2010: The Year of the Cheeky Conservatives

Punchy.  Cheeky.  Sassy.  Saucy.  Fearless.  This ain't your grandfather's conservative movement.

If the Tea Party Movement has done one thing right (and I think it has done far more than one right thing), it has been to inject some adrenaline into the dehydrated veins of demoralized conservatives.  Remember how horrible it felt to wake up on Wednesday, November 5, 2008 and look about and wonder if we were heading — with the landslide win for the most liberal brand of Dems — toward that sort of limp-wristed, soft-underbellied slide into Western European-style socialism and whether we would have something as unique as the idea of America by the end of 2012?  Well, I do.  I awoke that morning at 4 AM and wrote a fable — an allegory, really — about our willful abandonment of all things rugged and wild and free called "Whosoever Treasures Freedom."  Well, I thought, that was a nice ride while it lasted.  And I was depressed — or, at least, depressed for me, which is still far too ebullient and gay for my husband's taste most of the time.

Then, 2009 got into full swing and — wonder of wonders! — the party of "Hell No!" arose.  Regular American people were jolted out of their slumber to gather together in defiance of this squishy slide.  The moral core of America fought back — not with rifles or bayonets or violence of any kind, but with feet planted firmly in the ground, arms crossed, eyes steely with resolve, saying, "Not on our watch.  Not to our children and grandchildren.  We don't want it.  We don't need it.  We can't afford it.  Stop it."

Now, with the amazing tools of things like blogs and Twitter and YouTube, conservatives are getting quite creative and ever more amusing.  Things like Tim Hawkins's The Government Can and Steven Crowder's I GotsA Peace Prize were only the beginning.  Now, with this catalyst of an election just around the corner, conservative causes are releasing sharp, focused and hilarious videos almost daily.  I came across this gem today:

(Backstory:  Rep. Alan Grayson (FL8-D) is thoroughly reprehensible.  Scummy, dirty, douchebaggery does not even begin to do justice to his absolute loathsomeness, but it is a good start.   He recently approved of a vile, repulsive concoction of lies and misrepresentations in the shape of a campaign ad about his opponent, Daniel Webster.  Perhaps most appalling and despicable is that he took cuts of Mr. Webster's speaking at a church function about marriage completely out of context — contriving to make Mr. Webster appear like a misogynist neanderthal and one who is completely obsessed by biblical exhortations of wifely submission — and ends the ad with the outrageous labeling of his Republican opponent as "Taliban Dan."  For the ad itself and the unedited video of Mr. Webster's speech, I direct you to Freedom's Lighthouse (my favorite source for all must-see videos and the latest polling information).  Mr. Grayson has been unapologetic when confronted with his malignant malfeasance, saying "in context, out of context, whatever.")

Well, Townhall released today a brilliant, biting, spot-on send-up of this Alan Grayson kerfuffle.  The ending is priceless!  Enjoy!



I think that this new, confident, bold and ballsy, in-your-face face of conservatism is largely due to one former governor of Alaska who was the first one to call out now-President Obama for being, essentially, a very silly person.  Most of the pundits and all the politicians (including, for way too long, his opponent in the general election, Senator McCain) were intimidated by his resounding, pastor-like delivery of frothy, empty sentiment, by his exotic family history and upbringing, by his academic accomplishments and pretensions to intellectualism, and by the seeming aura of destiny that surrounded his campaign.  Add to that the understandable American aversion to anything that could be construed as racism, and Candidate Obama seemed untouchable.  Then, in September 2008, Sarah Palin delivered a barn-burner of a speech that actually dared to poke fun at this pretender, this shyster, this voice in a suit.  For this, she was excoriated by most of the media, and even a great portion of the country.  So much gall packed into one woman!  So much hatred focused on same.  The campaign to destroy her was immediate and unrelenting.  But it failed.  And, up from the ashes of November 5, Gov. Palin has become one of the strongest voices for the resurgent fun factor in conservatism.  The smiler with a knife, she continues on — bold in her message that silliness cannot hold sway in such a sensible country for long, and that Americans are now as they have always been: a people who, paradoxically, are far better and wiser as a whole than the officials they elect.

The Least Interesting Man in Washington . . .

. . . will make the best senator in D.C.!


I love Dino!  (And I love Not Dino, too!)

How I Became the World's Greatest PTF President

There was really no campaign at all.  At the last PTF meeting that previous June, I happened to be walking by the auditorium while nominations were in process.  I yelled in, "Justine!" and no one seemed to notice.  So, I went on my way.  But, when the votes were tallied, I guess I came in first, because there was a call waiting on my answering machine at home saying, "Congrats! You're the new prez!"  Aw geez, I thought at the time, that's a lot of work!  Then, I forgot about it and went to the water park.

So, sometime that August, I got a call from someone on the PTF committee — can't recall her name — exhorting me to get working on the first major fundraiser of the year, selling Fosterbrook.  Basically, it's a bunch of wrapping paper and chocolate and other worthless things that the kiddos are socially pressured into foisting upon their sphere of influence (read: grandparents) in return for a paltry percentage of sales for the school.  I tell you, I looked through the proposed fall fundraising catalogue, and I didn't see anything worthwhile.  Seriously, not a Jane Austen or G.K. Chesterton book in the lot.  So, I sat down at my laptop and wrote a letter.

Dear Parents,

We all hate having our kids impose on neighbors, friends, and family with these obnoxious fundraisers.  Besides, Fosterbrook just sells a bunch of crap.  What's say you all cut me a check for $50 per kid, and we call it even?

Love and kisses,
Your PTF President

I sent that home with the kids on the first day of school, instead of the Fosterbrook packet, and the parents were so grateful that the checks just started rolling in.  Some of them even doubled their extorted gifts.  It was great!  Fosterbrook was not too happy, but who cares?  That was a nice little $15,000 padding with which to start the year.

Next up, someone started bugging me about Fall Festival, which, for some reason, is held within the first three weeks of the school year, when everyone has other things they would much rather be doing.  So, I cancelled it to much rejoicing.  Instead, I instituted Friday movie nights once a month in the auditorium.  For $10 per kid, the parents could drop them off to eat popcorn and watch a Roald Dahl movie while the parents got a few hours out and about.  It was a smashing success.  Over the year, that brought us in an additional $12,000.

After these remarkable decisions, I disbanded the rest of PTF and told the parent volunteers that I had it covered.  The only other position I kept was treasurer.  She was kept busy with all the fat receipts coming in from my brilliant ideas.  I doubled the size of the book fair — bringing in vendors other than just Scholastic.  I cancelled the hall rentals for the Christmas and Easter concerts and sent this letter out to the parents, instead:

Dear Parents,

It totally sucks having to sit through OPK's* performances at the concerts, right?  So, this year, we're going to host a series of small, separate concerts on campus, so you needn't be oppressed by the scraggly violins or off-key warblings of any rugrats not in class with your infinitely more talented offspring.  Please consider, in appreciation of my consideration for your time and eardrums, a modest gift to our school.

Hugs and atta-boys,
Your PTF Kommandant

Need I say it?  The money poured in so fast, my treasurer had to come in on the weekend to process it.  Since we were expending so little for these fundraisers, almost all the proceeds went directly into the school's coffers to fund stuff that we really want the kids to have — like awesome field trips.

The tricky one was the spring auction.  Traditionally, each classroom would put together one or two baskets that would then — with other donated items from local businesses — be auctioned off.  The problem, as I saw it, was not simply the expense of hosting such a gala (which, as always, seemed counter-productive), but the fact that parents had to contribute to make these baskets, and then, presumably, buy them back again at auction.  So, I thought maybe I could get some guidance from the other parents.  I sent out the following e-mail:

Hi Parents!

What do you guys think of the auction baskets, huh?  I know it's a major fundraiser for the school, but it seems rather redundant to me.  Did you ever wonder why the school doesn't just raise its tuition to what it needs for the year and then leave us alone?  Yeah, I know, me too.  So anyway, I don't know, this auction thing — let me know what you guys think, OK?

With a firm handshake and a solemn nod of the head,
Your Sovereign PTF Queen

Suffice it to say, I got a lot of good ideas as feedback, and not one of them included a classroom auction basket.  Now, how we raised the money might not be exactly legal, but it was certainly bonzer.  I cannot reveal more at this time, especially with the investigations still ongoing, but we ended up doing quite nicely, thank you, with no baskets.

Well, the year ended and so did my presidency.  All the parents gathered together to implore me to serve another year, but I told them that even such grand schemes as this had to meet their timely ends.  My farewell address brought tears to more than one eye, especially as the parents considered that next year would bring back Fosterbrook, the grand, 3-hour long, aurally abusive concerts, and the like.  They built me a cushioned litter and hoisted me up on the shoulders of the four strongest dads and paraded me around the parking lot while six lithesome moms threw rose petals in my path and a brass band played a triumphant march.  Then came the startling announcement from the principal:  My PTF had done such a miraculous job of raising funds, that PTF was far into the black for the next three years.  A grand "Hurrah!" rang up from the crowd, and I bowed slightly, graciously, and slowly walked to my Honda, waving all the while.  As I drove off, away from the school and my seat of absolute power, I realized that I had truly been the greatest PTF president that the school — and perhaps the world — had ever known.  And that was enough for me.

*Other People's Kids

Har-dee-har-har!

For some reason, this video clip from Billy Madison has been cracking me up lately.  It is such a brilliant smack-down of inanity, and the actor — Josh Mostel? — delivers it with a pitch perfect mixture of solemnity and incredulity.  In this political season, especially, it rings rather relevant.  Pure comedy!



"And may God have mercy on your soul."  ROTFLMAO!

Let Freedom Ring!

Morris.  Kangaroos.  Those fantastic accents.  Happy outdoorsy people living boldly among about 10,000 of the deadliest animals ever discovered.  Michelle Tumes.  Vegemite.  Phrases like "hopeless nongs" and  "gutless spivs" thrown about in Parliament.  The reasons to love Australia are almost innumerable.

Now, here is another one:

The Australian T.E.A Party!

When I was in Canada this past July, one of the most talented musicians ever created, a man with refined and extensive literary taste, someone who is always interesting to talk with, and an entrenched and determined (though not angry) self-described socialist named Spencer asked me what I thought of this Tea Party Movement in my homeland.  I told him I love it.  I think his reaction was to tsk-tsk me.  Canadians, I have discovered, love to tsk-tsk Americans at any opportunity.  I leave them to their joy.  

I, however, am unapologetic.  I think the Tea (or the acronymic T.E.A. -- Taxed Enough Already) Party Movement is, overwhelmingly, a positive one. As Thomas Jefferson famously wrote to James Madison in 1787: I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing; as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical. . . . It is a medicine necessary for the sound health of government.  Interestingly enough, he was writing this part of the letter in commentary upon the Shays' Rebellion.  So, let's look for a moment, between the ellipses.

Shays' Rebellion was an uprising by poor, debt-ridden, farmers in Massachusetts between 1786 and 1787.  It was sparked by the demand from overseas lenders that the Revolutionary War debts be paid in gold and silver, quantities of which were not yet abundant enough in the new country to afford repayment.  The borrowers on these notes, individual states, were trying to squeeze the money from mostly rural, small-time landowners to pay back the debt.  They used the force of the courts to sue farmers for back taxes, selling off the land to settle those amounts when the farmers could not pay.  It was a cruel cycle: an insolvent state wringing dry poverty-stricken landowners in a way that forced families off of their land and into greater poverty.  The farmers, called Shaysites after fellow farmer and Revolutionary War veteran Daniel Shays, lobbied for the issuance of paper currency and lower taxes.  Their methods involved disruption of the court system and general rowdy protest, but no bloodshed.  They were eventually put down by General William Shepherd; the rebels were rounded up; and, the rebellion itself became a call for strengthening the Federal government's power and re-thinking the Articles of Confederation.

Now, to look between the ellipses of the famous Jefferson quote: I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical. Unsuccessful rebellions, indeed, generally establish the encroachments on the rights of the people which have produced them. An observation of this truth should render honest republican governors so mild in their punishment of rebellions as not to discourage them too much. It is a medicine necessary for the sound health of government. [Emphasis mine.]

This is an interesting observation.  "Unsuccessful rebellions, indeed, generally establish the encroachments on the rights of the people which have produced them."  In other words, if you are going to have a rebellion, you had damn well better be certain that you can win or are prepared to take the consequences; if you fail, all that stuff you're rebelling against will come down like a ton of bricks on your head.  Coming from a man who had authored the Great Rebellion's founding document, these are sobering words.  "Lives, fortunes, and sacred honor" were not lofty sentiments, but tenable, possible casualties in the Revolutionary War.  Then, the next statement is curious, indeed: "An observation of this truth should render honest republican governors so mild in their punishment of rebellions as not to discourage them too much."  Which truth?  The truth that rebellion is "good" and even "necessary"?  Or the truth that failed rebellions lead often to increased governmental authority?  In a way, I think he means both.*

Jefferson's first part of the letter is an almost Benthamian musing about the correct kind of government to produce the maximum amount of happiness and liberty among a population.  He sees three possible types of government; put simply, they are anarchy (without rule), democratic republics or constitutional monarchies (limited rule), or despotism (unlimited rule).  Without much pretense at an argument, he comes to the conclusion that the American-style of limited government was, indeed, the best to secure the greatest freedom and contentment among a diverse, far-flung population.  (Do you think he was at all prejudiced in favor of this conclusion?  Discuss.)  So, he is in France, as ambassador, hearing about this troublesome rebellion in Massachusetts, and he is singularly unruffled. 

He writes to James Madison that, "An observation of this truth should render honest republican governors so mild in their punishment of rebellions as not to discourage them too much."  Let's say he means the truth that such rebellions are good for the state; indeed, that they are "a medicine necessary for the sound health of government."  Does he mean that "honest" governors in a republic ought not to be concerned about such rebellions, because they bring to light weaknesses in the system that can then be addressed to make a better republic?  That such rebellions ought almost to be welcomed, as they pinpoint underlying concerns?  That such rebellions are positive in nature because they remind the people that they own the government, and not the other way around?  Or, is Jefferson encouraging leniency on the part of the state against rebels because, in their failure and suppression, the state can legitimately assert greater authority?  Are these two views incompatible?   I think, perhaps, what Jefferson might be saying here is that, whether they succeed or fail, rebellions in general are the great tool of freedom — constantly pruning and nourishing the great tree of liberty.  If they succeed, it means that the population in general is behind the concerns of the rebels.  And, even if they fail, they clarify a need that can then be addressed in a formal way by government. 

A little rebellion was certainly a good thing in the late 18th century.  The Shays' Rebellion was one of the events in our early national history that led to the Philadelphia Convention in May of 1787.  Now known as the Constitutional Convention, the delegates came out a little less than five months later on September 17 with what Benjamin Franklin prophetically asserted was "a republic, if you can keep it."  Can we keep it?   223 years later, I look at such things as the Tea Party Movement and think, "Yes, I do believe we can."  Because a little rebellion, now and then, is good medicine for our sick, gouty, bloated government.

Happy Constitution Day!  And, welcome liberty-loving Aussie friends!

Sources:  Wikipedia's Shays' Rebellion Page; History 1700's Shays' Rebellion Page; Archiving Early America's A Little Rebellion Now and Then Page
*As Arielle kindly pointed out in the comments, the verb "establish" has another meaning which I was not considering when I wrote this piece.  Definition the sixth in the OED (how I love that book!), lists "to place beyond dispute; to prove."  In this sense, Jefferson's sentence certainly meshes more as a completed thought with the rest of his paragraph.  "Unsuccessful rebellions," in other words (again), "indeed, generally [place beyond dispute] the encroachments on the rights of the people who produced them."  Therefore, as I speculated originally, even unsuccessful rebellions serve to "bring to light weaknesses in the system that can then be addressed to make a better republic."  As I mused to Arielle in the comments, I think that Jefferson was an idealist on this point.  Rebellion really ought to make an "honest" republic re-examine its governance; but, more often in history, including in our own great country, rebellion has brought down more draconian rules and sterner enforcement.  Successful rebellions -- I'm thinking here, specifically, of the Civil Rights Movement -- are the fulfillment of already proven encroachments on rights.

I Love Flicka Spumoni!

Thank you!  You made my day!

Sanity

How do you spell "sanity" on school mornings for Justine? 

C-a-r-p-o-o-l.

Why didn't I think of this last year?

Creation is a Spiritual Imperative

I have been doing something unusual (for me) this summer:  I have been writing songs.  I am not a songwright in any meaningful sense; still, I find myself drawn again and again to the piano — plunking out tunes that refuse to exit my brain; scribbling down lyrics on any stray piece of paper.  It's totally weird.  And yet, I'm tickled to death, because I've always wanted to write songs.  And though I have musical taste enough to know that my songs are not very good at all, they are mine — my own little bursts of creativity — and they bring me unspeakable joy.

So, I got an inspiration a few days ago for the final chorus of one of the right-wing protest songs (hey! it's a largely untapped market!*) I've been working on for several months now.  I was so jazzed to share it with Jason when he came home, that I followed him into the bedroom, new lyrics in hand, and sang them to him while he changed out of his work clothes.  At the end, I gazed at him expectantly, hoping for a chortle, but willing to settle for an appreciative grin.  Instead, I got silence, a sideways glance, and then a withering, "What do you want to do with this?"  Ah, when Art marries Economics, moments like these are the offspring.

"What do I want to do with it?" I shot back incredulously.  "I want to write it, finish it, learn to play it well on the piano, maybe figure it out on guitar, and sing it for you, my dad, and Flicka Spumoni.  That's all."  While I was proclaiming my modest ambitions, I confess that an image flitted through my mind of myself — wearing a bandanna kerchief, "Welcome Back, Carter" T-shirt, and my most groovy tattered jeans — sitting cross-legged, guitar in hand, at a Tea Party Rally, leading a few thousand of my fellow conservatives in a rousing rendition of the song's chorus (believe me, it's great for a sing-along).  This vision was quickly discarded.  First of all, I am way too shy for such a display; secondly, I can't play guitar for shit.

"Well, it seems to me that you're expending an awful lot of time and effort for something with which you are not really planning on doing anything," replied he — unnecessarily grumpy, I thought at the time, though the poor fellow does have a lot on his mind right now.

Hmmm . . . he is right, in a way, of course.  The only thing these songs will be good for is maybe to entertain Jason (though I think I'll be excusing Mr. Stinky Attitude from granting me audience for the foreseeable future), my dad (who is honor-bound to be receptive to all my creative effusions and marvel at my genius), and Flicka (whose unreserved — and, perhaps, heedless — approbation of whatever I send her only encourages my further imposition).  But, and here is the key, these songs — no matter how lame, how silly, how incompetent, how banal they are — are for me.  I like them; I get a kick out of them; and, in the end, that's enough.

Carolyn Arends mused on a blog post for Conversant Life almost two years ago about beginning work on her 10th album (the since-released and absolutely breathtaking Love Was Here First) in the face of what has become a particularly inhospitable remunerative climate for creative artists.  On one hand, it has never been easier for an artist to get his work out to the public and find his niche audience; on the other, though, this niche-driven art market makes the bigger labels and publishers skittish about investing in unique or untried talent.  As Carolyn wrote in her post, CDs and Books and Massive Anxiety Attacks, Oh My!, she was having "difficulty in giving a solid business rationale for the undertaking.  Digital distribution models (both of the legal and pirate** variety) have radically changed the income potential for artists, which is a nice way of saying I won't make very much money."  Now, she came to a conclusion a lot more lofty than my own (but, then again, she is a musical and lyrical genius who writes songs that immediately make it onto God's iPod, while I am a dork with a spinet and a laptop), but, ultimately, reflecting the same inner calling of creation as pleasure — pleasure in the challenge to dig deeper, find the right word or phrase and link it to the right melody or mold it seamlessly into a paragraph so that it becomes intuitive; pleasure in giving pleasure and receiving pleasure from artistic reception; pleasure in brushing your fingertips against the hem of the divine robe and sharing a small part of the Father — the Original and Ultimate Creator.

Carolyn's more elegant explanation:  "So what am I doing? Why am I doing it? . . . I want to sing honest songs. I want this CD to be better than the last one--a deeper pocket or a sweeter line. I want to record some bit of something that gives me and maybe someone else goosebumps. I want to be moved, and to move someone else.  Like most artists who are also Christians, I walk a fine line between calling and indulgence; I could not honestly tell you the ratio between flesh and spirit at any given moment. But this is what I know. We must all tell our stories, as truthfully and as beautifully as we can, and God is such a good God He can and will use our efforts. I've seen it more times than I can count. And I don't know if that gives me mojo, but it gives me motivation. And I can't wait for the next recording day." [emphasis mine]

Carolyn is too modest to bring up another point:  she was so obviously created to do what she does, that there are divine implications if she does not fulfill that calling.  In other words, I believe that God has a major stake in whether she creates or not; I'm not convinced that He does in whether I do.  So, though my creative expressions may not have eternal ramifications, I have become certain that there is a spiritual imperative that draws humans of all levels of gifting to create.

Michael Medved has posited an idea about the words in Genesis that we are made after God's image that I love.  Because God is Spirit — and the Word had not yet become Flesh — this line from Genesis has little to do with a giant old man in the sky and everything to do with the substance of our souls.  Our Maker has bestowed upon us the unique gift of creation; He has given us a share in His ability.  No other created being in heaven or earth shares this with the Father.  Do the angels create?  There is no evidence in Scripture that they do.  That famous fallen angel cannot create; he can only destroy.  Do animals?  Well, certain trainers love to astound and awe audiences by showing off painting elephants.  But no elephant will manipulate its natural habitat in order to create art.  Humans always have.  Along side artifacts of survival — perhaps an integral part of our survival instinct — there is art.   

A couple years ago, I took a Creative Writing class on the short story at a local college.  I came away from that class convinced that I have not been gifted in fiction.  God, who has the best sense of humor, immediately inspired me to start writing short stories, one after the other, pretty much against my will.  It was almost as if He were gently reminding me that my calling is not up to me; it is completely about Him and His Spirit flowing through my hands, willing or unwilling.  Between that and the constant encouragement of Flicka, I have since decided just to be open to the blessing of creation — no matter how embarrassing or uncomfortable or disappointing to my own high standards.  He is using it all for His glory, even in ways I may not know until the other side of the veil. 

*Conservatism is counter-culture!
**Please, please, please do not pirate music.  If you love an artist enough to share his work, pay him for it.

Come, Thou Long Desired Autumn

I know the official end of summer is not until — oh, what is it?  September 22 or somesuch.  But, for all practical purposes, today is our last day of summer.  Tomorrow, Sadie goes back to school, and the 9-month hamster wheel turns anew.  I took her out of town this past weekend with one of her friends from church for a girls' getaway before we're locked back into that wretched schedule (can you tell that I have not reconciled myself even now to the non-homeschooling twist my plans have taken?).  But, today is the last day of vacation.

Instead of cramming in "one-lasts" all day, we're downplaying it with hanging out at home.  Really, we are pretty worn out from the weekend.  And, my glorious, obliging Pacific Northwest came through for me with a chilly, rainy, gloomy, inside sort of day.  I am tickled to death.  I am thinking of soups and sweaters and cozy fireside reads on the couch with my favorite old, green blanket tucked in around my toesies.  Autumn, autumn, blessed autumn!

Yeah, I guess I'm ready to say "good-bye" to summer. 

Sugarless (and Probably Butterless, Too) in Seattle

I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that potluck dessert offerings in conservative, Bible-belt areas are delicious — ooey-gooey and stuffed with sugar and butter and shortening and maybe even that mysterious element, lard.  What I know for sure is that such items at events in progressive, secular hubs like Seattle tend to bite the big one.  If you don't believe me, ask Sadie.  Yesterday, at her theater day camp's grand finale of play and parent-provided potluck, Sadie eagerly grabbed what looked to be a scrumptious piece of chocolate cake and an innocent-looking chocolate chip cookie.  One bite and an evocative grimace from Sadie revealed (and I confirmed by finishing the discarded balance) that the cake was instead a deceptive carob-applesauce concoction.  Fie, fie!  She then bit into the cookie and practically started to cry.  I didn't dare eat that one — I'm not a fan of chocolate chip cookies even under the best of circumstances — but I can guess by her disappointment that such things as butter substitute were probably defiling the heretofore unsuspicious baked treat.  Oh, the humanity!

Now I am starting to realize why, whenever I bake something to share at a communal event, my stuff flies out the window and I am met at every turn by ecstatic commentary muffled by the effect of hamster-like cheeks stuffed with my goodies.  These poor, deprived Puget Sound people have never before tasted real butter and real sugar.  I bake like a Bible-believer, and truly, you can taste and see that the Lord is good.

So, why are these libs obsessed with robbing childhood of the great joys of authentically ingrediented baked goods?  I'm sure part of it is bragging rights; you know, so they can say something like, "Little Saffron is on a sugar-free, gluten-free, fat-free diet.  I just love that she is eating healthy."  Dude, that's not healthy.  Someday that kid is going to get a hold of a Twinkie, and look out — next thing you know, she's flat on her back on the couch, watching The View, on the verge of a sugar-induced coma.  Think it can't happen?  I could tell you stories of my childhood friend who was raised in a vegan, sugar-free household, and who binged on candy whenever she escaped to my house.  I do not know what the other part of this deprivation is due to — maybe, like Mrs. Fidget, they just want the personal satisfaction of doing something good for their families, whether their families want it or not. 

I know kids are fat nowadays; but, they are not fat because Mom is baking homemade, delectable treats everyday.  They are fat because Mom buys Hostess products by the bushel and sets them up in front of the TV everyday.  Eliminate TV from your household and bake a real chocolate cake or Nestle Tollhouse cookies every week, and watch your kids thrive, I say.  Tree-climbing, hill-rolling, rock-flipping, snake-catching, bike-riding, book-reading kids who know the taste of real butter and sugar are happy, healthy kids, indeed.

A.W.B.F.C.

To borrow from a popular pro-life slogan:  "Some children are fatherless by chance; not one should be fatherless by choice."

Nowadays we tend to think of orphans as being children bereft of both parents.  In the biblical sense, though, an orphan needs only to have lost his father to fall under the special protection and consideration of God and those who love Him.  Widows and orphans are grouped together in the Bible so often because they were often of the same family.  We must care for the widows and orphans.  If you love the Lord and believe His word, then there are no two ways about it.

Now, one of the frustrating things about modern culture is that the majority of "widows and orphans" are husbandless and fatherless, not because of death or even imprisonment, but because of divorce, abandonment, or chosen single-motherhood.  As Christians, we are bound by faith to support and provide for these fatherless homes.  But, because the state of fatherlessness is a chosen one and a rampant one, the burden is becoming far too great on the Body, and, I believe, taking away resources, time, and attention from other vital ministries. 

There is a young mother at our church.  She has a two-year-old daughter and is pregnant.  She and her husband were separated, reconciled temporarily (hence her burgeoning belly), and then he flat out abandoned her.  Left.  Flew the coop.  Refuses to provide for his wife or their progeny.  Now, as her church family, it is a pleasure and a privilege to step up and support her in this horrible, difficult time.  But, when I told my own wonderful husband her story, he had another — possibly inspired — idea of how best to support her.

"You want me to get a bunch of guys together to hunt this bastard down?  I wish you'd let me keep that beating stick I found on the hike at Barnabas.  Shove that in his face and he'd hustle back and take responsibility, boy howdy."

OK, my first reaction was to laugh heartily and say, "Yep, that's a Christian reaction."  But, on further reflection, why shouldn't Christian men band together to go after other supposedly Christian men and hold their feet to the fire?  Part of the reason that community is so important in the life of a Christ follower is that, by ourselves, on our own watch, we simply cannot hold ourselves accountable.  It is pretty easy to make excuses for our own bad behavior — heck, it is one of our specialties!  Calling out others can get murky — what with that whole speck and plank thing; but, when a person's behavior actively hurts the Body of Christ — such as choosing to create by his actions a widow and orphans — he or she ought to be made to answer for it.  There used to be "shotgun weddings" — and maybe we need to reinvigorate and expand that tradition.      

I think that my husband's gut reaction was, in his own very special way, a compassionate one.  It is not compassionate to look about at the state of the American family and exhibit only tolerance for bad choices that devastate children and rip apart the fabric of society.  Tolerance is not love; tolerance is a passive virtue, and love is active.  And, while waving a stout beating stick under the nose of a wayward husband might not be the most seemly of convincers, it is probably an effective one.  I suggest that a league be formed within every congregation called the A.W.B.F.C, which stands for — you've guessed it! — the Ass-Whupping Brothers for Christ. 

The Troughs

What makes a classic work of literature, well, classic?  Some may argue that broad appeal over many generations is the primary criterion.  Some might aver that a certain sense of pushing conventional boundaries or being revolutionary in scope or style are the marks of classics.  Still others might put forward that a work cannot achieve "classic" status unless it has been put under the scholarly microscope, subjected to reams of literary criticism.  I would like to offer up something I find increasingly:  a classic is a work which stands up to multiple readings, offering something new or unexpected with each.  Under my definition (as well as the others), The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis is truly a classic.

I just finished my third reading of it. I'm pretty sure my own personal demon has read it, too, because I think I fall prey to just about every diabolical trick delineated in this book aimed to drive me away from Father, time and time again.  It's a squirmy, wormy feeling to read about "the Patient" and find that the patient is you.  And, while I could relate to every temptation presented to Wormwood's patient, what really caught my attention in this most recent reading was the letter about peaks and troughs, not so much because that is my own particular struggle right now (though, isn't it always at least a shadow struggle that threatens to solidify?), but because my dear friend is mired in a bit of a trough, and I have been relentlessly praying for her.

In Letter VIII, Screwtape schools his nephew, Wormwood, in what he calls the Law of Undulation.  We humans, you see, are amphibious — existing as half spirit, half animal.  Being as such — this "revolting hybrid" — we can only achieve a state approximating constancy between our spiritual selves (which can be sited on eternal objects) and our natural selves (always subject to temporal changes) through "undulation — the repeated return to a level from which [we] repeatedly fall back, a series of troughs and peaks."

We had a guest pastor at our church this past weekend while our senior pastor is on an extended vacation.  While, overall, it was a good sermon on 1 Samuel 15 and the progression of sin, I did have one disagreement.  The speaker said something like, "Dry seasons in your walk are not blessed times nor times of growth; if you are running spiritually dry, it is a sign of unresolved sin in your life."  Not only is this discouraging and disheartening, I do not think it is true — certainly not always true.  The presence of Father can at times be clouded to our senses by our sin; but, there are times when, for reasons only He knows, His palpable presence is simply not revealed to us.  And these are the times, C.S. Lewis surmises through the voice of Screwtape, when we grow in obedience.

God wants us to desire a relationship with Him; He wants, as Screwtape notes with disgust, "servants who can finally become sons."  But, because He desires that we desire Him, He has given us free will, making "the Irresistible and the Indisputable . . . two weapons which the very nature of His scheme forbids Him to use. . . . He cannot ravish.  He can only woo."  When the Holy Spirit first washes over our lives, bringing repentance, reverence, and reconciliation, we live on the peak of what Carolyn Arends calls the "overflow of perichoresis" — that is, in the abundance of the love and life that exists and has always existed in the presence and fellowship of the Trinity.  But, then we wake up a day or a month or a year or a decade later and find that we are still half-animals.  Make no mistake, eventually you will hit a trough.  And why?

It's worth it to offer up as explanation this lengthy quote from the incomparable Jack Lewis:  "Sooner or later [God] withdraws, if not in fact, at least from their conscious experience, all those supports and incentives.  He leaves the creature to stand up on its own legs — to carry out from the will alone duties which have lost all relish.  It is during such trough periods, much more than during the peak periods, that it is growing into the sort of creature He wants it to be.  Hence the prayers offered in the state of dryness are those which please Him best. . . . He cannot "tempt" to virtue as we do to vice.  He wants them to learn to walk and must therefore take away His hand; and if only the will to walk is really there, He is pleased even with their stumbles."  If this is true, and I suspect it is, then God must love the Psalms — that handbook for the broken-hearted, filled with David's (and others') prayers from the trough.  Think for a moment of Psalm 27: "Hear, O Lord, when I cry with my voice!  Have mercy also upon me and answer me.  When You said, 'Seek My face,' my heart said to You, 'Your face, Lord, I will seek.' Do not hide Your face from me; do not turn Your servant away in anger; You have been my help; Do not leave me or forsake me, O God of my salvation. . . . I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living."  David, with all his sin and his dry seasons, was a man after God's own heart.

There are a lot of Christian songs about rain.  I tend to like them, because I really like rain (being a web-footed Pacific Northwest girl), and also, I think, because I like the analogy that, after the dry seasons, the rain travels down to the resting seeds and nourishes what was already there; the next season brings fruit.  The Lord provides this cyclical journey, because we need that sort of peak and trough rotation for equilibrium.  The key is not to despair during the dry or barren seasons, but to recognize them and still follow the "sweet will of God."  Here is the end of Chapter VIII which gave me chills when I came across it last week:  "Our cause [i.e. the cause of drawing souls away from God into fodder for demonic sustenance] is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy's will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys." [Emphasis mine.]

I am praying for you, dear friend, without ceasing.  And I know you will see again the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

Stream of Semi-Consciousness

You know how it is when your alarm is set for 6:30 AM and at 6:20 AM there is a tap-tap-tapping sound of someone hammering outside and you really hear it because your husband opened the window last night before he went to sleep and the tap-tap-tapping noise doesn't wake him at all — oh no — so you have to get out of bed and close the damn thing and what's the point anyway because now it's 6:22 and you're awake and you might be able to go back to bed for that extra 8 minutes, but what's the point? so you get up and stumble down the hall to the kitchen to brew some coffee and no one remembered to filter enough water to make a pot so you fill the Brita system and have to wait for it to drip-drip-drip down; and while you're waiting you look out your window into the back yard and see that the deer have marauded through your garden last night you know your garden that has been thriving and looking gorgeous and you thought maybe you'd get a secondary strawberry harvest this year but now it's gone gone gone gone so you run out the front door to see if the deer made it there and they did of course munched up your giant tomato plant that you thought you could hide from them by putting it right next to the front door but of course these deer have no sense of shame and they marched right up and ate branches and leaves but you look down at the pavement and they were kind enough to have spit out the green tomatoes all over the ground and you want to call up your deer hunting brother-in-law and see if he'd like an easy neighborhood gig but by now the water is filtered and you might as well shove your rage down into your gullet and make the coffee but by now you're thinking that Alexander was right — and it is a terrible, horrible no-good, very bad day and you consider moving to Australia.  You know how it is.

Update:  Still bitter about those stolen 10 minutes.  Who hammers at 6:20 AM?

Book Review: Wuthering Heights

Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë
(Among others) Barnes & Noble Books (New York), 2004

Because at Adorable Trivialities we pride ourselves on being on the cutting edge of culture, here for your entertainment is a review of Emily Brontë's 19th century mega-hit, Wuthering Heights.

What is a confirmed Austenite to do with the Brontës?  For those of us who appreciate the sanity and moral clarity and balanced worldview of our keen-eyed genius, the Brontës are simply fetid waters — teeming with diseased and damaged characters, implausible plot twists, and a dark murkiness that oppresses and fatigues.  That is not to say that they are not interesting.  They surely are.  But, so is Pompeii.  Would you wish to have dwelt in the shadow of Vesuvius on August 24, 79?

I thoroughly enjoyed Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre as a teenager.  Much like Ayn Rand's novels, it is the sort of book that will always draw in the young and inexperienced.  I have not revisited it in years, but, I suspect, that I would find the same sort of disappointment that I found in 2005 when I tried to re-read The Fountainhead.  I remember briefly attempting Villette in college; other than that, until last week, Jane Eyre was the only Brontë exposure my literary life had experienced.

So, now I have read Wuthering Heights. 

Oy.

Let me digress for a moment to note that I read The Turn of the Screw recently, after Jane's Fame by Claire Harman assured me that Henry James was Jane Austen's literary heir.  Oh God, how I hated that book!  I went through the slim volume gnashing my teeth and wailing to Jason that I loathed the governess heroine beyond reason, and I wished upon her all manner of suffering and despair at the hands of her demonic charges. 

Well, I hated Catherine and Heathcliff even more thoroughly and with far more cause.  In fact, I despised every character in that foul tome — from insipid Lockwood through to that lummox Hareton.  You know what I mean, right?  Or, have you the pleasure and privilege of never having cracked the covers of Wuthering Heights?

"Wuthering" is a North England word that means "having blustery, roaring winds." Well, in this book, they are ill winds, indeed, because they blow nobody — including the reader — any good.  Everyone in this novel operates within the confines of severe dysfunction, with everyone possessing a violent sort of loathing for everyone else.  Wuthering Heights is based upon the Jerry Springer Principle: that human train wrecks are entertainment.  And the novel is compelling.

The feckless Lockwood falls into this disenchanting web when he rents lodging from a Mr. Heathcliff of Wuthering Heights.  He gets stuck at that disreputable residence overnight, when weather prevents his returning to his rented quarters a small distance off.  Everyone is queer and everyone is hostile, and, while he spends a little time trying to figure out the strange dynamics, he readily consigns them all to unfathomability and goes to his provided room to sleep.  In the night, he is visited by a dream, a vision, a spirit from beyond, and — in his panic — he arouses the attention of the somber and repulsive Heathcliff.  Heathcliff does not seem surprised by this witching hours visitant; rather, he seems envious of Mr. Lockwood's experience.  Heathcliff then proceeds to while the rest of the night in lamentations and despairing exhortations to "Catherine."  Mr. Lockwood escapes home to the other rented property the next day — catching, for his troubles, a nasty cold.

Consigned to his bed, he entreats his housekeeper, one Ellen Dean, to tell him the story of all he observed at Wuthering Heights.  The rest of the novel is a series of flashbacks, as recalled by this domestic servant — the only somewhat rational voice in the entire book.

The former proprietor of Wuthering Heights, Mr. Earnshaw, brought back with him from a business trip an orphaned waif of no-repute or relation to live in his home.  He calls the boy "Heathcliff," and the child receives no other name.  Mr. Earnshaw's two children, Hindley and Catherine, at first scorn the boy; then, Catherine forms a passionate bond with him.  Abused by Hindley, adored by Catherine, Heathcliff grows up into a twisted and cruel man, whose only anchor to rationality is his devotion to "Cathy."  Long story short, Cathy marries a neighbor boy, Edgar Linton, instead of the degraded Heathcliff.  Heathcliff runs off for a few years.  In the meantime, Cathy gets pregnant.  Then, Heathcliff returns — remade and with some money — and proceeds to hang about the Lintons' home, making Edgar very nervous.  Cathy dies after childbirth, and Edgar's sister, Isabella, runs off with Heathcliff.  Heathcliff, in the meantime, has won through gambling the title of Wuthering Heights from drunken and debased Hindley.  When he returns with his hated bride, Heathcliff goes on to make everyone about him completely miserable for the rest of the novel, until he mercifully dies.  The second half of the novel is all about the story of Catherine's daughter, also named Catherine, Heathcliff's son with Isabella, named Linton, and Hindley's son, named Hareton.  Everyone behaves poorly to each other.  No one is likable. And, satisfactorily for this reader, in the end, almost all of them are dead.

Was I glad to have finished this book!  And yet, I have to admit, it was page-turner. 

Wuthering Heights was published in 1847.  Jane Austen died in 1817, before she had attained the age 42.  I imagine that, had she lived another thirty years, in her seventies, Jane Austen would have eagerly picked up the new novel from upstart author Ellis Bell.  And she would have laughed and laughed and laughed.  Then, she would have picked up her pen and written a brilliant parody of it, sent it to Cassandra, and given it nary another thought.  Miss Austen's sensibilities are not those of the Misses Brontë; and, I fear, mine are not, as well.  Overblown emotionalism; passions unchecked by reason or humor; sledge-hammerly subtle symbolism — oh, you Brontës need to get over yourselves!

Sipping Once, Sipping Twice, Sipping Chicken Soup With Rice!

[Recite with sarcasm:]
In August it will be so hot,
I will become a cooking pot.
Cooking soup, of course.
Why not?
Cooking once, cooking twice,
Cooking chicken soup with rice.
--Maurice Sendak

It's barely 60°.  It is August 10.  Last night, I cooked chicken soup with rice.  Today, I am reheating leftovers.  Can you believe it?  It seems almost unreal.  God cracks me up.  Happy summer, all!

Book Review: The Loser Letters: A Comic Tale of Life, Death, and Atheism

The Loser Letters: A Comic Tale of Life, Death, and Atheism
by Mary Eberstadt
Ignatius Press (San Fransisco), 2010

C.S. Lewis used to be an atheist.  Yes he did.  And, if you ever read snippets of his writing and correspondence from those faithless years, you will find an alien Jack (as he was known — for reasons of his own — to friends, family, and colleagues) awaiting you.  Imagine the sharp and rapid synapses of that exceptional mind firing, not with the expansive geniality and wry humor so characteristic of his later years among the redeemed, but with bitterness, smug condescension, arrogance, and, frankly, snottiness.  It was a shock for me to read of rude, young Jack — in his own words — in Alan Jacobs's first-rate biography, The Narnian.  But, really, it ought not to have been.  After all, I was briefly an atheist, too.  And, if I recall correctly, I was not particularly pleasant to be around, either.

And, so, we have what are collectively called The New Atheists — including, but not limited to, Sam Harris (The End of Faith), Richard Dawkins (The God Delusion), and Christopher Hitchens (god is Not Great).  As I am a Christian and believe such things are good for the soul, I will start with a confession:  I have not read any of these modern polemics.  Truly, life is too short on good reading time, and there is always a new book about Shakespeare (current read: Will in the World by Stephen Greenblatt) or Jane Austen (most recent read: Jane's Fame by Claire Harman) or even a novel or two skulking about the bookshelf queue, awaiting perusal (just finished: Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë -- next up: We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver) — I have neither the will nor time to read books about something I, sorry guys, simply do not find all that interesting.  Don't feel bad — I tend not to read apologetics or other books about Christianity either.  I mean, we have the Bible and G.K. Chesterton and C.S. Lewis and a small handful of other writers.  And I am content.  Faith question?  Answered.  Belief question?  Answered.  Religion question?  Answered.  God question? Answered.  So why did I hurry over to Amazon (after checking my local Christian bookstore, which did not have stock — c'mon guys, you need to be more on the ball!  I'm doing my best to keep you in business, but you're NOT helping!) to pick up Mary Eberstadt's brand-spanking-new epistolary novel, The Loser Letters?  Good question.

I read a review of it by chance at Christianity Today's website.  The reviewer said that it was a sort of modern take on C.S. Lewis's The Screwtape Letters.  Interest officially piqued.  The one-sided record of correspondence between Screwtape, an undersecretary in some unnamed department of bureaucratized Hell, and his nephew, Wormwood, a young tempter on the make that chronicles their battle for the soul of one man against The Enemy is an enthralling read.  I was certainly intrigued to discover what Ms. Eberstadt -- whose book, Home Alone America, I enjoyed a few years ago — would do with an atheist version.

A.F. Christian is our correspondent in The Loser Letters.  She is a twenty-five year old in rehab; a convert from Christianity to atheism (the "A.F." stands for "a former"); and she writes a series of letters to the big guns of New Atheism — the aforementioned Harris, Hitchens, and Dawkins as well as Onfray, Stenger, Dennett, and many others of whom I have never heard, let alone read.  In her first letter, she observes that, while she was lucky to have thrown off the shackles of belief in that "biggest fraud of all time, cosmic zero, ultimate no-show" Loser (God), there have, overall, not been many converts to the atheist mindset — especially in proportion to the amount of work put out by the men she addresses.  She proposes a series of letters to these worthy fellows, detailing the ways in which atheism can better be "sold" to the public at large — each letter touching on a different subject that might turn off the majority of believers (whom she cleverly labels as "Dulls," since — and I'm not making this up — several atheists are trying to assume the general cultural label of "Brights" instead of "Atheists") from giving up on the Deity and embracing atheism.

From this general premise, A.F. Christian proceeds to enlighten and inform the atheist brotherhood.  There is a much different dynamic at work in The Loser Letters from The Screwtape Letters.  In Screwtape, two demons consult each other (one advising, the other reporting) on their task of keeping one man, the patient, from the Enemy — that enemy, of course, is the Father and His armies of heavenly host and earthly saints.  Both devils know that the Enemy is real; both know His power and curse His love.  In Loser, the advisor and the soul in jeopardy of perdition are one in the same.  She rails against a power and presence she denies is real (though, from page one, the reader has the sense that she is no more convinced of that than I was during my brief, but excruciating, voyage into unbelief) to a group of men who have made it their business in life to be officially "without God."  In fact, the enemy in Loser is not so much the Loser Himself, as it is His followers — the Dulls who would believe so strongly in this imaginary friend, and act so rationally in accordance with their beliefs to heal and edify and encourage and support the world at large in the name of this friend.  See, atheists can, by definition, have no beef with God; they must be against those who cling to Him.

The strengths of The Loser Letters lie in the fact that some glaring inconsistencies of atheism — were atheism looked at as a whole cloth belief, which I think would arouse protest from many atheists  — are entertainingly brought to light.  For instance, there seems to be no agreement among atheists on whether man is just one of the higher orders of animals, whose lives are on par with those of many animals, and whose animal appetites ought to be satisfied as a natural occurrence (as someone such as Peter Singer might believe); or whether man is the highest, the noblest of beings, so sufficient unto himself that he, in his most exalted state, is worthy of worship and is certainly over all of nature (and most of his fellow men) in the pursuit of his goals (as, say, Ayn Rand might aver).  Ms. Eberstadt looks at the products of the systems of belief, as well, in a very effective way.  What, say, Christianity has wrought culturally, artistically, charitably versus what atheism has wrought.  She looks at the current, depressing cultural view of sex against a backdrop of the religious values of self-control and monogamy; the historic and current worlds of art; the myriad hospitals, soup kitchens, international missions, the grand, seismic shifts in human justice done in the name of Loser.  She does acknowledge (she is writing as an enthusiastic atheist, you know) the many times believers have fallen short of glory; but, she slyly insinuates that adherents of atheism never had any heights from which to fall.

There are several weaknesses in this book as well.  It is, altogether, a little too linguistically hip and swinging to be a really pleasant read.  I know that Ms. Eberstadt was going for the voice of disillusioned, twenty-something America; but, I had trouble easily digesting about 25% of what was written.  The cultural references are also up-to-the-minute (at least I assume they are; I'm about three hours late, culturally speaking), which, I fear, will detract from the shelf life of this book.  It certainly makes the "comic" aspect of the book a wee indecipherable to a fuddy-duddy like me.

I think, though, that the main weakness for me was the story itself.  Throughout the letters, A.F. reveals in piecemeal her personal story — her journey to unbelief.  When the story is fully revealed, I thought to myself, "This is entirely over the top; therefore, it rather discredits than bolsters the narrative."  The ending, too, is just a little too schmaltzy and pat and feel-good.  Take the ending of Screwtape — reassuring, yet unsettling and terrifying at the same time.  This was sort of like . . . eh.  I will admit that I did cry a little near the end; but, I dare any mom to read the last chapter and not tear up a bit.  But emotionalism on the cheap does not a strong story make, and overall, I was a bit disappointed.

So, who is The Loser Letters for and what are they to take from it?  You know, I'm not really sure.  Is it for Christians, to help them answer the arguments of atheists?  Surely; but, there are books that present those answers more thoroughly and fluently.  Is it for atheists, to encourage them to re-think some of their assumptions and assertions?  Surely; but, I am not convinced that it is most effective that way.  As a Christian, I was arguing against A.F. on the atheists' side; I do not think that atheists in general would have a light bulb over the noggin experience (truly, I do believe that only the Holy Spirit can effect such a welcome moment).  Mostly, I think, The Loser Letters is worthy entertainment for an evening; and, perhaps, a springboard to grander and better books on culture, faith, and this great "mess and mystery of life."  And, considering it is a published collection of an installment series from National Review Online, not a scholarly apologetic years in the researching, that is not too backward of a commendation.  A harmless and intermittently entertaining read.  But, make sure you read The Screwtape Letters, if you haven't already.

Oh, and one last quibble with Ms. Boar-City:  Why does my beloved Deutsch have to be the language of Hell?  Huh?  German is a glorious and startlingly beautiful language, and, though I am sure it was done in jest, deserves better than such malignancy.  I think the language of Hell is bound to be — in keeping with Jack Lewis's particular vision — government bureaucracy legalese, with every communication coming in 2,800 page documents.  Ooh, I just gave myself an other-worldly shiver . . .

Mentioned in this post (among others):

WA Senate Race! Whoo-Hoo!

Why in the world have I received my mail-in ballot for the upcoming state-wide primaries when I have not yet received my Voter's Pamphlet?  While I was marking my choice of Dino Rossi to replace the worthless Patty Murray, my eyes traveled up the list of candidates to see that my old friends Goodspaceguy and Mike the Mover are back on the ballot.  Oh, Dino, what should I do? 

Of course, I will vote for Dino Rossi -- our best chance to unseat the bovine Murray in November.  But, as I was just reminded in moving my old Singing Sparrow stuff over to Adorable Trivialities, much mirth and hilarity can be extracted from the WA Voter's Pamphlet.  How strange that the ballot should have arrived before it!  Were I Mike the Mover or Goodspaceguy, I should surely cry "Foul!" -- as how many ballots will be reflexively marked by those of a Democratic turn for the dull, blank mind of Patty Murray, when there are far more interesting views and positions held by MTM and GSG lurking twixt the pages of the pamphlet?  Any discerning voter will want to be fully informed.  What's the deal King County Department of Elections?  Afraid that your witless darling will be overshadowed by the sheer awesome intellectual heft of Mike the Mover?  Afraid that your vacuous pet will be out of her depth in the crucial subject of intergalactic diplomacy when matched with Goodspaceguy?  What are you hiding?

Washington deserves better than the vapidity of Patty Murray.  We (and the U.S.) desperately need the level-headed, common-sense conservatism of Dino Rossi, and we're lucky that he has chosen to run.  Thanks, Dino! 

UPDATE:  Received my Voter's Pamphlet in the mail today! Let the hilarity ensue!  (Actually -- frighteningly -- Goodspaceguy has some good ideas.)  Now, where is my Dino Rossi bumper sticker I requested?

Whoa, Dude! Not Cool!

From Design Toscano, makers of The Zombie of Montclaire Moors Garden Statue and Bigfoot, The Garden Yeti, comes this stunner -- Hercules and Diomedes in a grapple of uncomfortable intimacy.  I invite you to scrutinize the statue at their website; I couldn't bum the code for the -- ahem! -- enlarged view.  But, as far as I can tell, my original suspicions were correct, and I can't think of anything else to hang onto down there.

If you find that you long for this sculpture, but cannot stomach the view, there is a draped version available as well. 

A Sparrow Falls

I have decided not to renew my domain account with Go Daddy this year.  I almost never use it, and rarely think of it.  So, The Singing Sparrow will be no more.  I have transferred the published posts from the blog there to Adorable Trivialities, and you can find them all published here on July 1, 2010.

Thanks to all who came by and read my stuff on that site and took the time to make comments.  I appreciate you.  Your comments have, unfortunately, not been saved in the transfer to this blog; but, feel free to re-read and re-comment, if you'd like.

And thank you to all who continue to make it here and read the new stuff (such as it is) and make comments.  I treasure your readership and contributions.  I came back from Barnabas a-rarin' to write, so look for more content soon.  It may never get back up to 2005/2006 levels, but it will get better.

Blessings and gratitude to all!

Cell Phones: Modern Electronic of Convenience and Wonder? Or Demon Message Receptor from Hell? (You Know It's the Latter)

OK, I am willing to admit that my beef is a lost cause.  We are a Cell Phone Nation.  Seniors, soccer moms, and kids -- not to mention power players in the world of business suits -- walk about, phone to ear or nose to screen, fingers flying all over the damn things.  I hate them.  Of course, I have one.

I never wanted a cell phone, but, back in 2000, Jason told me I was getting one.  "I don't want one," I protested (see, I am consistent).  "I don't care," he replied in his inexorably Jasonish way, "You're getting one for safety reasons.  I don't like to think of you out driving late at night without one."  "Oh pooh," I sighed, and dutifully accepted the wee silver fold-over phone.

There are exactly two people in the world with whom I like to talk on the phone -- one of whom I did not even know until a few years ago.  This is not to insult anyone else in my beloved circle of friends.  I'm just not much of a talker (on phones).  Get me settled in with some coffee or adult beverages, and you know I'll chaw on with you until daybreak.  But phones are just so . . . blah.  No gestures; no expressions; no comfortable silences between inspiration.  Who needs it?  Give me face-to-face whenever possible.

Also, I guess my hatred of cell phones relates to my recent decision to reject all the social networking sites. There is such a thing as being too connected with too many people.

Anyway, about three years later, after discovering that we never really used the things enough to justify the $60/month we were spending on them (and I was home with the baby and not doing much in the way of late-night driving), we switched to a pre-pay plan through Virgin Mobile.  Got a cheap, little fold-over phone again, began to pay $20 every three months (savings!), and continued along the path of rarely turning the thing on, let alone actually using it as a communication device.

Then, in 2007, I started watching little Rylee, and -- all of a sudden -- having a cell phone was part of my job.  Her parents -- understandably -- wanted to be able to reach me at their convenience.  So, I dug the dusty machine out of storage and re-charged it.  I used to make fun of people with cell phones attached at the hip; now I was one.  Of course, in the meantime I had become strangely deaf to the cell phone.  For some reason, probably psychological, I simply could not hear the ringer most of the time.  I remember one time, sitting in a Mexican restaurant with a margarita in one hand and my cell phone in the other, waiting for an important call -- and I missed that call not once, but three times.  Yikes.  So, I learned how to use the vibrate code and kept the thing in my pants pocket for a little jolt whenever there was an incoming call.

So, about three months ago, I accidentally washed my cheap, no-frills, fold-over phone with my pants.  Jason went to get me a replacement and found, much to my consternation, that they no longer make that simple receptor device.  Oh no.  Now, you have to have a camera -- and texting capability -- and Internet capability.  He bought me the cheapest phone they had, and I hate it.  It does not fold down, so the buttons are constantly exposed which makes it hard to slip in my pants pocket.  Plus, whenever I look at the darn thing, it's always half-way to texting some gibberish over to Timbuktu or some-such.  I loathe and despise the wretched appliance -- and may just throw it in the next laundry load for spite.

Now, Jason is saying that he needs to upgrade our cell phone system because of his work.  His company would reimburse part of the plan.  So, I will soon have to adjust to a new phone.  Again. I hope it will at least fold over, even if I have to submit to a camera inside.  And, I guess, just because a phone can be used for texting doesn't mean that I have to learn how to use it.  You can lead a land-line-lover to satellite reception, and you can even make her use it; but you can never, ever make her like it.