Steve’s Soapbox

If You Want to Vote...Vote!

2011-12-30T10:30:00.000-08:00

It's not rocket science.

I just don’t get it.

Just a couple of weeks ago, the U.S. Justice Department blocked a new South Carolina law that would require voters to present photo identification at the polls, saying the law would disproportionately suppress turnout among eligible minority voters. Apparently they have the authority to do so, under the provisions of the Voting Rights Act.

In a recent editorial, the New York Times identified another subset of voters that tend to be disenfranchised under such a requirement: college students. Such a voter might (ordinarily) live in State A and attend school in State B, yet never bother to obtain an official ID in State B because his tenure there is only temporary.

The broader conspiracy, according to some? Blacks, Hispanics, and college students tend to think liberally and vote Democratic, whereas the voter ID laws are generally promoted by Republicans. Hence, obviously, this is nothing more than a poorly veiled scheme to stack the deck and elect more Republicans to public office.

Ugh. Where do I start?

Contrary to the rants of liberal politicians and journalists, no one has a constitutionally protected right to vote. No one. So whatever you might believe about this highly sensitive issue, let us begin by having an honest discussion based on demonstrable facts.

Even if the conspiracy theory is true, and even if every state enacted such a statute, every “disenfranchised” voter can still beat the system. It is neither difficult nor expensive to obtain a state ID card. If you want to vote, just get out there and get one! Many states even allow voters to use a passport, or a military ID.

Very few things offend me to the core of my being, more than the proposition that your personal freedoms and are someone else's responsibility, that the outcome of your life is dictated by some outside force beyond your control. If you want to vote, then it's up to you to study the process and make it happen.

So, you want to empower these downtrodden people? Let’s try this: Instead of complaining that we don’t do enough to protect their rights, teach them to be responsible citizens who participate in our political system. If the state says they have to follow a certain procedure, teach them how it works. If they need a state ID, walk them over to the DMV and help them with the paperwork. If they can’t afford the fee, help them pay it.

I live in the freest and most tolerant country in the world. Not only that, but it’s also the freest and most tolerant civilization in the history of the planet. No one else even comes close. Hence, I find it troubling when I hear people complain that they’re not free enough.

Freedom is not free. Along with its privileges come a host of responsibilities that we all must bear for the common good. Honest people have nothing to fear from a little accountability. Let’s get to work.

Of Gods and Rockstars

2011-12-23T23:49:00.000-08:00

Really?

I thought it was a joke. Honestly, I couldn’t believe it wasreal. I assumed it was one of those fake commercials, like the ones they showon Saturday Night Live. But at the end of the 30-second spot, try as I might todeny it, the gruesome reality set in:

President Barack Obama, immortalized in red clay and greenhair as a Chia Pet. The perfect Christmas gift for kids of all ages.

That’s right. Move over, Shrek. Make way, Spongebob. No moretasty snacks for you, Scooby-Doo. You’ve been upstaged by the leader of thefree world, as he joins you in that sacred pantheon of American culture: good old traditional crasscommercialism.

Good grief, Charlie Brown. What has become of our society,that it’s now acceptable to trivialize the office of the American presidency?Could it be that our national executive is now no better than a Veg-O-Matic, ora Lava Lamp?

As I look back to my childhood, I remember that many of my friendsand neighbors wore t-shirts to honor their favorite celebrities: Jimi, Elvis,Marilyn. Then sometime in the 1990s, Christian bookstores added an apparelsection that featured shirts bearing images of Jesus. And somehow both of thoseuses seem perfectly fitting because all of these personalities, in one way oranother, have always been objects of worship in our society.

And then came the election of 2008: Legions of admirers, allover the country and the world, began to sport Obama-wear. Then it was coffeemugs, neckties, and action-figure dolls that were taller and beefier than G.I.Joe. Not far from my home, at a local swap-meet, I found an Andy Warhol-esqueframed portrait, between similar images of Jim Morrison and Michael Jackson.

Interesting. I was born during the administration of PresidentJohn F. Kennedy, and from him to Johnson to Nixon to Ford to Carter to Reaganto Bush, Sr. to Clinton to Bush, Jr., I can’t recall that any of theirsupporters ever “honored” them with a silk-screened image on an article ofclothing. (Okay, so my local Party City store continues to sell Richard Nixonmasks for Halloween. Perhaps he, individually, had it coming.)

The older I get, the more opinionated I seem to become. Soplease don’t point it out to me, I already know. And the more I watch theevening news, the more I thank God that I’m privileged to live in a free andprosperous country that works so hard to bring peace and stability to theworld. At times like these, like never before, we must strive to defend theauthority and dignity of the office of the Presidency.

Toward the beginning of the second Gulf War, I marveled at newspaperimages of Iraqi citizens – aided by American soldiers – tearing down dozens ofmonuments to their despised ruler Saddam Hussein. Statues, paintings, a highwaysign pointing the way to Saddam International Airport. We all knew that it wasimproper that a sovereign should be honored, almost deified, in this way. Goodriddance. Let’s move on to build a new civilization, governed by mere mortals.

And now this. We're supposed to be the enlightened folk who know better. We're the ones who vote principles instead of personalities, the good guys who show 'em how it's done.

I remember it like it was yesterday: Election night, 2008.On every network and cable news channel, as always, they interviewed votersemerging from the polls: Who did you votefor? As expected, many affirmed their support for Obama. Then came thesecond question: Why did you vote forhim? By my estimation, about threeout of four couldn’t say, apart from some slippery cliché like “hope andchange.” Which, I suppose, can mean whatever you want it to mean.

They didn’t vote for a political ideology, or some importantmoral tenet, or a doctrine defined in a stump speech. When pressed theydidn’t know their candidate’s stance on defense spending or foreign policy ortort reform. They didn’t vote for a forceful, authoritative Commander-in-Chiefto keep them safe from terrorists; they pulled that lever for a handsome,affable Captain America to make them feel good.

Let’s restore a measure of dignity to the White House. Monumentsand t-shirt images belong to gods and rock stars. Not presidents.

Authors vs. Publishers: Who Wins?

2011-12-19T10:50:00.000-08:00

It’s getting harder and harder to squeeze out a nickel inthe publishing business these days. Authors, publishers and vendors continuallystruggle for the upper hand. The business models are changing, technologybrings new opportunities, and everyone wants to be first to exploit the Next BigThing.

In today’s online update, Publisher’s Weekly reports a newdevelopment in this ever-changing landscape: Regnery Publishing prevailed in anarbitration case where three authors accused the company of cheating them outof their royalties. (The case has many facets, but for our purposes today I will carve out this narrow angle.)

For those not familiar with the eccentricities of thebusiness: It’s a standard feature of almost all book contracts (surely there’san exception somewhere), that the author’s royalty can vary according toseveral factors. The part that’s relevant here, is that the royalty can bereduced for copies sold to books clubs or to big-box retailers (think Walmartor Target). This is clearly spelled out in the contract, and too big to miss.

In exchange for buying large quantities, these outletsdemand abnormally steep discounts. In this arrangement the publisher makes lessprofit, so they expect the author to share the pain. A 12% cut might be reducedto 8. When the book sells thousands of copies, this pay cut can add up to someserious money. But the happy flip side is that you’ll probably attract buyerswho would never have found your book any other way. Like most authors, I’vecome to accept this reality; we’d rather sell more books than less, right?

What makes the Regnery case unique, however, is that they’vebeen accused of self-dealing: Instead of marketing these books to traditionalretail outlets (at the standard 40% off cover price and a full royalty), thepublisher opted to sell at deep discounts (and reduced royalties) to theConservative Book Club. What’s wrong with that, you ask? The CBC happens to bea sister company, under the umbrella of Eagle Publishing. Hence, Regnery didn’treally have to bend to the wishes of a demanding customer.

Was Regnery truly innocent here, as the arbitrator declared?

I can’t claim to read the minds of the three plaintiffs, butsomehow I suspect they knew about (and were attracted by) the book clubconnection. If they didn’t know, their agents did. Even the most cursory readof the company’s website will reveal it. And like every other author I know, Iwould LOVE to be featured on a book club website. It’s better than paidadvertising. While they will probably never admit it out loud (or perhaps don’teven realize it), most authors need the exposure more than they need the money.

As for the other half of the complaint, that Regnery deliberately and malevolently (is that a word?) steered sales away from "regular" retail outlets for the sake of their affiliate? Short of a confession from the sales department, this is impossible to prove. Every book campaign is unique, the path of wisdom is very subjective, and any survey of any ten experts can render ten very different opinions. In any event, no publisher can punish its authors in this way without also punishing itself.

Indeed, these are crazy and confusing times in the pubworld. Surely there are tons of legal and technological issues that must beresolved in these next few crucial years, some that we have yet to imagine.Anyone who says they know the future, is either lying or deceived.

One thing I know for sure: If you take the profit out ofsomething, no one will want to do it. If writers can’t make a living with theirbooks, they will find something else to do. If bookstores can’t operateprofitably, they will go away. If publishers can’t eke out a decent margin,their presses will go quiet. And all of our civilization will be the worse for it.

We all need each other. Now let's play nice.

Taking Pride In a False Heritage

2011-11-25T12:07:00.001-08:00

The holiday of Kwanzaa will soon be upon us. This seven-dayfeast (Dec. 26-Jan. 1) was created in 1966 by Professor Ronald Everett of CalState Long Beach. After the Watts riots in Los Angeles, Everett sought out waysto reconcile the black members of the community (a commendable goal) andcombined elements of several African harvest celebrations, such as those of theAshanti and the Zulu.

In time, as we know, the holiday gained traction in thepopular media as a warm fuzzy occasion for family get-togethers. It’s rooted in the seven sacred principles of unity,self-determination, collective work and responsibility, cooperative economics,purpose, creativity and faith. Several American presidents have issued officialproclamations. Hallmark sells Kwanzaa-themed greeting cards that emphasizethese principles, conveying a message of dignity and empowerment to anoppressed people.

At least, that’s the sanitized version of the story.

Peruse the Official Kwanzaa Website, and it praises the“values of African culture.” But what is that, exactly? Could it be that thefifty-four nations of Africa constitute a single monolithic civilization with ashared ethos and customs?

I wonder, has anyone ever dared to make such sweepinggeneralizations about the countries of Europe? Do they sing “God Save theQueen” in the opera houses of Lisbon, or can you order bratwurst at the cafeson the Champs-Élysées? Yes, thesecountries participate in the European Union; yes, most have adopted a commoncurrency with the Euro; but they jealously guard their individual identitiesand traditions. Belgians don't celebrate Oktoberfest, and Bastille Day isn't a big deal in Italy. People don't say "I'm European;" They say "I'm German."

For the average uninformed American, this attempt toconstruct a generic continent-wide “African” culture might seemharmless and reasonable. And besides, if it instillsethnic pride in the heart of the believer, what's the problem? The problem is that the fairy tale comes from a man who holdshimself out as a distinguished scholar of such things, and the assertion only comesacross as self-serving and deceitful. The peoples of Africa have never beenunified, and it’s simply dishonest to suggest otherwise.

Everett calls it a “pan-African” holiday. Are you sure? In truth, large-scale observances on the continent are rare. In many isolated tribalareas, far from the big cities, the people don’t even know or care who their national leaders are.Candidates don’t solicit their votes, and even the most violent rebels don’t bother them.They speak hundreds of languages, practice hundreds of religions, and knowlittle or nothing of the world beyond their own village. Why should they look to an American to tell them how to be“African?” Kwanzaa means nothingto them.

So exactly what aspect of Kwanzaa is distinctly African,that it should hold special significance for Africans, or for Americans descended from thecontinent? Why should they set aside their centuries-old customs and embrace anew holiday brought by a foreigner? Hard to say.

Let's start with the name of the holiday: The term Kwanzaa (“first fruits”) comes from Swahili, whichEverett calls “the most widely spoken African language.” Not quite: Swahili iscommon in only a few countries, all of which have at least one other majorlanguage. And they’re all on or near the east coast, whereas almost allAmerican slaves (the ancestors of most American blacks) came from thewest. Further, the language isn’t uniquely African; over half of thevocabulary is borrowed from other languages, including English and French. Butthe biggest portion is from Arabic (which, by the way, happens to be the most widely spokenlanguage in Africa).

So how about the date? This celebration is ostensibly a harvest festival, but no farmer anywhere on earth gathers crops in December. Could there be some significance inAfrican history or custom, such as the birth of a king, the founding of a nation, theexaltation of a deity, a military victory over an invading army? Such, after all, is the stuff of nationalholidays. Well, how ’bout it?

Nope. No connection of any kind.

Central to the Kwanzaa celebration is a family meal, where the table is decorated with an ear of corn for each child in the household. But given the great diversity of crops that are cultivated on the continent, why corn? This grain has absolutely no cultural significance in Africa. It’s indigenous to Mexico, and no place elseon earth, introduced to the continent by white foreigners! As recently as 1939, by one account, thecitizens of Northern Rhodesia complained of corn as a strange, foul-tasting“European” food.

And then there’s the flag. Again quoting the website, “Thecolors of the Kwanzaa flag are the colors of the Organization Us, black, redand green.” Never heard of OrganizationUs? It’s a Black Nationalist group, established by Everett in 1965 as a rival tothe Black Panthers. In 1969 the two groups battled for control of the BlackStudents Union at UCLA, and engaged in a shootout in the school’s cafeteria.By the time the fight was over, two students lay dead. (Again, no historical "African" connection.)

Everett envisioned Kwanzaa as a black family’s alternativeto Christmas; he says it’s a white man’s holiday,based on a white man’s religion, robbing the black man of his true heritage.He’s misinformed: Medieval art depictions notwithstanding, Jesus and his early followers were anythingbut Caucasian. While the apostles evangelized Asia and Europe, John Mark(author of the second Gospel) established a congregation in Alexandria, in thefirst century. Some of our greatest theologians (Tertullian, Clement, Origen,Cyprian, Athanasius and Augustine) likewise served as leaders of Africanchurches in the first few centuries. The Islamic invaders, who (unlike theChristians) gained most of their early converts by sword, didn’t arrive until aboutsix hundred years later. Oddly enough, Everett fails to denounce this foreignimposition on African culture and identity.

Everett is correct to point out that the spiritual meaningof Christmas is largely overshadowed by the crass commercialism of Americanretailing. We exploit this holy observance as an excuse to take time off fromwork, overspend, overeat, go into debt, and indulge all manner of carnalpleasures. Yes, guilty as charged, all around. But is he truly offeringsomething better? Take a closer look at Kwanzaa: the commercial exploitation ofthe holiday increases with each passing year. In fact, Everett's own businesses are among the greatest beneficiaries of this merchandising.

But even as he denounces Christmas as an offensive holiday, he fashioned his own by co-opting Christmas (as well as Christian and Jewish) symbols. After all, aproper celebration requires a wine glass that greatly resembles a chalice thatmight be used for the Lord’s Supper, and a seven-stemmed candlestick that couldeasily be mistaken for a menorah. Families exchange gifts as they would on Christmas morning. Again, nothing distinctly "African" here.

Still looking for an "African" connection? I found one: Among the seven sacred principles, ujima (collective work and responsibility) was acornerstone doctrine of the Marxist Tanzanian dictator Julius Nyrere as he seized theproperty of thousands, compelling them to toil on collective farms. Under hispresidency, the nation declined from being the continent’s largest exporter of foodto the biggest importer. He retired in 1985, finally admitting that hisstrategy failed. Which it always does. Marxism promises to liberate, butinstead it invariably enslaves.

As an interesting side note: All seven principles were embraced by the Symbionese Liberation Army,a militant gang that went on a crime spree in California in the 1970s. Theyfancied themselves defenders of the oppressed black man, but mostly they keptthemselves busy by robbing banks and terrorizing the populace.

I am often mystified when I hear black folks, people who already live in the freest and most tolerant country in the history of the planet, seek “liberation”by clinging to their African roots. The more I study the history of the DarkContinent, the more I see patterns of hatred, racism, ethnic cleansing, and exclusion. (Somehow these things are evil when brought by white people, such as in Bosnia.) They’ve wagedwar among themselves for thousands of years, without the interference of white outsiders.Even today Hutus and Tutsis routinely massacre one another for sport. Genocideshave wiped out millions in Rwanda and Ethiopia, and warlords rule in Somaliaand the Congo. Rarely do they raise principled arguments over political issues;it’s the Capulets and the Montagues, war for war’s sake, ancient rivalrieswhere no one remembers what they were fighting about in the first place. Where democracy and tolerance do exist, even nominally, it's almost always due to the influence of foreign colonists (such as in South Africa).

Many American blacks continue to resent the exploitation oftheir ancestors through the slave trade, blaming Whitey for their plight (hence the need for cultural observances such as Kwanzaa). But they seem to forget: these atrocities weremade possible, not by mass abductions, but by perfectly legal purchases. Theyweren’t kidnapped by foreigners, they were disowned and sold out by their brothers. Later, many freed slaves returned totheir ancestral homeland and founded the nation of Liberia. Here they quicklyestablished a corrupt system of minority rule and excluded the natives fromparticipation in government affairs. (Which, they're quick to point out, was evil when the Pilgrims did it.)

The deeper I delve into the origins of Kwanzaa, the more itseems indistinguishable from the personality of Dr. Everett, who exalted himself a few years back by inventing an African name meaning “masterteacher.” Technically thekeeper of its orthodoxy is the National Association of Kawaida (Africanculture) Organizations, and its official publications are produced by theUniversity of Sankore Press. This might sound impressive until we consider thatboth of those organizations were established by (and continue to be headed by)Everett himself. Further, the publishingcompany is named for an institution that doesn’t exist.

Black Nationalists preach the superiority of all thingsAfrican, that theirs is the true master race (even though, curiously, there is no such thing as an "African" race), believing that black folks should separate themselves from non-blacksand only patronize black-owned businesses. (Funny thing, I thought the protests of the civil rights movement were intended to oppose such segregation and put an end to these abuses.) I wonder, what might be thepolitical implications if white people attempted such a thing today? Imagine a White Students Club, or a WhiteCongressional Caucus. What would AlSharpton or Jesse Jackson say? Wait, Ithink I know the answer to that one.

From his prison cell in Birmingham, following his arrest foran “unauthorized” peaceful demonstration, Dr. King penned a rambling letterthat (partly) opposed the ideals and methods of Black Nationalists:

I have tried to stand between these two forces, saying thatwe need emulate neither the "do nothingism" of the complacent nor thehatred and despair of the black nationalist. For there is the more excellentway of love and nonviolent protest. I am grateful to God that, through theinfluence of the Negro church, the way of nonviolence became an integral partof our struggle. If this philosophy had not emerged, by now many streets of theSouth would, I am convinced, be flowing with blood.

The liberation movements of the 1960s, whether based on raceor gender or political philosophy, all seem to have one thing in common: Inorder to feel good about themselves, they must insult those who don’t neatlyfit in. And then, perfectly consistentwith human nature, they become the very things they despise: Anti-racismcrusaders end up fostering racism in the opposite direction. Men hate women,and women hate men. Arabs hate Jews, and Jews hate Arabs. The original intentmay have been noble, but after a while it degrades into a battle ofus-versus-them and nothing changes; they subjugate the very people they came toset free.

Early in my career, when I joined the Retail Clerks Union,they promised to protect me from the evil capitalist pigs who signed mypaycheck. Instead, their manyregulations (not my employer) prevented me from getting raises or promotions.The National Organization for Women disowned Laci Peterson, because her unbornson (in their view) didn't qualify as a real "person" whose murdershould be considered a crime. For manyyears the NAACP couldn't manage to applaud Gen. Colin Powell for his many achievements,because his political leanings weren't "black" enough.

Huh?

Ultimately the tragedy of Kwanzaa, or of Black Nationalismin general, is that they will never accomplish the ends they seek. No onehas ever truly empowered a downtrodden people by inventing a false heritage forthem. No society has ever advanced itself by embracing a self-identity based oneternal victimhood. And will they ever reconcile with the white population ofour nation? Their fiery rhetoric and exclusivist teachings seem to imply thatthey don’t even desire to try.

Their loss.

Books Are Alive And Well, Thank You

2011-11-21T13:35:00.001-08:00

I like books. There, I’ve said it.

For some of you who know me through one of my manypublishing endeavors, you might be tempted to read that statement and thinkduh, of course Steve likes books. He’s in the business. But let me explain.

I don’t own a Kindle or a Nook. Further, I’m in noparticular rush to get one. Count me as one of those old fogies who live by theaxiom, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” For me, there was never anything wrong with the oldversion. Handcrafted calligraphy to woodcuts? Thatwas progress. Animal skins to paper? Wonderful. Woodcuts to moveable type? Genius. Moveable type to offset?Marvelous. Offset to digital? Bravo. Paper to silicon? The jury is still out.

Hold the phone. The reports of the death of paper books havebeen greatly exaggerated.

EXAMPLE ONE:

According to an article in today’s New York Times, children’sbooks have failed to gain broad acceptance as e-books. This is because kids lovethe big colorful pictures, which they can’t get from a tiny black-and-white screen.Further, their parents enjoy the tactile pleasure of snuggling with a childwhile reading a bedtime story.

I get it. Some of my earliest and fondest memories fromchildhood are of my mother reading Cat in The Hat, or Where The Wild ThingsAre. Those vivid illustrations captured my imagination, and motivated me tolearn to read. Quality time, education, good habits from a very young age.

Who can argue with that?

EXAMPLE TWO:

We’ve all read the obituaries of the famous fabled Borderschain. Hundreds of stores closed, thousands of workers on the streets, shoppingmalls left with big holes in them. Publishers and landlords were left with pilesof unpaid bills. Untold millions in sales taxes will never be collected, drainingthe coffers of cities and states who need them now more than ever. The sky isfalling!

Or is it?

Look again. Much of that idle real estate has been quickly takenover by local independents, or by smaller chains such as Books-A-Millon.Monolithic look-alike stores have been replaced by companies that can respondmore quickly to local trends and needs. When a local author comes with hat inhand to beg for his book to be featured in their store, no one has to call thehome office to ask, “Mother, may I?” The local manager can decide for himself.

Think about this like the stock market: Almost every timethe Dow Jones sees a meteoric rise, it is almost always followed by a suddendecline. Is this because all of the Dow40 suddenly went broke? Nope. It’s because the preceding rally had nothing todo with the actual profits or performance of the stocks themselves. A moment ofoptimism led to a few hours of hysteria, which fed upon itself and triggered franticbuying. Which lifted the prices far beyond their actual value. When the prices(predictably) come back down to earth, the wiser among us don’t call it acrash. They call it a correction. That is, a return to sanity. Which isprecisely what it is.

I’m inclined to think that’s exactly what happened with Borders.The stores were beautiful, and everyone loved them. The huge selection, thecoffee lounge, the discount club. Who wouldn’t be enchanted by suchinnovations?

The problem was, the business model was never sustainable inthe first place. The customers were initially awestruck by the grand spaces, but after a while the stores had just as many looky-loos as buyers. The demiseof Borders wasn’t a crash, it was a correction. The only real unknowable, was whetherthe struggling Barnes & Noble would fold first.

The book biz is here to stay. Let's get back to work.

Teen Angst, Revisited

2011-10-17T14:29:00.000-07:00

Now

There are very few movies that I will ever see twice. This is notbecause I’m so terribly disappointed in my cinematic selections; rather, forme, a good movie is like a good book: Upon a second reading, or a third, I seenew things in them and learn new lessons. Yet most movies, it seems, don’t possesssuch layers of meaning; they just tell a story and they’re done. Which doesn't make them bad, but nor does it make them exceptional

But I will never pass up an opportunity for yet anotherviewing of A Few Good Men. The Lion King. Or It’s a Wonderful Life. Sneakers.Or even Wayne’s World (it’s deeperthan you think).

But remakes? They don’t often seem to offer anything new.Did we really need a third King Kong? Or two new versions of The Hulk, just a few years back? Thisreviewer votes no.

This past weekend, I took a chance on a remake of one of myfavorite films of all time: Footlose.I can’t recall how many times I’ve seen the original version with Kevin Baconand Lori Singer. Surely it had its share of violence and foul language, notquite wholesome family fare. But it’s rich with spiritual lessons, and astuteobservations of human nature and adolescent growing pains.

For the uninitiated: Big-city kid Ren MacCormack (KennyWormald) moves to a small town where dancing and rock music have been banned. Hetakes up with the preacher’s daughter Ariel (Julianne Hough) and conspires to put ona senior prom for the town high school. I won’t spoil the rest for you.

Like Ren, I grew up a misfit in a world of religioushypocrisy, often misunderstood, begging to be heard. At times I did stupidthings for the sake of noble causes. And for a time I dated a preacher’sdaughter who grew up in a fishbowl in a small town. Like Ariel in the fictionalburg of Bomont, she yearned to break free of her father’s oppressive rules andimpossible expectations.

Then

I was fully prepared to be profoundly disappointed in thisremake, as usual. For me Bomont is sacred ground, so I felt apprehensive fromthe moment the house lights went down. Don’tmiss with it. But much to my surprise, I actually observed a handful ofimprovements. This time around, the filmopens by showing us the backstory of why the city fathers freaked out andforbade everything their kids called fun. A few scenes were added, or changed,to better explain the story.

Conspicuously absent, though, are two scenes that serve to explainRev. Shaw Moore’s eventual change of heart: In a conversation with church elderRoger Dunbar, Moore shows that he wasn’t the most puritanical guy in town inthe first place. And in the book-burning scene, he calls a halt to themadness and orders the remaining offending volumes returned to the library; Ariel sees that her dad is actually more open-minded than she ever imagined.Without these crucial five minutes, Moore’s turnaround seems strangely and unnaturallyabrupt.

Kevin Bacon’s Walkman became an iPod, and they choose newmusic from current artists. Dennis Quaid has his own quiet preaching style, afar cry from John Lithgow’s fire-and-brimstone theatrics. Some of these changes wereinevitable, I suppose.

As before, the story turns on a handful of false arguments. Ren makes his case before the Town Council by quoting from the Bible, but none of it is truly relevant to the matter at hand. The local ordinance technically forbids only unsupervised dancing by minors, but no one suggests that a crisis could be averted by simply inviting a few adult chaperones.

Still, it's a wonderful story with a good moral. Altogether, my wife and I enjoyed this new take on an oldclassic.

Let's Occupy Wall Street!

2011-10-04T15:19:00.000-07:00


Hero?

I’ve been watching with great interest, the news about the “OccupyWall Street” movement. For about two weeks now, several hundred protestors havecamped out in the streets of the New York Financial District to protest…what,exactly?

It’s hard to say.

Trying desperately to understand from whence cometh suchzeal and angst, I’ve read every newspaper story I can get my hands on. Thismorning, I surfed the morning TV and cable news shows, trying to get a handleon this protest. Each reporter interviewed someone in the crowd and asked, inone way or another, “Why are you here today? Exactly what are you protesting?”

Their answers? “We’re here to fight the inequity of thesystem.” Click. “I can’t get a job.” Click. “Billionaries get too many tax breaks.” Click. “The government hasn’t done a thing to fix thesystem, so we have to take matters into our own hands.” Click. “Corporations have too much power.” Click. Click. Click.

Huh? Each of these rebels spoke with great conviction andpassion, in vague generalities. But when asked to give specifics or suggest remedies,they didn’t seem to know.

This morning on MSNBC, protest leader Harrison Schultz wasasked to describe the goals of the OWS movement. His answer? “The fact that we don’thave a coherent set of goals, is what the media have been blasting us for themost.” Well...yeah. If you're playing hooky from work and sleeping on the streets and throwing rocks at police officers and forming a human blockade on the Brooklyn Bridge? Yes, you should know why you're doing it and have a goal in mind.

When pressed for specifics, Schultz answered obliquely, “Change.”

But what is a movement without goals? Why is it so unreasonable to ask what they are? How can I possiblygive you what you want, if you won’t tell me what it is? Way to change theworld, bro. You’re beginning to sound like a congressman.

The group’s website seems to do a slightly better job ofspecifying grievances and goals:

#1: Impose punitive tariffs on allimported goods and raise the minimum wage to twenty dollars an hour. Butwhat if China or Russia has a natural resource that we don’t? Do we double the price of that product, just forspite? And is every fast food worker and boxboy really worth that wage? Next stop: $10 Big Macs and $5 apples.

#2: Institute a universal singlepayer healthcare system and shut down all private health insurance companies. Fine. Now, tell me how you intend to pay for it. And what shall we do now with a million unemployedinsurance workers, and thousands of empty office buildings? How shall we replace the tens of billions of dollars in lost tax revenues? Go ahead, I'm all ears.

#3 Guaranteed living wage income regardlessof employment.Youdon’t suppose a few million people might just sit on the couch and just collecttheir monthly check?

#4: Free college education for all. Niceideal, but with what money? And why bother, if you can get a monthly check forstaying home?

#5: Eliminate fossil fuels and usealternative energy. Incase you’re not paying attention, that’s already happening. But as we all know,that technology just isn’t there yet.

#6: One trillion dollars ininfrastructure spending now. Fine.Now tell me how you intend to pay for it.

#7: One trillion dollars inecological restoration, and decommission all nuclear power plants. Fine.Now tell me how you intend to pay for it. And how do you suggest we replacethose megawatts?

#8: Racial and gender equal rightsamendment. Youmight get that. But bigots will still be bigots, and I can always give adozen perfectly legal and legitimate reasons to fire you, or not hire you in the first place.

#9: Open borders. Anyonecan travel anywhere to work and live.Voluntarysurrender of our national sovereignty and the rule of law? You’ve got to bekidding. Our national economy is huge, but just try adding another 100 millionpeople into it. People who don’t have to work or pay their bills.

#10: Paper ballots and impartialobservers. Youdon’t trust our democracy? Fine. Go find somewhere else better to live. I dareyou.

#11: Forgiveness of all debt,everywhere. DoI really have to explain why this is insane?

#12: Outlaw all credit reportingagencies. Andeliminate all accountability? Sure, that will make us a better nation.

#13: Allow all workers to form aunion at any time. Umm…sorryto break this news to you, but our nation already has thousands of union halls andthousands of organizers. They’re all in the phone book, and on the Internet. Justpick up the damn phone.

Letme get this straight: No one has to work to make a living. No one has to paytheir bills. Everything can be had for nothing, and no one has to answer fortheir mistakes. Take all the profit out of commerce, and drive allentrepreneurs out of business. Someone tell me again, please, how will thiscreate millions of jobs? How will this system generate taxable profits, so asto support millions of people added to the public dole? Surely you explained it in theresomewhere. I must have missed it.

Some of these demands do sound like noble ideals, such as education, living wage, infrastructure, baby seals, and health care. But all of these things cost money, at the same time that you're shrinking the tax revenue stream. Some are simply impossible at the moment, such as alternative energy. You can't legislate prejudice away. No government anywhere has the authority to forgive all debt. And no country, anywhere, will ever open up their territory to all. It just isn't going to happen.

What our country needs is more people accepting responsibility for their own lives, not looking to the state to provide their needs. We need more accountability, not less. More givers, fewer takers. Responsibility, not entitlement.

Please believe me, I really want tounderstand this logic. But let’s suppose that the traders and analysts of WallStreet no longer got those huge annual bonuses. Let’s say that the billionairesof the nation now pay their full earnings in tax to the national treasury. Nowwhat? Would that mean that you suddenly get a job? Or a raise? Or better healthcare? Please, someone explain this to me.

I just don’t get it.

Slavery is Alive and Well Today in America (But it's not what you think)

2011-09-21T15:18:00.000-07:00

Perryman

Just when I thought I’d heard just about everything…

In a recent development (read all about it here):

On September 11, 2011,(Rev. Wayne) Perryman brought together blacks from the West Coast and the EastCoast to sign one of the most comprehensive legal briefs ever prepared for aracial discrimination lawsuit. The suit was filed on September 12, 2011 in USDistrict Court against President Barack Obama and the (Democratic NationalCommittee). The plaintiffs, who refer to the defendants as the “Father of Racism,”allege that as an organization, the Democratic Party has consistently refusedto apologize for the role they played in slavery, Jim Crow and for othersubsequent racist practices from 1792 to 2011.

I don’t know where to start.

I certainly understand the logic of past efforts to sueCongress, or the president, or the US government at large, for the evils ofslavery. For they are in fact successors of the government institutions thateither actively supported this evil practice or passively failed to oppose it.(I still think the whole idea is crazy, but at least I understand theargument.)

But this recent case has raised the whole dispute to a newheight of absurdity. It’s a doctrine ofpolitical Original Sin, no matter how tangential the defendants’ connectionmight be. Even if they had denounced slavery from the highest mountaintop, sowhat? The DNC is not responsible for such evils, and it was never in theirpower to stop it. That responsibility, and that authority, rests withindividual legislators, presidents, and judges. And in time, of course, theydid come around to abolish the practice.

Perryman and his colleagues, it seems, need a history lessonon at least two fronts:

First, the African slaves who came to our shores were notabducted. They were purchased. If not for this betrayal by their own brothers, they never would have left home.

Secondly: For about the past 30 years or more the DemocraticParty has been, if you will, the black man’s best friend. Due largely to thenoise of Democratic advocates, governments at all levels have favored people ofcolor in many ways: Affirmative Action, public housing, contracting set-asides,etc. Political terrorism by black activists has led to manifold economic gainsfor the black man as well. They've offered more than an apology, more than mere talk; they came through with billions of dollars in tangible economic benefits for Mr. Perryman's constituents, and continue to do so.

Seeing as Perryman fancies himself a champion of racialreconciliation, his own history (as described on his website) is interesting:He serves as a pastor a church which appears (in its manywebsites) to have no white people – none – among its staff and leaders. His statedcareer achievements consist almost entirely of making war on whitey on behalfof black folks.

And now this.

This discussion of slavery reminds me: Right here in my local community, the Section 8 program (federallysubsidized housing for the poor) has been subjected to fraud and abuse for manyyears. People lie to get into the program, and they continue to break the rulesonce they’re in. In the past couple of years, the local cities – aided by the LA County Sheriff – have begun to enforce the rules as never before. After all,these residents agreed to a set of rules when they moved in, and they knew thatthey could get an impromptu visit at any time. Plus, the county has a waitinglist of thousands of equally needy families waiting their turn.

Thecommunity’s response? Did they applaud the local authorities for defending the the rule of law among a pours contempt on any notion of accountability? Nope. Local activists quickly took offense, bringing a lawsuit against the county, the cities, andtheir mayors for their overzealous prosecution of blacks and Latinos, whorepresent the vast majority of the enforcement actions. A group of localclergymen called a press conference to proclaim that this awful persecution istantamount to slavery.

Say whaaaaaat? You’ve got to be kidding. When you pull outthe “S” word, it only goes to show that you’re running out of legitimatearguments. And that’s the point where I’m tempted to stop listening.

Here’s the part the local NAACP chapter won’t tell you:Black and Latino families constitute about 70-80% (depending on who’s counting,and when) of the population of the Section 8 residents. Hence, it’s onlynatural that blacks and Latinos will constitute a similar percentage of anysubset of that group. Show of hands, please: How many people in here drive aHonda? How many shop at Sears? How many have acne? It’s almost inevitable: Among this group, nomore than 20 – 30% of those hands will be white.

You want to talk slavery? Let's talk about it.

Embracing a self-identity of eternal victimhood, is slavery.

To hate whitey because he hates you, is slavery.

Waiting around for someone else to do something before you get on with your life, is slavery.

Holding on to decades- or centuries-old resentments, no matter the offense, is slavery.

Unlike the slavery of the old plantations, this is a bondage of voluntary choice. And you need not wait for someone else come along and release those chains, because your liberation is only a decision away.

You want an apology? I’m still waiting for Al Sharpton to apologize for inventingthe rape of Tawana Brawley. Or Jesse Jackson – for his extortion of largecorporations, demanding favors for his friends. Or Julian Bond – for demandingthat banks make more mortgage loans to black families, only to demonize themwhen they complied (and then had the nerve to actually expect repayment!). You know, apologize for things that they themselvesactually did.

Should I hold my breath?

President George W. Bush had it right: “We are challenging the soft bigotry of low expectations.”He said it in the context of education, of course, but the principle applies atevery level of our society. Jobs. Housing. Public office. Crime. Welfare. You name it. Thesolution to our social ills is not tolet our people stew in that cesspool of mediocrity, but to hold them accountablefor their actions. Political consequences be damned.

We must call ourselves, and eachother, higher.

Say Goodbye to Hollywood? Do I Have To?

2011-09-13T23:32:00.000-07:00

Memories.

Tom Wolfe says that you can never go home again. Well, sometimesI sure wish I could.

In the fall of 1964, when I was 2 years old, my fatherbought a house. Depending on who you ask, it was either in East Hollywood orSilver Lake, not far from Downtown Los Angeles. My grandmother called it "the old Spencer place," because she knew the previous owners. She and Grampa were less thana block away (it was my dad's childhood home), and not far beyond them lay what would become my elementary andjr. high schools. Two blocks in one direction, and we could catch a bus onSanta Monica Blvd; in another direction, Sunset. Location, location, location. Our phone number was 213-662-0876.

About a month ago, due to a swift sequence of events that Inever could have predicted, the house was sold. Handed off to to a stranger, a facelessinvestor group who won’t love her as she deserves and will probably wield a wreckingball as soon as he discovers her crumbling brick foundation. Nothing I could doabout it. For the first time in 47 years, no one named Hutson lives there. Istill can’t wrap my brain around it. It was an era that I thought would neverend.

Three bedrooms, 1.5 baths, three-car garage. Built in 1907. Formany years, the large service porch served as the depository for thousands ofboxes of Girl Scout cookies. Ugh. Itwas torture for a 10 year-old boy, so near yet so far. Sometime in the 1970s,my mom and my sister removed several layers of linoleum from the floor, anddiscovered a door to a basement. Who knew? (Quite anti-climactic: nothing in there but a table and a couple of empty liquor bottles.) The floors and walls of the dwellingstill bear the scars of a half-dozen remodeling projects that my dad startedbut never finished.

In the driveway, one side was lined by a long row of roses;on the other, it was fuchsias. In the large back yard we had morning glories, peaches,lemons, passion fruit, blackberries, figs, and grapefruit. In the front yard itwas bird of paradise and a huge hibiscus. We never cultivated them, but theycame back each year with a vengeance. They’re mostly gone now. Hard to findgood figs these days.

To the south of us lived the Marshall family; to the north,it was the Willoughbys. Across thestreet were the Rudys. Back then we knew our neighbors (as did most people),and they knew us. I couldn’t get away with anything, because whenever I did somethingstupid, my mother knew it before I got home. Steve Marshall introduced me tothe Boys’ Club down the street, which indirectly led to meeting my wife manyyears later.

My sister and I never had a babysitter. Not even once. If Mom had to go somewhere, we had Nana. If Nana wasn't available (a rare instance), we had about a dozen families who would be happy to take us in for the day. Or overnight. Or longer. Then before the month was over, we returned the favor.

When Dad chose that house, he was on a mission. For hewanted to have an extra bedroom, one more than we needed. From the verybeginning – and to the end – that 10 x 10’ room was continually occupied by afriend or relative who was down on their luck and needed a place to stay. Atone point it was my Aunt Mary. Years later it was my friend Joe Fincher, whenhis parents put him out in the 10^th grade. I still remember the grueling interview:

“No booze, no drugs, no girls, lights out at 10. Got it?”

“Yes, Mr. Hutson.”

“Gloria makes breakfast at 7.”

Dad passed away in 1995, shortly after meeting my wife. Mom held out four years more, just long enough to meet her grandson.

Jim’s Market. Nicola Twins Grocery. Jay’s Jayburgers. Blum’sLiquor Store. Pioneer Chicken. Gordon’s Mean Miserable Service (yes, it was really called that), the corner gas station. Dolly, the transvestite proprietor of DonQuixote Antiques. Pup ’n Taco, home of the Taco Burger. TheLatino night club that changed hands (and names) every couple of years. Allmere memories.

The subway station ate the old IHOP, and the nicest laundromat for miles around. The old Sears store, where my family shopped for about 70 years, is gone. No more pot roast or banana splits at the Woolworth's lunch counter. The building where I was born, at Kaiser Permanente on Sunset, was torn down just a couple of months ago. Barely anyone speaks English at my childhood church anymore. Cedars of Lebanon Hospital is now the world headquarters forScientology. The campuses of all of my schools, from kindergarten to college, have yet to fully recover from the great earthquake of 1971.

Egads.

Still, there's hope: My cousin Traci now owns Nana's old house down the street; 78 years and counting. She and Dwain are taking very good care of it, and their kids play in the backyard, just as I used to. Her sister Nicole has restored an old house a few blocks away. I can still dine at the House of Pies, or Palermo, or Dresden. The old Los Feliz Theater shines. The ancient public library was recently restored to its former glory. All told, the old neighborhood looks pretty good.

Which still leaves me with a problem, even across the miles: The faded brass key in my pocket doesn't work anymore; but even if it did, it would probably get me in trouble. Yet every time I try to throw it away, some unseen force stills my hand. I lived there for 16 years (which once seemed an eternity), but now I've been away for almost twice that long. I've tried to resist this new reality, but all the wishful thinking in the world avails nothing. Farewell, Old Lady.

I suppose it was time to move on anyway.

One Nation, Above God?

2011-09-12T08:06:00.000-07:00

Religious nut?

There’s something about the combination of politics andreligion, that often seems to bring out the worst in people. Just about anytime a political candidate begins to talk about his faith, it seems, he isimmediately treated with ridicule and suspicion. This seems particularly peculiar,in a country where (depending on who you ask) roughly 84% of us profess to beChristians, and upwards of 90% overall say they believe in God.

Consider the example of candidate John F. Kennedy. As aconsequence of his Catholic faith, he was scorned in the press. Many fearedthat he might become a puppet of Rome, spreading Catholic ideology everywhere. Couldhe set aside his religious beliefs, long enough to make sound decisions aspresident?

For all we know, his Democratic opponents Adlai Stevenson and Hubert Humphrey -- or his general election opponent Richard Nixon -- just might have been twice as dogmatic and dangerous in their beliefs. But the voters couldn't judge them by that standard, because the candidates didn't talk about it.

In a speech to the Houston Ministerial Association, heattempted to put his Protestant brethren at ease:

Whilethe so-called religious issue is necessarily and properly the chief topic heretonight, I want to emphasize from the outset that we have far more criticalissues to face in the 1960 election: the spread of Communist influence, untilit now festers 90 miles off the coast of Florida; the humiliating treatment ofour president and vice president by those who no longer respect our power; thehungry children I saw in West Virginia; the old people who cannot pay theirdoctor bills; the families forced to give up their farms; an America with toomany slums, with too few schools, and too late to the moon and outer space. Theseare the real issues which should decide this campaign. And they are notreligious issues — for war and hunger and ignorance and despair know noreligious barriers.

As a man of faith, I couldn’t agree more. And yet with everypresidential campaign of recent years, it seems improper for a candidate to betoo religious. Or not religious enough. Surely, when we choose the next personto lead the free world, personal character is important. I want to knowsomething about the candidate’s personal life, family, education, and so on. Putall of these ingredients into a big pot and stir, and you’ll have a compositemeasure of his/her personal character. These are important matters. But howmuch prying is too much?

I remember the campaign of 2008, where candidate Mitt Romney’sMormon faith became a bone of contention for many. I saw a press conferencewhere Romney was ambushed with questions about his religion: “Do you believe inpolygamy? Do you have the special underwear? Do you believe that men can becomegods?”

He didn’t miss a beat: “There are people in the church whosejob it is to teach and answer these questions. I’m running for president today.”Perfect.

In a recent debate, it was Michele Bachmann’s turn. She hasmade no secret of her Christian beliefs, that the Bible is the guide for herlife, and that she should (and does) submit to the divinely-ordained authorityof her husband. Which incited one reporter to ask, “Does this mean that youwill consult your husband before you make any big decisions as president?”

Right-wing losers?

Her answer? “Submission means that I respect my husband. Andhe respects me.”

Bravo.

This seems like a good time to cite a classic quote from theesteemed Senator Arnold Vinnick (R-CA). Oh, the name doesn’t ring a bell?

In the final season of the NBC drama The West Wing, the young, handsome Democratic congressman MatthewSantos (Jimmy Smits) ran for president against the seasoned old Vinnick (AlanAlda). Santos was well known for his faith and family values, while Vinnick –despite decades in public life – kept his beliefs to himself. When pressed byreporters as to whether he would accept an invitation to a Christian revivalmeeting, he stumbled, trying desperately to find the "right" answer, and finally replied:

“Look, guys. When you create a religious test for publicoffice, you’re asking to be lied to.”

Bingo.

The thing is, everyone (including all of the current candidates) believes in something that informs their moral choices. Everyone. It might be Jesus, or Moses, or Zeus, or some abstract impersonal supreme deity, or the Moon God, or the voices in their head, or the cause-and-effect laws of the universe; we're all guided by something outside of ourselves that we consider authoritative. Any candidate who reveals the details of theirbeliefs, is only inviting an argument. Which only gets them labeled as afanatic. Which only ruins their chances of getting elected.

Which, I suppose, is the reason why most candidates don’tdiscuss their religion in the first place. The political landscape is strewn withthe bones and carcasses of would-be senators and governors and presidents who proudlypreached a politically incorrect orthodoxy. They should have known better.

Candidate Kennedy ended his address with these timelesswords:

If I should lose [theelection] on the real issues, I shall return to my seat in the Senate,satisfied that I had tried my best and was fairly judged. But if this electionis decided on the basis that 40 million Americans lost their chance of beingpresident on the day they were baptized, then it is the whole nation that willbe the loser…

But if, onthe other hand, I should win the election, then I shall devote every effort ofmind and spirit to fulfilling the oath of the presidency — practicallyidentical, I might add, to the oath I have taken for 14 years in the Congress.For without reservation, I can "solemnly swear that I will faithfullyexecute the office of president of the United States, and will to the best ofmy ability preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution, so help me God.

Amen.

Incidentally, I find it interesting that this kind of assault only happens to white guys. When Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton (that is, men who actually hold themselves out as ministers of the Gospel) sought public office, I don't recall anyone asking about their beliefs, much less arguing with it. Barack Obama spent 20 years sitting at the feet of a preacher who loudly proclaimed his hatred of white folks, yet insisted that he knew nothing about it. Somehow, it seems, people of color are exempt from such scrutiny.

We love to vote for candidates who profess strong morals and family values. We love it when they trot out the wife and kids at every photo-op. We salivate when we watch them attend church and volunteer at the parish bake sale. We're mightily impressed when they receive an endorsement from the exalted Pastor So-And-So. All the right moves.

But if they should ever suggest that they desire to actually practice what they preach? Anathema! We'd rather have a godless hypocrite instead. God help us all.

Mr. President, I Have a Few Questions

2011-09-09T12:19:00.000-07:00

Job-creator in-chief?

Mr. President, please allow me an audience for just a moment. I was intrigued by your speech to Congress last night, where you introduced your American Jobs Act. I realize that we come from two very different worlds, and these backgrounds have caused us to adopt some very different opinions and worldviews. This is where I come from:

I lived the first 40 years of my life in the city of Los Angeles, arguably the world’s second capital of capitalism (after New York). It’s the land where millions have heeded Greeley’s call to “go west,” in search of endless dreams and opportunities. But as they say, there’s a broken heart for every light on Broadway (yes, we have one of those here, too).

In the aftermath of World War 2, the suburbs of the San Fernando Valley began to take shape. Land speculators came from far and wide, and in 1945 even the mighty General Motors staked a claim. In the subdivision of Van Nuys, they built a plant that served as an economic engine for the area; countless houses, businesses, and shopping malls were built on the strength of GM paychecks. Other industrial companies (Hughes Aircraft, North American Aviation, others) followed, just down the street.

For generations, any young kid fresh out of high school could walk into the lobby of the GM building on Van Nuys Boulevard and get a job, raise a family, buy a house and a car, and enjoy a comfortable retirement. It was a privilege to, as went the lingo, "work at Chevy." At some point along the way the union came in and raised their expectations, indeed winning them generous benefits, pay raises, and job security. Even the great Cesar Chavez came out to plead their case. It seemed like the gravy train would never stop. Until it did.

Beginning in the early 1980s, beset with foreign competition and continual labor strife, GM tried to close the Van Nuys plant. The UAW protested. Nevermind that their Camaros and Firebirds weren’t selling, and that most of the company’s plants already had too much excess capacity; the union expected them to continue building cars anyway. Finally the company grew a backbone and closed the plant in 1992, granting full pay and benefits to all workers for a year. Some even managed to whine loudly enough to extort a second year of gold-plated leisure.

Nice work if you can get it.

GM in Van Nuys, 1945. Bastion of Capitalism!

A large part of this problem was that the UAW had no understanding of how the business world works: there’s no point in manufacturing a product you can’t sell. But so what? Local 645 President Pete Beltran, and others like him, truly believed that the factory existed for the purpose of giving jobs to his people. The business of actually making cars? Oh, that’s just a sideline. Mere details, a necessary evil.

Permission to speak freely, sir. Your speech betrayed the same attitude of entitlement, the same disdain for entrepreneurship, the same hatred for the capitalism that made our country prosperous in the first place. I’ve heard enough of your speeches to figure out that you truly believe the corporations of America exist for the purpose of giving people jobs.

Mr. President, I must respectfully disagree. No, no, a thousand times, no. The reason why people go into business, is to chase a dream and make a buck to provide for their families. If they happen to succeed enough to require a few helpers around the office or shop floor, then that’s a happy accident that was never assured. For as long as I've known you, you've been hostile to commerce and wealth and profit, the very things that create jobs and generate tax revenues. So please forgive me if I'm dubious as to your motives and tactics now.

Please, stop – immediately – reminding us that China has better railroads. Things get built in a Communist society, not because of a genuine need, but because their unelected and unaccountable leaders decide it should be so. I don’t live in a Communist country. Or at least, I didn’t before your arrival. Is there something you’re not telling us?

All due respect, sir, you have it precisely backwards. The solution to our long national malaise is not to set out to create jobs. This simply isn't within your power; for if it was, then an executive order from you would have fixed everything long ago. Rather, the best thing you can do, is to get out of the way and allow American companies to prosper in such a way that they have no choice but to hire someone new. Which means more money in more pockets. Which means they buy more stuff, and put more money in more pockets. And so on. Everybody wins, without a pushy government to tell them what to do.

If you want to help American workers, then I urge you to cease – this minute – reinforcing their attitudes of entitlement. Instead, exhort them to rise to the challenge and become the kind of worker that some employer needs.

I beg of you, Mr. President: Quit – this instant – your overheated rhetoric of class warfare. The rich folks among us are not, as you continually tell us, “fortunate.” Notwithstanding the few that inherited their money and remain content to waste away their days on the slopes or shores, they got there through hard work and risk-taking. They’re the ones who build factories, incubate small businesses, and pay most of the taxes around here. (As for the layabouts, they're not earning taxable wages anyway.)

Believe it or not, I really want to believe that you have my best interests at heart. But when you speak of having everyone "pay their fair share," what does that mean? You demand that the wealthy among us pay more and more, yet under our current tax code, about 50% of our citizens pay no federal income tax at all. None. (I trust that someone has informed you of this by now.) I heard nothing in your speech to indicate that you desire to remedy this imbalance. Do you really believe that "fair share" means that half of us owe NOTHING? We deserve a free ride? Tell me. Right now.

Mr. President, I was very pleased to hear that you want to speed up payments to government contractors. And eliminate thousands of needless laws and regulations that choke the productivity of our companies. I’m gratified to hear that you want to streamline the patent process, and negotiate new trade deals that create opportunities for American industries. These kinds of things are indeed within your power, and – quite possibly – could help us prosper and pay more tax and -- hey! -- actually hire a few new workers. Still I remain profoundly disappointed that these steps, which actually work in perfect sync with our free-market system, seemed to be a grudging afterthought.

In the meantime, please tell me: Why is it my responsibility to bail out the mortgages of people who bought houses they couldn’t afford? Why do you demonize big companies for failing to pay taxes that no law says they should? Why won’t you tell me how much this plan will cost, and what other government program will have to suffer for it? I really want to know.

You should pass this bill. Today.

Guest Editorial: Whose Life is it, Anyway?

2011-08-31T15:40:00.000-07:00

Free at last? Really?

This is not a subject that I think about often, but it's a pressing issue that we all must consider at one time or another. If you've never been robbed or beaten or defrauded in your lifetime, then by all means count your blessings. But it's a harsh reality that most of us will eventually be victimized at one time or another, even if only indirectly through the experience of a friend or relative. Their pain, after all, is our pain. There's no escape.

When these things happen, we hope and pray that the offending party will be caught and duly punished to the fullest extent of the law. And rightly so. They must pay their debt to our society, and atone for their sins. But then what? So often they are released from prison with no job, no home, no money, no one to help them adjust to life on the outside. It's no wonder that so many of them return to their old ways and end up back in the lockup after a year or two.

These recidivists are a menace to our society, and they make great fodder for stump speeches. "Send me to City Hall/Sacramento/Washington, and I will be tough on crime!" We've heard it all before. But wait; is there something we can do to break that cycle?
Recently, my friend Abdul Majeed Askia delivered an inspiring speech on this very subject at our local City Council meeting. As an ex-con himself, he knows the struggle well. But unlike so many, he makes no excuses for his behavior. He asks for his fellow citizens to assist such people in their hour of need; but also -- very importantly -- he exhorts the newly-free to meet them halfway. I asked him to write a few words for this column:

The nature of this writing is to address the issues of prison recidivism, senseless violence and the reorientation of inmates into the free society. We have composed principles and ideas along those lines that will serve in helping inmates make a positive transition as they adjust to life on the outside. We will address the issues of accountability, responsibility and autonomy in that order:

1. Accountability. By accountability we mean being responsible for your behavior, the choices you make. Being accountable for your decision. Rising above the blame game, the idea that “it is always someone else’s fault.” It is very important to take charge of one’s actions to effectively make changes or achieve desired goals.

2. Responsibility. By responsibility we mean, your life is in your hands. The various goals that one sets for him/herself; you must be willing to accept full responsibility to achieve those goals; whether it is to make phone calls, travel, surf the Internet, try over and over again; to reach those goals you must shoulder that responsibility. The attitude is

This is my life, and I must do what it takes rise above whatever circumstances, reach any height and/or travel any distance to get where I need to go. I have to use my energy, my drive, my passion and my effort to climb that mountain, swim that river or cross that desert in order to get where I need to go. I must overcome any and all setbacks or obstacles in my path, and be responsible enough to say "I went the wrong way" or "I made a wrong turn," "I said the wrong thing" and/or "I made a bad investment" or "I should have re-evaluated the situation at hand."

3. Autonomy. By autonomy we mean I am the captain of my mind. Autonomy is similar to responsibility and accountability in the sense that when it is all said and done, whatever actions we take, the decisions we make will all come back to us. Autonomy is to acknowledge that I am the leader within myself. I am part of the broader society and interdependent; however, I am uniquely responsible for my thoughts, ideas, dreams, hopes, visions, plans, and the choices I make in life.

As I take full responsibility for my life it puts me in a better position to make sound decisions, take constructive steps and be more conscious of my behavior, knowing that every action causes an equal and opposite reaction. The three ingredients autonomy accountability and responsibility are the ingredients that will enable one to face life and set you on the firm ground to accomplish your goals.

______________________________________________________

Abdul lives in Southern California, and he's available to speak to groups large and small on the topics of religious tolerance, crime prevention, prison recidivism, race relations, and religious extremism. He can be reached at abdulaskia@yahoo.com

To Self-Publish, or Not to Self-Publish?

2011-08-29T10:30:00.000-07:00

The Ultimate Editor?

These are crazy and confusing times in the publishing business.

In this fiercely competitive era, when publishing houses are becoming increasingly selective, many aspiring authors seek their salvation through self-publishing. Just imagine: no one will tell you what to do. No one will have the gall to tell you the market for your genre is already oversaturated, or that you use too many split infinitives. You can do it yourself, bypass the evil arrogant editor or corporate executive, and release a book on your own terms. Power to the people, baby!

Before we go any further, let's define some terms: By "self-publishing," I mean a broad range of services whereby the author pays any type of advance fee to a vendor. Or in a newer twist, a company (such as Lulu or Amazon) that requires no payment up front but will print (or e-publish) just about anything you send them. The variations are endless.

A recent development: Just a couple of months ago, novelist John Locke (not the old British philosopher) sold his millionth e-book on Amazon.com. He is the eighth person in the history of the planet to accomplish this feat, joining an elite company that includes such notables as Nora Roberts and James Patterson. What makes Locke special, however, is that he got there without the benefit of an agent, publisher, or publicist. He wrote the books, converted them into digital files, and uploaded them into the Amazon website – all by himself.

Mr. Locke’s David-vs.-Goliath story, defying convention at every turn, seems to validate this new business model, inspiring legions of aspiring writers who long to follow his against-all-odds path to success. The balance of power is shifting! The business is changing! It’s a new day!

Hold the hosannas. Yes, this is a noteworthy achievement, but what does it really mean?

Let’s read the fine print: Whereas most e-books retail for $2.99 to $9.99 (and deliver a 70% royalty), Locke set the price for his nine novels at a paltry 99¢ (and a mere 35% to the author). It almost seems like that impulse-purchase bubble gum on the counter at the corner market; you buy it because it’s cheap and convenient, and even if it’s lousy, do you really have the time to go back and ask for a refund of your nickel?

I haven’t read Mr. Locke’s books, and I mean no disrespect; but contrary to the wishful thinking of many, his story doesn’t seem to portend a new paradigm. For each of the past 100 years, the book business has always produced a come-from-behind unlikely hero, often through innovative untested marketing/publicity/distribution methods. Every few months we see a breakout novel from a hitherto unheralded scribe who may or may not continue into lasting greatness. He finds his voice, he strikes a chord, he finds his moment and gains a loyal following. (Translation: I could be next!)

And then just as quickly, he sinks back into the obscurity from whence he came, never to be heard from again. I have every confidence that this pattern will continue for decades to come. Mr. Locke (and others like him) got struck by a bolt of benevolent lightning, but it’s not necessarily because of their polished prose or brilliant strategy. Lightning strikes where it pleases, not where you tell it to.

Indeed, the blessing of these new technologies, is that anyone can get published. And similarly, the curse of this new model, is that anyone can get published. The consequence is that the market is now flooded with tens of thousands of titles that never had to pass any test of quality. Such works don’t have to be good; they don’t have to be coherent; they just have to be. If you can write a check, you can write a book. A book that no one will buy.

Such authors are seduced by promises of empowerment, but that “power” is a double-edged sword: The real-world tradeoff is that their books never have to undergo tough-love from an experienced hand. This sense of liberation is almost always illusory; in practice, the only real power in this business rests with the retail consumer. Sure, you can bypass that high-and-mighty corporate gatekeeper, but at what cost? What little real "power" the inexperienced authors do in fact possess, is like a loaded gun: it's dangerous (or at best, useless) in untrained hands. What they gain in control, they lose in editing, marketing, quality control, and general market savvy.

I participate in several online discussion groups that attempt to dissect every conceivable aspect of the publishing business. For the most part they’re populated by discouraged writers who have never managed to make their way past an editor or agent. Yet somehow they speak with the confidence of seasoned experts, decrying the unfairness of it all. Could it be that their writing is mediocre, or worse? No, that couldn’t be it. Could it be that they haven’t bothered to educate themselves in how to work the system? Perish the thought. No, the only conceivable reason for their (to-date) failure, is the narrow-mindedness of those awful editors and agents who don’t recognize a good thing when it’s staring them in the face.

Like millions of frustrated would-be authors out there, I own a collection of hundreds of rejection letters from publishers big and small. Sometimes they say it’s because “we’ve never done this kind of book before.” Sometimes it’s “we did a book just like this, last week.” Or my book is either too short, or too long. The reasons are endless. I feel their pain.

Often, however, this pain is self-inflicted. Every publisher and agency has limits to what kinds of books they will handle, and they dictate the process by which they desire to receive submissions. All you have to do is ask. Yet as I survey the agents and editors I know, they ALL tell me that most of their submissions fail miserably out of the gate. Houses that handle only poetry, get pitches for cookbooks. Those who publish only romance novels, get proposals for theological works. Some (like myself) who require an e-mailed one-page query as a first step, often receive 500-page manuscripts by FedEx instead. Do I really owe this person a rejection letter, and must I tell him why?

Not long ago, I attended a book fair in Southern California. They must have had about a hundred exhibitors on hand, eager writers promoting their wares. In the course of the day, in-between various events, I managed to make my way to almost every table. I made conversation with each author, and opened each book to a random page. In almost every instance, within two paragraphs, I found a typo. Or a series of incomprehensible run-on sentences. Or a long sequence of improperly formatted dialogue that was difficult to follow. (One adorable young woman, after hearing that I don't handle material with explicit sex scenes, shoved her book into my briefcase and begged me to read it at my leisure. I got as far as page 3: long graphic scene of incest.) After a while, it dawned on me: ALL of these books were self-published. Every one. Some of them might have been good stories, even great.

But I couldn't tell, because the authors were so proud of their editorial self-sufficiency.

In 2008, American publishers churned out 289,729 new titles, more than ever before. This is good. But now let’s compare that to the estimated six million manuscripts, proposals, and queries that are circulating among American publishers and agents at any one time. Can you suggest a better way to sift the handful of diamonds from a vast coal mine?

Or put yourself in the shoes of the average consumer: Let’s suppose that your local bookstore suddenly offered ten times as many titles for sale. Would you, for that reason, buy ten times as many books in the course of a year? Even if they were free, do you really have the time?

Me neither.

Mind you, for some people, self-pub makes perfect sense. If you have a business where you travel the country making speeches and can sell books in back of the room -- or you're already famous and have an existing base of followers who frequent your website -- you can set your own price and make a much greater profit. But these cases are rare.

In my capacity as a literary agent, and as the director of a writers' conference, I often hear from new writers who want to know the secret to success in publishing. I tell them to take a class, find a mentor, attend conferences, buy a few reference books, join a writer's group, invite brutal critiques, retain the services of a professional editor and follow their advice. Then when they a have a decent manuscript to offer, start pitching agents and publishers according to their prescribed guidelines. Pay your dues, then pay it forward.

But few people are satisfied with that answer. That's because what they really meant in their question was, "How can I get around that process? What are the shortcuts? How can I avoid the hard work?" At many conferences, the most popular workshops are the ones about marketing, the quickest (apparent) route to riches. The writing and editing classes go begging. They're not interested in actually learning how to write, they just want to sell the stuff they already have.

Writers of the world, be advised: It isn't about you; it's about your reader. It isn't about making you happy, or making your dreams come true. The publishing business, like any other, is driven my the vicissitudes of an ever-changing marketplace. She's a fickle beast, and she only eats what pleases her. Identify your target audience and anticipate what they will want or need to hear, not just what you feel compelled to say. Leverage every rejection into an opportunity for education, not an excuse for bitterness.

For most people (including almost all writers), their only experience in the business world is a job where someone else has already done the heavy lifting. The corporation has been formed, the office space has been rented and furnished, the factory already hums, and the bookkeeper writes the paychecks every week. All they have to do is show up and perform their assigned duties. Far too many writers fail to understand that writing is a business, that they are themselves the owner and bookkeeper and chief marketing officer of an enterprise that will live or die, struggle or thrive, on the strength of their own efforts. There's no labor union, no minimum wage, no paid holidays, no overtime, no forum of appeal for lousy medical benefits or unsafe working conditions.

Gatekeepers are good. Quality control is good. Sensitivity to the demands of consumers is essential. Separating sheep from goats is a must. (These are skills that very few novice writers possess, and even fewer even desire to learn.) Offering false hope to naive mediocre writers is exceedingly cruel. So until such time as the Almighty himself reaches down from heaven with that celestial red pen to draw that line, fallible humans must fill that void. Sometimes they will make mistakes. But do you truly have a better idea?

I didn’t think so. All hail the gatekeepers.

$@%&#, My Dad-in-Law Says

2011-08-11T21:30:00.000-07:00

Den of thieves.

I should know better by now, of course, yet I continue to be amazed at the way they do things in Washington. Year after year they go on piling up fresh deficits in the budget, adding to the national debt. But when will we start paying down that bill? Or when will we at least stop adding to it? No one seems to know. Worse (apart from the occasional campaign sound bite), we rarely even talk about it.

One thing everyone seems to agree on: Something must be done to rein in the “entitlement programs.” Social Security and Medicare are absolutely out of control. We could raise premiums. Or reduce benefits. Or deny benefits to people who are already independently wealthy, because they don’t really need it.

Say what?

Just the other day, my father in-law sent me an e-mail with an interesting perspective: “Entitlement, my $@%&#, I paid for this!” He had a point. This isn’t welfare or food stamps. It’s not a free service that we hand out to people who are down on their luck. These are services that I pay for, little by little each week by the sweat of my brow, based upon the ironclad promise that my government will provide for my needs in my old age.

If I retire at age 65, I will have been paying premiums into the Social Security and Medicare programs for just over 50 years. That’s tens of thousands of dollars in compulsory payments -- money I could have spent on a house or a car or college tuition or (since the money’s mine in the first place) -- Milk Duds, for that matter.

Just imagine: A pension plan with hundreds of millions of captive customers who can’t opt out of your program. You can raise the required contribution, reduce the benefits, change the rules any way you want, any time you like, and you’re accountable to no one. Thousands of your customers die every year before they retire, and you get to keep their money. Your board of directors can redirect the funds to other uses. And unlike every other pension plan in the country, you don’t have to grow the money by investing it in stock and bonds or pork bellies; instead, you simply pay off your current obligations with fresh contributions from new customers. (Wait, didn’t they just send Bernie Madoff to prison, for doing this very thing, but for a shorter time and on a much smaller scale? For the uninitiated, this is called a Ponzi scheme, and it’s illegal.)

Just imagine: A medical insurance plan where everyone has to spend decades paying premiums before they’re allowed to submit their first claim. Or even better, where thousands of your customers die every year before they’re qualified to file a claim and you get to keep their money. How is it possible to not make an obscene profit every year? I haven’t inquired at Aetna or Blue Cross, but I’m pretty sure they would love to get a piece of that action.

Man, I'm in the wrong business.

If any private pension fund or insurance company dared to operate this way, the feds would shut them down before you reach the end of this sentence. A judge would appoint someone to take over the operations, and the managers would go to jail. But if you’re the government? You can pretty much do as you please.

Now, some in Congress would like to abrogate that contract altogether and steal my money outright if I should happen to retire with too many cars, too many houses, or too much money in the bank. They say I don't need it. They say I should leave something on the table for someone else. This is contemptible. It's just plain theft, pure and simple. Please, don't insult my intelligence by disguising it in some type of highbrow political doublespeak.

Will these "entitlements" be there for me sixteen years from now? I'm not counting on it.

I Can't Stop Editing...Someone, Please, Stop Me!

2011-08-05T03:01:00.000-07:00

I hate shaving. Always have, probably always will.

Many years ago, after much comparison shopping, I settled on the single-blade Bic shaver and Barbasol shaving cream. Don't give me those 3- or 4- or 5-blade pretenders; they're just poorly veiled excuses to get more and more money out of us for a product that doesn't do the job any better.

Still, even with the best equipment, shaving is a nuisance. It only takes 4-5 minutes per day and costs me about $3 a month, but those minutes and dollars are very precious to me these days. So at the suggestion of my father in-law, I sought out a Remington electric the other day. Perhaps I can save a few minutes a week and amortize the cost over a couple of years, and come out ahead. The jury is still out, but the early signs are not good.

I went straight to Walmart, where I expected to find a bargain. As luck would have it, these priceless specimens ($24.95, plus the highest sales tax rate in the nation) were locked inside a glass case as if they were fine jewelry. The clerk wouldn't even let me touch the package or read the label; she rushed me over to the nearest checkout counter, and handed it to the cashier.


Menace to society.

Apparently she assumed that I would try to shove that bulky package into my pocket and rush out the door. I found this amusing, because just a few months ago I bought an external hard drive for five times the price, and the electronics clerk shoved the box into my hand and ran away as fast as he could. Oh, well.

Once home, I did something I never do: I opened the box and actually read the directions. Turns out, this all-important document said very little about how to use the gadget. Instead, clearly, it was commandeered by the company lawyers. Evidently spelling, punctuation, grammar, and just plain common sense didn't count on their Bar exams.

First and foremost, they're concerned about keeping the thing dry. Since some electric shavers are designed to work in the shower, perhaps it's necessary to give that warning once. Perhaps even twice. But eleven times? I keep forgetting, lawyers charge by the hour. Can't be too careful. Still, some of these warnings seem just plain silly. Please understand, I'm a writer, and I just can't stop editing:

"Do not submerge in water." As if anyone ever does such a thing on purpose?

"Close supervision is necessary when this appliance is used by, on, or near children." You mean, children with beards? Or preadolescent bodybuilders with chest hair? Silly me, I never knew.

"Do not store in temperatures exceeding 140 degrees F." As if I have a choice?

"Detach removable power cords from appliance for storage." Oh, and not the hard-wired type?

"The power unit is intended to be correctly oriented in a floor mount position." I have no idea what that means, or what the power unit is, or why any part of the gizmo should ever be mounted anywhere near the floor.

Maybe I will learn to love this new shaver. Perhaps, like Victor Kiam a generation ago, I will feel compelled to buy the whole company. But for now, it's a whole new world that I have yet to imagine.

Stay tuned.

Suppose We Ran Saloons the Way They Run the IRS

2011-07-24T23:01:00.000-07:00

Cheers!

As I observe the daily news coming out of Washington, I get more and more discouraged. Should we raise the debt ceiling? Should we eliminate tax breaks for the rich? Who should pay less tax, and who should pay more? Do we really have to live within our means?

I found this story on the Internet today. Apparently it's been going around for years, and nobody really knows where it began. But it seems to paint a fair picture of our progressive tax system:

Suppose that every day, ten men go out for beer at Bubba's Bar, and the bill comes to $100. If they paid their bill the way we pay our taxes, it would go something like this...

The first four men (the poorest) pay nothing.
The fifth would pay $1
The sixth would pay $3
The seventh would pay $7
The eighth would pay $12
The ninth would pay $18
The tenth man (the richest) would pay $59

These men drank in the bar every day for years, and seemed quite happy with the arrangement. That is, until one day when Bubba threw them a curveball that changed everything: “Since y'all are such good customers, I’m going to reduce the cost of your daily beer by $20.” Drinks for the ten men would now cost just $80.

The group still wanted to pay their bill the way we pay our taxes. So the first four men were unaffected. They would still drink for free. But what about the other six, the ones who actually paid for their drinks? How could they divide the $20 windfall so that everyone would get his fair share?

They realized that $20 divided by six is $3.33. But if they subtracted that from everybody’s share, then the fifth man and the sixth man would each end up getting change back even though they never paid a nickel in the first place. In other words, they actually got paid to to drink beer.

Nice work if you can get it, I suppose.

Bubba suggested that it would be fair to favor the poorest among them with the greatest discount, by following the same pattern. He calculated the amounts that each should now pay:

The fifth man, like the first four, now paid nothing (100% saving).
The sixth now paid $2 instead of $3 (33% saving).
The seventh now paid $5 instead of $7 (28% saving).
The eighth now paid $9 instead of $12 (25% saving).
The ninth now paid $14 instead of $18 (22% saving).
The tenth now paid $49 instead of $59 (16% saving).

No doubt, all six were better off than before. But once outside the bar, the men began to compare their savings.

“Hey! I only got a dollar back,” declared the sixth man. He pointed to the tenth man, “but he got $10!”

“Yeah, that’s right,” exclaimed the fifth man. “I only saved a dollar too. It’s unfair that he got ten times more benefit than me!”

“That’s true!” shouted the seventh man. “Why should he get $10, when I got only $2? The wealthy get all the breaks!”

“Wait a minute,” yelled the first four men in unison, “we didn’t get anything at all. This new tax system exploits the poor!”

The nine men surrounded the tenth and beat him up.

The following night, the tenth man got fed up and went drinking at Billy-Bob's Tavern instead. The remaining nine enjoyed their brews at Bubba's as usual. But when it came time to pay the tab, they discovered something important. Between them. they didn’t have enough money to pay even half of the bill.

Alas, that's exactly how our tax system works. The people who already pay the highest taxes will naturally get the most benefit from a tax reduction. Tax them too much, attack them for being wealthy, and they just may not show up anymore. In fact, they might start drinking overseas, where the atmosphere is friendlier.

I'm tired of hearing our president, in speech after speech, complain of the abuses of "millionaires, billionaries, hedge fund managers, and corporate jet owners." They're paying exactly as much (or as little) tax as the law requires. Do you really expect them to volunteer to pay more?

I'm tired of hearing him promise to give tax breaks to "all Americans," when in fact most working people don't pay federal taxes at all. At worst they give up a few dollars a week in payroll withholding, but they get it all back in April.

Do you really want to create jobs, Mr. President? Then stop punishing the success of the very people who do all of the building and hiring and producing in this country.

The Unequal Yoke

2011-05-14T09:31:00.000-07:00

I write a regular column for a local Christian newspaper, and recently one of our readers posed the timeless question, “What does it mean for a husband and wife to be equally yoked?” Well, I believe the best place to start in answering this question, is with the Bible verse that provoked it:

Do not be yoked together with unbelievers. For what do righteousness and wickedness have in common? Or what fellowship can light have with darkness? What harmony is there between Christ and Belial [Satan]? Or what does a believer have in common with an unbeliever? What agreement is there between the temple of God and idols? For we are the temple of the living God. (2 Cor. 6:14-16)

First, what is a yoke? It’s a harness built for two, that they might work together for a common purpose. When you’re plowing a field you don’t want to hitch a full-grown ox on the left and a goat on the right. For if you do, you will soon find that they are not equally matched to the task at hand. Most farmers prefer to plant their crops in straight rows, and this team will never get you there. Somehow I doubt that the Lord looks upon such inefficiency as a sin, but at best it will mark you as a poor steward of the resources that he, in his generosity and grace, has bestowed upon you.

Now back to Paul’s symbolism in his letter to the church at Corinth. In the immediate context, I believe, it has to do with the society in which we live; that is, we all live amongst unbelievers who can lead us into unfruitful labors or even into sin; to share a yoke, means that two people are walking together for a common goal. What kind of people do you let in as your closest friends? Who are the greatest influences in your life, who color your opinions and actions? If they’re not fellow Christians, who share in your values and purpose (Mark 16:15), then you might be asking for trouble.

So, how about marriage in particular? I think it’s safe to say that if you’re married, your spouse is probably your closest friend and single greatest influence. You share experiences and secrets among yourselves, which are rarely (if ever) shared with anyone else. To be equally yoked with a spouse, has to mean that you bear the same yoke. That is, you have the same Master (Jesus), the same beliefs, the same convictions, and the same commitment to God. You attend the same church, receive the same teaching, and work together to evangelize your community.

I have known (and still know) many married couples who follow different religions (including different Christian denominations). In every case, after I get to know them for a while, it becomes evident that neither one is really staying true to their own convictions. Sooner or later, one or the other ends up compromising their commitments for the sake of family harmony. And their kids grow up thoroughly confused, not knowing which way to turn.

Having said that, chances are that someone will read this story and think, “What’s the problem? They all believe in Jesus, and they’re doing the right thing by going to church.” Yes, I get that response all the time.

But have you ever studied church history? It’s not for nothing that we have thousands of denominations in the world today, perhaps dozens represented in our small valley alone. They divided one from another through the ages because they disagreed on some important teaching or practice. Would you believe that there are “Christian” churches out there that don’t believe Jesus had a physical body? Some that welcome people into membership without asking them to repent of their sins? Or some that routinely baptize unbelievers, or don’t baptize at all? Or that don’t recognize Bible authority for their doctrine or lifestyle? Yes, it’s true. Technically, yes, they “believe” (John 3:16), but do you really think that’s enough?

Year after year, statistics show that in most churches, over 80% of their new members are either children of existing members, or transfers from another congregation. Your church might be growing numerically, but that doesn’t mean your community is getting saved. Verily we live in a world of friends of neighbors and colleagues who need to hear the Gospel preached. And we must reach out to them. For if you only live and work and socialize among like-minded fellow believers, then where’s your ministry?

But when you seek out a yoke-fellow, choose wisely.

OK, So Now I'm in a Box...Now What?

2011-03-22T16:25:00.000-07:00

Sooner or later...

I suppose it was bound to happen, now that I’m well into middle age.

Over the past five years I have attended over a dozen funerals. My friends and family are dying off like never before. My grandparents were no surprise, since I was in my twenties and they were, well, old. That’s what ninety year-olds are supposed to do. Well, you know what I mean.

But now it seems different: They’re dropping off younger and younger, closer and closer to my own age. To me they appeared young and vital, with many productive years ahead. Some were devout believers of various denominations, while others were unbelievers or perpetual agnostics. From this eclectic mix of experiences, I’ve formed a few opinions about what a funeral should look like:

Funerals are for the living, not for the dead. Grampa’s fate was determined by the time he drew his last breath, and there’s nothing we can do for him now. This is a time to honor his memory, to recall our fond memories and the lessons he taught us. It’s a teachable moment for children, that they might begin to understand the fullness of the circle of life.

The flesh counts for nothing (John 6:63). Yet from what I’ve been told, the fancier and pricier the casket, the longer it will preserve human remains. Are you freaking kidding me? Why should we even bother with such a thing? I think the old Jewish tradition has it about right: Use a plain wooden box and drill holes in it to hasten decomposition. Your loved one is gone, never to return; it’s time to let go.

Unbelievers shouldn’t be sent off with fancy church rituals and ceremonies. If Cousin Ted wasn’t religious in life, this is no time to start pretending. He made his own choices, and we shouldn’t impose our own.

If the deceased was a scoundrel – and everyone in the room knows it – let’s not canonize him now. I don’t suggest that we should recite a litany of his misdeeds, but nor should we invent a fictional biography for the sake of a warm fuzzy moment.

No one should ever eulogize a stranger. At my cousin’s memorial service a few months ago, the minister ended his beautiful homily by calling her “Mrs. Wesley.” Huh? Who? She never allowed anyone to call her that. I quickly figured out that the guy was a talking head, a hired hand, an employee of the funeral home who never met her. I felt violated.

As Christians, we claim to know and follow Jesus. We decry pagan superstition, empty rituals, and graven images. And yet at a time like this, we seem to forget all of our sacred principles and jump in with both feet.

We think our physical bodies are intrinsically “holy,” and shouldn’t be allowed to decompose.

We suppose that unsaved people can make it into heaven if we only perform certain rites and recite the proper incantations.

We prefer a somber sermon from a seminary graduate in a fancy robe, over a heartfelt testimony from a friend.

One of these days it’s going to be me in that box. If you see fit to gather in my honor, don’t follow a script. I don’t care what happens to my shell after I’m done with it, because it’s not me. Don’t pray for me, shower me in “holy” water, or choke me with “sacred” incense; the way I see it, either I’m already heaven-bound or I’m not. I don’t need a steak dinner in a fancy restaurant, or a police escort across town to the cemetery.

It’s not me.

I’m not there.

Ode To a Concrete God

2011-02-25T12:13:00.000-08:00

I don’t get it.

About four years ago, following a precedent established by the Episcopal Diocese of New Hampshire (they elected a homosexual bishop), the Anglican Church of Canada began solemnizing marriages for same-sex couples. Outraged, forty-two local parishes declared their independence from their national church and formed a new denomination they called the Anglican Network in Canada.

Surely, they should be applauded for their courage in opposing this assault upon Bible authority. At last they could return to preaching the Gospel, unburdened by the dictates of an increasingly liberal and politically correct leadership at the home office.

But instead of rejoicing at their new freedom to get back to business, the newly empowered ANiC went on to do something that can only be described as bizarre: They launched a fierce legal battle over real estate. Yup, you heard it right: bricks, mortar, and property deeds. They wanted to hold on to their grand old houses of worship, while the ACoC insisted the buildings rightfully belonged to them. By one argument the buildings exist only for the benefit of the local parishioners, who are the true owners; by another, the locals merely act as caretakers on behalf of the national body, on whose authority the congregation operates.

The results have been mixed: Just this month one breakaway parish prevailed in court, while another raised a white flag and surrendered their property. Similar battles have taken place in American churches, also with varying outcomes. Who is right?

I don’t know. And I don’t care. God doesn’t live in a building, and he doesn’t live in a denominational hierarchy. The very notion of a Christian congregation owning real estate – or anything at all, for that matter – is entirely foreign to the pages of Scripture. The moment that we begin to define a “church” in terms of material possessions, is the moment that we begin to lose our identity as Christians.

Of course, as we know, that spiraling descent began long ago. Consider the majestic cathedrals of Europe: Many of them took decades to build, consuming huge chunks of the church’s resources. The bishops could have fed the hungry, or healed the sick, or sent off missionaries to distant lands. But instead they spent the equivalent of billions of dollars, employed slave labor (in some cases), and strove to make their religious institutions as grand as the worldly empire they served.

So you think this is merely a medieval attitude? Let us consider the Crystal Cathedral in California: just recently, they publicly admitted that the overwhelming cost of heating, cooling, and cleaning their ostentatious glass edifice is simply unsustainable. Never mind spreading the Gospel or serving the poor, which (last time I checked) constitute the real mission of a Christian church. Their single biggest line-item in their budget, I suspect, just might be Windex.

When I joined my current church, 21 years ago, we didn’t have our own meeting place. Instead we met in rented halls and hotel ballrooms, moving from place to place as circumstances dictated. For a while we employed a banquet room at a bowling alley, because the rent was so cheap. When I invited my neighbors and co-workers to come and join us on Sunday morning, many thought it strange – even heretical – that we didn’t meet in an old building with wooden pews, stained glass windows, and a bell tower. They didn’t stick around long enough to actually listen to what we preached.

I must admit, this was a strange concept for me at first; but in time I came to admire this idea of a hermit church that moved from place to place. We didn’t have to spend God’s money on a bank mortgage, a gardener, or an exterminator. If we had a surplus at the end of the month, it went toward charitable works or church plantings. And when the Northridge earthquake struck in 1994 – and scores of church buildings in our community sustained major structural damage – we lost nothing. For a couple of weeks we met in a public park, until the Best Western reopened.

Sometimes it’s good to sit back and consider just what it is you’re really worshipping.

The Ground-Zero Mosque: Friend or Foe?

2011-01-16T08:53:00.000-08:00

About three years ago, my father in-law sent us a gift subscription to Reader’s Digest. We’ve enjoyed it immensely, and we told him so. Accordingly, he has kept it coming continually ever since.

One of the things I enjoy most about this magazine, is that it’s mostly free of political propaganda and extremist ideology. Such things have a legitimate place in the give-and-take of a free society, of course, and I get my fill from cable news and talk radio. But the Digest is supposed to be different. And in the February issue that arrived at my doorstep this week, there appeared a story that I found very disturbing.

We’ve all heard about the controversy surrounding the so-called “Ground-zero Mosque” in New York. I believe that it’s a very bad idea, but I’m open to hearing other views. Still, whatever side you might take on this issue, it’s vitally important to get your facts straight and engage in an honest discussion. Sadly, at a time like this, such good-faith discourse is hard to find.

On page 167 begins an article titled “Freedom to Worship,” by Daisy Khan, one of the principal planners of this development. Of course, the title itself is inherently deceitful; no one is suggesting that Muslims (or anyone else) shouldn’t be free to worship as they choose. The only real issue here is whether this building should be erected on this spot, at this time (while the wounds of 9/11 are still fresh), and on such a grand scale.

The lies and half-truths continue, in almost every paragraph:

“America is the most Islamic country in the world, because America lives up to this idea that God has created different religions.”

Huh? By all accounts over 80% of us are professing Christians, and this belief (that God created many religions) is found nowhere in our Bible. Our God is a jealous deity who gives no quarter to any other.

“That all men are created equal, and no one religion may dominate, is so much a part of the Islamic ethos.”

Can you tell me where this free society exists in the Islamic world? I personally know a missionary who planted 22 Christian churches in the Middle East; none of these congregations are allowed to worship openly, own property, keep a bank account, etc. Nearly all have faced violent opposition and threats from the government. You get the idea. In these lands, Islam reigns supreme.

“Islam has always celebrated the diversity that exists within Muslim thought, as well as diversity among religions.”

Again, where in the Islamic world do they “celebrate” other religions? I’d really like to know. The last time I read the Q’uran, it exhorted all true believers to slaughter the infidels (translation: me). Is there a new edition that I don't know about? (By contrast, Jesus forbade Peter to defend him by sword.)

“A center (the mosque) that is supposed to be multifaith and tolerant, is being rejected by Americans.”

Are you sure? Again, I have followed this story very closely, and I’ve heard no one suggest that this center shouldn’t be built. The problems here have to do with the location and the scope.

“You know when you’re being pushed away; you know when you’re being told, ‘just move out of the neighborhood’ – out of our own neighborhood, where we’ve already been for 27 years.”

Let us test this theory, shall we? Let's pick up the Crystal Cathedral (arguably the most ostentatious house of worship in America), very carefully, and set it down on a street corner in downtown Riyadh. Or Cairo. Or Karachi. Shout it loudly from the highest mountain, that you have every right to do so. Would this assertion embarrass the zoning people into acquiescence? I didn’t think so.

“From the Islamic perspective, freedom to worship is part of the divine plan.”

Really? Tell that to the Christians in Iran. I’m sure it will make all the difference.

Interesting. When we speak of religious “freedom,” it seems, the burden inevitably falls to the Americans. When we speak of “tolerance,” it’s the Christians and Jews who have to do all the “tolerating.” We have to respect them, but they can insult us with impunity all day long. This is a detestable double-standard, and it’s wrong.

Regardless of the subject, hard-liners on every side know how to win an argument: All they have to do is change the subject and ascribe sinister motives to all who disagree. If you oppose abortion, then you obviously hate women and prefer that they reach for a coathanger. If you’re rich, then you certainly gained your wealth through fraud and you hate poor people; you should be taxed into oblivion. And so on.

Yes, we have a constitutionally-protected freedom of religion in this country, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. But every city, everywhere, has a planning department that gets to decide what gets built where. Every day of the year, they deny building permits to supermarkets, factories, apartments, and – yikes! – yes, even Christian churches, when the projects are deemed inappropriate for the neighborhood.

It's refreshing to see that Mrs. Khan is not a fire-breathing extremist. She chooses her words carefully, and she’s gracious to those who disagree. I respect that. Yet where I come from, her claims of entitlement are offensive, and her laments of victimhood are wildly overblown.

I'm proud to proclaim without reservation that I live in the greatest country on earth. I say this not because we're so worthy or virtuous, but rather because God has chosen to bless us so extravagantly even though we're not. We have the most liberal civil liberties in all the world, enshrined within our Constitution. We have, by far, the most generous immigration policies known to man. For these reasons, I'm sick and tired of the whiners who say we don't do enough. If you don't like it, I say just try to find a better deal somewhere else. Go ahead. I dare you.

One thing I’ve noticed about liberation movements: Those who cry the loudest to defend their “rights,” often have no regard for the rights of anyone else. Those who call for “equality,” really believe themselves to be superior. It’s a transparent hypocrisy that knows no “principle” apart from naked self-interest. I fully expect to hear this slanted rhetoric from the New York Times, or from PBS, or the Village Voice. But Reader’s Digest? You should know better.

Don’t let them win.

True Believers?

2010-12-16T11:17:00.000-08:00

Every so often, in the course of my adventures in writing and editing, someone will ask me to take a “religious test” of some type. It might be a publisher reviewing my work, or a writer who needs a critique for a manuscript. They might ask specific questions about my beliefs, or ask me to sign their “statement of faith,” and they won’t do business with me unless I give the right answers.

Do I have the proper view of Jesus, the Bible, or the Trinity? What are my views on baptism, or the famous Pastor So-and-so, or the end times? The motivation behind this analysis seems obvious: They desire to be true to the Lord, to the Gospel, to their convictions. I get it. I’ve made my peace with it; sometimes I get the job, sometimes not. Life goes on.

At times, however, these well-intended safeguards turn into needlessly restrictive barriers to fellowship. And it seems particularly strange when the project in question is a novel about a young girl and her new pony, and there are no discernible doctrinal issues involved. And besides, I might be able to persuade you that I’m the most faithful Christian since Peter or Paul, but that doesn’t mean I know the difference between eschatology and entomology, or a split infinitive from a split pea.

A couple of years ago, I received an email from an eager young writer who wanted to attend our local writers’ conference. I answered her questions, and she submitted her registration the following day. Her excitement was palatable, even across the ether. But then she revisited our website, and observed that it refers to God as a “he.” Another email arrived: She couldn’t bear to do business with such a narrow-minded sexist heretic (me), and demanded a full refund. I tried to discuss the issue with her, but no deal. Because of this petty argument, she missed out on a wonderful opportunity to advance her career.

When I attend writers’ events it makes my heart glad to see that we can come together in such a gracious spirit, setting aside our sectarian differences (which, let’s admit it, can sometimes be substantial) in service to something greater than ourselves. Yet I sometimes detect a subtle undercurrent of unholy pride, a predisposed aversion to the kind of meaningful dialogue that could lead us into deeper friendships with people we might never have met any other way.

In my local writers’ group we have people representing just about every Christian tradition imaginable. In this setting we’re exposed to a broad range of perspectives and we continually learn from one another. We’re all better off for it, both personally and professionally, even if we continue to disagree. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Accordingly, when I write something new, I often seek out an editor who I know doesn’t share my opinions, someone who represents the target audience I hope to persuade. I need someone to challenge me, to argue with me, to point out my false logic and weak arguments. It keeps me humble; it sharpens my thinking and clarifies my message. When I learn new points of view it makes me a better person, a better writer, a more faithful Christian. I often advise prospective clients to do the same.

At the Mt. Hermon Writers’ Conference in California, the five-day event always ends on Palm Sunday. The morning session begins with an ecumenical worship service, complete with a celebration of the Eucharist. Conference Director Dave Talbott is keenly aware of the diversity of faiths represented in the room, and he invites everyone to participate: “This is the Lord’s table, not Mt. Hermon’s table.” The ensuing rite is a bit more formal than I’m accustomed to, yet probably a bit more relaxed than what the next guy has come to know. Which tells me that they’re doing it about right.

This is our golden opportunity to change the world. Let’s make the most of it.

What Your Grocer Won't Tell You (But You Need to Know)

2010-11-30T12:27:00.000-08:00

Dear Savvy Shopper:

There was a time, back in the 1970s, when the Los Angeles metropolitan area had the lowest food prices in the country. This was because we had over twenty chains competing for your business. Offhand I think of ABC, Albertson’s, Alpha Beta, A & P, Boys, Dale’s, Fazio’s, Food Giant, Food King, Hughes, Jewel, Lucky, Market Basket, Mayfair, Pioneer, Ralphs, Safeway, Shopping Bag, Stater Brothers, Thriftimart, and Vons. It was a buyer’s market; with so many players chasing a finite number of consumers, we had to keep our prices low, even in the face of rising union wages and energy costs. (Remember the Arab oil embargo, and the soaring price of fuel?)

But over time Lucky absorbed Dale's and Food King, then Albertson’s took over Lucky and was itself acquired by Supervalu. Vons combined with Safeway, Ralphs swallowed Alpha Beta, Hughes and Market Basket, and in turn was acquired by Kroger. Jewel, Food Giant, and A & P just closed their stores, period. Fazio’s merged with Shopping Bag, then disappeared. They needed to economize, to bolster their buying power, shutter redundant operations, reduce costs wherever they could. Some stores were retained and rebranded, but hundreds closed.

Now just a handful of chains remain, joined in recent years by super-stores like Walmart and Target. The pendulum has swung in our favor, and the landscape is now less competitive than ever. We have to make a profit, or else there’s no point in being here at all. You might see us as a corporate monolith, and maybe you’re right. But at the end of the day the store employees are still a bunch of working stiffs, regular people with feelings, just like you. So when you shop in our store, please keep a few things in mind:

This building is private property, and we can refuse service to anyone – for any reason, or for no reason. You don’t have a “right” to shop here, any more than I have a “right” to spend the night in your home.

They gave out S & H stamps

If that sign on the door says we open at 7:00 am, that’s when you can come in. If it says we close at 10:00 pm, that’s when you have to leave. I can’t help it if you’re late for work, or have six hungry children to feed, or a crowd of unexpected house guests. If you slip and fall outside those hours, our liability insurance might not cover you. I’m not in the mood to lose my job today, over a personal injury lawsuit that could have been prevented.

If you see me stacking boxes of laundry detergent, don’t ask me about the apples. If you see me tending the apples, don’t ask me about the ice cream. I wouldn’t know where to start.

If you want to talk to me, then for crying out loud, talk to me! Don’t shout across the room, or whisper behind my back. I won’t answer to a grunt, a whistle, or a snap of your fingers. I’m not a cocker spaniel. And please, talk to me in English!

The Pioneer store in Echo Park survived until 2004

When I see a customer’s cart overflowing with steaks, shrimp, and all manner of gourmet food, I always think the same thing: This guy’s paying with food stamps. And I’m almost always right. It offends me when I see that my neighbors on public assistance, who feed their families with my tax money, are often the most irresponsible in their spending.

If you don’t see your favorite mayonnaise or breakfast cereal on the shelf – and you ask me “do you have any in back?” – and I roll my eyes in exasperation – please understand: we spent millions to build, stock, and staff this store; why would I now hide it from you? I don’t mind if you ask, but please don’t get an attitude when I say no (and I almost always will). Like most stores we order everything in small lots, and we don’t have a warehouse for overstocks. We’re in business to make money; rest assured that everything we do, is aimed at squeezing every possible nickel from you before you leave.

If you’re frustrated that the checkout line moves too slowly, don’t be so quick to blame me. Far more often than not, the problem lies with an uncooperative customer. One demands to redeem a Cheerios coupon for a box of Post Toasties, another ran off to get a quart of milk. And these are the very people who complain the most.

Around here, the checkstand is the place you go when you’re done shopping; so when you ask me, “send someone to get me a jar of peanut butter,” I don’t know what you mean. Should I call the butcher who’s elbow-deep in chuck roasts, or the service deli clerk who’s already overwhelmed with scooping coleslaw and slicing provolone? Like all but the most exclusive (and expensive!) stores, we don’t have personal shoppers. Our business model is based on self-service; we haven’t even employed boxboys for decades now.

Use both hands to unload your basket. Grab one of those handy-dandy plastic sticks to separate your order from the others, or I will run them together. Then when I start ringing up your order, hang up the phone. Stop fiddling with your iPod, or reading that gossip magazine, and pay attention! There’s a long line of customers waiting behind you.

Don’t talk to me when I’m counting money, or if I’m already serving another customer; I will never respond. I don’t care if you think it’s rude.

When you rush past me with that undeclared 50-pound bag of Dog Chow under your basket, and I catch you in the act, don’t insult my intelligence with a sheepish grin and “Oops! I forgot!” The bottom of the cart is a transparent metal grid, and that brightly colored bag is too big to miss.

Why do you seem surprised when I announce your total, as if you didn’t expect to pay for your purchases? Don’t make me wait while you reach for your purse and pull out your checkbook.

The credit card reader isn’t complicated. It displays a diagram to show you exactly how to slide the card, and the screen gives explicit instructions for what to do at each step. (No tu puedes leer ingles? Exactamundo.) And if it rejects your card, I can’t help it. No one in the store has any authority to overrule your bank’s decision.

Merged with Shopping Bag

If you’re writing a check, don’t make me wait for your ID; I will ask every time. Don’t tell me “I’ve shopped here 20 years, and Betty Jo knows me.” The store is only five years old, and we don’t have a Betty Jo. And even with three picture IDs, I can still turn you away if you give me an attitude or I get a bad vibe about it. My house, my rules, and I don’t want your business that badly.

I don’t want to be impolite or demanding, but I have a business to run and bills to pay. Just put yourself in my place for a moment. If you had a store, you would do exactly the same.

To Kill or Not to Kill?

2010-11-26T09:31:00.000-08:00

In 2000, Claude Howard Jones was executed by the State of Texas for the murder of Allen Hilzendager during a liquor store robbery in 1989.

Recently, he was (almost) exonerated through a DNA test on a single strand of hair found at the crime scene.

Oops.

A little background: Jones was convicted on the basis of testimony from his admitted accomplice, plus a primitive forensic test on that hair. But accomplice testimony alone is never sufficient to sustain a felony charge (wouldn’t any defendant love to beat the rap by blaming someone else?), and conclusive DNA testing wasn’t available at the time.

Plus, when Jones petitioned Governor George Bush for a stay of execution pending a (then-available) DNA test of the hair, the governor’s staff never brought it to his attention. (This is significant because, in other cases, Bush showed himself sympathetic to such requests.) Hence, Jones was executed on schedule.

By all accounts Claude Jones was a menace to society, a career criminal with a rap sheet as long as your arm. And this new development doesn’t truly absolve him of anything; it simply means the prosecutor didn’t meet his constitutionally required burden of proof. Hence, I doubt that many people are crying for Jones today. The citizens of the Lone Star State just might be better off without him.

Still his case goes to show, once again, that our criminal justice system – while the finest and fairest in the world – nonetheless can break down when left to the subjective judgment of us fallible humans. A jury of his peers convicted Jones on the basis of flawed evidence, and the governor’s staff denied him a final opportunity to save himself.

Which leads me to my first reason for opposing the death penalty, a practical premise. We’ve seen it happen again and again: Guilty verdicts can be wrong. An innocent man dies, while the real culprit remains at large. But if the court instead opts to prescribe a life sentence without parole – and some type of evidence later surfaces to prove the guy’s innocence – then at least you can offer a partial remedy and let the innocent man go free.

Second: Assuming the verdict is just, is it morally proper to execute a convicted felon? Many sincere Christians will shout an emphatic “yes!,” appealing to biblical imperatives such as “an eye for an eye,” or “Whoever sheds the blood of a man, by man shall their blood be shed.” But is it really that simple?

As with any article of faith, we must consider the whole record. If we claim Bible authority to execute rapists and murderers, where shall we stop? After all, the holy writ also commands us to render the ultimate penalty for adultery, kidnapping, blasphemy, human sacrifice, idolatry, incest, witchcraft, rape, false prophecy, bestiality, cursing your parents, and a dozen or so other crimes. With this vast ruthless litany of capital crimes, I once assumed that they must have had a brutally efficient system of death chambers in old Israel.

But now I’m not so sure.

Have you ever known anyone who is not guilty of at least one of these crimes? (In all candor, I must plead guilty to several myself.) Or shall we carry out the law only halfway? We can’t just pick-and-choose the proof texts we like, and disregard the inconvenient truths.

Third: DNA testing, fingerprints, and all the forensic evidence in the world won’t do. Scripture requires at least two eyewitnesses to testify in open court, for all the world to see. There’s no provision for hiding your identity, and no witness protection program. If you’re truly eager to defend the honor of God in this way, then you willingly accept the reprisals as the natural consequence of doing the right thing.

Lastly: As a witness, you can’t just sit back in a comfy armchair and watch the state executioner carry out the punishment. After your damning testimony, you must get your hands dirty and put the offender to death yourself; can you handle that? If you think about it, this only makes sense. It’s a safeguard against spiteful false witnesses. You really think this guy is guilty, and he deserves to die? Fine. You may be right. So here, take this rock. Here’s a gun, a rope, a knife.

You first.

The Heretic

2010-11-15T09:45:00.000-08:00

Keepers of the orthodoxy?

In the course of my short forty-eight years, a small number of events will be etched into my memory for all time. Wars, natural disasters, presidential assassinations. I might forget my birthday, or my Social Security number, but I will never forget the evening of November 19, 1978. I was visiting my grandmother’s home, as I often did, as we watched the NBC Nightly News. It seemed that a group of religious fanatics in South America – 918 in all – had just committed a mass suicide by drinking grape-flavored Kool-Aid laced with cyanide. A U.S. congressman, dispatched to investigate the politically active sect, was shot to death the day before. Their preacher was found with a self-inflicted gunshot would, as well as a massive overdose of drugs.

And thus was born a national hysteria, and a new word entered my vocabulary: This assembly of devotees was branded a “cult,” a marginally Christian group with strange teachings and an overblown loyalty to their supreme leader.

How can I know God? Who can I trust? Believers across the country began to question their teachings and their church leaders (not a bad idea on a normal day), and they became suspicious of anyone who held beliefs different from their own.

Just last month this emotion-laden label came out of retirement yet again, this time in reference to a small band of believers near my home outside Los Angeles. Apparently, they held prayer meetings that lasted for hours. OMG! They begged the Lord to redeem our sinful world. Yikes! They renounced their worldly possessions and awaited the return of the Messiah. How dare they!

After a week or so of hysterical speculation in the local and national press, everyone was accounted for – unharmed – praying peacefully in a local park.

What, no Kool-Aid, spaceship, or child sacrifice? No hunger strike or self-immolation? No white robes, or walled commune? They have so much to learn.

Apparently, yes, they anticipated an imminent Rapture, which failed to materialize; but far from planning to kill themselves, could it be that they simply expected to be taken? From what I've seen, the news media made no attempt at such a distinction. Instead they'd rather depict religious people as a bunch of irrational loonies, and this story just didn't live up to its promise.

In an interview with the Associated Press, a local Sheriff’s captain described his concerns about this sect. “We’ve got a group here that’s practicing some orthodox and some unorthodox Christianity. Obviously this falls under the unorthodox.”

"Unorthodox?" "Obviously?" Really? So now our local constabulary are in charge of deciding what is and isn’t an acceptable religion? I don’t think so.

In the thirty-plus years since Jonestown, cult-watch groups have multiplied. They want to take a stand for biblical truth, and call out anyone who opposes it. (Again, a good thing, in principle.) But rather than pouring out Christian love and compassion on a (perceived) heretic, they often resort to hostile rhetoric and form an exclusivist society that shuns imperfect people.

Many years ago, my wife and I befriended a neighbor couple down the street who turned out to be devout believers. Happily, we enjoyed a deep kinship with these people, as we found much common ground. Salvation, evangelism, fellowship, Bible authority? Check.

“So, where do you go to church?”

“We don’t.”

Huh?

They explained: they’re so committed to sound doctrine and holy lifestyle, that they can’t find the perfect church that teaches and practices everything exactly as they believe. So they’d rather worship at home among themselves, than to get polluted by an assembly of (perceived) false believers.

No television, movies, or popular music. All women should wear ankle-length dresses at all times, and must never take a job outside the home. All children must be homeschooled, no matter what. Sports are evil because they encourage pride and competition. No alcoholic beverages, ever. No contraception. No this. No that. Like many people, they can’t feel good about themselves until they uncover all that’s wrong with you and me. You get the idea.

Good grief.

Several years ago, I read a passage in the Bible that radically changed the way I react to the sins and mistakes of others:

Brothers, if someone is caught in a sin, you who are spiritual should restore him gently. But watch yourself, or you also may be tempted.Carry each other's burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. If anyone thinks he is something when he is nothing, he deceives himself. (Galatians 6:1-3)

So, you think I’m a heretic? Maybe you're right. Then show me the error of my ways, gently, and give me a chance to repent. Carry my burden for just a moment, and see how well I respond. But if this discussion becomes an adversarial encounter of you-versus-me, I will see it coming a mile away. And nothing good or godly will ever come of it. Calling my church a “cult” is the religious equivalent of an adolescent taunt in a junior high schoolyard. Or a racial slur on a street corner. It’s nothing more than mean-spirited name-calling; it proves nothing, and it converts no one.

I don’t know about you, but after 20 years as a Christian (baptized at Santa Monica Beach on October 22, 1990), I'd like to think that I’m not done learning. I have some strong convictions on many important issues, and I can support them in Scripture all day long. But guess what? I can be wrong. And so can you.

Like almost everyone out there, I'm working with only second- and third-hand information about this local sect. And based on what little I know (or think I know), I think they're misguided. But at worst, it seems, they're guilty only of guessing wrong about the timing of the Rapture. William Miller did this twice, yet today the Adventists are more popular than ever. Go figure. So until these people start marrying off 12 year-old girls, or serving poisoned Pepsi, or stockpiling assault rifles, I say leave 'em be. Otherwise, your church could be next.

Have you ever recited the Lord’s Prayer? It says that if we want the Lord to forgive our trespasses, we must forgive the trespasses of others. Choose your battles carefully, because there’s a little bit of heretic in all of us.

MY EXISTENTIAL MANIFESTO (Inspired by Jerry Maguire, act one, scene one)

2010-10-21T23:52:00.000-07:00

Jeanne

I didn’t hear the phone ring. I was busy at my desk, toiling furiously on an overdue article for a local newspaper. My wife entered the room and announced, “Carol’s on the line.” By this I assumed she meant Carolyn, my boss, and it could only be bad news: surely she wants me to come in to work on my day off. I wasn’t in the mood, but against my better judgment I took the call anyway.

Good thing. Turns out it was in fact Carol, an old friend whom I had not seen for many years, the last person I expected to hear from that day. My joy at the sound of her voice quickly turned to dismay as I learned the purpose of her call: “Jeanne is dead. Her funeral is next weekend. Can you come?”

My to-do list was a mile long, and everyone else could take a number; but this one was a no-brainer: “Are you kidding? Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” (Jeanne was a mutual friend, and neither of us had seen her for quite some time.) Little did I know that this simple social event would launch me into the existential crisis of a lifetime.

Jeanne and John married late in life, in their fifties, and they made the most of their every minute together. They lived in Ojai, a small town in Ventura County, not far from Los Angeles. They joined a local church, made friends, saw the world, served their community, and put down roots. Here they enjoyed a simple life, far from the noise of the big city. Who knew that their journey would end so soon?

It was a long drive, about two hours on lonely country highways. In this quiet solitude I had plenty of time to think, to summon fond memories of Jeanne. I tallied the many loved ones I’ve lost over the past several years; it seems they’re getting younger each time, closer and closer to my own age. All at once I became acutely aware of my own mortality, the frailty of my flesh. Gone were the carefree days when I could hurl down steep winding mountain roads on my Schwinn Varsity ten-speed, wind in my hair, feeling bulletproof and invincible. It’s going to be me in that box one of these days. But those morbid thoughts would have to wait; I was on a mission.

Following a couple of songs and the standard liturgy, the minister invited us to share our remembrances. One by one, about a dozen mourners rose to bear witness to a life well lived. John reminisced about their trips to distant lands. Uncle Bob told of her distinguished career as the fashion editor of the Cleveland Plain-Dealer. The rest of us recalled how we treasured her friendship, her counsel, her humor, her down-home cooking. We laughed, we cried, we prayed. Funny stories, touching moments.

The torrent of tributes continued unabated at the reception, where our old gang enjoyed an unexpected (and welcome) reunion. Carol was there. And John. Irina. Dee. Judy. James. Kate. Patricia. Cara. We were downright unanimous in our respect and admiration for our sainted sister. We loved her, we missed her, our daily lives would be forever diminished by her absence.

And yet…

For the better part of two decades, most of us couldn’t manage to pick up the phone to say so. Either to Jeanne, or to each other. We thought we had more time, if we thought about it at all. For all of our good intentions, lost in the busy-ness of life, something else always seemed more urgent. We got married, had children, went back to school, climbed the corporate ladder, fought terrorists, changed the oil, mowed the lawn. Who would have thought that our beloved would be taken from us so early, struck down by breast cancer at 66? Not a spring chicken, exactly, but far from old. With her relentlessly cheerful attitude and that spring in her step, she exhibited a joie de vivre far beyond many people half her age.

Why did we drift apart, sometime back in the late 1980s? After all, most of us still lived in the local area, and we were all listed in the phone book. Did we have an argument, or did someone spread a nasty rumor to the others? No one could say. But it doesn’t matter now.

Now that I think about it, this pattern sounds very familiar: When I was a child, my parents always saw to it that my sister and I got around to see our family. Mom made the call, Dad told us to get in the car, and that was that. They decided exactly when we’d go, what we’d do, and how long we’d stay. That arrangement worked out just fine, and I never had to think about it.

That is, for exactly eighteen years.

Me and Wayne, circa 1974

But now it’s up to us, the younger generation (soon to be the older; heh), to make it happen. And we’re doing a lousy job. We have more divorces than weddings these days, and very few babies or baptisms. Thanksgiving and Christmas don't draw the same crowds they used to. About once a year someone else dies, and it’s rarely a surprise. Someone takes the initiative to call around to announce a time and place, and maybe half of us show up to pay our respects. We share our fondest memories of Grampa, we joke about how we only get together for funerals, exchange phone numbers and emails, and pledge to keep in touch. Come to dinner at my place, or invite me over to yours. Let’s go fishing, see a movie, or (in the case of my younger cousins) just get acquainted for once over a cold beer. Or drop in on Grandma; she could be next.

And no one follows through.

A few months later, it’s Aunt Betty. And then Cousin George. We meet, we mourn, we do the same dance, tell the same jokes, repeat the same lies, and promise to do better next time. And nothing ever changes.

Enough. I’m tired of playing that game. At the age of 48 I’ve probably lived more than half of my life; I have too much unfinished business and not nearly enough time. At this point I would give anything to spend just one more day at the beach with my dad; but his wounds were self-inflicted, and I couldn’t save him.

Or one more sunny afternoon at Dodger Stadium with Uncle Mario, the patron saint of his neighborhood.

Or to share one more steaming pot of Texas gumbo with Nana, with that secret ingredient that made all the difference.

Or another silly game of “go fish” with Wayne, my childhood partner-in-crime, who met the wrong end of a deputy sheriff's six-shooter at age 12. (Kids aren't supposed to die; did someone not get that memo?)

Dad, around 1993

Or even as little as one more conversation with big sister Jeanne, where I could pour out my sorrows and she knew just what to do.

We left so many things unsaid, so many issues unresolved. I never had a chance to say goodbye, or to apologize for my heartless words, or thank them for their many kindnesses. Shall I never be granted but one of these wishes? Just one? There oughta be a law.

So, my dear friends and family, this is how it’s gonna be: I’m done with being polite, afraid of intruding into your peaceful existence. At some point in the next few months you’ll be hearing from me, and I won’t take no for an answer. If you don’t return my phone call or my e-mail, I will try again and again until you do. Or I just might show up at your doorstep when you least expect it; who knows? I don’t care if we had an argument at our last meeting, or if one of us said something stupid in the heat of the moment. I’ve squandered far too many years waiting for just the right time to say “I love you,” or “I’m sorry.” Deal with it.

Of course, you’re always welcome to beat me to the punch. You already know where to find me, just as you did for Grampa and Betty. Come to dinner at my place, or invite me over to yours. Let’s go fishing, see a movie, or just get acquainted for once over a cold beer. Let’s meet at the park for a round of one-on-one basketball; I’m no good at it, so I’ll let you win if it means you’ll show up. Or we can drop in on Grandma; she could be next.

Sure, I can come to your funeral and say a few nice words to keep up appearances. I can dance that jig and make promises I’ll never keep, just like always. And no one will know the difference; Hey, I’m getting pretty good at it after 30 years of practice. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather tell you now: Thank you. I love you. I miss you. I'm sorry. I'm proud of you. Fuhgeddaboutit, I forgave you long ago.

Will you do the same for me?

I went skyyy----diving
I went rocky mountain climbing,
I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Manchu.
And I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter,
And I gave forgiveness I’d been denying.
An’ he said: Some day, I hope you get the chance,
To live like you were dyin’.

I was finally the husband,
That most the time I wasn’t.
An’ I became a friend a friend would like to have.
And all of a sudden, goin’ fishin’,
Wasn’t such an imposition,
And I went three times that year I lost my dad.
Well, I finally read the Good Book,
And I took a good long hard look,
At what I’d do if I could do it all again.
--Tim McGraw

Postscript at press time: As I post this article, I just received word that my dear Uncle Gustavo is fighting for his life, and he probably won’t last the night. He must be in his mid-80s. Let’s see if we will do anything different this time around..

Why Can’t We All Just Get Along? Good Question, Rodney.

2010-07-04T12:52:00.000-07:00

Originally posted June 28, 2010

I never had a chance to be a racist.

I grew up in a racially diverse neighborhood. My neighbors, classmates and fellow parishioners were black, white, Japanese, Mexican, Hungarian, Ukrainian, Vietnamese, and Armenian, representing every continent of the world (with the possible exception of Antarctica). I thought nothing of it at time, but remarkably this melting pot took shape without the benefit of school busing, Affirmative Action, mortgage-lending quotas, or any other type of artificial engineering. People lived and shopped and worshipped where they chose, and were quickly accepted. Like any other community we had our share of interracial scuffles in the schoolyard, but for the most part no one sniffed a budding race war; we attributed it to the normal struggles of youth.

In 1941, at Battle of Pearl Harbor, the Imperial Japanese Navy assumed that they would enjoy a quick decisive victory in their campaign of shock and awe. Why? Among other things, they believed that their own ethnically monolithic society was innately superior to the multiethnic forces of their American adversaries. Surely an integrated force could never come together to fight off a common enemy. As we now know, they were wrong. Dead wrong.

When the nation of Yugloslavia broke free from the yoke of its Soviet oppressors, the citizens danced in the street for about five minutes as a single jolly brotherhood. But then they quickly broke down into ethnic wars between the Bosnians, Serbs, Croats, and Macedonians. They couldn’t bear to run out of enemies; each group wanted to either rule or destroy the others. Today, fortunately, they’ve made peace. Well, sort of. The shooting has stopped, but the cultural and national animosities continue.

In a newly reinvented self-governing Afghanistan, they’ve faced an uphill battle to form a reliable national army. Largely, this is because young soldiers from the South refuse to fight and bleed and die to defend a distant province in the North, and vice-versa. Thousands have deserted, and those who remain are often very selective as to which orders they’ll obey.

After decades of brutal rule by Saddam Hussein, nominally a Sunni Muslim, the rival Shiites sensed a golden opportunity to seize power. The formerly oppressed, now wanted to become oppressors. But wait, what’s the difference between a Sunni and a Shiite? I looked it up. It’s neither an ethnic designation nor a political party. Upon the death of Mohammed, a dispute arose as to who should succeed him as prophet. The Sunni followed one leader, and the Shia another. But you’d be hard-pressed to find a huge difference in the beliefs or practices of the groups; the religion is the same. So the argument has nothing to do with any sacred principle, or the suppression of some evil heresy, but a simple matter of “who’s the man?” Sad.

Yet somehow, some people can never seem to heed the lessons of history – and in this case, it’s a history of only about 20 years.

In recent weeks, history has repeated itself once again in the former Soviet republic of Kyrgystan. Newly liberated from the iron hand of a foreign occupier, the formerly oppressed now want to become oppressors. Thousands of ethnic Uzbeks were driven from their homes and land, with hundreds killed for no particular reason. Many of these refugees are now gathered at the border of neighboring Uzbekistan, begging for asylum. Having ratified a new constitution just this week, the government now promises free parliamentary elections and – shortly afterward – an official reduction in the powers of the executive branch. But wait, can you really call it “democracy” when you’ve killed, deported, or intimidated the opposition? Can the election results be trusted when everyone knows that a large portion of the electorate was kept away from the polls?

Just in case you can’t tell what I’m getting at with these seemingly unrelated anecdotes, here it is: These things don’t happen around here. We disagree, we argue, we raise our fists and shout. We might even curse, slander, and block traffic at a busy urban intersection. But on out worst day we don’t seek to resolve our disputes with roadside bombs and shoulder-mounted missiles. And that’s one of the things that makes me proud to be an American.

In the aftermath of the 2000 presidential election, George Bush and Al Gore fought over a few thousand votes in Florida. The outcome would not be known for a few weeks. In a TV interview, former Secretary of State James Baker revealed that he had been contacted by a number of foreign leaders and diplomats eager to heap scorn on the American system. “You foolish Americans, preaching to the world about the virtues of democracy. And look at you now!”

Baker didn’t miss a beat. “Do you see any riots in the streets? Do you see Army generals plotting a coup? Has someone laid siege to the White House or the Supreme Court?” The answer, of course, was no. Once again, as always, we had a peaceful transition of power.

Peace, whether in a neighborhood or a nation, is a decision. It’s a voluntary act of our will. We need not follow the Hatfields and the Coys, or the Capulets and the Montagues, carrying the burdens of ancient rivalries where no one remembers what we were fighting about in the first place. Without a doubt, Bush vs. Gore wasn’t our finest hour. But on our worst day, it still looks pretty good.

I didn’t vote for the Anointed One, but he’s still my president. Hail to the Chief, all day long.

Of Pot Roast and Petroleum

2010-07-04T12:48:00.000-07:00

Originally posted June 2, 2010

After toiling in the trenches of the restaurant business for about 20 years, my friend Bill finally got his big break: He was hired as a manager of a Carrows restaurant. His resume was impressive; he had served as a busboy, dishwasher, waiter, host, cashier, even a wine steward, and he had stellar references. However, his record betrayed one notable weakness that could have been a dealbreaker – he didn’t know how to cook. So he spent his first two months in the kitchen, learning how to cook the entire menu. For as his superiors were quick to point out:

If you don’t know how to do something, you’re not fit to supervise those who do.

In any line of business, if an employee calls in sick, someone has to fill in; often, it’s the manager. When you hire new workers, someone has to train them. And how can you possibly evaluate their performance, if you don’t know what a good performance looks like? A Harvard MBA is good, but it doesn’t always prepare you for the real world of dealing with people and problems.

The Deepwater Horizon well has now been spewing oil into the ocean for over a month and a half. Who’s to blame? Depending on who you ask, it’s either Transocean (because they owned the rig) or BP (because they operated it) or Halliburton (because they consulted on the project). Or perhaps it’s nothing more than a freak accident that no one could have anticipated or prevented.

The federal government’s response (though it got off to a slow start) has been fierce. Interior Secretary Ken Salazar vowed to “keep our boot on their (BP’s) neck until the job gets done.” President Obama declared “the buck stops with me” to plug the leak. And now Attorney General Eric Holder has hinted that he might soon bring criminal charges.

A notable (and laudable) exception to this pattern, however, is Admiral Thad Allen, commandant of the U.S. Coast Guard. In a recent interview with CNN’s Candy Crowley, Allen refused to take the bait to demonize BP. Rather than to solicit his opinions (as reporters are supposed to do), Crowley attempted to put words in his mouth again and again. Don’t you hate them? Shouldn’t they be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law? They’ve been lying to us all along about the size of the leak, right? But Allen was all about the facts, and the plan: Let’s just fix this thing.

Bravo, Admiral.

Indeed, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men have been pulled together to fix this thing. They do a pretty good job of looking busy. They smile for the cameras on the evening news and on the Sunday talk shows, assuring the world that they’re on the case. But have you noticed what’s missing from their sermons?

A strategy to, in the words of our president, “plug the damn hole.”

In a bold move to signal his impatience, Salazar threatened to “push them (BP) out of the way” and bring in government workers to do just that: plug the hole.

“But wait,” cautioned Admiral Allen, “we don’t know how!”

Bingo.

Drug companies are overseen by the FDA, which is operated by DOCTORS, guys who (we hope) know a little about science and biology. Banks are regulated by the Federal Reserve, which is managed by BANKERS, guys who (we hope) know a little about finance and economics. You get the idea.

But offshore drilling? The oil companies are regulated by government agencies who don’t know a thing about drilling for oil in deep water. And yet they feel qualified to oversee the process.

Which reminds me of the regulatory agencies that (together with Congress) compelled the banks to make all those subprime mortgage loans – and now blame the banks for their malfeasance in obeying.

And the regulators that permitted – even encouraged – the dozens of mergers between giant banking institutions, and now lament that they’re “too big to fail.”

BP doesn’t need a boot on their neck, to plug this hole. They don’t need to be threatened with footage of dead birds and polluted marshes. Their public image, their stock price, and their bank accounts are all taking a beating.

That’s all the motivation they need.

Shall We Appease A Few Dozen, Or A Few Million?

2010-07-04T12:41:00.000-07:00

Originally posted May 25, 2010

In an age-old fable, three blind men examined an elephant. One held a leg and declared, “an elephant is like a tree.” The second grasped the tail and observed, “an elephant is like a rope.” A third ran his hands across the rough weathered hide, and concluded “an elephant is like a tent.”

Which of these accounts is true? Which is false? The answer to both questions, of course, is “all of the above.” Each report was factual, yet none was complete. For each man could only describe the beast from his own limited perspective.

For about the last two years, the government of France has pondered enacting legislation that would forbid the public wearing of a veil or mask that hides a person’s face. The proposed legislation doesn’t specify that it’s aimed at Muslims, but…hey, what other reason could there be? As could be expected, the three blind men have weighed in:

For many Muslims – who require their women to veil themselves from head to toe – this step is an intolerable assault on their religious freedom.

President Nicolas Sarkozy fancies himself a liberator of Muslim women, who wear the veil (he believes) only because their husbands demand it.

For many patriotic Frenchmen, it’s all about cultural assimilation. Immigrants shouldn’t be allowed to change the character of French society. If you want to live here, you should become one of us.

All of these arguments, I believe, have merit. But in a democratic society, how do we take our principled ideals and translate them into an orderly civilization? The answer, as we know, is compromise. No one party gets to have everything their way.

Here in my community, the local merchants seize every opportunity to monetize a holiday. Christmas, Flag Day, Arbor Day, Epiphany? Someone, somewhere, is having a sale. And as for Halloween ? You can wear that Power Rangers costume every day of the year, if it strikes your fancy. But if you want to shop in my store, take off that mask. If you try to rob me, I want to make sure my video camera captures your face. Otherwise, you can take your business somewhere else. My house, my rules. Take it or leave it.

I’m reminded of the plight of the Jews in old Roman-occupied Palestine: Caesar demanded heavy taxes and obedience to civil laws. But as for their religion? The Jews were free to worship their little unseen God as they saw fit. So when the religious authorities arrested a fiery itinerant preacher who claimed to be their king, the Roman governor (initially) refused to condemn him. Did this man steal, murder, or slander the emperor? Well, no. Then he’s not my problem.

Here in the Good Ole USA, we have a similar arrangement. I’m not allowed to sacrifice a virgin into a volcano at every full moon, but otherwise I’m free to worship or pray to my God in any manner that I might choose. A court of law can prosecute me for murder, but not heresy. And as I exercise this freedom I don’t look to you, the government, or anyone else to enable or validate me in that quest. I ask only that you afford me the same courtesy that Rome extended to the Jews: Leave me alone.

For this reason, I don’t particularly care if they allow my son to pray in his public school. Or remove the words “under God” from the Pledge of Allegiance. It matters not if they set up a cross or a nativity scene or a menorah in a city park at Christmastime. The legitimacy of my faith doesn’t rest on governmental approvals.

Around here we have a small community of Sikhs, and they’re building a new temple down the street. Some of them go about town in their traditional dress; I say let’s celebrate our cultural diversity, all day long. In their custom, all baptized Sikhs are to carry a dagger in their waistband at all times. But they know it makes people nervous when they’re waiting in the checkout line at the supermarket; so they proudly sport the robe and the turban, but they leave the knife at home. If they’re complaining about this evil assault on their constitutional liberties, I haven’t heard about it. And believe me, we have plenty of religious whiners here, of every stripe.

For all of our ideals, let’s get real. In a world that lives under the constant threat of violent crime and terrorism, all citizens must work together – despite inconvenience or loss of "freedom" (although I would take issue with that characterization) – for the greater good. And if that means we must show our faces when we walk the streets, so be it. Just as with the new immigration law in Arizona (oh, did I just open up another can o’ worms?), innocent people have nothing to fear from a little accountability.

If it offends you to obey the laws of my country, I say find somewhere else to live. Just send me a postcard sometime. I challenge you to find a place that works harder to defend your freedoms.

From The Mouths of Babes? This Is Our Future

2010-07-04T12:32:00.000-07:00

Originally posted May 22, 2010

Just last week, I was asked to serve as a judge for a public speaking competition at a local elementary school. (Apparently, someone thought a local author was uniquely qualified for this duty; how could I refuse?) Modern Woodmen, a financial services company based in Rock Island, Illinois, has sponsored this annual contest since 1948.

I arrived an hour early to acclimate myself to the surroundings, and to meet the other judges who had all done this before. The plan: each student would speak for 3-5 minutes, and they would be judged on criteria such as organization, presentation, and the overall effectiveness of their argument.

Our group of 12 fifth-graders was assigned the topic, “If I were president…” What would they do, how would they feel, what character traits would they need to carry out this all-important position?

As could be expected, some were more at ease than others; some shouted, others mumbled, almost all fidgeted. Some buried their faces in their notes, while others memorized every word and made eye contact with just about everyone. Hey, they’re eleven years old! At that age, I’d feel lucky just to make it through without hurling.

Professional speaking skills aside, I was struck by the narrow range of viewpoints expressed by this group. Some examples:

“I would give free healthcare to everyone.”

“I would let all the illegal aliens become citizens.”

“I wouldn’t let banks take away peoples’ houses.”

“It would be cool to live in a big house and fly on Air Force One whenever I want.”

“I would bring all the soldiers home from the wars.”

“I would cut everyone’s taxes. Except the rich people, they would pay more.”

“No one would ever have to declare bankruptcy.”

Oh, so all of these things are actually within the power of our national executive? All he has to do is issue an executive order? If only.

Mind you, of course, these orators were children. I didn’t expect any fancy exposition on capital gains taxes, abortion, or nuclear non-proliferation. They can be forgiven if they don’t read (or can’t grasp) Newsweek or Forbes, or listen to the Rush Limbaugh show.

Still, remarkably, these youngsters were positively monolithic in their ideologies. Uniformly they preached a gospel of entitlement, whereby the government provides all their needs. Personal responsibility? Ha! Free enterprise? Nope. Get a job? Only if you absolutely have to. Public service, hard work, self-denial? Don’t be silly.

How can they possibly speak with such profound conviction about subjects they can barely understand? Perhaps they’ve been influenced by their parents, even if only passively by overhearing conversations among the grownups at dinner parties. Or they hear political rants by their favorite celebrities on talk shows. (Whoopi Goldberg must know what she’s talking about, right?) They’ve only heard one side of the story, and they can’t imagine that another perspective even exists.

Just in the past few weeks, public schools have made the news with their political statements: Five white students were punished for wearing shirts with an American flag design on Cinco de Mayo. Another was sent home for wearing a Rosary. Expressions of patriotism and religion, once universally regarded as virtues, are now met with suspicion and contempt.

But wait: Perhaps we believers should pause a moment before pointing that finger. Isn’t that what we often do? We baptize them before they’re dry from the womb, and often we shelter them from other points of view. And we patriots: we make them recite the Pledge of Allegiance, even if they don’t agree with the message or understand what the words mean.

[Insert solution here.] My eighth-grade English teacher told me that I should end an editorial by offering a solution to a problem. Well, I’m not so sure that I have one. Except that people with opposing views should quietly listen to one another, before they start shooting.

Can't Get In By Front Door? Heck, Try The Back

2010-07-04T12:28:00.000-07:00

Originally posted April 27, 2010

Not a day goes by that I don’t thank God that I live in a free country. For all of our problems, on our worst day, we remain the land of the free, a place of endless opportunity. No wonder so many people long to get here, by car or boat or tunnel or hang glider or inner tube, any way they can. And since I did nothing to earn such a privilege myself, I have no problem with sharing the wealth with others.

But not by theft, nor fraud, nor deceit.

Case in point: Yesterday’s Los Angeles Times had a feature story about Ekaterine Bautista, an illegal immigrant from Mexico who was denied citizenship after serving six years in the U.S. Army. Turns out, she qualified for enlistment only by impersonating her aunt, a U.S. citizen who now lives in Mexico. She was hoping to take advantage of a decades-old law that allows (legal!) foreign nationals to earn citizenship by serving in the armed forces, particularly in wartime. And now that her ruse has been discovered, she may end up being forcibly returned to her home country.

Of course, the Times account was little more than an op-ed piece in the guise of hard news reporting. They reported Bautista’s crime, yet refused to recognize it as such. The headline itself is telling: “A misstep may mean deportation.”

Excuse me? A “misstep?” I don’t think so. A misstep is when you make a mathematical error in your checkbook. Or use the wrong fork for your halibut in a fancy restaurant. Or misspell a word in your term paper. Missteps are accidental and innocent, and don’t have far-reaching implications.

Miss Bautista’s crime – yes, let’s call it what it is – was no accident, and she shows no signs of remorse. It was premeditated and deliberate, and the falsehood continued for years. She knew that she was breaking the law, and told lie after lie to conceal her trickery. She tried to cut in line ahead of multitudes who earnestly work the system by following the rules. Yet the Times chose to spin the story as a David-and-Goliath analog, whereby she was betrayed by the big, bad government after serving her country so honorably.

Trouble is, this isn’t her country. It never was. She’s not entitled to be rewarded for her lies.

By all accounts, Bautista was a model soldier who earned many commendations. She served in highly dangerous war zones in Iraq, where she bound the wounds of her comrades while neglecting her own. Thank you for your service, Ekaterine; credit where credit is due. But no law, either military or civilian, has ever translated such good deeds into automatic grounds for citizenship.

This morning, the online blogs and chat rooms are abuzz with opinions about Bautista’s plight. Most are sympathetic, as I suppose could be expected. They speak of compassion, an end to racism (where did that come from?), and giving a girl a break.

As for me, I’m fed up with these continual not-so-subtle attempts to make me feel guilty for not giving away the store. My country routinely takes in poor, hungry, and persecuted people from all over the world, more than all the others put together. Likewise for foreign aid. Unlike our president, who loves to trot around the world apologizing for our corporate sins, I’m immensely proud to live in a country that does so much to serve the rest of the world. And I’m sick and tired of hearing the rants of those malcontents who tell me we don’t do enough.

Many of our political leaders, such as Los Angeles mayor Antonio Villaraigosa, refuse to use the term “illegal alien.” Instead, they prefer the innocuous designation of “undocumented.” Oh, is it really that simple? Could it be that the problem is only a matter of “documentation?” If that’s the case, then by all means let’s all get together tonight at Kinko’s, down the street. Their new machines can crank out 12 million passports and Social Security cards in no time.

Who’s with me?

The Unholy Alliance vs. God

2010-07-03T09:57:00.000-07:00

Originally Posted April 13, 2010

But among you there must not be even a hint of sexual immorality, or of any kind of impurity, or of greed, because these are improper for God’s holy people. (Ephesians 5:3)

I can remember, as a child growing up in the 1970s, reading news reports of Catholic priests accused of sexual misconduct with children. In response to this scandal, the church reported only that the offending clerics were counseled and then reassigned to a new parish. And for a couple of decades, they managed to stay out of the headlines.

But that reprieve was short-lived. Back in the 1990s, the issue resurfaced with a vengeance as thousands of formerly silent (alleged) victims came forward. They reported unspeakable acts by hundreds of priests, all over the country (and now, as we know, the world). With the rise of the Internet, they gained a new bully pulpit to bring attention to their cause. No longer did they have to rely on a sympathetic press or editor to get their story out.

In spite of this mountain of evidence, the church has consistently refused to cooperate with police and prosecutors to bring these offenders to justice. They hide behind some type of fuzzy principle of religious freedom, claiming allegiance to a higher authority. In Boston, this scandal led to the removal of Bernard Law as the local bishop. In Los Angeles, Cardinal Roger Mahony invented an innovative legal defense: his personnel files were shielded by the ancient priest-penitent privilege, an argument that has never been recognized by any court of law, anywhere. The punishment for their years of defiance and neglect? Law was promoted to a cozy administrative position in Rome, and Mahony will be allowed to phase into a comfortable retirement next year.

Nice work if you can get it.

Of course, in every state of the union, the members of certain professions are required by law to report any suspected abuse of children. These may include doctors, dentists, psychiatrists, teachers, social workers, chiropractors, nurses, police officers, and others. And if they should be accused of molesting kids themselves, well…heaven help them all the more.

So let me get this straight: The guy who protects my child from the evils of gingivitis is forbidden to touch my child, and he will face dire consequences if he does so. But the man who I trust to help protect Junior from the fires of hell…hey, he can pretty much do as he pleases. Give me a break.

To date Rome has been mostly silent on this whole business, apparently hoping that it will eventually go away. That was, until yesterday. For the first time, the Vatican announced that bishops and other church officials must report clerical sex abuse to the civil authorities if required by law.

If? They’ll do the right thing, only if compelled to do so by the secular rulers? Lucky for them, preachers aren’t counted as mandated reporters in many jurisdictions.

But enough pope-bashing.

As with most disputes among us mortals, no one party is entirely blameless here. This conspiracy of silence wouldn’t be possible without the cooperation of the victims and their families. The kids didn’t tell their parents, or the parents didn’t tell the police. Many of these accusers have taken decades to come forward, far beyond any statute of limitations. Worse, many of the alleged pedophiles are long dead, and can’t be called to account anyway.

These people place their church leaders on ever-higher pedestals, with a level of honor and deference that would embarrass even the apostles (Acts 10:26). They’ve bought into the church’s defense that the institution is more important than the people under its care. And because of their failure to act in a timely manner, subsequent generations of children were needlessly exposed to molestation by a new generation of priests.

The front-line preachers failed us by stealing our children’s innocence. The kids and their parents failed us through their silence. The bishops failed us by allowing the sinful behavior to continue. Our local police and district attorneys failed us with their halfhearted prosecutions, if they acted at all. And I’ve even heard a handful of news reporters confide that they sat on the story for years, afraid of offending someone.

As has been said, sunshine is the world’s best disinfectant. As a global society, we will never recover from this shame until every victim files a police report and every offending cleric is duly disciplined.

And shame on the rest of us for allowing it to get this far.

Sin Becomes Legal, Sinners Protest

2010-07-03T09:48:00.000-07:00

Originally posted March 26, 2010

Two stories appeared today in my local newspaper, both courtesy of the Associated Press. That they appeared on the same day is probably no more than a freak accident, yet I can’t help but think that this coincidence is a sign of the state of our modern society.

Story #1: The government of France may soon legalize prostitution.

Sacre bleu! Chantal Brunel, a Member of Parliament representing President Nicolas Sarkozy’s right-wing UMP party, has called for a study on the possibility of decriminalizing the world’s oldest profession.

The idea is to protect the ladies of the evening from exploitation, trafficking and violence, in favor of properly regulated and licensed brothels. (About 1,400 cathouses were closed in 1946 under what is known as the Marthe Richard law.) Apparently the authorities now believe that since they can’t stop the sex trade, they may as well tax it and reduce the spread of diseases caused by it. And hey, it can’t hurt tourism, eh?

The biggest opponents of such a law: The very people it seeks to empower and protect. Recently dozens of *ahem* escorts held a demonstration in the streets of Paris to protest this new legislation before it gets off the ground. After all, if they can’t work a street corner, then where’s the romance? Where’s the thrill of the chase? As it now stands, they can perform their services at perfectly respectable hotels. But how many image-conscious businessmen would show up if they had to be seen entering a building with a flashing red neon sign reading Le Sex? Can’t be good for business.

Could it be that legalizing something is the best way to kill it? I don’t know, but the prospect is intriguing.

Story #2: The State of California might soon legalize marijuana.

Secretary of State Debra Bowen has just certified the signatures on a petition that seeks to decriminalize pot, and the issue will appear on a statewide ballot in November. The new law, as promoted by the Drug Policy Alliance, would allow people age 21 or older to possess, cultivate, or transport marijuana for their own use. Local governments could regulate and tax its commercial production and sale. But it would be forbidden on school grounds, and you won’t be allowed to smoke it in public places or in the presence of a minor.

The biggest opponents of such a law: The very people who might be expected to benefit from it. Surely the cannabis aficionados of the Golden State should breathe a smoky sigh of relief, assured that their weekend parties are safe from police raids. But as a former adolescent, I can testify that the joy of getting stoned is only a small part of the experience. It’s also about rebellion, sneaking out of the house, hiding your stash where Mom and Dad will never find it, getting away with something forbidden. Remove this excitement and what’s left? Mostly hunger pangs and headaches.

In Humboldt County, the unquestioned state capital of the cannabis trade (and recognized worldwide for the quality and potency of its product), this development could bring economic ruin. For if every town can have its own commercial farm, and any Cheech or Chong or Jerry Garcia can grow his own, the market price will surely plummet. A growing supply, coupled with declining demand, bodes a bleak future for any industry.

Could it be that legalizing something is the best way to kill it? I don’t know, but the prospect is intriguing.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting that we should legalize prostitution or dangerous drugs. Yet history has shown, again and again, that almost every time we attempt to regulate the private behavior of our citizens, it has the opposite effect. Witness the failure of Prohibition, or book burning; things that are forbidden become more attractive, even if we never really wanted them in the first place. I never wanted to see the movie The Exorcist, until my mother told me I couldn’t. At that point I had to find a way.

Try this: don’t think about pink zebras. There, did that make you stop thinking about them? No, it probably made you think about pink zebras for the first time in your life, didn’t it? I’m inclined to believe that the answer to drug abuse – or alcoholism – or promiscuity – or any other destructive behavior – is not simply to tell our kids “You can’t do this, that, and the other.” Instead we must help them find something else to do. Something productive, something wholesome, something that contributes to the welfare of our local community.

We will never legislate ourselves into a righteous society. Statues may compel conformity, but not conviction. Busy hands and minds don’t have the time, or the desire, for the pink zebras.

The Downside of Freedom

2010-07-03T09:41:00.000-07:00

Originally posted March 16, 2010

Not a day goes by, that I don’t thank God that I live in a free country. For as a citizen of the Good Ole USA, I enjoy rights and privileges that are the envy of the world. Even better, any kid from the neighborhood can get rich. Or become president. Or anything they like. And even more amazingly, more often than not, the system actually works. No other country, in the history of our planet, has ever been blessed in this way.

But as they say, freedom isn’t free. And the highest courts of our land have consistently ruled that our rights are not absolute. For in the interest of maintaining a peaceful orderly society, we must strike a balance. We have a right to freedom of speech, yet we can’t shout “fire!” in a crowded theater. We can practice any religion we like, but we can’t sacrifice a virgin to the Moon God at will.

Hence, the downside of this abundant freedom is that we must also respect the rights of others.

A free press means that we must put up with hateful rhetoric and pornography. A right to due process means that criminals sometimes go free. In our capitalist system some people become fabulously wealthy, while others remain desperately poor. And so on.

A short history lesson seems fitting here: Let’s recall some of the brutal dictators of recent times: Ferdinand Marcos in the Philippines, Hugo Chavez in Venezuela, Saddam Hussein in Iraq, or Nicolae Ceauşescu in Romania. All were initially supported by their people. Hence the downside of democracy is that we must live with the choices we make. Shall we now institute benevolent monarchies around the world, to assure that we don’t elect another Hitler?

I don’t think so, and neither do you. The path of wisdom is rarely found in extremes.

This is the land of opportunity, yet the downside of this prosperity is that some of us feel compelled to take more than our share. Some have felt the impact of this malaise more than others, particularly the employees and creditors of Lehman Brothers, Washington Mutual, AIG, and General Motors. Banks made mortgage loans to people who they knew couldn’t afford them, and the investment companies bundled them into sophisticated financial instruments that no one could understand. Yet the money kept flowing, and it seemed as if it would never end. Until it did.

Clearly, the financial markets failed us at almost every level. Our government encouraged the irresponsible lending, the regulators failed to intervene, and the ratings agencies endorsed the whole scheme. Bernie Madoff was allowed to continue his deception unchecked. And the rest of us are left to pick up the pieces.

Now some in Congress have proposed a new round of crushing regulations for the financial services industry. They have the full support of our president, who fancies himself a defender of the little guy yet clearly has little understanding of how the financial markets work: The reason the little guy has a job, is because the big guy made a profit. How simple is that?

This prospect is positively frightening. Do we really want the federal government – which has never had to make a profit on anything – to micromanage the affairs of large companies? Shall we do away with free markets and set wages and prices by government mandate, as they did in the Soviet Union?

I don’t think so, and neither do you. The path of wisdom is rarely found in extremes.

Some time ago I served on my town’s rent control board. On one occasion we scheduled a public hearing for a landlord who wanted to raise his rents by six percent (instead of the normally permissible five). He presented his audited financial statements, and I was quickly impressed. Turns out, he hadn’t raised his rents for three years. Further, his expenses for utilities, maintenance, and labor had increased as his profit margin plummeted.

But that didn’t matter to the dozen or so people who arose to speak in protest. One was disabled, one was living on a small Social Security check, another was raising six small children while working in a fast-food restaurant. They couldn’t afford the higher rents, and the property owner was just an evil capitalist pig. To them it didn’t matter that their landlord had risked his life’s savings, years before, to build a business. They didn’t know, or at least didn’t care, that he had come close to financial ruin at several points along the way. They had no understanding of the real estate business, or that it cost a fortune to heat the swimming pool. Even at the new prices, their rents would remain close to the lowest in the county. The tenements down the street were a few dollars cheaper, but not half as nice.

In short, these people felt entitled. They felt that someone owed them a living. They thought it criminal that someone should make a profit from their hard-earned wages. Guess how I voted?

If our president and Congress truly wish to reinvigorate our economy, the worst thing they can possibly do is impose a pile of new rules. All they really need to do, is to enforce the rules they already have. Instead of inventing a new regulatory agency (as has been proposed), perhaps they can simply shake up the ranks of the agencies they already have, ordering them to do the jobs they were hired to do.

The last thing we need, is a bigger government.

Phooey On The Pretense of Piety

2010-07-03T09:33:00.000-07:00

Originally posted February 18, 2010

It was bound to happen.

In my world of “what-ifs,” I’ve always wondered about the range of unique problems that might befall an interfaith couple. Should one partner convert to the other’s faith? Should they decorate their home with the icons of one religion, or the other, or both, or none? How should they raise their children? Should their families be involved in these decisions, or is it none of their business?

In the course of human history, no single issue has ever united people – or divided them – quite like the realm of religion. And when I ponder the foolishness of trying to reconcile two faiths under one roof, it makes my head hurt. But even in my ever-so-fertile imagination I never saw this one coming.

When Joseph and Rebecca Reyes became engaged, he was Catholic and she was Jewish. So in order to appease his in-laws, Joseph converted to Judaism before their wedding in 2004. And they subsequently agreed that their children would be raised in a synagogue, not a cathedral. Apparently, that arrangement worked out just fine – that is, until they actually had a child to raise and teach.

Now the Reyeses are separated and headed for a divorce. Mom has custody of their three year-old daughter, and Dad has regularly scheduled visitations. And under the terms of a court order, Dad is forbidden to expose the child to any religion other than Judaism. After all, that was the deal they agreed to years ago.

Then, just recently, Dad took his daughter to a local Catholic parish and had her baptized. Mom is furious, and demands that he be thrown in jail for violating the court order. Dad complained that the judge was Jewish, therefore biased against him. Mom, religion notwithstanding, feels betrayed. Dad is quick to point out that Mom and her family aren’t religious anyway; they don’t keep kosher, they don’t observe the Sabbath, etc., from whence now cometh such righteous indignation? Constitutional scholars are debating whether any court has the right to dictate the religious instruction of children.

Whew. Hold the phone.

Mr. and Mrs. Reyes alike, it seems, need a refresher course in their theologies. For when they entered into marriage, they both betrayed the religions they now so zealously defend. Under Catholic teaching, a Catholic should only marry a Catholic. And pursuant to the dictates of the Torah, a Jew should only marry a Jew. Mr. Reyes went through the motions of a Jewish conversion, but he now says it was only under duress, and in his heart he remained Catholic all along. In other words, his deceitfulness then proves that he’s being honest now. Ummmm…yeah, sure, I buy that one.

And now they seek a divorce, something that both religions prohibit.

Curiously, Dad doesn’t understand what all the fuss is about. In an interview with Fox News, he testified that “Catholicism is just a radicalized form of Judaism. And there are a lot of theologists that will agree with me on that point.”

Huh?

Well I don’t know what a “theologist” is, but I’d be eager to meet one sometime and hear his/her explanation. Plus, somehow, I doubt that any rabbi or priest would ever agree with such a comparison. And if he truly believes his own words – implicitly, that Judaism is simply a purer form of Catholicism – then why the rush to the baptismal pool? The kid was better off at her Jewish preschool.

Let’s face it: This debate isn’t really about religion, and it’s a lousy test for any new case law. At best, by all accounts, the Reyeses observe their respective religions only half-heartedly in the first place; their claims to piety are dishonest and transparent. With the typical Latin benediction, I doubt that the little girl’s mind was polluted with any evil Gentile heresies. No, this story is about two people who can’t along, yet feel the need to blame something outside of themselves to explain it all away.

Mr. and Mrs. Reyes, you’re not defending Moses, or Jesus, or God, or anyone or anything else. You’re just making fools of yourselves. Get over it.

In defense of Dr. Conrad Murray (Did I just say that?)

2010-02-12T11:29:00.000-08:00

I remember Michael. Not the manufactured media creation we laid to rest last year. Not the arrested adolescent that lived in an amusement park. And not the plastic surgeon’s ever-changing experiment-gone-wrong. That wasn’t the Michael we met over 40 years ago.

No, I remember the young boy from Indiana who was perfectly at ease when performing on stage with his brothers, yet pathologically uncomfortable with the trappings of fame. The kid who dribbled a basketball on the set of his short-lived variety show on CBS. The one who had to be physically lifted out of a mob of screaming young girls. The one who still had his own nose, chin, and hair. That was the Michael we all fell in love with.

Unfortunately, that young man died a slow and painful death sometime back in the 1980s. But no one mourned him then, because we adored him so fervently that we accepted any and every crazy thing he might say or do. But with his marvelous moonwalk and fabulous falsetto he continued to fascinate and entertain.

Last summer he gave up the ghost for a second and last time, possibly the biggest news story of the year. Forget the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the fights against terrorism, crime, and disease. This Michael, now sainted, easily knocked them all off the front page.
Enter Dr. Conrad Murray, the physician at his side on the night of his death. Apparently the doctor gave him a powerful anesthetic as a sleep aid, and it was more than the entertainer’s frail body could handle. Several attempts to revive him proved futile. And the rest, as we know, is history.

This week Murray’s trial began in Los Angeles, and the expected media circus didn’t disappoint. Some praised the achievements of the King of Pop, while others condemned Dr. Murray as if he was a war criminal in a huge genocide. The King’s father sniffs a conspiracy; perhaps a nurse hiding somewhere outside on the grassy knoll?

These people need to get a life.

Those singing Michael’s praises on the courthouse steps claim to know him, his character, his private thoughts. They find it unthinkable that he might have a dark side, even though it has been revealed time and again. Of course they admired him only from afar; they remained perfect strangers. No matter; they’ve deluded themselves into a false sense of intimacy, considering him a special friend. Such is the nature of celebrity worship; his cult now surpasses all who came before.

No doubt the man churned out one innovative hit after another; was it Rock & Roll? Was it R & B? Was it Soul? No one could tell for sure, and that was the beauty of it. Such was his genius, that he defied all preconceived notions of popular music was or should be. He extolled the ideals of a universal brotherhood of all mankind, a colorblind society that knew no distinctions of gender or race or wealth or station.

Unfortunately for the great unwashed masses (you and me), he lived the second half of his life trapped within a velvet prison of his own making, behind multiple layers of iron gates, bodyguards, and tinted windows. He was a child in a man’s body, a black man who wished he was white, a tortured soul who longed for intimacy yet jealously guarded his privacy, revealing little of himself in return. Such a hypocrite is not worthy of your adulation.

As for Dr. Murray: No one in this howling mob knows his story. Shouldn’t we wait to see how the trial unfolds, before we call for his head? After all, isn’t that the very purpose of a trial, to weigh the evidence and assign guilt? By all accounts it’s unusual (but not illegal) to administer Propofol outside a hospital setting. And it is neither illegal, nor professionally verboten, to prescribe it for an off-label (unorthodox) purpose.

Interestingly, the DA has seen fit to charge Dr. Murray with involuntary manslaughter. This is the least-serious charge possible for (unintentionally!) contributing to the death of another. Even the judge seems unconvinced, as he rejected a call from the California Attorney General to revoke Murray’s medical license.

The Uni-gloved One lived about 49 years before he ever met Conrad Murray. He lived as he pleased, answered to no one, and abused his body for decades. The die was cast, long before that fateful night. Before we condemn the doctor any further, I say let’s wait for a verdict from a jury of his peers.

Today Michael’s body rests in a secret tomb in Glendale, just a few hundred yards away from my parents – who, incidentally, also ended up there due to self-inflicted conditions that no doctor could have helped.

I pray that his family will soon find their peace.

The Official Obama Truth-O-Meter

2010-01-23T22:42:00.000-08:00

Yesterday our president visited the town of Elyira, Ohio, as the backdrop for a major economic address. This area has been hard-hit by the recession, with many jobs lost and throngs of citizens desperate for relief. As usual he was received as a rock star, interrupted by enthusiastic applause, it seemed, every few seconds.

Clearly they are true believers. But did they really listen to what he said? It’s hard to say, because much of it was misleading, slanted or just plain false. Let's examine a few excerpts:

#1: “The banks caused this mess.”

Half-true. No doubt, the banks contributed to the current economic crisis by their irresponsible lending practices. But in this profligate activity they were hugely enabled by a lack of government oversight, pressure to make those bad loans, and the eager borrowers who knew they couldn’t afford them. It’s only natural that a child craves ice cream and candy; it’s just what kids do. A responsible parent (or government) doles it out sparingly.

#2: “We’ve slashed taxes for 95 percent of working families.”

Not only false, but impossible. The vast majority of working people don’t pay federal income taxes in the first place, so as to benefit from a reduction. At best they make an interest-free loan to the Treasury with their payroll withholding, but they get it all back in April.

#3: “We’re creating jobs by building roads and bridges.”

True. But even in the best of times, most construction jobs are temporary. The raising of a freeway overpass might provide gainful employment for 100 workers for a year, but when it’s done it’s done; then what? A skilled tradesman might have only short breaks between gigs, but true full-time jobs are rare. Additionally, small businesses can’t bid on these large public works projects. They require deep pockets, access to ample credit, and a fleet of heavy equipment. Only a relative handful of major contractors can even hope to compete.

#4: “Insurance companies just want to make money.”

Umm….yeah. Guilty as charged. That’s sort of the point of going into business in the first place, is it not? Without a profit, they can’t pay claims. Companies that don’t make money, don’t invent new things or hire workers. They don’t pay taxes, they don’t buy computers from Staples or delivery trucks from GM, and they don’t support their neighborhood Little League team. Aren’t these the very things that Mr. Obama says he wants to achieve?

#5: “From now on, the Treasury will manage all student loans.”

Big mistake. Even the worst-performing banks manage to balance their budgets and eke out a profit most of the time. As for the Treasury? I don’t think they have ever managed to pull off such a feat in my lifetime. Government has no incentive to be efficient or make a profit, and they’re accountable to no one. Just consider the record of Social Security and Medicare: if any private company dared to operate as they do, the feds would shut them down before you reach the end of this sentence. I’m not prepared to give them yet another huge business to screw up.

#6: “This government has unprecedented transparency and accountability.”

Not even close. Time and again during his campaign, The Chosen One promised that the health care debates would be broadcast on C-SPAN. Last time I checked, most of that process took place behind closed doors, sometimes even freezing out the opposition party. Dozens of czars operate unchecked behind a veil of secrecy; have they ever held a press conference to report what they’re up to? Most politicos shout it from the rooftops when they’ve achieved something good; the lack of crowing makes one wonder. And why would he work so hard to suppress the release of his birth certificate?

God has blessed our nation to be the most advanced and prosperous society in the history of the planet. How did we get here? Dreamers. Capitalism. Private enterprise. A profit motive. Risk-taking. Stock, bond, and commodities markets. All but a few of the greatest inventions and scientific advances of the past 100 years were achieved, not by some government grant or mandate, but by private citizens on their initiative and on their own nickel.

Mr. Obama says he wants to create millions of new jobs, yet he also wants to tax and regulate successful companies into oblivion. Which almost certainly assures that they will retain their hiring freeze for years to come. The gravy train is stalled, and the “experts” are trying to fix it by ripping out the tracks

Of course, yes, there is a legitimate role for government, to police the schoolyard and make sure that everyone plays fair. Otherwise the best thing they can do is just get out of the way, and let good old American ingenuity do what it does best.

Save The Banks! No, Destroy Them!

2010-01-23T22:27:00.000-08:00

At various times in our history, the federal government has experimented with something called an excess profits tax. During the Civil War the Confederate Congress flirted with the concept, as a means to fund the war effort. Subsequent levies served a dual purpose: they both financed war-waging and discouraged profiteering by private contractors who might take unfair advantage of a national crisis. Most economists will argue that this is a short-sighted fettering of industry, but sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures. The good news is that we won the wars, even if the contractors were denied a fair return on their investment. American industries are resilient; the capital markets supplied them with fresh investments; life goes on.

But just how much profit is “excess?” Exactly who gets to determine how much is too much, and by what formula? Should we do away with free markets and set prices by government mandate, as they did in the Soviet Union? We all know how that one turned out, don’t we? You see, there’s this wall in Germany, or rather there isn’t one, that silently testifies to the wisdom of that strategy. Joshua himself could scarcely have done any better.

During the oil crisis of the 1970s, Congress threatened to penalize the oil companies in this way. Ask anyone who knows about such things, and they will tell you that oil exploration and refining is an extraordinarily expensive and risky business. For every gusher they’ll find ten dry holes. No other industry is hampered by so many costly environmental and safety regulations. When Exxon reports a profit of $1 billion, most laymen don’t bother to examine how much they had to spend (and lose!) to get there.
Over the past couple of years our government has spent hundreds of billions of dollars to rescue banks and insurance companies, many of which were at or near the brink of ruin. And now some of them have recovered and repaid their loans, reporting billions in new profits. Hallelujah, the TARP program worked!

Or did it?

Now our president wants to penalize these same institutions for accomplishing the very thing the Fed commanded them to do. He wants to impose a new excess profits tax and punish them for their obedience and success. (Although, curiously, no one is using the term.)

Mr. Obama is indignant that the banks have built themselves into such behemoths, such that the failure of one can have such devastating effects on the national economy. But just how, exactly, did this happen?

I can’t speak for the whole country, but I know the history of California in the last 30 years: Brentwood Savings (they gave me my first credit card) merged with California Federal (once publicly touted by Bob Hope), subsequently acquired by Citibank (which earlier had gobbled up Allstate Savings). Security Pacific Bank combined with Bank of America, which recently joined NationsBank, itself already the product of several mergers.

Are you keeping up?

Hibernia Bank combined with Crocker National Bank, which made history by bringing the first ATMs to the West Coast (and was famously robbed by Patty Hearst) back in the ’70s. Crocker merged with Wells Fargo – which went on to acquire parts of First Interstate Bank (including the former United California Bank).

Back in the late 1990s a chain of mergers occurred in quick succession. Home Savings acquired Coast Federal Bank. Home was itself acquired by Washington Mutual, which also took over Great Western Bank (once endorsed by actor John Wayne) and American Savings. In just a couple of years four old tried-and-true brands disappeared from the landscape, closing dozens of branches and shedding thousands of employees.

And has anyone seen a TV commercial for WaMu lately? Nope, because that institution was recently acquired by JPMorgan Chase, itself the new combination of two centuries-old banking titans. Yikes.

In case you can’t see my point in all of this, here it is: None of these transactions could have taken place without the explicit blessing of the federal government. The Federal Reserve, or other federal agencies, must conduct extensive reviews and approve them. The Attorney General can likewise set conditions, and/or challenge them in court.

As for the spate of recent bank failures, the federal government didn’t just passively submit to the plans of greedy CEOs. To a large degree, it was a government mandate that forced the banks to lend billions to unqualified borrowers who everyone knew couldn’t afford it.

Either way, this crisis was both caused and exacerbated by your elected officials in Washington. Don’t let them get away with it.

Gotcha! The art of the political sucker punch

2010-01-12T18:00:00.000-08:00

The handsome, charismatic Barack Obama came upon the national scene a few years ago, breathlessly touted in Ebony magazine and on the Oprah Winfrey Show. He had served in the U.S. Senate for only a short time, when the news media began to talk him up as a credible candidate for the presidency. And at every turn, the enthusiastic correspondents and commentators pointed out something that I never would have figured out on my own:

“Look, he’s black!”

(In truth he’s equally Caucasian, and everyone knows it. But that wouldn’t be newsworthy, and it wouldn’t give us much to talk about.)

Last week it came to light that Senator Harry Reid made an (allegedly) insensitive remark in a private conversation with a colleague during the 2008 campaign. He noted that Obama’s blackness shouldn’t be an impediment because he’s “light-skinned” and has “no Negro dialect.”

Could it be?

Republicans quickly pounced on this opportunity to label him a racist, and called for him to resign from his post as majority leader. They recalled an incident in 2002 when then-majority leader Trent Lott made a similarly “racist” comment in praise of Senator Strom Thurmond which enraged the Democrats and led to Lott’s resignation from his leadership role. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, right?

Good grief, Charlie Brown.

Until someone invents a machine to read peoples’ brains, none of us can know the true nature of Sen. Reid’s motives. But I’m not so sure that these words prove anything. His analysis, even if unpleasant, was spot-on; would any serious pundit disagree? In this TV-and-Internet era, the physical appearance and speech patterns of a candidate are vitally important. Call it shallow, call it unfair, call it un-American, whatever you like, that’s just the way it is. Would even Honest Abe even stand a chance in a televised debate opposite a younger, more polished opponent?

Sen. Reid has lived his entire 69 years in a state that (according to the 2000 census) has a black population of about six percent, so I suspect that he has never had a huge number of “negro” neighbors and friends. In his generation the word wasn’t a pejorative; it was the descriptive nomenclature that black folks used to identify themselves. If this brave new world of political correctness (with its ever-changing rules and vocabulary) should cause him a few awkward moments, I’m willing to give him a break on this one. Even the president himself, allegedly the victim in this affair, is mystified by the outpouring of outrage; he paid me a compliment, right?

As for Sen. Lott’s praise of Thurmond, that he might have done some good things if elected as president in 1948, so what? Could it be that the Gentleman from Mississippi was familiar with his colleague’s voting record in the Senate? Could it be that they were personal friends, and shared an interest in fishing, or football, or chess? To suggest that they could only have bonded over a common racist sentiment, is absurd.

On the occasion of his centennial Thurmond was a feeble old man with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, the lamest of all ducks, no longer a danger to anyone. Even war criminals in his condition have been known to receive clemency, sprung from prison and allowed to live out their remaining years at home. Must we hold a grudge forever? Must we demonize anyone who ever shook his hand or offered a kindness? Where does it end?

If you insist on finding a villain in this story, I suggest that you begin with the voters of Nevada, since they’ve elected Reid to the Senate four times. Or the residents of South Carolina who chose Thurmond, first for governor and then for the U.S. Senate, again and again for over a half-century. Every six years they have a chance to throw the bums out, to find someone new; but it’s so easy to pull that lever for the incumbent or the familiar face. It saves thinking.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no fan of Mr. Reid or Mr. Thurmond. But we shouldn’t be so eager to pounce on their smallest mistakes, just because we can. We enjoy living in a democratic (small-d) society, yet that very democracy is a double-edged sword. We can choose our government leaders, but the flip side of that blessing is that we must live with the choices we make.

They say that Nero fiddled while Rome burned. Well, I’m beginning to smell smoke in Washington these days; is that a string quartet I hear? Please, spare me the manufactured righteous indignation, the infinite pettiness over things that don’t really matter.

If you want to makes yourself useful, go grab a hose.

Octo-Doc and the Baby Mill

2010-01-06T06:03:00.000-08:00

Just when I thought it was safe to go back into the water. Just when I assumed it was over, and I wouldn’t be assaulted with this nonsense again…here we go.

This month will mark the first birthday of Octo-mom Nadya Suleman’s children, and she’s enjoying her second Warholian fifteen minutes of fame. Dr. Michael Kamrava, the miracle worker who masterfully implanted all those embryos, now faces the fight of his life.

On Monday, the California Medical Board formally accused Dr. Kamrava of three counts of gross negligence: transferring too many embryos, repeatedly transferring fresh embryos when frozen ones were available and failing to refer his patient for a mental health evaluation. After all, what sane woman would ever ask for eight new children when she already has six?

It’s in no one’s interest to saddle an unemployed single woman with such a burden. It makes for a dangerously crowded womb when so many tiny bodies have to compete for air and nutrition at once. Plus, it’s extraordinarily taxing on the body of the mother herself, who will have to rise quickly from that OB ward to care for them while simultaneously facing a long convalescence of her own. And as a taxpayer here in California, it offends me that I have been called upon to pick up a huge portion of the tab. Suleman and Kamrava picked my pocket, and I had no say in the matter. I fully expect the family to remain on my payroll for many years to come.

Suddenly I’m reminded of Dr. Gregory House, the genius diagnostician of Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital in the popular Fox TV series. He’s the go-to guy when no one else can figure out what’s wrong. The secret to his success? For Dr. House it’s all about the science, the thrill of the chase, the challenge of solving a puzzle and beating the clock. His patients are but bundles of protoplasm, a collection of organs, fluids, and tissues waiting to be analyzed. He can’t be bothered with caring about the person, the human soul under his care.

The business of placing babies into childless homes, I’m convinced, is God’s work. Nothing else can ever bring such joy to a family, than to see the next generation. And nothing else can ever bring such anguish into that family, as the crushing disappointment of continued barrenness. Those who feel called to help fill that void take unto themselves a huge responsibility, whether by fostering or adoption or scientific experimentation.

When Ms. Suleman came calling, it would seem that Dr. Kamrava considered it a scientific challenge. How many embryos can we implant at once? And how many will survive to full term? Can we reach a new world record? From a scientific standpoint, of course, this experiment was a smashing success and a giant leap forward in baby-making technology.

That is, as long as we count those products as mere squirming bundles of protoplasm. As long as we see them as a file full of charts, x-rays, and test results. Just don’t ask their names or look them in the eye, and everything will be OK.

Trouble is, this isn’t a high school chem lab. And we’re not trying to breed a prettier show dog, or a sweeter orange, or a new vaccine for the swine flu. We’re making little people who need to be fed and clothed and burped and wiped and powdered and cuddled and loved and bounced on Grampa's knee. They require devoted parents to invest endless amounts of time, attention, training, and the occasional swat on the bottom. And yes, of course, money. Which, naturally, no one person can do alone, for fourteen little people.

While the doctor treats these babies as lab specimens, their mother seems to regard them alternately as nuisances and playthings. She has often been seen to run off to the mall, treating herself to new clothes and a mani-pedi, while the kids are left to the hired help. To her credit, she has had occasional moments of clarity where she publicly expressed regret for a number of poor decisions. Yet in a recent interview, she defended Dr. Kamrava and hoped he would prevail in the Medical Board hearing. “What am I going to do in the future if I ever want to go back?”

What, you want to go for an even twenty? Sorry Nadya, that’s not funny.

You know it’s an upside-down world when even attorney Gloria Allred – who generally rushes to defend women at all costs in such high-profile controversies – publicly rebukes Ms. Suleman for this casual attitude.

Should Dr. Kamrava be forced to abandon his profession? I don’t know. Apart from this case, he might well have a distinguished career in service to his patients. But at minimum, he must be called to account for his overzealous pursuit of medical miracles.

Designating a Driver: The Short-sighted Non-solution

2009-12-28T22:42:00.000-08:00

New Year’s Eve will arrive this week. Each time we reboot the calendar it’s an occasion for much celebrating, much drinking, and many needless deaths. And everywhere I look, I see yet another reminder: Don’t drink and drive. X thousand people died on the highway last year; don’t let this happen to you! Be a designated driver. And so on. By one account, about 148 million people have served as – or have been helped by – such a benevolent volunteer. As I pondered these weighty matters today, a terrifying revelation came upon me:

I have become my grandmother.

Yes, it’s true. And my friend Tom, a decorated officer with the California Highway Patrol. And my other friend Charlotte, a public health nurse for the County of Los Angeles. And every intolerant self-righteous religious prude in town, for that matter, because for once in my life I actually find myself agreeing with all of them.

Yikes. Go figure.

This designated-driver concept was actually conceived in Scandinavia back in the 1920s, but somehow it took another 60 years or so to gain traction on this side of the pond. It’s impossible to know the exact numbers, but I’m confident that thousands of lives have been saved, along with thousands of vehicles perhaps even billions in property damage and medical bills.

But what, exactly, is the broader lesson here? As with all things involving fallible humans these savings come at a cost, and I wonder if we’re being penny-wise and pound-foolish.

Just the other day, I saw this billboard a few blocks from my home. Essentially the fine folks at Anheuser-Busch tell us that if you meet a pretty girl at a bar, and you want to take her home, it’s perfectly fine as long as you let her drive. Hmmm…

I wonder, have the titans of St. Louis bothered to examine the full implications of this message?

Designating a driver means that it’s perfectly OK to get drunk, as long as you don’t drive. It means that your friends can sit back and watch as you get plastered, knowing the consequences but not caring enough to intervene. You might get home uninjured, but then what? You remain an alcoholic, yell at your wife, kick the dog, beat the kids, barf on the dining room table, and miss work the next day because of your hangover. You dodged a bullet this time, but where will you be at midnight tomorrow?

Remarkably, the marketing people at Busch have figured out that sex sells. Hey handsome, come on over to my place. What happens when a woman goes home with a stranger she met only an hour ago? Often, it means that she gets raped. Or robbed. Or infected with some exotic disease. Or worse. Oh, and did I mention that the guy is already stoned out of his gourd? Yes, she knows, but she charges ahead anyway.

So you’re too young to drink? All is not lost; you can still enjoy the benefits of this twisted logic. Just go to your friendly neighborhood school nurse, and she will be happy to give you a condom upon request. Yes, technically, 14 year-olds shouldn’t be having sex. But c’mon, they’re gonna do it anyway, right? Let’s enable their bad choices, and make sure that it’s safe sex. Hey, you don’t suppose they’ll enjoy it, and make plans to hook up more often? Nah, that never happens.

I have some experience here, because alcoholism runs in my family. My father drove home drunk at least once a week (with the occasional month or two of attempted sobriety here and there) for over thirty years. And he had a spotless driving record. Never a fender bender, never a scratch or dent on his car. He knew how to work the system, running between the raindrops, always staying one step ahead of the law, the ambulance, the tow truck.

But he, like millions of others (and their families), paid a steep price for his failings nonetheless. He died a broken man at 65, in a family where most men live well into their eighties. Designating a driver would make no difference for someone like him, apart from the inconvenience of retrieving his car the following morning.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the occasional cocktail when dining out with friends. I’m not anti-booze, just anti-stupid. A ride home from a bar, or a condom for a teen, merely trades one problem for ten others.

They say that friends don’t let friends drive drunk. I say a friend doesn’t let a friend get drunk in the first place. We should be teaching our children ethics, to help them stay out of trouble; but instead we simply show them how to avoid the consequences when they inevitably do.

Uncle Sam Wants You! Join the Army, See the World, Meet Pretty Girls

2009-12-26T10:41:00.000-08:00

A U.S. Army general in northern Iraq has issued a new directive to his troops: Don’t get pregnant – or don’t get someone else pregnant – or you could face a court-martial. This new policy from Maj. Gen. Anthony Cucolo was announced to the troops in early November, and publicly revealed last week.

Intimate fraternization has been a problem within the armed forces for years, of course, and it’s particularly problematic in a war zone. A pregnant woman, after all, is unfit for such demanding duty. She becomes unable to do her job well, and the stress is harmful to her health and that of her unborn child. Thus, she gets a free plane ride home. The only new wrinkle here is the prospect of criminal prosecution.

The public reaction to this development has been swift and fierce. Bloggers around the world have weighed in, both pro and con. Terry O’Neill, president of the National Organization for Women, complained to ABC News, “How dare any government say we’re going to impose any kind of punishment on women for getting pregnant! This is not the 1800s.”

Oh, really?

Are we now so concerned with personal “rights” that nothing else matters, mission be damned? Is fornication now a virtue, that it should be rewarded? These soldiers agreed to a code of moral conduct when they signed on for this deployment; should they be allowed to abrogate it at will? And Ms. O’Neill seems willfully blind to another provision in the directive: Their male partners would be prosecuted just the same.

I’ve never served in the armed forces, but I hold a great deal of respect for those who do. In a dangerous forward area, everyone’s contribution is important. Which means that the loss of any member – whether by injury or death or their own misconduct – is a blow to both the unit and the mission. Some of these warriors possess special knowledge or abilities, such as local languages or computer skills, that are not easily replaced. Just imagine the logistical nightmare if a bomb-sweeping expert needs to be deployed on short notice from Camp Lejeune to a remote village outside of Kirkuk; precious days, and many lives, could be needlessly lost in the meantime.

According to Gen. Cucolo, in an interview with Fox News: “I’ve got a 22,000-man task force and I need every soldier I’ve got. We are facing a drawdown and anyone that leaves earlier than the expected 12 months creates a burden on their teammates. My female soldiers are invaluable — many of them hold high impact jobs…my troops are few in number and I need them all.” Funny, it sounds to me as if the general actually values the skills and contributions of G.I. Jane. Go figure.

This controversy sounds familiar. Remember the murder of a very pregnant Laci Peterson, a few years back? Her husband Scott quickly became the prime suspect, and he was charged with the double murder of Laci and their unborn child. For this, I fully expected the feminists of the world to dance in the streets. A woman was brutally slain, and the (male!) local prosecutor wanted to punish her killer as severely as possible.

Not so fast.

Instead, NOW complained that the D.A. had a more nefarious motive. That is, if the killing of the unborn can be prosecuted as a murder, then said unborn is a person with rights. Hence, a slippery slope to the outlawing of abortion.

Huh? The feminist defense of abortion rights has always been about “choice.” Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t see where Laci made a “choice” here. Instead she was written off by the very people who should have been her defenders, discarded as collateral damage in a war that was not her own.

Sadly, the general has caved in to political correctness. To date no one has been prosecuted under this new directive, in spite of many new violations. Instead future offenders may face an Article 15 hearing where non-judicial punishments are imposed, such as demotion, a letter of reprimand, or forfeiture of pay.

So you want to empower these lady warriors, Ms. O’Neill? Try this: tell them to keep the commitments they make. And to keep their clothes on, when men are around. Or absent that, tell them they should accept the consequences of their free-will choices (oh, the irony) when they fail.

Far too often, liberation movements (such as feminism) fall for a narrowly-focused ideology that blinds them to the merits and details of each individual case. By their knee-jerk reactions, they enslave the very people they sought to liberate. Which is an affront to all of us.

They should be ashamed.

Merry Whatever, America!

2009-12-23T12:01:00.000-08:00

Holy humbug, Batman!

Just the other day I noticed an article in my local newspaper, courtesy of the Associated Press. It reported that legions of atheists are fed up with the annual observances of Christmas. They feel socially isolated from their friends and colleagues, and they resent being surrounded by so many trappings of religion; television specials, carolers at the mall, a nativity scene in the town square. They don’t believe in Jesus, they don’t go to church, and they have resolved to “eat, drink, and be wary” in spite of all the (perceived) hostility.

Interesting.

At times like this I’m reminded of the horrors of September 11. Adversity often seems to bring out the best in people, as they rally to help and support one another. In the weeks that followed, or nation displayed the greatest expression of religious devotion that I can remember. Church attendance surged; interfaith prayer meetings multiplied. Neighbor shared with neighbor, classmate with classmate, stranger with stranger; new friendships were formed, among people who might never have bonded (or even met) any other way. It almost compels me to break out in a rousing chorus of Kumbaya, just to think about it.

…And then along came the atheists to complain that they feel left out, marginalized, disenfranchised from the rest of us. They had no shoulder to cry on, no public champion, no large public meetings tailored to their needs. Huh?

Apparently these people live in a cave, and they’re not keeping up. For at least the past fifty years or so, our society has catered to their sensitivities more and more with each passing year. When I was in school, we had two weeks of “Christmas vacation;” now they call it “winter vacation.” “Easter vacation” has become “spring break.” And don’t even think about bidding “merry Christmas” to your bank teller. It’s soooooo 1980’s.

My cable TV service offers a couple dozen channels of commercial-free music, and each December they add a channel devoted to “holiday” music. Yesterday I listened for about an hour, and something strange occurred to me: They had a song about a reindeer with self-esteem issues, and another about the joys of riding in a horse-drawn carriage. It seems that there’s a magic walking, talking snowman. There were songs about bells, roasting chestnuts, and an angry old man with green fur.

Notably, that playlist was decidedly unreligious and nonpartisan. Not once did I hear a mention of Jesus, Bible, Christmas, Christianity, church, sin, or any other manifestations of pious propaganda. What’s the deal?

Sadly, there are some in our society who reflexively grumble at the happiness of others. A perfectly cheerful child sees another with a balloon, and cries because he feels deprived. A young woman attends her best friend’s wedding, and chafes at being reminded of her own continual singleness. It seems that you can’t swing a dead cat these days without hitting someone who can’t be content with what he has, because someone else has more.

Should I burn down every French restaurant in town, just because someone else likes foie gras, and I don’t? Is it right for me to deny a guilty pleasure to the hoidy-toidies, since they have money to burn and I don’t share their choice of cuisine? (Actually this works in my favor, because it means that I will have less competition for a table at the barbecue joint down the street.)

Of course, it's no secret that the earliest Christian communities didn't observe an annual feast to honor the birth of Christ. For them the holiest day was Easter, in honor of the Resurrection. Christmas is essentially a reinvention of the old Roman celebration of the winter solstice, disguised as a Christian feast for the sake of political expediency.

Thanks to Madalyn Murray O’Hair, we’ve done away with school prayer. Because of the American Civil Liberties Union (and others of like mind), we continually fight over Ten Commandments monuments, nativity scenes, and the precise wording of the Pledge of Allegiance. They have no quarrel with foul language and nudity on television, yet they go into convulsions at the sight of a cross on a hilltop. But why should they care?

Among my friends and associates, I count dozens of people who don’t share my Christian faith. And yet, they celebrate Christmas year after year, along with the rest of us. What gives?

Here in the Good Ole USA, celebrating Christmas is our cultural custom. It’s just what we do. And with each successive season, it loses yet another layer of its sacred nature. It becomes less holy, more commercial, more secular. Ad for this, atheists around the world should rejoice.

Get over it.

The Great American Hypocrisy (And Why You Should Care)

2009-12-17T12:33:00.000-08:00

“Good morning, Mr. Woods, this is Maxine from OnStar. We’ve received a signal that your vehicle was involved in a collision. Are you OK?”

These were probably the first words that Tiger Woods heard in the early morning hours of November 27, moments after plowing his Cadillac Escalade into a tree. And thus began the worst week in the life of this young golfing phenom.

We met him at the age of two as he showed off his skills on the set of the Mike Douglas Show. Even the great Bob Hope was impressed. In the three decades since, he has risen to the highest ranks of his sport, winning game after game and the admiration of competitors twice his age.

He was the clean-cut kid, the humble man-child with an easy smile who blushed at the slightest hint of public praise. He was the everyman, the one who formed a charitable foundation to give away his substantial earnings. He married a supermodel, bought his dream house and became the personification of the American Dream.

…And now this.

Since that fateful day, the daily headlines have been filled with new stories of his secret life. They say he had a girl in every port; what other dark secrets might he be hiding? They say that he committed a fraud on the American public, cultivating a false image of himself in order to keep the money rolling in.

Am I disappointed? Sure I am. But at the same time, I feel personally ashamed that I care about it so much. Because in case you’ve forgotten, we’ve been here before. And we continue to be fascinated by it all.

Just a couple of years ago, we witnessed the fall of evangelist Ted Haggard. He took a small home Bible study group and built it into a megachurch of 14,000 members. The praise and the fame went to his head, he thought himself invincible, and he made poor choices. His fall from grace was quick, public, and personally devastating.

Before him, it was Michael Jackson. He had millions of fans around the world, who in their own self-deception considered him a special friend. The praise and the fame went to his head, he thought himself invincible, and he made poor choices. His fall from grace was quick, public, and personally devastating.

Pick a celebrity, any celebrity. Bill Clinton and Monica. Kobe Bryant and the teenage fan. Ted Kennedy and Mary Jo. Pee Wee Herman in the theater. The names change, but the story remains the same. And we should know better, because this obsession says more about us (and about our national character) than about them.

Let’s be honest: The reason why these people live on such high pedestals, is because we put them there. We love the vicarious thrills, and we egg them on during their ascendancy. If they feel superhuman and untouchable, it’s because we treated them that way. If they live in shameful luxury, it’s because we freely opened our wallets to them. If they have so many lovers, it’s because they had no shortage of volunteers. Far from owning up to their own poor judgment, these attractive young women seek out the nearest television camera and boast about things that should force them to hide their faces in shame.

We love to build them up, and we love to tear them down. We revel in self-righteous indignation as we trade gossip at the water cooler. The tabloids print thousands of extra copies at times like these, because they know that we will want to read all about it.

Is Tiger guilty? I don’t know. But one thing I know for sure: I am. And so are you.

Calling Phil Mickelson. Calling Joel Osteen. This is your big opportunity. You could be next. Next for what, is up to you.

At the Cool Kids' Table

2009-12-01T21:40:00.000-08:00

I’ve never been much of a social climber. I grew up in a middle-class neighborhood in Los Angeles, where all the other kids were just like me. Sure, the families across town in Brentwood or Beverly Hills could shower their children with nicer clothes, vacations in Europe, and a new car for their 16th birthday. But generally I was content to wear my no-name sneakers, vacation at Sea World, and ride the RTD bus to Santa Monica beach. (Is my age showing here?)

All right, my sister will probably read this article and call me to account, so I might as well confess proactively: Sure, I went through a stage in high school when I longed to sit at the cool kids’ table during lunch. For that was the land of the pretty popular girls, who could give me instant social validation and a boost to my fragile self-esteem.

Such is the lot of a teenage boy in the big city.

But alas, some people never seem to overcome those insecurities of adolescence. For as they grow up, the cool kids’ table evolves into the “right” college, the “right” fraternity or sorority, the “right” restaurant and country club. And of course, they absolutely must be seen at all the “right” parties with the other similarly ambitious upwardly mobiles.

Enter Michaele and Tareq Salahi, the now-famous gate-crashers at the White House. They gained entry to the hottest party in town, schmoozed with the coolest kids, and had their pictures taken with the most powerful people in all the land. Superlatives all around.

But wait, how did they get in? They were invited, they say. Invited by who? Apparently, they knew someone at the Department of Defense, who intervened on their behalf. Am I the only one who finds it strange that the president’s social calendar might be managed by a mid-level bureaucrat at the Pentagon?

For anyone who might be tempted to believe this story, there’s more: Just a few weeks ago, they showed up uninvited at a dinner for the Congressional Black Caucus Foundation. According to a report by Fox News, they entered through a back door and mixed easily among the other diners until they were found out and escorted out the door without incident.

The Secret Service has promised a quick and thorough investigation, which just might lead to criminal charges. But exactly what crime was committed here? Some have speculated that the couple could be prosecuted for trespassing, the least of all misdemeanors. But their “trespass” was made possible only through several improbable security lapses; they managed to make it through several security checkpoints unchallenged – and even had their names announced upon their arrival. Can any prosecutor really make that case with a straight face? Hardly seems worth the trouble.

In an interview on this morning’s Today show on NBC, the Salahis reported that they were “devastated” by all the attention and the prospect of going to jail. Oh, really? It sounds to me like they dropped a banana peel on a wet floor and slipped on it purposely. And now they want to blame Chiquita for their injuries. I don’t think so.

Secret Service, you screwed up. Just accept it and move on. These uninvited guests were harmless pranksters, but you probably won’t be so lucky the next time around.

Mr. and Mrs. Salahi, you’ve had your fun; now give it a rest. You should be grateful that you weren’t arrested on the spot. These guys have been known to shoot first and ask questions later. And they rarely miss.

Incidentally, my high school reunion was quite an eye-opener. Twenty years out, most of the cool kids were fat, bald, unemployed multi-divorced alcoholics. Thank God for unanswered prayers.

The Most Wonderful Hassle, Part 2

2009-11-25T06:41:00.001-08:00

Among my friends and associates, I know lots of people -- perhaps dozens -- who don't follow a particular religion. They haven't done so for years (if ever), and they don't plan to start anytime soon.

So when the Mormons or the Jehovah's Witnesses come knocking, they respond with a polite, "no thank you," and send them on their way. Generally they're fine law-abiding citizens, even if they don't go to church.

And yet...

Year after year, time after time, they celebrate Christmas. They take time off from work, they exchange gifts, put up lights on their houses, send out cards to all their friends. They've done it this way for decades, and they don't plan to stop anytime soon.

What gives?

It's very simple really. They're not practicing religion. Here in the good ole USA, it's our cultural custom. It's just what we do.

But in recent years, as we know. the familiar greeting "Merry Christmas" is becoming rare. "Christmas" sales at the department store have given way to "Holiday" sales. Does this mean that our civilization is becoming more ungodly?

Perhaps. But maybe this trend just means that they're fed up with the posturing. For the first time, they're being honest about their true sentiments.

Honesty? The end of pretense? What a concept.

The Noble Society That Never Was

2009-11-23T16:55:00.000-08:00

The holiday of Kwanzaa will soon be upon us. This seven-day feast (Dec. 26-Jan. 1) was devised in 1966 by Professor Ronald Everett (he has since invented an “African” name for himself) to promote the ideals of family, community and culture among African-Americans.

In recent years, Kwanzaa has gained traction in the popular media as a warm-fuzzy occasion for family get-togethers and gift-giving. It’s rooted in the seven principles of unity, self-determination, collective work and responsibility, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity and faith. Hallmark sells Kwanzaa-themed greeting cards that emphasize these principles, conveying a message of dignity and empowerment to an oppressed people.

At least, that's the sanitized version of the story.

Peruse the Official Kwanzaa Website, and it praises the “values of African culture.” But what is that, exactly? Could it be that the the nations of Africa constitute a single monolithic civilization with a shared culture and traditions?

I wonder, has anyone ever dared to make such sweeping generalizations about the countries of Europe? Do they sing “God Save the Queen” in the opera houses of Lisbon, or can you order bratwurst at the cafes on the Champs-Élysées?

In truth the peoples of Africa have never been unified, and it’s dishonest to suggest otherwise. They’ve waged war among themselves for centuries, since long before the arrival of white colonists or slave traders. Even today Hutus and Tutsis routinely massacre one another for no particular reason. Genocides have wiped out millions in Rwanda and Ethiopia, and warlords rule in Somalia and Liberia. (The latter was established by freed American slaves, a formerly oppressed group who quickly became oppressors.) Mostly it’s not about disagreements over political issues. It’s the Hatfields and the McCoys, ancient rivalries where no one remembers what they were fighting about in the first place.

This false sense of unity is apparent even in the name of the holiday. The term “kwanzaa” (though not truly a word in itself) comes from Swahili, which Everett calls “the most widely spoken African language.” Another lie: Swahili is common in only a few countries, all of which have at least one other major language. And they’re all on or near the east coast, whereas almost all American slaves were snatched from the West. Further, the language isn’t uniquely African; over half of the vocabulary is borrowed from other languages, including English and French. But the biggest portion is from Arabic -- which, by the way is the most common language in Africa.

Interestingly, the same "seven principles" (and their Swahili equivalents) were held by the Symbionese Liberation Army, a militant gang that went on a crime spree in California in the 1970's. Not surprisingly, the shared principle of "cooperative economics" is essentially a clever codeword for Marxism.

So exactly what aspect of Kwanzaa is distinctly African, that it should hold special significance for Americans descended from the continent? Hard to say.

Everett calls it a “pan-African” holiday. Not quite. Large-scale observances there are rare. In many isolated tribal areas, the people don’t even know or care who their national leaders are. Will they really set aside their centuries-old traditions and embrace a new holiday brought by a foreigner?

They call it a harvest festival, but no farmer anywhere gathers crops in December. It uses the symbol of corn, but this grain has absolutely no cultural significance in Africa. It’s indigenous to Mexico, and no place else on earth.

Everett envisioned Kwanzaa as a black alternative to Christmas, a white man’s holiday based on a white man’s religion. He’s misinformed: The Christian faith thrived in Africa long before it became a major force in Europe. It appears that John Mark (author of the second Gospel) established a congregation in Alexandria in the first century, and some of our greatest theologians (Augustine, Clement, Irenaeus, Athanasius) served as leaders of African churches in the first few centuries. The Islamic invaders (and their forced conversions) didn’t arrive until the seventh.

And then there's the date, in late December. Surely it must have some significance in African history or culture. The birth of a king, the founding of a nation, a military victory over an invading army? Such, after all, is the stuff of national holidays. Well, how 'bout it?

Not even close.

I'm not a mind reader (so as to know Everett's true motivations), but the only discernible reason for it is to compete with Christmas and Hanukkah. After all, a proper celebration requires a wine glass that greatly resembles a chalice that might be used for the Lord’s Supper, and a seven-stemmed candlestick that could easily be mistaken for a menorah. This obvious syncretism (please, don't even try to deny it) only marks him as a copycat and a killjoy.

Then, of course, there's the flag. Again quoting the website, “The colors of the Kwanzaa flag are the colors of the Organization Us, black, red and green.”

Never heard of Organization Us? It’s a Black Nationalist group, established by Everett in 1965 as a rival to the Black Panthers. They preach the superiority of all things African, believing that black folks should separate themselves from non-blacks, and only patronize black businesses. And the partisans of this contrived holiday don’t even attempt to distance themselves from this racist philosophy.

Interestingly, this holiday seems to be indistinguishable from the personality of Dr. Everett. It is described as an enterprise of the National Association of Kawaida Organizations, and its official publications are produced by the University of Sankore Press. This might sound impressive until we consider that both of those organizations were established by (and continue to be headed by) Everett. Plus, the publishing company is named for an institution that doesn't exist.

Ultimately the tragedy of Kwanzaa, or of Black Nationalism, is that they will never achieve the ends that they seek. No one has ever empowered a downtrodden people by inventing a false heritage for them. No society has ever advanced itself by embracing a self-identity based on eternal victimhood. And will they ever reconcile with the white population of our nation? Their fiery rhetoric and exclusivist teachings seem to imply that they don’t even desire to try.

Their loss.

It's The Most Wonderful Hassle of the Year

2009-11-20T14:23:00.000-08:00

It’s the most wonderful time of the year. Time to gather the family, take time off from work, exchange gifts, build a snowman…and agonize over whether to bid “Merry Christmas” – or “Happy Holidays” – or nothing at all – to the cashier at the supermarket.
Yup, it’s the hap-happiest season of all. And it seems to begin earlier with each passing year.
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. (Oh wait, am I allowed say that?)

Just last week, the American Family Association called for a boycott of the Gap (and its affiliated stores, including Old Navy and Banana Republic) because of “the company’s censorship of the word Christmas” in their advertising .

Censorship? I don’t understand. Did the Gap ever claim to be a Christian organization, that they should be bound by religious observances? That would be news to me.
There’s more. The AFA has compiled a list of dozens of retailers that are either friendly or hostile to their cause. Apparently Office Depot and Advance Auto Parts are “naughty,” and Macy’s and Bass Pro Shops are “nice.” Best Buy and Safeway reside in a no man’s land in-between, as (apparently) they’re unconscionably ambivalent to the whole thing.
Exactly what do spark plugs and tackle boxes have to do with Christmas? Someone tell me, please.
Someone should remind the fine folks at the AFA of what a boycott is supposed to be. From its modern inception, the very concept of a boycott isn’t just about protest, defamation, or inflicting economic damage. Rather, the protest should be accompanied by some type of voluntary personal sacrifice.
When Captain Charles Boycott evicted the tenant farmhands from his land in 1880, the surrounding community rose up to object. The local merchants wouldn’t deal with him, and even the most desperate unemployed citizens wouldn’t work in his fields. Boycott’s business was ruined, but the protesters themselves suffered substantial injury as well. And that was the point: They suffered for a greater good.
When the black citizens of Montgomery refused to ride the city’s transit buses, they didn’t just deplete the fareboxes. They had to walk everywhere, hitch rides where they could, even lose their jobs or drop out of school. But their cause was just, so they endured.
I’m reminded of the Southern Baptist boycott of the Walt Disney Company, back in the 1990s. What would be the practical impact on the life of a boycotter? It would mean that you vacation at Six Flags. You attend theaters exhibiting movies by MGM or Fox. Or you decorate your baby’s nursery with images of Bugs Bunny instead of Mickey Mouse.
As for the personal sacrifice? You can’t buy a cute little hat with mouse ears.
The American Family Association desires to take a stand for good old-fashioned moral values, and on this matter I couldn’t agree more. They observe the state of our modern American society, and they see a generation of children growing up in a cesspool of liquor, drugs, and illicit sex. Again, yes, I feel their pain. But for all their preaching, do they really achieve the ends that they seek? Two measures seem relevant here.
For one, do the target companies repent of their “sinful” behavior? History has shown that boycotts – especially on large companies like Gap or Disney – rarely inflict a measurable level of damage on their targets; and even if they do, the effect is very short-lived, because the public’s attention span is so short. A temporary decline in the sale of denim jeans is meaningless to a multibillion-dollar company. A thousand fewer visitors at an amusement park will never persuade the company to do – or not do – anything.
Secondly, do we now have a more righteous society because the AFA took a principled stand on some important issue? Have we seen a rush of pagans forsaking the pub for the cross? Hard to tell, but everywhere I look, this kind of foolish posturing only harms their cause. To the unbelievers out there, it implies that all Christians are petty and intolerant, angrily denouncing anyone who doesn’t dance to their tune.
True evangelism – the kind that truly helps people – is achieved by gentle persuasion, not hostile confrontation. I’m a Christian, but that doesn’t give me the right to compel you to honor my traditions. It didn’t work in old Rome, or during the Crusades, and it won’t work today.

Try to picture, if you can, the outrage that would surely follow if we suggested that Moslems keep quiet about Ramadan. Or Hindus about the Festival of Ganesh. Imagine the media coverage that we would see if someone asked Jews to shut up about Passover. The ACLU would have to hire a thousand new lawyers, just to keep up. But Christians? They're disposable. Don't wory about them.

So if you see me at the supermarket, go ahead and wish me a happy Hanukkah. It’s a friendly greeting, and I will accept it all day long. Maybe even twice on Sunday.

Nancy Reagan Was Right: Just Say No-Bama

2009-09-09T22:18:00.000-07:00

My father worked hard all his life. After high school, and a four-year stint in the Army, he came home to work for the City of Los Angeles. Paving streets for the Department of Public Works was grueling, back-breaking work; but it paid well, it put food on the table and a roof over my head.

Back in the 1960s the City offered a generous benefits package, including health insurance from Kaiser Permanente. We had what was called “E” coverage, the most comprehensive plan imaginable. No deductibles, no co-pays, nothing out of pocket. Need eyeglasses? Covered. Prescriptions? Covered. Surgery, wheelchair, ambulance ride? You want it, you got it. But before you run out to enroll for an “E” policy, forget it. This level of coverage cannot be had today, anywhere, at any price.

Health coverage is, of course, one of the most compelling political issues of our day. We are told that 47 million people in our nation are uninsured, and that we as a compassionate civilized society must come to their rescue. And perhaps we should. But as we debate the merits of various proposals, it is imperative that we have an honest discussion. And that begins with getting the facts straight.

So where did that all-important 47 million number come from? It’s from an annual report from the Census Bureau. But as they say, the devil is in the details. So let’s take a closer look at these numbers, shall we?

According to this report, about 10 million of these uninsured are illegal aliens. Subtract these squatters who have no standing to demand anything from the US Government and over a fifth of this crisis disappears.
So the real number is 37 million, right? Not even close. Even Hillary Clinton, our foremost champion of nationalized health care, has conceded that 25% of the uninsured can afford health insurance but choose not to buy it. (This includes young healthy people who don’t think they need it, and the wealthy who can easily pay full-price in cash when the need arises.) The Census Bureau estimates that number at around 17 million, or more than a third of the total.

Alright, so the real number is closer to 20 million. Or is it? Hardly, because we’re still not done dissecting the Census Bureau numbers.

Suppose you quit your job, and immediately start another. Your new employer might offer a wonderful benefits package, but you’ll have you wait a few months before it kicks in. In the meantime the Census Bureau will count you (and millions of other new hires) as “uninsured.” Technically true, but it’s not quite the calamity situation that many would have us believe.

Medicare is available to all senior citizens, but many who are eligible just don’t sign up. Others have ready access to free or inexpensive benefits through Medicaid or some other state or local program. And of course, no one can be turned away from an emergency room. But because they don’t actually go out and purchase a policy, the Census Bureau counts them as uninsured.

So after we account for all of these phantom indigents, how many real uninsured do we have? Some estimates place that number at anywhere from 8 to 10 million, but no one really knows for sure.

In every press conference and interview, Mr. Obama and his deputies insist that their new plan will not extend coverage to illegal immigrants. And yet they continue in repeating that fictitious number that includes them.

The Anointed One has promised that he can drastically reduce the cost of healthcare if we only allow him to introduce a little “competition” into the marketplace, in the form of a government-run insurance company. In other words, he wants to establish a business with bottomless pockets, an unaccountable entity that can play by its own rules and will never have to make a profit. This isn’t competition, it’s blackmail.

Let us consider the federal government’s record to date. Medicare? Broke, and riddled with fraud. VA hospitals? A mess. Social Security? Don’t get me started. If any private company dared to operate accordingly, the feds would dispatch an army of bureaucrats to shut them down before you can reach the end of this sentence.

Past is prologue. Don’t be fooled.

My father died in January 1995, and Kaiser took care of him to the end. Even in retirement, he retained his full benefits. I should be so lucky.

America, Meet Mr. & Mr. Smith

2009-07-22T13:03:00.000-07:00

From a very early age, I began to take an interest in politics. This might come as a surprise to anyone who knew me in fourth or fifth grade, because I didn’t talk about it much. But I watched the evening news often, and while I didn’t always understand the finer points of Watergate, or the Vietnam War, it nonetheless sparked an interest in me. Why all the fuss over a mere burglary? Why fight a war so far from home?

I was first able to vote in the 1980 election (I voted for Reagan), and from the start I was wary of allowing my ballot to become a slave to a singular narrowly-focused ideology. Oh, you know what I mean: many people have a pet issue such as abortion, or gun control, or Affirmative Action. Whether pro or con, they will only vote for a candidate who shares their dogma in that particular area. Such a naïve, short-sighted approach ignores the big picture and saves them from actually having to think, to evaluate the issues or the candidates fairly.

Sure, I have opinions about these important issues. Plenty. Abortion is murder, no one really needs an AK-47, and it’s equally wrong to favor either the Latino or the Caucasian. But now for the first time I find myself struggling to avoid following a single-issue orthodoxy. And it really bugs me, because I know better.

There’s something about the issue of gay marriage that troubles me greatly. Mind you, I was born and raised in Hollywood, of all places; so I’ve never had that social phobia that afflicts so many. And as a Christian I certainly have my moral reservations; but hey, we’re all sinners in one way or another. No, my concerns about this highly sensitive matter come from a different place that I’m only now beginning to understand.

How did gay marriage become legal here in California? Gavin Newsom, the mayor of San Francisco, simply decided to defy the law and start marrying same-sex couples. He had no legal authority to do so, but he just did as he pleased. And the guys in the long dark robes have supported his cause – at least for now. Activists in other states have gained legal victories by very similar means.

The thing is, we live in a civilized democratic (small-d) society. And if we want to change the law in such a culture, we have tools to do just that. You can write to your councilman, congressman, or state legislator. And if he doesn’t get the job done, you can vote for someone else or even run for office yourself. You can pass a petition to get an initiative placed on the ballot in the next election. Buy a full-page ad in the Los Angeles Times; call in to the Rush Limbaugh Show. There are so many ways that we can all take part in that process.

But the proponents of gay marriage have thus far refused to avail themselves of these legitimate avenues of reform, and they pour contempt on those who do. They don't care what the rest of us think, they have no interest in honest debate or following the rules that everyone else must obey. They just want to win, and one of the best ways to stifle opposition is to deploy inflammatory rhetoric to paint the rest of us as intolerant homophobes.

Yup, let's start the conversation by poisoning the well; call me a hater before we even meet. We have a word for that, and it's called prejudice. Wait, isn't that the very thing that you accused me of? Go on, set up our relationship for failure before it even begins.

You see, there’s something at stake here that transcends all concerns of personal “rights” or partisan philosophy. It’s a principle called the rule of law. We have prescribed procedures. We have elections whereby we decide the issues by majority rule. It’s a standard of fair play that we all must follow, that each of us might have our say, even if we don’t always get our way.

Now Mr. Newsom wants to be my governor. And I would like to think that I, as an intelligent civilized citizen, might be able to give him a fair hearing alongside the other candidates – based upon the whole of his record, and not just a single issue. It makes my head hurt.

The residents of our state have now voted twice – yes, twice – to define marriage as a union between a male and a female. But Mr. Newsom and his partisans don’t care. They don’t believe in the rule of law. And for that reason alone, they will never get my vote for anything.

They are quick to point out that the Mormon Church was legally forbidden to join the campaign against gay marriage, and that they should lose their tax-exempt status.

But somehow it was perfectly OK for other churches to publicly take the opposite position? Someone help me, please, I'm trying to keep up.

They say that it's a violation of the doctrine of Equal Protection, to deny gay people the right to marry, and the various and sundry economic benefits that follow.

Looky here, they suddenly believe in following the law! Strange.

They say that their opponents are motivated by hatred, and yet they angrily march in front of churches and shout profanities to plead their cause. Interesting.

I don’t hate homosexuals. What they do in the privacy of their own homes, is their own business. (And please, keep it there!) But if we call that union a marriage, then we will have to come up with a new name for the union that I have with my wife.

Because, very simply, it ain't.

Mr. Seinfeld, I presume?

2009-07-16T09:29:00.000-07:00

I went to get a haircut the other day, and out of the blue it suddenly became a genuine Seinfeld moment: "What's the deal with barbers these days?"

As any man of my age (47) or older can attest, it's almost impossible to find a genuine "barber shop" these days. Anyone much younger than myself, probably doesn't know or care; but as for the rest of you, you know what I mean: it was a place where men could go and be men, belch, scratch, curse, read the sports page, and complain about their wives. The barbers were old fat guys named Floyd or Tony or Louie. If we were lucky, the shop even had an old black-and-white TV mounted on the wall where we could all watch the big game.

Today we have something called "family hair salons." Salons? That was the place where my mother used to go on the weekend to get her bouffant redone. She sat under the dryer (the barrel-sized type that would make Marge Simpson proud) for hours on end, reading old movie magazines, chattering with the other hens about the latest flick with Rock Hudson and Doris Day.

But then again, as Jerry would say, "not that there's anything wrong with that."

The trouble is, every time I go to my local, um, family salon these days, they demand more and more information from me. Louie is gone; instead I get Tiffany or Buffy or Trixie. She wants me to tell the name of the style I want. Scissors or clippers? What setting on the clippers? They go on and on, before they even think about touching my head. The answer to all of the questions above? I don't know and I don't care!

It used to be so simple: I walked into Louie's Barber Shop on Santa Monica Boulevard. I sat down and said "short," and Louie knew exactly what to do. Even Supercuts was simple back then. Guys didn't have very many options those days; it was either that or an afro.

Louie opened the conversation with "How 'bout them Yankees, eh?"

Tiffany's banter is essentially limited to "Can you believe what Ashton said to Demi last night?"

Back then, cutting hair was a deliberate career choice; Louie was there because he wanted to be a barber. He owned the chairs, he rented the space, he had a business plan. But today, stylists are like waitresses; Tiffany is only there until she gets her big break as an actress or a lawyer or a nuclear physicist. So even if I like her work the first time, it's almost impossible to get her again. She has an audition on Monday, a physics class on Tuesday, the bar exam on Wednesday, and a movie with her kids (yikes, she has kids!) on Thursday.

So in just a few weeks I will be forced to roll the dice again, this time with Trixie. And she likewise forces me to recite the litany all over again. And even if she's good, I will probably never see her again. (The word on the street, is that she's up for a jet-setting job at the State Department.)

When I settle into the chair today, my (and I hate this title) stylist can clearly see that she's dealing with a man who's obviously pushing 50. I don't want a mohawk, or a fade, or a mullet. I don't want that cool green spikey gel that Corey Feldman made famous back in the 80's, and please don't try to sell me hairspray. Is it really so hard to understand that I want to leave with the same basic style that I came with?

I just want to have less of it.

Egads, now I feel like Andy Rooney.

Missionaries Without a Mission?

2009-07-13T10:23:00.000-07:00

It happened yesterday: the NAACP celebrated its 100th anniversary. People all over the country celebrated, as they recalled the many noteworthy moments in the struggle for equality. Martin on the Capitol steps. Rosa on the bus. Little Linda in the schoolyard, wanting nothing more than an education.

And of course, as with many such celebrations, the inevitable question arose: In light of such progress, is the organization still needed? On the CBS Sunday Morning News, a reporter posed this question to Julian Bond, a longtime civil rights activist and NAACP chairman. His answer? Absolutely! As evidence of their continuing relevance, he cited the current turmoil in the banking industry: Many banks extended mortgage loans to working-class black families who they knew could not afford them, and now many of those borrowers defaulted and are facing foreclosure. Once again, big bad whitey is sticking it to the poor black man.

Huh? Hold the phone.

Let's all climb into our flux capacitor-powered DeLoreans, and go back in time just a few years. What was the issue of the day for Mr. Bond and his colleagues? Many of these same banks were evil because they didn't make enough loans to working-class black families (although the term "enough" was never clearly defined).

For the lenders, it all came down to a simple mathematical formula: "Either the borrowers meet our requirements, or they don't. We're accountable to our depositors and shareholders, to make sound business decisions."

No matter. The activists were unpersuaded and appealed to their congressmen, who in turn compelled the banks to make the loans that were doomed to fail. And the borrowers missed too many payments, which we all knew they would. And here we are.

So what's it gonna be, Mr. Bond? Are the banks evil for making loans, or for not making loans? Pick one, please.

LOST IN LOS ANGELES

Which reminds me of a recent news story, not far from my home in Los Angeles. Wal-Mart revealed plans to build a mega-store in the inner city. The locals appealed to the City Council: If you let this big, bad corporation move in, then all of the mom-and-pop stores will be squeezed out. Conspiracy!

But wait! Let's all climb back into our time machines, and set our destination to South-Central LA in the mid-1980's. At that time, all of the major supermarket chains had fled from the 'hood. Vons, Safeway, Albertson's, Ralphs, Lucky, and Hughes -- with their huge buying power and discount prices -- were nowhere to be found. Which meant that the poor folks were forced to shop at the nearby independents, where the prices were much higher.

For the chains, it came down to a simple mathematical formula: "Doing business in the inner city is prohibitively expensive. We have to make sound business decisions." But because the chain stores (by their departures) caused this situation to exist, they obviously didn't care about poor minority people.

Didja get that? Today, Wal-Mart is evil because they want to undercut Mom and Pop. But just a couple of decades ago, the supers were considered evil because they wouldn't do exactly that.

So again, what's it gonna be? Are the chain stores evil for being there, or for not being there? Someone tell me, please. Because, alas, therein lies the conundrum: You can't protect the businesses and the consumers at the same time.

A footnote: The 1980's campaign did have a bright spot. The Lucky chain (since merged with Albertson's) agreed to build a store, and it opened to great fanfare. Low prices, good-paying union jobs, and an attractive building in an otherwise run-down neighborhood.

And then...?

The company quickly began to regret its decision. Thieves (including employees) looted the place daily. Graffiti multiplied faster than the managers could paint over it. The cost of insuring the building went through the roof. And in just the first few weeks, hundreds of shopping carts disappeared.

Which is exactly the reason why the supers deserted the area in the first place.

Should Wal-Mart be allowed to build in the 'hood? I don't know. But for crying out loud, let's get our story straight.

A Democracy of the Dead

2009-07-07T22:22:00.000-07:00

Just the other day, I had a friend who came to visit my church for Sunday worship for the first time. Jeff’s visit was quite unexpected, but I was delighted to see him. So I gave him an impromptu tour of our facility, introducing him to my friends as we went. At last we came to Fred, our minister, and they exchanged pleasantries. “Nice to meet you, Pastor.”

And there it was: The “P” word. It sounded strange to my ears, because I haven’t used it for many years now. So I explained that we simply call our preachers by name; Fred is Fred, Sam is Sam, Dave is Dave, and so on. Jesus told us that we must not call our religious leaders by fancy titles (or the clergyman himself allow it), because it implies a level of honor that belongs to God alone.

Granted, Jeff conceded, but shouldn’t we treat God’s servants with respect?

Good question. But when faced with Jeff’s humility, I suddenly found myself hard pressed to respond with anything more than a stack of pat answers and platitudes. Plus, this would be a very bad time to insult his intelligence or his motives. So this is what I came up with:

As a child, I attended a church that was steeped in many holy traditions. They had a rigidly structured liturgy, and I was required to memorize a number of old rote prayers and recite them at all the right times. I learned how to sit-stand-sit-sing-smile-kneel-chant on cue. And no one ever expected anything more from me.

Similarly, we were all taught to call our minister by a title, whether Pastor or Reverend; it was a sign of respect toward God’s servant. We knew no other way, so we did as we were told.

Here’s the problem: I learned much about rituals and routines, but very little about the mindset and attitudes that I should cultivate as a baby Christian. And as long as I complied, no one questioned my spirituality. In my youth, I was never expected to make a spontaneous expression of my faith. Never had to make up a prayer on the spot out of my own heartfelt love for God. I didn’t have to believe it or understand it. I just had to do.

Mechanical obedience, following the old customs, didn’t make me a Christian. Reciting prayers didn’t teach me how to pray. Following a fixed liturgy required no faith or virtue or devotion on my part. And calling my preacher by a title didn’t teach me respect; my friends and I still had plenty of bad attitudes anyway. It just created a social gulf between us, a separate elitist class within the congregation, where we could never be brothers.

In a less structured setting, however, we don't have such baggage and I can't fake it.

So when raise my hands in prayer;

Or if I make a public show of reverence toward our minister;

Or when I shout "amen" during the sermon;

Or if I should anonymously drop a few extra dollars in the collection plate;

Or when I close my eyes in reflection...

It's not because the deacons are looking over my shoulder, or I have a script telling me that it's the appointed time. Instead, it's because I really want to be there, and I am genuinely moved my the presence of God. It's truly me, truly worshiping my Creator, not just a mindless routine of worshiping the act of worship.

G. K. Chesterton had it right: "Tradition means giving a vote to the most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead."

The Thought Police: Coming Soon to a Neighborhood Near You

2009-07-03T08:24:00.001-07:00

I have long been confounded by the notion of "hate crimes."

According to the FBI website:

A hate crime is a traditional offense like murder, arson, or vandalism with an added element of bias. For the purposes of collecting statistics, Congress has defined a hate crime as a "criminal offense against a person or property motivated in whole or in part by an offender's bias against a race, religion, disability, ethnic origin or sexual orientation." Hate itself is not a crime—and the FBI is mindful of protecting freedom of speech and other civil liberties.

To date, the definitions and penalties for hate crimes have varied widely from state to state; so about ten years ago, Sen. Edward Kennedy introduced a bill to establish a uniform national standard. It's called the Matthew Shepard Hate Crimes Prevention Act, and the legislation has languished in limbo ever since. Attorney General Eric Holder recently testified before the Senate Judiciary Committee to plead for swift passage.

When pressed, Holder was forced to concede that the incidence of reported hate crimes has been on the decline for a few years now, and further that state and local courts are already doing a fine job of prosecuting them. But apparently, the AG's office isn't busy enough; they need new worlds to conquer.

This is a very, very bad idea, methinks. The mere concept of a hate crime designation is ill-conceived on two fronts:

First, semantics: Has anyone ever committed a murder, or burned down a house, as an act of love? Ummm...no. Violent crimes are acts of hate, period. No matter the perpetrator, the victim, or the motive. There can never be a righteous reason, to do the wrong thing.

Second, it sets up two classes of society, a protected class an an unprotected one. In other words, it might be considered a lesser crime for you to kill me, than if I killed you. It means that one man's life is more important, more precious, than another.

And why would that be? Is it because he possessed a particular extraordinary virtue? Did he perform some outstanding service to his fellow man? Or perhaps he shot down twelve enemy fighter jets and saved the city of Boston from certain doom? Nope. His life is considered more precious -- and his death doubly tragic -- because he preferred the company of men.

Interesting.

Could it be that a court might prosecute my murderer less zealously than another, if I should be slain merely by a terrorist or a jealous husband, and the other guy by a racist or a homophobe? Seems to me, this a blatant violation of the 14th Amendment's guarantee of equal protection under the law. And wait, isn't this the same legal doctrine that (theoretically) forces us to accept gay marriage?

And speaking of the Constitution: We live in a country where everyone has the First Amendment right to free speech. No matter how naive, or evil, or yes, even hateful that message might be. So my spoken or written words are sacred (good news for a writer!), but my private thoughts might be subject to condemnation by a court of law?

Really?

Oh, the irony: those who fight so fervently to defend their "rights," often have no regard for the rights of anyone else. They don't really want to be equal to the rest of us, they want to be better. Which wouldn't be so bad, except for the over-reaching (and transparent) pretense to the contrary.

Oops, did I say that? Silly me. Liberals aren't required to be consistent in their sacred principles, and everyone knows it. Heterosexual Christian men need not apply. What was I thinking?

Let's suppose that every perpetrator of a hate crime could be lynched on the spot, to serve as an example to those who might follow. Would this punishment cause bigots to repent of their bigotry? Would racists suddenly start embracing the people they formerly despised? I doubt it. Sure, they might be more careful to self-censor their words in public. But their hearts remain unchanged.

Would it be better to punish these people for their bias, or to convert them? I choose the latter. But just as with religion, such people can only be genuinely converted by gentle persuasion. Not by answering hate with more hate.

If ol' Ted & Co. have their way, we can be punished, not for what we do -- or for what we say -- but for what we think. This is positively frightening. Last time I checked, political dissent was legal in this country. What will they come up with next, to exact their vengeance upon those who disagree?

If nothing else, this crusade will give the Democrats yet another reason to demonize conservatives for their vile "intolerance" when they vote thumbs down on this awful piece of legislation. The cops are coming, and they want to punish you for disagreeing with the official party line.

God help us all.

The King is Dead! Long Live the King!

2009-06-26T17:08:00.000-07:00

I don't remember where I was when John Lennon died. I don't remember what I was doing, or who gave me the news. What I do remember, is that I was in New York City exactly one year later, in December 1981. I found a city that was greatly moved by his memory. From my perch on the 26th floor of the Lexington Hotel I watched the Today Show on WNBC, and local news anchor Sue Simmons made an announcement at every commercial break. What was so important? "We remember John Lennon, today, live at five." Every few minutes. There was no bigger news story that day, at least for New Yorkers. The vigils lasted for days; the shrines remained undisturbed even longer.

But I was born a few years too late, so Lennon was never a major influence for me. Nor Elvis, Ritchie, Marilyn, or Tupac.

One standout, however, did become my childhood hero. And he shed his mortal coil just yesterday. They called him the King of Pop, that mono-gloved moonwalker from Indiana. This time around I got the news online, from Yahoo. As children, my sister and I adored him. We felt so lucky to attend a Jackson Five concert at the Forum in Inglewood; we had the worst seats in the house, in the nosebleed section, about a half-mile from the stage. We could barely see a thing from that distance, but the acoustics were excellent. It was a night to remember.

Of course, like most children of our generation, we also followed the careers of the Osmond Brothers, David Cassidy, and Maureen McCormick (whom I actually managed to meet many years later). And then of course there was the lovely Farrah, who also left us this week. I was enchanted from my first glance of that famous poster; I knew not whether she could sing, act, dance, read, write, or even speak, but for me (and millions of young men) it didn't matter. That hair. Ahem. Alright, I'm better now.

And also like most of our peers, my sister and I (and our showbiz heroes) grew up. Donny, David, and Marsha, Marsha, Marsha went to school, got jobs, got married, had children, and became fruitful, contributing members of our society.

But not Michael.

No one knows better than me, that the man was a force to be reckoned with. He churned out one innovative hit after another, changing the music business for all time. Was it Rock & Roll? Was it R & B? Was it Soul? No one could tell for sure, and that was the beauty of it. Such was his genius, that he confidently defied all preconceived notions of what popular music was or should be. The consummate showman, he extolled through his lyrics the ideals of a universal brotherhood of all mankind, a colorblind society that knew no distinctions of gender or race or wealth or station. Indeed, a man far ahead of his time.

Unfortunately for the unwashed masses (you and me), he squandered many opportunities to implement that vision. For he led an extravagant elitist lifestyle in stark contrast to his noble egalitarian message. Never managed to join that humble brotherhood himself. For he lived the second half of his life trapped within a velvet prison of his own making, behind multiple layers of iron gates, bodyguards, publicists, and tinted car windows. He was a riddle wrapped inside an enigma, a child in a man's body, a black man who wished he was white, a tortured soul who longed for intimacy yet jealously guarded his privacy, revealing little of himself in return.

Who else could ever invent his own dress code for a visit to the White House? Or earn millions for a sneaker endorsement deal, and never show up for work? Or give a press conference from his own home, and demand that the world press plug into his own live satellite feed? No king, president, emperor, or even maniacal dictator -- before or since -- has ever managed to pull off such a feat.

Instead of courting girlfriends who might give him true love and children, he auditioned incubators who could be disposed of after completing their assigned task. (They traded their dignity for a fistful of dollars and a moment in the limelight, but that's another story for another time.) Instead of seeking out friends who could offer him acceptance and counsel, he surrounded himself with employees and consultants to tell him what he wanted to hear, keeping them (and even his family) at armslength as they anxiously awaited an audience with His Majesty when it served his purpose. And legions of faithful admirers (yes, including myself) actually paid for the privilege! How cool is that?

Nice work if you can get it.

I will miss him, but I won't mourn him. He was an entertainer, but he wasn't my friend. I have no plans for a pilgrimage to Encino, or Gary, or to Hollywood Boulevard. He charmed the world, but only in service to his own pleasures and ambitions.

He had his moment, but now it's over. I pray that his family will soon find their peace.