, at least. Knowing what a moral fan base I have here at Nebulous @ best, I know you’re thinking, “How could they? That’s cruel. They are doing away with people whose very lives have value. How could these people send Grandma on a one-way trip on Penguin Cruise Lines?” This brings me to my second point, what are we doing with the senior members of our own tribe? We’ve become a culture that discards our most prized members; a culture that values profits over people. These people should be cherished not cast away. We live in a time where a man who has worked hard his whole life can’t get the care he needs because of how hard he's worked. We care more about Britney’s bald head or the fight over finding a proper home for Ellen’s dog, than we do about the people who built this country. While sane (?) legislatures in Massachusetts allow birth control pills to be dispensed to 11-year-olds, the senior citizens who were our soldiers, our teachers, our builders and our dreamers are shuffled around for profit. Pro-abortion vegetarians (you know, “Wearing fur should be a crime, but sucking an unborn baby out a vacuum tube is a choice.”) sleep with clear consciences but men and women who lived moral, upright lives, who paid their way and followed the rules have no place to hang a picture or lay their head. Our nation’s homeless problem goes far beyond men on the side of the road holding signs offering to work for food. What about the people the government determines have too much money in their bank accounts and don’t qualify for Medi-Cal? What about the nursing facilities that check their patients into hospitals and then refuse to take them back because of potential financial liability? And through all of this, we say nothing or worse we say, "Medicate them and take the pain away." (Whose pain, I’ve not yet decided.) Don’t judge the Eskimos. They may have deluded themselves into thinking they were doing something noble but we are deluding ourselves also; that this isn’t our problem, that a Democrat can fix this or the Republican plan is even better, that when we grow older this won’t happen to us.

Lord willing and the creeks don’t rise. (Or depending on your faith system, Lord willing and no twinkling of an eye.) It will be interesting to see what happens in the future. This news story states that the first baby boomer has applied for Social Security benefits. I hope she has good insurance and less than $2,000 in the bank. If not, I hope she packs light.

So if you're walking down the street sometime
And spot some hollow ancient eyes,
Please don't just pass 'em by and stare
As if you didn't care, say, "Hello in there, hello."

I’d love to hear what you think. Or you can go here. A new post on Monday.

For A Cure

Fathers be good to your daughters

Daughters will love like you do

Girls become lovers who turn into mothers

So mothers be good to your daughters, too

-John Mayer

Touch Me In The Morning

Every morning at 5:40 a.m., I make my daily one (1) hour forty (40) minute pilgrimage on a Metrolink train followed by a subway, bus or shuttle tour of downtown Los Angeles where it is my job to bring balance to a building that was literally built on a crooked foundation. (this place )
During all of this, when I’m not asleep I people watch. I like to think of this as a sociological or psychological exercise. This sounds much better than “stalker.” I see women enter the train without a speck of make-up and by the time they exit they’re ready for their close-ups. I’ve met a guy that I would swear (if I were a swearing-type of man) was the son of my father’s illegitimate daughter. I considered talking to him, but what would I say? “By the way, you look exactly like my dad. I think your grandma gave it up when she was seventeen and my dad, your grandpa had to choose between going to war and going to prison.” I settled for taking his picture with my cell phone repeatedly while he slept and showing it to everyone I knew. “Do you want to see my nephew?” (It’s only stalking after they tell you to stop, right?)
I’ve seen couples go from introduction to flirting (that’s a hoot) to relationship and sometimes to bitter breakup. For several years, I sat near an ex-priest and his wife. She told me he consecrates the Eucharist every Sunday morning for her in the living room of their house in Banning. (It’s a two bedroom, Mediterranean right on the golf course.) On more than one occasion, I’ve witnessed sympathetic women holding hands with married men as they listen to how the old shrew just doesn’t understand him and how all he wants is to be close to someone. Believe me, my biggest challenge is not yelling, “Hey Juliette, I think Romeo’s wife has a pretty good understanding how her man is and if you’re smart you’ll keep both hands on the table.” Once, I made a point of introducing myself to the bum’s wife as she picked him up at the train station in the afternoon. After a few moments of conversation, I gave Mr. Misunderstood a smile and an “I’m on to you.”-look. He soon found another area of the train to sit. I would have followed him, but again with those darn stalking laws I would be the bad guy. (Go figure.)
There are so many different types of people; knitters and readers; sleepers and talkers; the casual and the constipated. A few weeks ago, I got on a bus that is always standing-room only and takes me to great coffee. I was lucky to get the last seat and even luckier that a woman didn’t come on so I was able to keep it. (My mother raised me right. You should see some of the beasts that won’t get up.) I sat down as people filed past me to stand in the open areas. As I did this, I oh-so-barely brushed the elbow of the stone-faced woman sitting next to me.
Immediately, she jerked away, pulling her arm as close to her as she could. This troubled me deeply. I thought to myself, “This poor woman. What is she feeling? Am I threatening her? Does she think I have an ulterior motive?” I swear it was just my elbow. I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt AND a jacket. There was a good quarter-inch of material between our naked, pulsating bodies. I wondered what happened in this woman’s life that made her recoil like she did. What events in her life damaged her ability to be touched, nay brushed by a freshly-showered, extremely handsome gentleman who was wearing deodorant? I felt the need to say something, to do something. Unfortunately, the bus was very crowded and was just about to pull off from the stop. Something stirred me to act. I did the only thing I could think of doing; the only appropriate thing to do in this situation. I touched her again. And I kept on touching her; every bump in the road, every curve that we took, my elbow tapped her. I bumped her so much; you would have thought we were on the Cyclone at Cooney Island. By the time we got to good coffee, you could have fit three people in the space between us. She was folded into something that looked like a cross between twisted pipe cleaner and an origami crane. I knew that this snotty, rude woman who never said, “Good Morning” was going to immediately go to the washroom at her office, neatly place several layers of paper towels on the counter and wash off my kooties with the individually wrapped wet wipes and bottle of Purell she kept in her top desk drawer right behind the can of Lysol. And you know what? I didn’t regret my actions; not one little bit. Until….
…until this week. I was standing in the same bus and I saw my sanitized friend do the same thing to an overweight woman wearing white stretch pants, an oversize top and large hoop earrings. (I’ guess she didn’t get the memo about wearing white after Labor Day.) “Stretch” must have touched Miss Sunshine at least once because she looked like someone whose back went out in the middle of a game of Twister. But Stretch wasn’t bothered by any of this. It was obvious she was very comfortable with herself. I mean, besides not wearing a bra. Stretch was happy and nothing was going to change that. It was a good day. God gave her the last seat on the bus. (I’m just assuming the seat next to the pickle is always the last seat.) I started to think about the way I reacted to this one person’s bad attitude. Instead of apologizing for molesting (I mean brushing) her elbow with mine and going about my day; or even trying to show her some kindness, I let her bad attitude get me down. I let her steal my joy. Whatever made this person behave the way that she did is really none of my business. God doesn’t call me to correct, or to teach or even to understand her. And He’s not asking me to treat her the way I treat my friends or my family. He’s calling me to love her as much as I love myself; to share just a little bit of the infinite love that He’s shared with me. I sat with that a minute. (Well, stood with that.) I was thankful that God doesn’t treat me the way I treated this person. I thanked God for not nudging me with His elbow and for His grace and His love. And then I became very happy; so happy I had to hug someone. (Is it stalking if you’re doing it because God gave you a revelation?)

Are We There Yet? (Sqeezing the Charmin - Part II)

…So where are we? Before we get going, I need everyone to make an effort. If this bores you, you can go here. The good thing about calling it a “world-wide web” is that there’s a bunch of other places you can be. I hope you stay. This one's important to me.

It turns out the 25¢ question isn’t whether or not we were brought to this place in life. The question that earns the quarter is,

“Who’s going to be doing the driving?”

I can sit and ponder how I got here or I can chart my course for the rest of the trip. (What can I say? Descartes philosophized about wax and the mind and the body, I use metaphors of driving and getting your jollies squeezing toilet paper.)

If it were up to me, I would be in show business. Of course, if I had waited to be discovered, I would be sitting in a warehouse where the Fiesta Four used to sit. One thing for which I am certain is that if life is a roadtrip, it’s a winding one. That frightens some people. You’ve got to be ready for the turns. The bends can bring new challenges or force you to change gears. If you don’t pay attention you can get banged up. If you don't keep your vision focused on the horizon, you can get sick. You’ve got to realize if you’re lost and be willing to make a change of direction. Some people prefer straight highways. But highways are long and boring. It’s tempting to just turn on cruise control and let it carry you. You can get hypnotized by the road and miss the trip all together. Have you ever spaced out on the freeway and when you rejoined reality you didn’t remember driving through certain areas. Maybe the part of the road you’re missing is college because you think you’re too old or too dumb to start (I was 33 and I couldn’t do math). Maybe you’re missing the chance of saying to someone, “I love you, too,” because you won’t humble yourself or make yourself vulnerable. I think in order to truly experience life, you’ve got to be the driver. I learned that late. That’s why I spent 4 years here. (I bet you thought the drive-in was the low point. That’s another blog for another time.)

And the road winds until the very end. My father-in-law is coming up on the last curve. A final stretch of road his fading mind and broken body won’t allow him to take alone. The end of his journey will be a curve in the middle of ours. I think of everything he’s done in his life and how he chose to handle the curves that life brought him; the choice to serve our country through two wars; to raise a small girl whose father died and whose mother drank; to be a man of honor and integrity. I see the roads I have traveled. Some I regret. Some that carried a toll. I see the roads people I love have taken or are taking; some they will regret or that carry a cost. Then suddenly in the middle of all of this, as I started to focus on the road and not the destination, someone I love made a choice I never expected; a choice that reminds me that no man’s destiny is sealed until the journey’s end. People can take control of the wheel, get out of the spin; change their course. Gun it.

Most importantly, I know that I’m not on this road alone. I’ve got someone with me every leg of my journey. And He’s not riding on my dash board; He’s riding in my heart.


If this is way to philosophical for you or if the picture I've painted isn't clear, go here. Then drive back and see me next week.