Thanksgiving is Thanks-Living

The title of this post is one of those sappy signs you see displayed at churches, yet I find it hard to disagree with its sentiment. I'll tell you why...

We went through a dark valley of under-employment and near-poverty conditions in the not-so-distant past. In the midst of this, I found that what I wanted to learn--what I diligently prayed I would learn--was gratitude and contentment. I did.

Gratitude and contentment aren't lessons you learn once, like riding a bicycle. They are lessons you continue to learn. Really, it is a practice you build into your life, sort of like the habit of flossing your teeth (one I've failed to implement thus far).

We all have a lot to be thankful for. For one, God hasn't destroyed us as we've deserved. Let's start there. I'm guessing that you're reading this from the comfort of your home, sitting in front of a nice PC, wanting for nothing.  The fact that you can afford broadband access at your home instead of $10/month dial-up is thanks-worthy. We all have mp3 players that we paid at least a couple of hundred for, which helps us avoid the inconvenience of those bulky portable CD players.

Don't misunderstand me. I don't speak from any moral high ground. Just because I was forced to see life differently by difficult circumstances doesn't give me any special knowledge. Just a different perspective.

I prefer not having Thanksgiving with our family every year. Our family gatherings aren't necessarily focused, directly or obliquely, on gratitude. I prefer to spend it with folks that we know have real gratitude built into their lives. It's nice, if you should so choose to express your thanks to your Lord for his generosity, that you not do so receiving weird looks of misunderstanding. It's nice to do so amongst people who know what you're talking about and pretty much agree with you from the start.

It's OK, maybe every other year, to do Thanksgiving with the folks. But a break from that now and again helps me remember to focus on the holiday's root, not what I've chosen to make it.

The Woes and Pitfalls of Car Repair

I've been blessed/cursed with mechanical ability. Those without such ability would identify with the blessing side; those with such ability the curse side.

It's a curse to know how to fix things. This compels you to fix your own things. The alternative is shelling out hundreds of dollars in labor for someone else to do it. It also comes in handy when you're poor (hand raised). In most cases, I can figure out what needs to be done to fix something. In a very few cases, I appeal directly to the professionals. Usually, I embark with little or no experience on a specific repair and glean this knowledge along the way. Best case scenario: the parts are easy to find and not so expensive and the repair goes along swimmingly. Worst case scenario: none of these things happen. I cannot feasibly complete the repair without investing in certain tools I don't have. Sometimes, the process of trial and error is too time consuming and I end up having to deliver the unfixed vehicle to another repairman, hat in hand. These guys love to see us shade tree fellows coming in, awash in defeat. They love to see us lugging in boxes of miscellaneous parts, nuts and bolts, our clothes and hands greasy, our knuckles skinned to the bone.

Each vehicle in our family fleet is high mileage (either nearing or having surpassed 200K). Two-hundred thousand miles in a car is like turning 80 as a human. There will always be something in need of fixing, something not working properly, or something that is simply worn out. But 200K to me is a trophy. It says, 'I have gotten as much out of this car as can be reasonably expected, and I still squeeze mileage out of it through tender loving care, blood-sweat-tears, and softly spoken threats of salvage yards.' I try to forget the greasy hands and knuckles skinned to the bone.

Right now, I'm in a normal period. I have two vehicles that are running normally without much intervention at present. One is at around 220K and the other is around 240K. There are small things each could use to bring them up to snuff, but nothing that pressing. A third car, my daughter's, is demanding more and more attention. Also note that there is a direct relationship between "attention" and "money spent". Her car, if the engine wasn't in such good condition and didn't run so well, would be in the junkyard even as we speak. However, the engine still runs marvelously, so we continue to dump money into its gaping maw.

The other night, she came home for a visit, having asked me to look at a few things and to service the car while she was in town. The primary problem was that the driver's side door wouldn't open. The secondary problem was that the climate control blower would function only on high. There were other problems, too, but for now, let us focus on number one: the door.

What some of you may/may not know is that in order to work on the door mechanism, i.e., locks, levers, window, or anything else inside the confines of the door, you have to open the door and remove the inside door panel. Since the door couldn't be opened, then I was unable to complete #1 and had to find an alternative entry method. I called a trusted mechanic I know and the light he was able to shed couldn't have illuminated a watch dial. I was on my own.

I spent an entire evening (see Hil's entry), working outside in a cold, bitter north wind, and was able to pry the door panel open a little and get at the locking mechanism, but nothing I tried would encourage it to open. The next night, I was better armed. I got my angle grinder, cut away a part of the door frame that obscured the lock, and was able to force it open with a screwdriver. I then removed the mechanism I needed to replace. In the process of removing it and opening the door, I destroyed the little control panel on the door that operates the windows and door locks. Lucky me, right? Also, a little slippage on the angle grinder cut some wires that go to something on the left rear door. Again, the curse of knowing how to fix things...

Parts at the dealer will be in excess of $300, causing me to rethink my repair options. Salvage yards are always fun places to hang out, so I'll be trying one of those first, before the shelling out of multiple Franklins for new parts. In the meanwhile, I'm letting her drive my truck back to school while I work on her car. I drive her car to work and back in the interim. Since the door lock is in absentia, the door is being held closed by a series of bungee cords (see photo). This proves to be adventurous. The wind rushes by as if I am in an open cockpit. As I'm driving down the highway at 70MPH, I look through a crack and see the road rushing by. The door rattles like it's not fastened properly...wait...it's not, is it? Also, when I make a sharp right turn, the door stretches against the bungee cord network and comes open a bit. It's all very exciting.

And as if this weren't enough to tax my auto repair sensibilities, the brakes are needing some attention and the driver's side strut is making some kind of hellacious racket. The good thing is that it only makes the noise when you are driving the car.

I try and remind myself that not knowing how to fix things would be a greater curse. I would still have broken-down vehicles. I would still have to get them fixed, yet I would be paying someone else to do it and would be a great deal poorer or a lot more in debt than I am now. I keep trying to remind myself of this, especially while I'm in the midst of a project where the curse seems brighter than the blessing.

The Shadow

There I lay on my bed, enjoying a rare afternoon's rest, and now, some tunes. I could see the ceiling reflected in the back of my iPod as its resting place, my chest, rose and fell. I remained there, refusing to engage. My mind, in this idle state, brought to the fore things not often thought about in the midst of turbulent living.

I recalled a conversation I had with the daughter of a "customer". I was helping her to access a picture of her father on her family website that would be used in his obituary. The background on the homepage was a rather striking photo of a picket fence, lush green grass and shrubs, and the shadow of three people, shoulder to shoulder. This lady volunteered that the photo had been taken on their first vacation without her daughter. I asked what happened to her daughter. She continued to stare at the monitor; I thought at first that she hadn't heard me. She had.

"She took her own life," she said, poorly holding back her emotion on this subject. At the same time, I was sorrowful and also glad to have asked the question. I like to know these things, not for some sadistic pleasure, but just to know what experiences make the people I meet who they are. I don't enjoy making someone feel uncomfortable or dredging up old sorrows, yet at times it needs to be done. There's the Swedish proverb: “Shared joy is a double joy; shared sorrow is half a sorrow.”

"She was fifteen."

What could be so pressing, so sorrowful in the life of a beautiful teenage girl that she would do this? I don't know. I can't fathom what might have been going on in her life. Some type of failure or denial? Spurned love? Rejection or ridicule? All temporary problems.

Sadly enough, it wasn't the first time I had experienced this scenario professionally. I recall a young woman, early twenties, who did the same thing. The report was that it was a work-related situation that pushed her to the point of killing herself. Again, a temporary problem.

What I thought about was this: Could the positive influence of one person injecting worth into their life have drawn them back from the precipice? Could one friendship, one word of encouragement from someone, friend or stranger, have made the difference? Possibly not, yet very possibly so.

If so, then I want that word to come from me. At least once in my life, I want to be that person. I don't want to know about it either; I don't want to know that my attentions have had such an effect. I just want to live my life in such a way that those things naturally come out. I want it to be borne out of a sensitivity and love for people who need to know unconditional love in some way, at least once in their life.

"We love because he first loved us."  ~  I John 4:19

Charlie Rich: 1932 - 1995

As I write this, I am listening to one of my lifetime favorite artists, Charlie Rich. Charlie and I go way back to the earliest days of my musical awakening.

I'm guessing I was around 10 or 11 years of age, and the year was 1972-73. My parents were devoted country music fans. The media of the day was the 8-track tape or the LP record, both of which have gone the way of the dinosaur. I began to show interest in their music collection, which happened to contain a good-sized helping of Charlie Rich. In 1973, Charlie was climbing to the zenith of his popularity. "Behind Closed Doors" was released in '73. He won a Grammy in 1974 for the single, "Behind Closed Doors", as well as three different awards that year from the Country Music Association for that same album.

Charlie quickly rose to the top as one of my favorites. Many have agreed about how his music is difficult to classify. Granted, his popularity was in the country realm, but he could have, at times, just as easily been classified as jazz, blues or even rock. His popular songs tended to cross charts, appealing to a broad section of folks. It was around this same time, I saw Charlie Rich perform at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo (either '74 or '75--he was there both years). Within a couple of years, Charlie had fallen from the top of my play list. I discovered rock music at about this time, precisely in the form of the Beatles and later Paul McCartney's solo work and his follow-up group, Wings.

Fast forward about 25 years: I read an article about Charlie in a magazine that I cannot recall by name at this time. The message I remember though. The writer talked glowingly about Charlie's career. He talked about how that Charlie, in spite of his season of popularity, was for the most part under appreciated for the talent he had. He also told about how he died in 1995 from a blood clot in his lung, having lived the latter years of his life out of the public eye for the most part. I remember being smitten with grief  when I learned of Charlie's passing.

It's hard for me to believe how intense an emotional reaction can be at the death of someone you never really knew and only appreciated from a distance. I have also felt the same for Warren Zevon, Bob Hope and Linda McCartney. I suppose it's just sorrow at the death of someone you admired for their talent or someone who played a part in your formative years. Surprisingly enough, I didn't feel this sense of loss when John Lennon died.
 
In recent years, I've reacquainted myself with Charlie's work. I have one "Greatest Hits" CD, but the best is the anthology referenced above, "Feel Like Going Home: The Essential Charlie Rich." It's chock full of great stuff and really showcases how talented a musician, vocalist and songwriter Charlie Rich was.

Humor from the Future

CLEMENS:  So there are a privileged few...who serve on these ships, living in luxury, wanting for nothing. But what about everyone else? What about the poor? You ignore them...

TROI:  Poverty was eliminated a long time ago. And a lot of things disappeared with it: hopelessness... despair... cruelty... war...

He regards her solemnly. He's beginning to realize that his dark view is misplaced.

CLEMENS: I come from a time when men achieve wealth and power by standing on the backs of the poor... when prejudice and intolerance are commonplace... when power is an end unto itself...

(beat)

And you're telling me... that isn't how it is anymore?

TROI: That's right.

CLEMENS: (with a sigh)  Maybe it is worth giving up cigars for, after all...

Star Trek: The Next Generation - Season 6, Episode 1, "Time's Arrow, Part 2"

---

I find it funny when the misguided masses speculate on how the future can only get better. Yet those who have been disconnected from the Matrix see that things don't get better; they get worse. Things that we assume are improving society are bringing it down, down, down into the depths of depravity, despair and debauchery (how about that alliteration--impressive, eh?). What seems so obvious is that freedom without responsibility and decency improves nothing.

Call me a moralist. I'll take that as a compliment. Call me narrow-minded and I'll disagree with you. Believing that actual alternatives are many and viable alternatives are few is realistic, not narrow-minded. I believe you have many choices available, most of which are bad. Don't blame me though when I refuse to follow you down that dark, broad path.

Go ahead. Make your bad choices. Be prepared to reap the consequences. Call me a prophet of doom. I'll say, "You're right." Doom is what waits for you at the end of that dark, broad path. Just don't go to your doom thinking your way was the only way.

...Small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it. ~ Matthew 7:14

The Photo Montage/Collage/Mosaic as an Artform

A number of years ago, almost 20 now, I worked downtown in one of the few corporate obelisks here in Ft. Worth. The top floors were occupied by the property owners. They were people of immense wealth and good taste. The walls were dotted with art, usually tending toward the contemporary side. Some of it slipped into the modern category: wild sculptures and paintings of either unbridled splashery or very neatly done geometric shapes. At this point, art stops speaking to me. "The Emperor has no clothes!", I want to shout.

There was one piece, however, that cast a spell on me. I never knew (until now) the name of the artist or the title of the piece. It was a photographic collage, very large (109" x 58" I now find). I find the terms collage, montage and mosaic difficult to differentiate as they relate to photography. Whichever term applies, allow me to describe it...

Imagine a hundred or so prints, apparently borderless 8 x 10s. These images are arranged so as to overlap with their overall shape approximating an ovalish sort of shape. The composite image is of the footpath across the Brooklyn Bridge. At the bottom of the collage, you see the photographers feet. At the top of the image is the superstructure of the bridge. It widens in the middle, incorporating more prints, filling out the image of the footpath and the bridge.

I went for this near-20 years not knowing who did this or what it was called, but I remembered it and was inspired by it in some of my own creations. In wanting to write about it here, it tried again and again, with limited success, to divine this information using the magic of Google. Finally, I found an artist in New York, David McGlynn, who had created similar photo collages. It looked like it could be his work, so I e-mailed him, asking if it was his or if he knew whose it was.

While waiting to hear back from Mr. McGlynn, I discovered what I had been searching for: an image of a photo collage called "Brooklyn Bridge" created by an English artist named David Hockney in 1982. Not long after I had made this discovery, I received a very gracious response from David McGlynn, a very successful artist in his own right. Having only given him a coarse description of what I recalled, he said this:

It could have been mine... or David Hockney's(!)

I created this piece in 1982 [his "Brooklyn Bridge"].

It has been exhibited here & there, and is in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum. At around the same time, the painter David Hockney began experimenting with Polaroid & snapshot collages. And though there could have been no connection between us, he happened to do a collage from the same perspective, virtually from the same spot on the bridge:

You probably saw Hockney's 1982 image, with the feet on the bottom. Interestingly I had been doing collages like this since 1979, and have included my feet in the bottom of some of them(!) Here is one from 1981: [the boat]

One day, the art historians will sort it all out!

Cheers,

David McGlynn

Mr. McGlynn was right. It was the Hockney that I remembered. This collage had a limited production of 20 copies. Who knows which of those I saw.

If you get a chance and want to see some more of Mr. McGlynn's work, go to his website. I recommend it; some pretty cool stuff.

The Ultimate Act of Selfishness

I can understand how desperation can grab you and smother you, feeling as real as if a 300-pound gorilla were sitting on your chest. I've been there. It's probably safe to say that we all have. Small issues can look really big if that's all you dwell on from day to day.

I've known a few people who have committed suicide killed themselves, though none have been close friends. In my work, I see it all to frequently. I see the wreckage left in the wake of a suicide. People who kill themselves either aren't thinking about what it will do to their families, or they know what it will do and proceed anyway. Whatever the case, it's a selfish act.

Before you fly into a fit of sanctimonious rage, hear this: I am well aware of people out there who, because of their depression, aren't seeing things realistically. "The world would be better off without me" is something most self-killers have probably thought or said, and this observation is always untrue. Self murder is still murder, just without a separate victim, and murder is clearly prohibited in the Big Ten. I offer sympathy for the condition, but no quarter for the act.

People who kill themselves would probably stand down from that last desperate act if they spent some of their energy on other people. Look at somone else's problems for a change. Whether they are bigger or smaller than ours doesn't matter. The obvious truth is this:  It's tough all over, Bub. We all have problems, and some of them are bigger than yours. Just dig in and keep moving.

In this spirit, I offer the following, a cure for suicidal thoughts. Go volunteer at a soup kitchen or a children's cancer ward. Go visit those old, lonely people at a nursing home, forgotten by their families. Love someone other than yourself. Doing for others is what makes life worth the living.

All of us get lost in the darkness
Dreamers learn to steer by the stars
All of us do time in the gutter
Dreamers turn to look at the cars
Turn around and turn around and turn around
Turn around and walk the razor's edge
Dont turn your back
And slam the door on me.

Rush - "The Pass"

Rush - The Pass
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I Touched History

  I'm not one to obsess over my profession in an unhealthy fashion. I try and turn it off completely when I leave the office. Sometimes I'm forced to leave it in Standby Mode, as I am on-call regularly. Summing up, it is not a part of my person beyond its role as a bacon-bringing enterprise.

Every now and again though, I have an experience that relates to my profession in an interesting way. I've visited the Texas State Cemetery in Austin and have seen the grave of Fred Gipson, author of "Old Yeller" and "Savage Sam", the literature of my Texas youth. I've recently seen the graves of Samuel Adams, John Hancock, Paul Revere and Benjamin Franklin's parents. I've also visited the infamous, such as Lee Harvey Oswald. I see these as incedental to my profession, as I would have been interested in them as a non-funeral director.

A co-worker and I took a loved one to her final rest at the Old Palestine Cemetery in Alto, Texas the other day. In preparing for the trip, I discovered that a gentleman named Holloway Daniel Murphy was buried there. H. D. Murphy's claim to fame was one of misfortune and was a textbook example of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

On April 1, 1934, Easter Sunday, Mr. Murphy had been in the employ of the State of Texas as a Highway Patrolman for about 6 months (his career with DPS began on September 18, 1933). He and his partner, Edward Bryan Wheeler, a 4-year veteran, were on their motorcycles patrolling Highway 114 in Grapevine, TX, at that time a simple dirt road. They happened upon a black Ford parked on the side of the road. Thinking it to be a motorist in need of assistance, they turned around to render aid.

One account I found online told the story of what happened next.

Clyde [Barrow] grabbed a sawed-off shotgun and hid behind the car, while Henry Methvin [another member of their gang] grabbed a Browning automatic rifle. Meaning to kidnap the officers and take them for a "joyride", Clyde said to Methvin,"Let's take 'em". Methvin, took this to mean "kill 'em".

Not knowing of the impending danger and with guns still holstered, Wheeler who was in front, approached the car, Clyde prepared to jump him and was surprised when Methvin fired his weapon, striking Wheeler in the chest.

Murphy attempted to grab his shotgun from his motorcycle.  Clyde, now faced with a different situation, fired three blasts at patrolman Murphy.

While all this happened, Bonnie Parker reportedly slept in the Ford's back seat. A farmer who supposedly saw the exchange take place said that Bonnie, awakened in the back seat, exited the car and shot both troopers again in the head with her 20-gauge shotgun. This part of the story, however,  is deemed as unreliable and probably never happened. "Reportedly" and "supposedly" are words frequently used in the retelling of this story, as different versions abound. This multiplicity of versions and the sands of time have muddled the actual details of the event.

On May 23 of the same year, not two months after this event, Bonnie and Clyde were ambushed by lawmen outside of Sailes, Louisiana. They were both killed, reportedly having been shot at least 25 times apiece. Sympathy was in short supply with the lawmen, as the outlaws had killed numerous law-enforcement officials at every level. Sympathy and sorrow was found instead in the undiscerning eyes of the public. Charmed by Bonnie and Clyde's "glamourous" exploits, they protested the "cruel" way in which the couple met their end.

I visited Officer Murphy's grave while I was there at Old Palestine. For some reason, I also honored the Jewish tradition by placing a small rock on the marker. This is apparently a symbolic act, symbolizing that the person is still remembered by those who visit the marker today. I plan on making it a personal practice. My favorite person, after all, was a full-blooded Jew.

Requescat in pace, Officer Murphy. For the outlaws, Bonnie and Clyde, I offer nothing.

"If you had to do it all over again..."

Yes, I would.

The question? Sorry. The question was one that I just read in a poll. One of the questions asked was would you marry the same person again.

Being a xanga freeloader, I don't pay for the service (Thanks, xanga, for the freebie!). As a result, I'm one of those that get the ads and unwanted content on my pages. Every now and then, a post's title catches my eye when I'm passing through the logon page or see a xanga-mandated sidebar highlighting other people's work. This morning it was cre13's post on marriage ("The Truth About American Marriage"). Having invested over 23 years of my life into one woman, I wanted to see what she had to say.

For the most part, it quoted a Parade magazine article and referenced an online survey. The survey covered topics like happiness, faithfulness, and THE topic that always enters into serious discussions about marriage (I think you know what it is). Seeing the results wasn't so surprising. These days, what I find surprising is to find anyone who has what I consider to be a healthy view of marriage.

Reflecting on 23-plus years of marriage (23 years, 8 months, 24 days to be exact), I see only one surefire method for making a marriage work. It's a pretty tough thing to master, which is probably why the divorce rate is so high. It also explains why those who remain married aren't necessarily happy being so joined. It's not a secret method, yet its repository remains an unopened door in most marriages.

A marriage can grudgingly succeed if only one person practices this, but the chances increase drastically when both do.

What is this thing, this "surefire method"?

It's loving your spouse more than you love yourself.

If you love your spouse more than yourself, you'll remain faithful, because getting your jollies isn't as important as trust. If you love your spouse more than yourself, you'll want to give more than take. If you love your spouse more than yourself, you'll recognize the value of teamwork over every-man-for-himself. If you love your spouse more than yourself, their happiness becomes more important than your own.

A healthy marriage is rarely a pure 50/50 arrangement. Sometimes it's 25/75. Sometimes it's 0/100. Other times, it's 75/25 and 100/0. Few of us are so perfect as to always be on the giving side. Temporary imbalance is OK. Though it is certainly more blessed to give than to receive (Acts 20:35), the act of giving demands a recipient. Being a grateful receiver is blessed, too.

Neglect: My Favorite Sin

Well, to be honest, I don't have a favorite sin, for favorite in some ways connotes fondness, and I'm fond of none of my sins. Neglect: My Predominant Sin would have probably been more accurate, but I'll stick with what I have for its pithiness, not its accuracy.

Regrets plague us all to a degree. I look over my life and my biggest regrets regard things I've neglected. Friendships, responsibilities, my studies...the list is extensive, and if I make the headings broad enough it could encompass my whole life. That's probably more accurate anyway:  my whole life, one big lump of negligence.

It would be easy to blame it on some type of external force or impetus. Deflection of blame is another flaw I share with most of humanity. But in this, for now,  I choose to defer:  I, and I alone, am responsible for my failures. No other force or being has made me remain silent when I should have spoken or made me remain inactive when I should have been performing. There's a kid's song that goes something like this:  "There's a big ole "I" in the middle of sin, and the "I" in the middle is me."

What's interesting is trying to explain to someone what the magic is in avoiding sinful behavior. I've never found a good explanation for doing this other than this: "Just don't do it."  That's what it boils down to. It is, after all, a choice between only two alternatives: doing something you shouldn't do or not doing it. Can't get much simpler, can it? We would prefer to complicate the matter. Obfuscation, we feel, absolves us of some of the responsibility. Decisions made in a fog, when alternatives aren't so clearly defined, are prone to go the wrong way through no fault of our own. That's what we would like to believe anyway.

Allow me to lay bare the truth. Until we take responsibility for our own wrong behavior, we will be continually adding to that list--that long, long list--of failures in our lives. By realizing our own potential for wrong behavior, perhaps we can make more good choices. A slight pause, some honest reflection, and oftentimes the fog clears away, revealing only two choices: right and wrong.

Disclaimer: Everyone experiences times of grayness, where there seems to be no discernable difference between one alternative and another. If both are wrong choices, then avoid them both. Inaction when your only choices are all wrong is not a bad thing. In moments like this, wait if you can. If you feel forced to choose between equally unattractive options, then make a choice knowing that the consequences will be yours to bear.

The Culture of Drink

As a student of human folly, I cannot ignore, without comment, the American obsession with drink. We've been told how necessary it is to hydrate ourselves, particularly in these days of hellish Texas heat, but the obsession goes beyond this.

I kid my wife (incessantly, she would say) about her obsession with walking out of a restaurant with a drink in hand. "Could I have a to-go tea," she will always ask. I realize that there is an inherent need to keep our tissues from dessicating by the occasional infusion of moisture, but we're beyond necessity. We once had a pianist at our church, and I use the term "pianist" in the loosest sense. She would walk in every Sunday, usually late, carrying a huge insulated mug of some carbonated beverage (probaby Diet Coke, given her girth). I've seen other people walking into church, and people walking into funerals, carrying bottles of water or soft drinks. The absurdity I see in these situations is that none of these activities are physically strenuous. None are necessarily thirst-creating. You'll never see a Gatorade commercial that says, "Going to a funeral? Going to church? Don't grieve because of your thirst. Quench your thirst, not the spirit. Gatorade. Is it in you?" Or how about this: "A long day of shopping can take it out of you. The mall is no place to be without PowerAde."

I like drinking, too. I just don't feel the compulsion to be doing it all the time. Right now, I have two half-finished cups of coffee on my desk. I also have a water bottle, which brings me to my next point...

Water. Who would have ever thought that drinking water, by the individual bottle, would be more costly per ounce than gasoline? Gasoline (at a rounded-off price of, let's say, $4/gallon) works out to be 3 1/8 cents per oz.. For a 20 oz. bottle, gasoline would cost roughly $0.62 instead of $1.50, which is about what you would pay for a 20 oz. bottle of water. How stupid is this? And all of this for a bottle of water which is probably tap water that is run through a filter to take out the city water taste. Me? I only drink spring water. I turn on the faucet, and it springs into my cup. One concession I have made at work is that I purchased a Brita filtering pitcher. City water here is atrocious and is in need of some help. At home, our water comes out of the ground, not out of the sewer, and it therefore doesn't taste nearly as bad.

The whole "I have to drink water constantly or I will die" mindset has caused other things, ridiculous things, to happen. I was in a big-box store the other day, the one symbolized with two concentric red circles. There was a water bottle I admired, the kind you fill up yourself from your own reverse osmosis tap so you don't get parched while you take the kids to soccer.  It was a nice aluminum bottle which appeared to have a plastic lining of some sort. Ten bucks. Ten bucks for a bottle that didn't even have any water in it yet. It was about a one liter bottle, so to fill it up with gas would have cost $1.04, still cheaper than a one-liter bottle of Ozarka.

If I'm out and about and find myself in a state where I'm about 99.9% parched, I go for a soft drink. Twenty-ounces of your sugar-infused drink of choice (or sugar-free, if that's your pref) seems to be a better value, no matter how bad it is for you. And it's mostly water anyway, but it's got other good things in there, like flavor and fizz. Sometimes, a sugar-infused, fizzy bev seems a bit heavy, so I go for a non-fizzy bev, like an Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng and Honey. You can get a big can of this, about a gallon, for $0.99--a bargain by any standard! And it's sweetened with Sue-Bee Honey--man, you can't get more natural than that! It's also co-sweetened with sugar, but that usually comes from corn, also natural. Aspartame? Not natural. Saccharine? Not natural. Sucralose?  Not natural either.

Then there's our nation's obsession with beer, particularly as it relates to sporting events, live or on television. However, I'm not qualified to discuss this, since I hate sports and I don't drink beer.

Food (or, actually, drink) for thought.

 

On Weblogging

Weblogging (sorry--I refuse to use the term "blog") is quite the phenomenon. Anyone can, absolutely for free, post their opinions and writings on the World Wide Web so that anyone on this old earth (and beyond) with Internet access can read their words. As if the Internet was not bloated with enough garbage before, it's now become sort of a Vanity Press Library of Congress, with countless self-published volumes, few of which would have ever been published were not someone else footing the bill for it. I fit that category. I've never been published in a reputable way, save a "Letter to the Editor" here and there. Those don't count, though, as they can also be allowed in print for the sole purpose of making you look stupid for saying such things. However, I don't do this (weblogging) because I think my opinions are weighty and that others would benefit from sitting at my feet and catching these pearls of wisdom on their tongues. I do it because I enjoy it. Xanga gives me a medium for writing for my benefit, yet at the same time puts the things I write out there in case anyone else can miraculously benefit from it. At the minimum, folks can read my posts and say, "Boy, I thought I was a bad writer!"

Actually, I don't think I'm that bad as a writer. I read over some of the things I've written and I, even if no one else does, enjoy reading what I've written. In my earlier years, I enjoyed writing and thought there could be no better existence than writing and having people pay you for it. In all humility, I've read a lot of other people's writing--people who write for a living--and I wonder to myself why I couldn't do that. It seems obvious that everyone who makes good money writing for a living ain't necessarily good at it. But writing for pay is quite a racket to break into, much like professional music. Many people have the technical skill and can string words/notes together in a way that is, technically, correct. The missing component is creativity. Just because something is original, just because you created it, doesn't necessarily mean it is something that others will enjoy reading or listening to.

On the other hand, those that try and fail are, in my opinion, to be lauded over those that either never try or put themselves in a position to criticize those who do try and yet yield less than desirable results. I'm sure I've quoted this before, but if so, it warrants repeating:

"Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat."   ~  Theodore Roosevelt

Saintism

I've always been intrigued by the extensive inventory of saints that the Catholic church has amassed. I've found it curious that they think a deceased saint has anything of value to offer, other than the example of their life. Praying to saints seems wasted energy when one can pray to the Big Man himself. It's like taking your problems at work to a co-worker, who can do nothing, instead of to the boss, who can. (By this point, I suppose some of you are re-reading the title, seeing that it ain't what you thought).  

Enjoy this picture of my new St. Kevin visor clip. Having St. Kevin at the ready will, no doubt, protect me from traffic accidents and road rage, and hopefully, a ticket or two. I just hope his potency as a saint can endure my poor driving and laziness in keeping my registration and vehicle inspection up to date.

St. Kevin was an interesting saint. Here's an excerpt from the ever-valuable Wiki:

He was known for his disdain of human company, especially that of women; his name was used in Ireland as a term for men with cold relations with women up until the 19th century. An extreme example of his chastity was the instance when he pushed an amorous woman into a patch of nettles.

St. Kev, as he will be referred to from here on out, was a hermit living in Glendalough, Ireland. He was reported to be 120 years old when he died. It is also reported that once, during a drought, Kev and his disciples were fed by an otter, who brought them salmon to eat. Right here, I see a lot in Kev that I like.

1. Hermit - I'm often tempted to live as one.
2. 120 Years Old - I'd like to live to be at least that old.
3. Salmon - I like to eat salmon, especially Alaskan, broiled with some olive oil and dill.
4. Otter - The otter makes my short list of "Favorite Mammals".

However, I'd never push an amorous woman into a patch of nettles.

Quite a Story...

  In 1986, Dan Harrison (pictured here) was on holiday in Kenya after graduating from Northwestern University

On a hike through the bush, he came across a young bull elephant standing with one leg raised in the air. The elephant seemed distressed, so Dan approached it very carefully.

He got down on one knee and inspected the elephant’s foot and found a large piece of wood deeply embedded in it. As carefully and as gently as he could, Dan worked the wood out with his hunting knife, after which the elephant gingerly put down its foot.

The elephant turned to face the man, and with a rather curious look on its face, stared at him for several tense moments. Dan stood frozen, thinking of nothing else but being trampled. Eventually the elephant trumpeted loudly, turned, and walked away.

Dan never forgot that elephant or the events of that day.

Twenty years later, Dan was walking through the Chicago Zoo with his teenaged son. As they approached the elephant enclosure, one of the creatures turned and walked over to near where Dan and his son Dan Jr. were standing.

The large bull elephant stared at Dan, lifted its front foot off the ground, and then put it down. The elephant did that several times then trumpeted loudly, all the while staring at the man. Remembering the encounter in 1986, Dan couldn’t help wondering if this was the same elephant.

Dan summoned up his courage, climbed over the railing and made his way into the enclosure. He walked right up to the elephant and stared back in wonder. The elephant trumpeted again, wrapped its trunk around one of Dan’s legs and slammed him against the railing, killing him instantly.

Probably wasn’t the same elephant...

One Little Victory

Most people, in the course of their lives, achieve very few great victories in their lives. Most of us must be content with the small successes in life to make it worth living. After all, I'd rather have a lot of small victories along the way instead of sitting around, waiting for that one big victory. I recently had one little victory that I'd like to share, which will hopefully encourage you to do something and risk failure rather than playing it safe and doing nothing.

On my commute to work, I take a short cut, turning off Rosedale at 12th Avenue. This saves me a considerable amount of headache waiting on lights, primarily the one at 8th and Rosedale. Recent work on the streets, hopefully with the harried commuter in mind, widened Rosedale one lane on each side. It also put a turning lane and a light at the intersection of 12th and Rosedale.

They installed a "protected left turn only" light/sign at the intersection which would allow you to turn only when the green arrow was on. This is not a bad situation if it is coupled with some type of lane sensor which lets the light know when someone is waiting to turn. If this light had such a sensor, it didn't work properly. I often found myself sitting at the light, watching traffic build up behind me until it spilled out into the thru traffic. The light was unusually long, irritating me further when I waited and no oncoming traffic was to be seen. Cars would often go through the light, make a U-turn, and come back to 12th rather than wait for the light to change in their favor. Mostly it was just frustrating.

Noticing that the intersection at 9th Avenue, one block further, had a "Yield on Green" sign in the left turn lane, I wondered why the intersection at 12th didn't have the same. I would often say to myself, 'Someone needs to do something about this.' I said this often, but did nothing until...

One day, fed up, I got online and found where I could send a message concerning a repair or problem to the Traffic/Public Works Department. I formulated my well-reasoned argument, stating that it was a traffic impediment and a hazard when left-turn traffic backed up out of the turning lane into the thru-traffic. It was very convincing, I must say, but I realized that it was a city bureaucracy I was dealing with, mired in inefficiency and politics. After a few weeks, I gave up on ever hearing from anyone about this matter. Then I got this message.

Nothing happened for probably a month or so; I can't remember exactly when I got the call. Then Friday, when I was on the way into work I noticed it. The sign had been changed.

I was excited to see it. First, that my commute would be simplified somewhat, my old route being restored. Second, I was glad to see that my efforts had borne some fruit.

I'm not sure if it was my call only, or if there was a series of calls, mine being one of many. Whatever the catalyst, the results were the same.

You're saying to yourself now, "Hey, how can I make a difference in my community like you did?"  First, be polite. Second, make sure  you have a good argument, one that shows benefit to more than yourself. Third, throw yourself on the mercy of (insert authority figure here).

It was a great experience. Not world changing, unless my world counts, but uplifting none the less.

Sunday

"He is not here; for He is risen, as He said."

Saturday

Friday

The Surreal Life

I often have people say to me, in reference to my job, "I don't know how you do it.".   Other questions usually follow. "Is it scary...weird...gross...sad?"

Sad? No, at least not for me. Who could survive more than a week on the job if it were sad all the time. Granted, there are moments of sadness, usually when genuine tragedy strikes. More often it's not really tragic but just one of those things in life. Most people deal with inevitabilities such as death rather well. There are exceptions. Aren't there always?

A thinking person cannot work in my field for as long as I have without experiencing some surreal moments. I wish I could share the dirty details, but that wouldn't be very ethical. I'm sorry about that. I, were I in your shoes, would want the down-and-dirty details. Suffice to say that I've seen the human body in many different post-mortem conditions, some normal and peaceful-looking, others showing the results of violence or mayhem. I've seen every part of the human body cast about like broken auto parts.

At first, it was weird. When the newness had worn off a bit, I found myself looking at my surroundings and saying to myself, 'Hey, these people are all dead.' There were initial cautions, as if they were dangerous or could, at any moment, jump up and go out for a cup of coffee. Over time, I've settled into a detached mode, generally indifferent to my surroundings. It is, finally, just a job.

I'm often compelled to perpetuate the myths associated with the field. If someone asks me, "You ever have one sit up on you?", I say, "Sure. All the time." I will then walk away or change the subject so as to possibly leave a cloud of doubt and uncertainty hanging in the air.

The surreal moments come when the job exceeds its normal boundaries. It doesn't have to deviate very far--just enough to open a window into the weirdness that is inherent in the work itself. For instance, when you're handling a severed limb or are rinsing brains off of your gloves, it can catch up with you, this weirdness. This weirdness creates a diversion that, strangely enough, we can find entertaining. We're not finding delight in another's suffering or death, but in the job itself, which incidentally involves another's suffering or death. If you have a problem with that, deal with it.

This is how we, the weirdos, do what we do. We're normal people in abnormal circumstances. Someone has to do the dirty work, and that someone is us.

On Profanity.

I grew up with profanity. I come from a rustic environment, rough and tumble, full of hard characters. Their speech reflected their coarseness. It's hard to exist in that environment for 20 years or more and not have it rub off on you a bit. I'm not excusing it. I still know better, but in a weak moment I still might succumb to a smattering of Potty Mouth.

Profanity communicates weakness and/or ignorance.  Your weakness is a weakness of character, an inability or unwillingness to submit yourself to common laws of decency. Your ignorance may be simple: you don't know any better or weren't taught any better. It may be a more complex ignorance: you don't know how to communicate in any way where profanity is unnecessary or irrelevant.

Profanity may also communicate a coarser, baser nature that's coming out in you. You know it's wrong, taboo or verboten, but you choose to use it anyway. Perhaps you're trying to be cool. Perhaps you're trying to show others that the rules don't apply to you. Maybe it's simply rebellion, which, the last time I read a dictionary, was an act of defiance aimed at an authority or established convention. In this case, it seems to be aimed at both: authority and convention.

The funny thing is that people seem to be trying to communicate toughness when they get Potty Mouth. Unfortunately, they generally miss the mark.

 

The Unkindest Cut of All

(Originally posted 2/11/08)

I've recently experienced one more of too many disappointing interactions with so-called Christian brothers and/or sisters. I'll be sparing the details, mostly to protect the guilty. Suffice to say that this event provided more material to people who already take every opportunity to think poorly of me. Never mind that it was founded on falsehood, spread abroad by undisciplined, wagging tongues.

Rumors and gossip. Half-truths and whole lies. Misunderstandings and sour grapes. One expects these things outside of the Kingdom, but insiders should expect better. We are, after all, a chosen people. We should be emulating our King. We should be setting ourselves apart. There's a song whose chorus contains these words: "They will know we are Christians by our love." I guess that some just prefer to hide in the shadows and remain unknown.

Shakespeare undoubtedly envisioned a version of this, albeit a probable secular one, when he wrote these words:

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel.
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov'd him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquish'd him: then burst his mighty heart. . . .

How, pray tell, can we as believers, in good conscience, be so thoughtless and cold as to betray a brother? How can we hate our own blood that much? There is plenty in this world to hate, all of it more deserving of our venom. There are causes a-plenty that need zeal and passion to move them along. Why the do we waste our indignation on those most deserving of our compassion and our forbearance?

Well, in some ways the answer is obvious. We in the light still bear a dark side. Some of us spend more time as Dr. Jekyll, others as Mr. Hyde. For some, the doctor rarely makes an appearance anymore. We all have this dualism. The apostle Paul wrote:

So I find this law at work: When I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being I delight in God's law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within my members. What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God—through Jesus Christ our Lord!

Did you hear the good news? We have been rescued. We have been set free. Our liberator has cut loose the rotting corpse which had been lashed to us. So what are you waiting for? You prefer bondage to freedom? You say you don't mind the burden of that stinking, rotting corpse you carry around?

Step outside your cell, people! The door is unlocked, open. Leave your friend inside when you come out.

Oh, and close the door behind you.

My Fickle Fancy

(Originally posted 1/20/2008)

Concerning bass guitars, my loves have been all over the place. In some way, those guitars I've once loved, I still do love to a degree. The position that is foremost in my affections changes occupants from time to time. There's been the Music Man Bongo five-string (thus my username), the Music Man Sting Ray five-string (with double humbucker), and most recently, the Lakland 55-01 or 55-94.

I feel myself coming back to the standards. My present love is the Fender Jazz bass, preferably black with a maple fingerboard (concerning guitars, looks are important). My infatuation with five-string guitars is waning, and I've never felt an affection for a four string that could eclipse the Jazz bass. Now some of the Lakland Jazz bass copies (as the Joe Osborne in this picture on the bottom) are mighty fine, too, and are worth considering. However, I feel the American Standard Jazz bass is a fine instrument worthy of my limited skills.

Of course, the discussions of the merits of all these guitars is academic, as I will probably never own all of them. It's fun to speculate though, and my desires are fickle ones which will most likely be love from a distance. But, I've been able to play many guitars over the course of the years that would only have been possible within the confines of a Guitar Center showroom or the less-limited confines of my dream-state. So, no one really knows the value of lofty dreams.

The Bass and I: The Reformation

When I decided to rebuild my guitar, I made a list of what I wanted to do and the parts I wanted to buy. I finally got a windfall that would finance the venture, so I ordered my parts from www.basspartsresource.com, your one stop shop for guitar and bass parts. Here's what I ordered:

(1) - Hipshot Type-A 4-string bass bridge (brass, not aluminum)

(1) - Seymour Duncan Basslines SPB-3 Quarter Pound P-Bass Pickup

(1) - Fender OEM Tortoise Pickguard

(2) - Aftermarket metal drum knobs

(1) - Wiring kit (2 pots, a .047 mfd capacitor and cloth-covered vintage wire)

(4) - Chrome string ferrules

(1) - Hipshot string retainer/tree

 

 

 

 

Here's all my parts laid out in the guitar case before the project began in earnest. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wanted to do something different and perhaps humorous to the headstock when I recreated the artwork. I was inspired by Alex Lifeson's "Hentor Sportscaster". I also thought that the usage of the heteronym "bass" was rather witty. I used a Fender graphic that I kyped of the Internet, choosing it for its uniqueness (I haven't seen it used on a guitar before). The fish graphic pays homage to my redneck heritage.

 

 

 

 

 

As you will see here, I've removed the neck, pickguard and electronics, and the bridge. When I removed the bridge, I put a layer of tape on the body, reattached the bridge, and then marked the position of the bridge and also the position of the saddles. I also marked on the tape the placement of the new screw and through-body holes. The cavity was lined with foil tape, as was the back of the pickguard.

 

 

 

 

 

What you see here is the body at the point where the bridge attaches. The new bridge allowed for through-the-body stringing, so I needed to drill the body and install string ferrules. What you see here, from top down is: the hole for the bridge ground wire, the screw holes drilled to attach the new bridge, the old screw holes (filled with putty), and the new holes that go through the body.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's the new electronics after I soldered them all up.  Awesome new pickups, heavy-duty pots and wire. The long wire travelling horozontally, trailing off to the right is the bridge ground wire.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's the string ferrules after installed. This is the only part of the job I'm dissatisfied with. When drilling, I chipped the paint slightly. I'm trying the top two strings through and the bottom two on the bridge to see how that sounds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's the new bridge, installed and strung. This thing is solid brass. I'm totally sold on Hipshot products. This bridge has the look of quality and the feel...Well, I'll just say it was money well spent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here's a picture of the completed project. I still like the vintage look of the tortoise and the new look of the bridge and pickups.

 

 

 

 

 

The headstock after I reinstalled the tuners and added the Hipshot string retainer. This was an impulse buy. The original Fender button was probably adequately functional, but I liked the new look the Hipshot would give it. That, plus I didn't want the button crowding my new graphics. You see the screw hole from the original retainer above the Fender graphic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, and a final touch. Not wanting to deceive anyone to this guitar's original heritage, I moved the serial number and location of manufacture to the back, changing it slightly to reflect it's new pedigree.