Sharron (Always Looking for an) Angle:Ill-Tempered, Ill-Equipped

There's an old adage in electoral politics about running to your wing to get the nomination, then running to the center to win the general election. Time and again this axiom has proved its worth as wise counsel. At the moment, there's a lot of running to the far flank by people who will probably find their bridges back to the center burned by their own intemperate arsenal of rhetorical dynamite.

Sharron Angle is one such person. Having scooped up the Republican nomination for US Senator from Nevada, Ms. Angle is already the unlikely beneficiary of another political self-immolation—that of former candidate Sue (Pay Your Doctors with Chickens) Lowden. When Lowden balked at backing down from her "chicken" solution to the health care crisis, Angle was right there to pick up the support of those who didn't have any chickens to pay their medical bills.

The thing about marching back to the center in time for November is that one must have the skill to do so without appearing to repudiate everything that has come out of your mouth up to that point. Otherwise, odds are you will be exposed as little more than a double-talking opportunist. Sharon Angle has revealed a desperation by staking out positions that are sure to rev up the far right flank allowing her to cakewalk her way to the party's nomination. But so much of what she calculatingly embraced during the primary process appears to be precisely what will ignite the C4 lining her bridge back to reality.

Let the double-talking opportunism begin: Dismantle Social Security. No, privatize Social Security. No, personalize Social Security. Get rid of the EPA. No, give the EPA a more defined mandate. Too much banking regulation ignited the Wall St. collapse. (No discernible retreat from that one yet. There may not be one that makes any sense.) If we don't get what we want at the ballot box, we may have to look toward Second Amendment remedies and take out Harry Reid! What I meant was take him out of office. (Yeah, with Second Amendment remedies? Charming.)

The foregoing represents a mere sampling of the kind of double-talk Ms. Angle has engaged in since winning the nomination and trying to traverse that treacherous bridge back to the center—one that is quickly becoming a bridge to nowhere.

Just weeks ago, Majority Leader Harry Reid's reelection bid was in deep do-do. Now, thanks to Sharron Angle herself, that may no longer be the case. In fact, Reid's most effective tactic for the time being seems to be that of just letting Angle drown in her own political oil spill. So out of touch are most of her positions, the best response is no response. The more she talks, the better Harry Reid looks.

Even if Sharron Angle morphs into something more palatable in time for the November election, my hunch is that she won't be able to hide her true colors, another wing nut will wither away, and Republicans will have to seriously examine whether all the tea they've been drinking is doing them any good.

Turning the Tables

What is it about my face that tells some people, "By all means, share your wisdom with me; tell me why I need a god in my life."

The parking lot outside my favorite coffee shop has long served as a sanctuary, a place where I can enjoy the splendor of a freshly brewed cup of coffee, a little NPR news, and a few moments of precious solitude. There are usually a few others basking in the same setting, each in a world all his own—unencumbered and imperturbable. Or so we thought.

The first time it happened I respectfully interrupted the religious sales pitch the same way I do when those annoying businesses call during dinner to tell you they are not selling anything and just want a few moments of your time: "Thank you very much; I am not interested." [Pleasant stare!] The second time it happened—just a few weeks later—I felt violated. "No, no. That's quite all right. You keep your Jesus magazine to yourself, and do have a nice day." [Not so pleasant stare!] I was beginning to think these people either had a quota or got paid by the soul.

As time went on, my guard instinctively went up whenever someone got a little too close to my car. I promised myself after the last run-in with the God Squad that the next person who approached me with a smile on his face and a book in his hand was going to get an earful. And sure enough, they came for me again.

In the past I had always believed their was no reasoning with these people, that they had their own way of thinking and it was pretty much out there. This time, however, was different. The closer this young man got to me, the more determined I became to turn the tables on him. The conversation went substantially like the following:

—Hi. I noticed you sitting in your car by yourself, and I thought you might be interested in something.
—Really? What might that be?
—This magazine which explains how and why God needs and loves everyone.
—That's interesting, but do you mind if I ask you a question?
—Not at all.
—Do you believe in a god?
—Yes, I believe in God. Do you?
—No, I do not, but that's not important.
—Well, actually it is important.
—Sorry to burst your bubble, but trust me - it's not important. May I ask you another question?
—Of course.
—Do you claim to know that your god exists?
—Yes, of course. We know this to be true.
—Okay. Have I got your attention right now?
—Yes.
—May I explain something to you?
—By all means.
—What you have, my friend, is faith. You know nothing. You believe. There is a big difference.
—Let me ask you a question. What is faith?
—Faith is believing in something that the human powers of reason cannot sustain. You are, of course, free to do this, but understand - it defies reason, and by definition, things beyond our ability to reason cannot be known to be true. But beyond all that, do you know why I don't walk up to perfect strangers and tell them about all the wondrous virtues of life as an atheist?
—Why?
—Because I respect other people. Do you respect me?
—Yes. I respect you.
—Do you respect the rights of others to think as they choose about these things?
—Yes, I do - very much.
—Allow me to disagree. By approaching me for no other reason than to gain my confidence for the purpose of converting me to your personal world view, you have shown me great disrespect. Do you understand this?
—I am very sorry. I did not mean to show any disrespect.
—(Determined to get in the last word) Well, you work on that. I have to get to work now. Remember - respect! Have a nice day.

While the foregoing may not qualify as reasoning with a religious person, it at least shows that having the last word is possible. It felt good telling an arrogant theist to get lost without using those exact words. In the past, whenever I thought better of engaging such an individual—and as much as I may have thought is was the sensible thing to do—it nonetheless felt as though I was squandering an opportunity, an opportunity to inject a little reason and common sense into the encounter.

Having tried the Plan B option for a change, I have to report, it felt like the right thing to do. That it likely fell on deaf ears is not important. Gently asserting one's self in situations like these is dignifying and empowering.

It seems the real difference between my deluded friend and me is that I do indeed respect his right to believe as he chooses; whereas, he apparently does not respect mine. Despite this, there is a mitigating factor diluting his culpability: only the insidious delusion of religious faith has the power to infect an otherwise agreeable and intelligent person to such an extent. The defective reasoning of religious zealots blinds them to their own malfeasance.

With a little luck, I will be spared any further assaults from those who want to save my soul. But if they come for me again, I will be ready.

Joe Scarborough—Constructive Conservative

A recent blog post on RedState.com (Is Joe Scarborough Out of Touch with Conservative Ascendancy?) questioned whether the host of MSNBC's Morning Joe, former Florida Representative Joe Scarborough, is worthy of the conservative label or is merely cozying up to liberal East Coast media elites in order to sell his own watered down brand of conservative politics. In the ensuing thread of comments, there was both agreement and disagreement with this premise—some informative, some predictable.

As a regular viewer of Morning Joe, my take is that Joe Scarborough is not out of touch with conservatism at all; rather he has chosen to distance himself from the immoderate, rhetorical flame throwers who denigrate political debate. He is consistently conservative—even very conservative—on nearly every major policy issue. Yet he is cast as a kind of traitor to the conservative cause because he won't join in the profanity parade being grand marshaled by El Rushbo, Sarah Palin, Glenn (oligark!) Beck, and other masters of mayhem.

The sad part of this is that a perverse kind of litmus test is being administered by those who have come to believe they speak for the Republican Party. If you don't believe President Obama is out to destroy America, that his citizenship is suspect, that Nancy Pelosi was spawned by Satan, etc., you are simply not "one of us." The GOP is on the brink of being hijacked by demagogues—if it hasn't been already. Mr. Scarborough, on the other hand, understands that the resurgence of the Republican Party lies in its moderating influences and not in its wing nut flank.

Joe Scarborough's biggest contribution to the debates of our day lies in his commitment to civility. As an unapologetic liberal, I disagree strongly with most of his ideas. But I take from him the importance of operating from the premise that honorable debate in politics is infinitely more productive than the dishonorable practice of demonizing one's adversaries with little more than ideological vulgarities.

At this point it concerns me more that the tenor of political discourse be freed from its present state of dysfunction than it does who occupies the White House or holds a majority in Congress. When public debate is debased by intemperate rhetoric, extremists become less marginalized and more willing to offer up their own special brands of poison. That is the danger.

Joe Scarborough is just what the Republican Party needs. His voice lends legitimacy to the conservative cause. Those who disguise their bombastic rants as mere populist banter are the ones who are really out of touch. It just may take a while for them to figure it out.

Confessions of a Farmville Snob

As much as I loved my sister Mary, there was one thing about her that always annoyed me: she was something of a movie snob. If it didn't have subtitles or play at one of those out-of-the-way, artsy-fartsy movie houses, it couldn't have been a very good flick. Yes, Mary was bored by Lord of the Rings, and if she were with us today, I'm sure she would pooh-pooh Avatar as nothing but a teched-up, mindless fantasy without any meaningful characters. But, whether Mary is now lapping it up at that small, trendy Cinéstudio in the sky or has been consigned to the big multiplex down below, one thing is for sure: a bigger movie snob there never was.

The truth is, however, we are all snobs of one kind or another. Some of us are radio snobs, listening only to NPR of course. (Guilty!) Some are food snobs who wouldn't be caught dead consuming anything from a can or box let alone through the car window. And let's not forget the clothing snobs who think anything off the rack at Wal-Mart or Target is for the little people, don't you know.

Which brings me to the sordid image being returned from the mirror these days. Yes, judging by the disdain I have cultivated for those who mindlessly tend to their virtual farms on one of Facebook's most popular gaming apps, it is clear I am much too sophisticated a person to entertain myself with such drivel and have slowly turned into a total Farmville snob!

Could it be I am simply jealous of all the attention my wife gives to Farmville and not to me? Jami dotes on her virtual farm in a way she never dotes on me, meticulously cultivating crops, feeding animals and swapping chores with other Farmville devotees, all the while garnering enough points and prizes to keep her toiling away with no end in sight.

On the surface, Farmville appears to be little more than the codependency relationship from hell; the more friends you have sharing chores and gifts with, the more productive the output of your farm, which entices even more people to become friends, which makes you even more productive, which—well, you get the idea. Jami now has over 200 Farmville "friends" and is now competing with a gamer—who calls herself Monsanto Mindy—to become the most productive virtual landscaper in the farmosphere! I have a recurring nightmare in which these 200 virtual friends turn into real people and start coming over for cookout dinners and farming tips. I usually wake up right about the time the guests start marching toward me with their rakes and shovels a la Night of the Living Dead demanding I join them in tending to their farms.

Why am I above all this? Well for one thing it's much too juvenile in appearance for my taste, the cartoonish imagery seductively luring the child within to enter a world of make-believe and go for the gusto. Aside from the occasional Rocky and Bullwinkle rerun, I have sworn off cartoons, having graduated to more substantive and intelligent matters like trying to decipher Tea Party politics and the intricacies of the latest national disaster. Then there's the constant need to acquire new friends in order to successfully grow your farm. Excuse me but I have enough trouble with the two friends I already have in the real world. I don't need hundreds of strangers begging me to send them some of my virtual corn just so they can feed their virtual cows.

It's plain these people have little else to amuse themselves with. My life, on the other hand, is much too interesting and challenging to have any need for something as tedious as Farmville. I guess I just have to accept the fact that I am too good for Farmville and that—just like commercial radio—it is beneath me.

It's not easy being a snob.

Tea Partiers and Wing Nuts: One and the Same?

What is it about the Tea Party movement? Do they intend to craft an image that could possibly serve respectable—or practical—ends? Or will they continue to prowl as a political Animal House—a crusty crowd of conservatives gone wild? While the core identity of this populist pandemic is difficult to pin down, one thing is becoming clear: more and more, the character of this movement defies sweeping generalizations. But if that's the case, why has so much of the criticism levied against it been so resoundingly applied? The answer lies within.

The reason Tea Partiers invite so much criticism is that the immoderate, intolerant, racist factions among them are the ones with all the good megaphones. Why? Because the main stream media knows who to give the good megaphones to and what it is most people want. And what most people want is conflict. Conflict sells. MSM doesn't do subtlety and nuance. One actually has to do a little digging to find those entrées at the news-reporting buffet. And it seems, as Bill Maher likes to point out, that the average American is fairly lazy in this regard, content to consume whatever the headline writers think will best promote ideological warfare. One cannot dissect the character of the Tea Party movement without dissecting the methodology of MSM.

Perhaps it is the emergence of the Coffee Party with is creed of civility that has some in the Tea Party not liking what they see when they look in the mirror. To be sure, the more moderate among them, those with legitimate concerns about things like the role of government and the size of the national debt, are beginning to be heard. Of course most will only disavow the wing nuts among them at a price: the other side must disavow the wing nuts in their camp as well. This is easy enough to do, but it is disingenuous to suggest that our wing nuts are just as pervasive as their wing nuts. Up until now, the wing nuts from the right have been the very face of the Tea Party movement, while the intelligently moderate conservatives among them have had to fight to be heard and struggle to hide their embarrassment.

Whether the soul of the Tea Party movement—or the Republican Party itself for that matter—is won over in the end by Rush, Glenn, Bill-O, Sarah and other backward-thinking, pseudo intellectuals like them or by Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Public remains to be seen.  The truth is not all white people over 40 who pay taxes and like their health insurance are racist zombies. It's just that if they don't speak up themselves, the racist zombies will continue to speak for them.

Personally, I have hope that the rage in the present populist movement will mitigate and calmer heads will prevail. But then again I'm just an optimistic kind of guy.

Obscene Justice?

In a world without consequence, the utterly unreasonable, untenable, and unconscionable become utterly viable. This is precisely the world those who violate others in the extreme come to inhabit, if only for the fleeting few moments it takes them to commit their atrocities. At this point a world with consequence takes precedence, and a punishment ostensibly consistent with the most just of human values is meted out.

It is here hidden within these values where, under the guise of legal sanction, one can rationalize as appropriate something that might otherwise be considered unthinkable. Though not absolute, the value of a life is apparently worth satisfying our lust for vengeance. To suggest it can satisfy the demands of justice is to ignore that justice is what we decide it is and nothing more.

Sanitizing the act of killing by doing it in an orderly, legal and "non-violent" manner does not hide the fact that we are acceding to the very same vulgar instincts which motivated whatever despicable crime was committed in the first place. By engaging in a reckless display of retribution, we explicitly repudiate what is arguably the most inviolable of human values—the preservation of life itself.

We have graduated, of course, from the crude practices of setting aflame, electrocuting, beheading and otherwise administering the 'less enlightened' methods of capital punishment. But is putting someone to death by lethal injection truly any less civilized? Or are we, by executing people with calmness and sterility, merely convincing ourselves we are being civilized and that we can indeed kill with honor and compassion? It may also be that our willingness to legalize killing has the unintended consequence of providing the criminal mind with the very rationale it needs to carry out its own ugly deeds.

Perhaps preserving life is not always the nobler value. Maybe life isn't worthy of being defended under all circumstances. But until we recognize that within each of us exists the whole of humanity's potential—both good and evil—justice will sometimes take the form of the obscene.

Liz Cheney: Like Father, Like Daughter

It seems the apple doesn't fall far from the tree after all in the case of former Vice President Dick Cheney and his daughter Liz Cheney. To say the younger Cheney is a mere clone of her father—politically speaking—is no understatement. Going over the top is quickly becoming just as much a signature of her persona as it was her father's.

Whatever chance Liz Cheney may have had to be taken seriously by a broad audience seems to have gone out the window. In a move seen as repugnant even by many of her Republican cohorts, Ms. Cheney's new political contraption, Keep America Safe, has unambiguously affirmed her wing nut predilections. By publicly maligning lawyers for representing defendants with ties to Al Qaeda, Ms. Cheney has bludgeoned a cornerstone precept in American jurisprudence, one which allows lawyers to vigorously defend their clients without assigning to them whatever nefarious associations their clients may possess.

It's not very likely Ms. Cheney doesn't know—or has forgotten—that legal representation is something any defendant is entitled to. Rather it is more likely she is out to capitalize on whatever political ill will she can conjure by associating legal representation of terror suspects with President Obama, who she says is failing to keep America safe by being "soft on terror."

Whatever one thinks of Ms. Cheney's political misorientation, you have to admire her sense of loyalty, especially given that it is directed toward people who are not likely to be treated kindly by history. As for her political aspirations, she may not may able to resist the call of the wild constituents; there certainly are enough of them. As one political observer put it, Liz Cheney is Sarah Palin with a brain, which could spell trouble for those of us who assumed no such creature could possibly exist.

Yes, it is clear Liz Cheney is intelligent, articulate and confident. It's almost a shame she is so arrogant, calculating and misguided. With assets like these, however, she should make a fine conservative politician.

Remembering a Bear Hug

Shortly after Jami and I were married, the man I was named for—Uncle Billy Newton—was nearing the end of his journey. I always loved Uncle Bill, and sharing a few moments with him as he lay dying turned out to be one of those rare encounters you treasure forever.

As soon as we heard Uncle Billy was in the hospital and not doing so well, Jay and I paid him a visit. I was flattered he instantly recognized me as his young namesake. After managing a warm smile, he opened his arms as wide as he could, inviting an embrace that would not be denied. For a man on his last leg, his strength defied reason as he squeezed the very breath out of my lungs.

Once I regained my composure—and my breath—there was one more thing Uncle Billy had in mind. He had an instruction for me, one I would take to heart and always endeavor to obey. "Be good to her, always," Uncle Billy said, slowly lifting his hand and pointing toward the woman I loved. "I will, Uncle Billy. Don't you worry, I will."

And with that gentle commandment, Uncle Billy and I said our good-byes. To this day I remember my kindly uncle as a man with the courage to say what sometimes needed to be said. He knew what a treasure a loving partner could be, having had one of his own in my precious Aunt Nancy. He also knew the importance of always treating one's partner with kindness and respect.

I miss you, Uncle Billy. Thank you for showing me the kind of foot steps worth following in.

Mr. Dennett's Proposal

The philosopher Daniel Dennett has many insights to offer about evolution, consciousness, religion and atheism. One idea he proposes has a slightly radical feel to it at first blush. Dennett believes the world's major religions should be taught—in a "fact-based" manner—to all children in primary and secondary schools, both public and private, as well as to those who are home schooled.

Dennett says children need to learn as much as they can about the world's religions so they can better understand the role they have played in shaping our culture. By learning about the "history, creeds, texts, music, prohibitions and requirements" of the world's most prominent religions, Dennett believes children can construct a firm foundation for making informed decisions later in life. Says Dennett, "Religions are an important natural phenomenon that should be studied with the same intensity we study all the other natural phenomena."

Parents, Dennett reminds us, do not own their children; they are their stewards. As such, they have a responsibility to broaden their children's horizons and not simply indoctrinate them in the ways of one specific religious faith. This is problematic for many parents, who believe they have the right to do precisely that.

I believe Dennett may be onto something worthwhile, especially if teaching about the practice of non-belief is included, which Dennett suggests should be. Hard as it may be for those who insist they have a right to raise their children in the "one true faith," which is invariably the one they practice, the intellectual nourishment of children would be greatly served if they learned about all religions as well as non-belief. Also, educating children in some small way about the Bible, as literature, would no doubt diversify a child's intellectual portfolio.

In his article/blog post Teach Our Children Well, (The Washing Post, On Faith, March 8, 2007) Dennett lays out his case for teaching a comparative religious studies program to children. There is a lively discussion in the attached thread from many perspectives. He writes extensively on the subject in his 2006 book, Breaking the Spell: Religion as a Natural Phenomenon.

By advocating the scientific study of religion as a 'natural phenomenon,' Dennett seems to both acknowledge its staying power as well as put his own interpretational stamp on the whole concept of religiosity itself. It is likely an interpretation, however, that doesn't sit well with those unwilling to see their faith as anything but divinely inspired.

The idealism of Dennett's proposal notwithstanding, having young minds examine religion as a cultural phenomenon sounds like a good idea.

My Winged Visitor

It was one of those dreams. The kind upon waking from you frantically try to resume by willing yourself back to sleep. Whatever it was—the imagery, the symbolism, the sheer beauty—recapturing the lost sequence is more often than not a desperately futile endeavor. Upon totally awakening one is consumed with joy for the experience, yet crushed by sadness for it having to end.

Several nights ago I had a visitor—to say I merely had a dream doesn't do justice to the experience. As I was riding along in the front passenger seat of a car, a small bird appeared along side the vehicle, keeping perfect pace. I thought it strange that a bird should shadow a moving car so intently, as if it wanted my attention. I extended my arm outside the window, opening my hand—palm downward. As if anticipating my gesture, my feathered friend instantly clung to my knuckles. It seemed to be reveling in the joy ride—every few seconds turning its head pointedly toward me and looking directly into my eyes. Within moments I was flush with amazement! It was as though the tiny creature were trying to tell me something—or lead me somewhere. But what? And where to? Several times it flew off, drawing circles with its flight path, then—just as quickly—returned to my hovering hand.

Like most dreams, this one left me riddled with uncertainty, consigned to conjecture about its meaning. About the only thing I was certain of was its emotionally transcendent nature; I awoke from this dream with a big smile on my face.

It's been several days now, and already I feel a longing for my bird friend's presence once again. Should he—or she—return, I will plead of him to reveal more about himself. Are you the gentle reincarnation of a lost sibling? An old friend? A fleeting acquaintance I should have gotten to know better? Or have you been called upon to guide me through the next chapter of my meandering life? So many questions—so few answers.

To my mysteriously enchanting friend: be kind to me. Come to me once more. Perhaps next time you can stay just a little longer.

Castle Dreams

Book Review

The Glass Castle
A Memoir by Jeannette Walls

Jeannette Walls had a most unusual upbringing. Her parents could easily be described as both eccentric and disturbed. Her father Rex was keenly intelligent, an electrical engineer by training, but pretty much out of the reality loop because he couldn't stop drinking. Rose Mary, Jeannette's mom, didn't drink but had a compulsion that could be almost as problematic: she was an artist.

Unfazed by the daunting demands of child rearing, Rex and Rose Mary indulged their obsessions to the point of near criminality. Brian, Lori, Jeannette, and Maureen were left to fend for themselves, their care and maintenance a virtual self-help program. But despite all the apparent neglect, a strange and subtle kind of love was always there—just beneath the surface of the chaos that never seemed to go away. Amid the madness, an unlikely richness permeated the lives of the Walls children. Even if food for the body wasn't always available, they learned—by mere osmosis—that sustenance for the spirit was in plentiful supply. All they had to do was look around. Reading, writing, art, science—all there just for the asking.

Walls brings us in close as she recalls a life she knew was not normal but bravely embraced nonetheless. To anyone cursed with parents too compromised mentally and conflicted emotionally to provide that normal life other kids seemed to have, Walls' story is a poignant reminder of both the horrors and the hope such a contorted existence can bring.

To be sure, the Wallses didn't set out to live lives of such want and poverty. But it was as much mismanagement as misfortune that forced Rex to round up Mom and the kids every so often and "do the skedaddle" as Rex liked to say. In dozens of backward towns, from California to Arizona to West Virginia, they found sanctuary—short-lived though it always was—from those who didn't seem to appreciate them for their peculiar ways. And it was always just a matter of time before the bill collectors, health authorities or FBI agents—at least the ones in Rex's mind—began to close in and force the family on to its next unknown destination.

Keeping alive a sliver of hope for a better life was Rex's self-appointed task. Out of whole cloth, he fabricated tall tales and exotic plans for one day striking it rich. All he had to do was perfect his gold-prospecting gadget or get that patent on his new energy-saving device or figure out how to—well, you get the picture. In any event, Rex promised his family they would one day live in a grand house out in the desert, one which would be powered by his patented solar energy system. Here in their dream home they would live and want for nothing. Rex even had a name for his pie-in-the-sky mansion. He called it The Glass Castle.

Dreams of one day living in The Glass Castle notwithstanding, years of sleeping inside cardboard boxes in homes so blighted and broken down that rain often poured freely through the roof was wearing on Jeannette and the other children. And so they, too, dreamed. They dreamed of one day breaking free of the clutches of lard sandwiches, mad parents, and virtual destitution.

Walls seems to almost congratulate herself when she realizes that she has indeed escaped and is holding down a very good writing job while living in a Park Avenue apartment in the city of her dreams—New York. But one day she is crudely reminded that some things in life are more difficult to escape than others. Noticing a woman picking through the garbage of a nearby dumpster, she is jolted by the reality that the woman dredging through the dross is her mother. Yes, Rose Mary and Rex followed Jeannette to New York, and she must now confront her own affluence in the contrasting light of her parents' new home—the streets of the Big City.

To her credit, Walls stops short of outright condemnation when reflecting upon her parents' miscues, partly because much of their plight seemed so predestined—and partly because they are family and rejecting family is not something one does lightly.

A few years after Rex has passed on, Jeannette and her new husband John entertained the family at Thanksgiving. There's a suggestion of lingering bitterness when Brian, at the sight of an opulent feast on the dinner table says, "You know, it's not really that hard to put food on the table if that's what you decide to do." As if to admonish her brother for saying something that might bring back bad memories and hurt Rose Mary's feelings, Lori matter-of-factly interjects, "Now, no recriminations." John suggests they drink a toast to Rex, and Mom seizes the moment offering—with affection in her voice—what the grown children already knew: "Living with your father was never boring."

No, The Glass Castle never got built, but Rex and Rosemary, despite their flaws, may have unwittingly built something just as special—a family that has figured out how to love.

Belief in a God: The Height of Inanity

It came to my attention the other day that the popular definition of the word inane has evolved over the years. Originally it meant empty, void, or insubstantial, e.g., the vast and inane reaches of outer space. Today it more often means asinine, pointless, or devoid of intelligence. It occurs to me that either definition works just fine to describe the phenomenon of belief in a supernatural being as lord of the universe.

All manner of philosophers, scientists and historians have attempted to explain why it is man appears so predisposed to religious belief. (Recent archeological finds in Turkey have unearthed what appear to be temples predating the Great Pyramids by thousands of years. These findings seem to indicate that before building any other kinds of structures, man built houses of worship! History In the Remaking, Patrick Symmes, Newsweek, Feb. 19, 2010) It has been said that more than ninety percent of the world's population believe in a god. Can that many people be deluded? The short answer is yes.

No matter which side of the faith/reason, theist/atheist debate one finds himself, it is generally accepted there is no rational justification for religious belief. That many theists will nonetheless lay claim to the existence of a god being logical or intelligent is both unimpressive and beside the point. It is much easier to respect someone who makes a leap of faith in the absence of evidence or reason than it is to respect someone who rationalizes his faith with nescient intellectualism.

As the irascible Bill Maher might ask, What's so difficult about saying 'I don't know?' Whatever it is that makes this modest concession so painful to articulate, it plainly has the power to sustain people's delusions. It matters not that the more temperate among believers—however few they are—might be a force for civility; they are nonetheless complicit in the crimes of the intemperate by advancing their most fundamental claims. In short, moderately religiously people have elevated irrationality to a respected art form. It really is a neat trick.

Will the next millennium bring with it a new Age of Enlightenment? One can hope, but evidence both affirming and denying this possibility is strong. On the one hand, atheism—characterized mainly by its reliance upon rational thinking—is now seen as less a taboo and more an acceptable and popular worldview than ever before; on the other hand, religious fundamentalists of all stripes are not going quietly into the night—to say nothing of the nihilistic extremists they spawn.

Religious faith is not likely to disappear any time soon, if ever. Perhaps it is not necessary that it does. What is necessary, however, is that those who do have such beliefs practice their faith without injecting it into the social machinery that must be acknowledged by everyone, most notably government.

Believing in a supernatural god—there may be no greater manifestation of the inane.

Dear Melissa Harris-Lacewell

Dear Melissa Harris-Lacewell:

I was delighted today to find your inaugural column in The Nation. Now I have another reason to immerse myself in this great publication. Now admittedly I am just getting to know of you, having followed you on Rachel Maddow and Countdown with Keith Olberman for several months now.

Your post in The Notion blog, Progressive Bible Study, I thought was something of a departure. I can understand why one would not want conservatives to abscond with whatever richness religion has to offer; I would only suggest that this richness never seems to reveal itself within the realm of the political. On the contrary, good democratic governance and free religious expression are greatly enhanced the more they remain free of each other's influence.

If you are suggesting that religious influence—in the form of enlightened morality—is a good thing, may I just say there is nothing uniquely religious about enlightened morality. Right and wrong are readily discerned by accessing more universally accepted paradigms within the realm of the secular.

Your suggestion that progressives stake their claim to a chair at the table of biblical influence in political matters (if I haven't misinterpreted or misunderstood you) reveals at best a naive hope that religious influence in political matters can somehow be moderated to the point of acceptability. I do not share this optimism given what I have seen over the past thirty years.

Whatever richness religion adds to our culture can best be maintained by keeping it quarantined from the political arena. When politics gets entangled with religion, the very religious freedom political leaders are tasked with protecting is threatened.

Don't cave on this issue. The rewards of standing firm are too valuable for our democracy to do without.

Yours truly,
A. Stickler [for keeping religion out of politics]

So Long, Sparkle

This is our daughter Alycia enjoying a
special moment with Sparkle in their younger days.

——————————

From the first day we took her in as a young stray fifteen years ago, Sparkle seemed to know right away who it was she had to soften up and win over. As a child I knew the joy of having a puppy to pal around and grow up with, but I had never taken to cats—didn't want to know them. Their independence and aloofness always struck me as their way of saying they could either take us or leave us; it seemed not to matter to them one way or the other. I see now how wrong I was.

Sparkle was persistent—I'll give her that. No matter how many times I dismissed her or shooed her away as a young kitten, no matter how coy, tough or disinterested I tried to be, Sparkle was determined to neutralize my feline antipathy and expose me for the big, soft marshmallow I was deep down inside. Crawling up onto the couch where I sometimes snoozed after chores or a round of golf, Sparkle would plant her feeble frame on my large shoulders and snuggle right up next to me, as if to mock me for being such a pushover.

It was embarrassing to be rendered completely powerless by the charms of a kitten, but I was careful not to let my weakness show. I pretended not to care or notice whenever Sparkle jumped onto my lap to affirm our secret friendship. Before long, however, the cat was out of the bag, and I could scarcely contain my affection for her.

Whatever was left of the tough guy within me was reduced to rubble today as Sparkle went to sleep for the last time. My tears flowed freely as her tired head gently settled onto her soft and pillowy paws—the merciful medicine relieving her of the pain and discomfort she endured so bravely.

We have much to learn from the creatures we take in as pets, from the unconditional nature of their love to the enduring posture of their loyalty. Somehow it is beyond them to hurt or disappoint us the way we humans will all too readily hurt and disappoint each other. If their behavior truly is subject to the dictates of instinct, how amazing it is those very instincts should appear so agreeable.

For now, we're going to leave Sparkle's food and water dish right where it is—until it really sinks in that she won't be needing it anymore. I have a feeling it may be there for some time. Thank you for being such a good cat and such an important part of our family. We're going to miss you very much. So long, Sparkle.

Death and Dignity: The Peter Barton Story

Book Review

Not Fade Away: A Short Life Well Lived

A Memoir by Peter Barton
with Laurence Shames

Peter Barton was an accomplished man. So much so, I had trouble relating to him at times throughout his story. But he and Laurence Shames collaborated so well on this memoir, I was moved to tears as I struggled to get through the final compelling pages.

From moderately privileged roots, Mr. Barton started out as a political advisor in his twenties and moved on to a career—short-lived though it was—as a virtual titan in the world of business and entertainment. At a moment as unpropitious an any, and in the prime of his young life, Barton discovered he had cancer. Before long it was evident his disease would pose the kind of challenge he believed he wasn't prepared for. That is until he resolved not to let his illness define who he was.

The co-authors deftly weave their contributions into the emotional fabric of the memoir, at one point sharing their story about the time they challenged each to tell the other why they were "doing this" at all. When Shames asks Barton this very question, Barton's answer is pointed: "I'll tell you, but first I want your answer to the exact same question." Shames then went on to describe his own emotional experiences involving the deaths of both of his parents over a recent eight-month span. The grief, the reflection, the introspection—all things it seemed as though Shames needed to revisit in order to qualify him for the task at hand. Ultimately, answering each other's challenge brought the two men closer together, which benefitted the telling of the story immeasurably.

We clearly get the picture that Barton was the kind of guy who always jumped into things with both feet. Whether it was the Green Truck cross-country journey to the Rocky Mountains of his adventurous youth, the danger flouting of his acrobatic ski-jumping days, or his many forays into business. Barton was someone who had no qualms about getting hurt, doing it wrong, or failing completely; one way or the other, he was at least going to try.

Barton draws on his experiences as a sometime, carefree nomad of yesteryear to psychologically manage his advancing illness. He makes no secret of—or apology for—the value living in the moment can have in both the best of times and worst of times. In fact, with a sort of joyful eeriness, Barton takes us on his voyage of worldly descent with amazing alacrity, describing in sublime detail how the past, present and future are all becoming one the closer he gets to the end.

And the end of the Peter Barton story is superbly told by Barton himself, sharing what he now sees as something possessing a "richness" and "texture" he didn't expect. So close to death, yet full of life, Barton confesses he did not find the calm he is now feeling. It found him.

I got through this book in a day and a half, unable to put it aside. And the next time I find myself wrestling with my own mortality, if it becomes too difficult, I'll just read Not Fade Away all over again. It is sure to replenish my courage.

Tradition—The Emptiest of All Reasons

Aside from the more dogmatic proponents of religious faith who not only openly advocate for a Christian theocracy in America, but who also subscribe to every tenet of their faith, there are many who seem less rigid, almost innocuous, in the way they live out their faith. When pressed, however, they are quick to affirm their belief in God out of what appears to be little more than a sense of tradition.

It is a fair bet that many Catholics don't really believe the host they consume during the communion ritual is in fact the body of Jesus Christ as church doctrine tells them, or that Jesus was actually born of a virgin. To these softer theists, a less rigid faith conspires with the institutions of family, community and ritual to provide a sense of comfort and belonging—a place where family and friends can gather and commemorate the milestones of life. In and of itself, this seems a harmless practice.

Going along to get along, and not wanting to rock the religious boat that keeps afloat one's sense of belonging is not without consequence, however. Blindly affirming the legacy of religious conformity at the expense of one's uniqueness is a compromise of abhorrent dimensions. This assumes, of course, that there is some semblance of intellectual autonomy left at all after being subjected to the immoral practice of religious indoctrination in the first place.

The marginalizing—and alienating—of anyone with a potentially dissenting mindset in the midst of religiously conforming family and friends is a vile practice carried on without subtlety. To be fair, acceptance is much more likely and evident from the younger, more liberal-minded among them. But still, these are often the same people who seem to consent to religiosity out of little more than a sense of duty or obligation, as though the mere appearance of rejecting their religious heritage would be construed as an act of betrayal.

For myself, I don't see the sense in perpetuating the cruel hoax that is organized religion and will not be a part of it. That being said, there's just as little to be gained by engaging in mere mockery. But when an honest attempt to respectfully partake of a religious tradition is met with alienation and rejection, it's time to ask myself, Is this worth it?

I played religious charades for years. Not any more. Not when my self respect in on the line.

What's So Complicated About Derivatives?

I don't know about you, but I am sick to death of hearing from hyper-educated economists, self-serving politicians, and filthy-rich Wall Street executives just how complex and misunderstood were the factors that nearly pushed the world's economy into the abyss.

One thing that is commonly misunderstood about the study of economics is that it is a social science. That is to say it is the study of human behavior as it relates to resources, their scarcity and, by extension, their cost. Once this axiom is understood, it becomes clear that little more than membership in the human race is required to offer valid or ample insights on the subject.

The 'Maul Street' gurus who survived the cataclysmic meltdown better than anyone else, however, are trying to convince the rest of us that despite this recent little hiccup—okay, near catastrophe—the management of risk is best left to the so-called experts who, conveniently, would be they.

For many years now, Wall Street firms have been hiring young Ivy League mathematicians for the sole purpose of devising new and imaginative ways to increase investment returns. Once upon a time, investment banks were content to put their monies into the kind of financial infrastructure that at the very least had a plausible connection to entities which actually produced goods and services. This, along with conventional banks' old stand-by, housing mortgages, made for a fairly stable banking contingent. Somewhere along the way, however, the concepts of moderation and enough were raped into oblivion, and the worst of human nature became the driving force in the minds and methods of those wielding the most influence.

So what about those pesky derivatives? Forgetting what we already fail to understand on their terms, a derivative is a financial instrument whose value is derived from the value of something else. It is decidedly not something whose value is meritoriously derived by its own intrinsic ability to create honest wealth. Like a pyramid scheme, there must eventually be big losers in order for the short-term-minded prostitutes to prevail. Those who contrived this scheme wanted to reap only the benefits of risk, perverting the much more legitimate practice of chancing modest amounts of capital as a hedge against uncertainty.

Derivatives are only as complicated as we allow those who devise and misuse them to convince us they are. I may not fully comprehend the function of the Federal Reserve, but I know enough about the seamier side of human nature to know that some of us will take what we can and screw then next guy every time, unless of course, we are constrained to do otherwise.

Wall Street: go find your conscience. President Obama: grow some balls. Congress: stand up and change campaign financing laws. American people: nap time is over. Remind these people that the power they derive by the consent of the governed is the only kind of derivative that makes any sense at all.

Cow Towing: Penance for the Persnickety

Someone once said to me, "Billy, if you were wrong about it, you could never have been certain of being right about it."

Oh, the perils of perfectionism! It's one thing to inexcusably rely on a spell-checker to perform substantive editing tasks; it's quite another to think yourself invincible when it comes to the literal.

For quite some time, I've had a gnawing feeling in my stomach over letting stand—without double checking—my use of the word kowtow. Yep. You guessed it. While the context is not important, the point is I wrote that someone I knew was "cow towing" to the wishes of someone else! To those of us who are sticklers about proper word usage, this is blasphemous—to say nothing of hilariously stupid! I stand defrocked as an aspiring perfectionist of word use and now assume my much-deserved assignment as a dictionary dolt. My shame is boundless!

As penance, I will rent a tow truck, borrow a cow, tie the cow to the towing rig, drive around my neighborhood and offer myself up for derision. What the hell. It sure beats having to say five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys.

They Can't Say I Didn't Try It

Every once in a while, the van I drive at work to make my flower deliveries needs to be serviced. On those days, I use the boss's car. It's a nice car, and it works out well as a stand-in delivery vehicle. But, every time I turn it on I am treated to something—however briefly—that makes my spine tingle, and not in a good way.

The radio in Bob's car is always tuned to our local 500 million-watt, conservative, AM talk-radio station. Now Bob's a really great guy and more than fair as a boss, but he does present a minor challenge to my liberal-leaning, City-by-the-Bay type mindset. Not because he amuses himself with Rush Limbaugh and the EIB, or as Rachel Maddow might say, the Excellence In Bullpucky network, but rather because I'm afraid our political differences will one day come between us.

The way things are these days can be described as a sort of ideological dètente, wherein Bob and I quietly agree to disagree about whether or not all illegal aliens should be kicked out of the country, or about whether President Obama really is destroying America with his "socialist" agenda. But truthfully, I think Bob cares more about my not screwing up any deliveries than he does about which end of the political fountain I drink from, which is as it should be.

Today I had to use Bob's car because the key to the van broke off in the ignition. (Yes, it was that cold.) When I noticed the radio tuned to its usual 'conservadial' position, I thought to myself, Oh just listen for a few minutes—it won't kill you.

Well, it didn't kill me, but it wasn't long before I was reminded why Public Radio is the only thing I listen to while I am driving around delivering flowers. The question of the hour was, Should the detention center at Guantánamo Bay be closed? Caller One: "No. They should keep it open. And they should keep torturing those terrorists in there for as long as this war is going on—even if that's twenty-five years." Okay. Strike one. Caller Two: "The president should not close Guantánamo. In fact, they should keep it open just so that Obama can go down there at night and fluff their pillows for them when they go to sleep. Why not? He's doing nothing but coddling them anyway." Now we're getting somewhere. Strike two. Caller Three: "Look, if they are not wearing military uniforms, and they try to kill Americans, then they are spies and they should be shot!" Strike three! NPR here we come.

Ten years ago checking in with conservative talk radio for an hour or so just to see what conservatives were thinking wasn't all that unusual. Back then, Rush Limbaugh's ego hadn't quite imploded yet. But nowadays, El Rushbo has gone over the edge and is colluding with other ultra-conservatives like Glenn Beck, Bill O'Reilly, Ann Coulter and others to annihilate whatever is left of the moderate and constructive forces of conservatism. Even conservative writer David Frum has pointed out that Mr. Limbaugh's language is not that of politics, "it is the language of a cult."

Maybe Bob hasn't noticed that I tuned one of the presets on his radio to NPR  When I am finished for the day, I sometimes forget—unintentionally on purpose, of course—to change the station back to WTPN (the Tea Party Network). Who knows? If Bob happens upon it, maybe he'll even give Public Radio a listen for a few minutes. As for that that bumper sticker I got the other day that says, I'm In Love With Glenn Beck, But I'm Not Gay, I've decided to hold off on affixing it to Bob's rear bumper. That would be dangerous. I kind of like my job. And besides, he is after all—the boss.

War: The Ultimate Expression of Failure?

What is war? The standard definition goes something like the following: a conflict carried on by force of arms as between nations or parties within a nation. There are, of course, many variations and manifestations of the war paradigm, all of which rely upon the worst instinct humanity has to offer—the propensity for violence.

If it truly is a native human instinct, are we condemned to resorting to violence whenever the stakes are perceived to be too high to leave to the powers of reason and negotiation? It is often noted that what sets man apart from the rest of the animal kingdom is precisely this ability to reason—to employ the intellectual assets of logic, inference and persuasion for the purpose of advancing the most morally enlightened position.

Problems arise, naturally, when each side to a conflict believes their position entitles them to operate from the moral high ground. Logic dictates, however, that opposing forces cannot both command the moral high ground simultaneously. Put another way, if man's voice on the most important moral issues of the day is truly enlightened, singular and unambiguous, then one party will necessarily be operating from a higher moral ground than the other.

Can war sometimes be a moral choice? Pragmatists would assert that violence in defense of a higher moral order is justified whenever violence is employed by others to promote a lesser moral order. Nazi Germany, they would argue, was not likely to be persuaded to renounce genocide by any other means than violent military intervention. Thus, man has ingeniously conjured what appears to be moral justification for employing the tools of war and violence: the defeat of evil.

Historically, acts of violence and war have been answered with even greater acts of violence and war. The syndrome of escalation is usually inescapable. Only when casualties are deemed too great to sustain any further are parties to a conflict moved to employ negotiations as a means of resolving their conflict. And on at least two occasions, the measure of casualties inflicted was horribly extreme. Note: Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan, 1945. One of the greatest moral questions of our time is whether the United States was justified when, using nuclear weapons, it incinerated nearly 100,000 people in the combined attacks. The paradox is that the obscene assaults ended the war.

So costly is the escalation syndrome in war, that fully automated, i.e., unmanned, machines are now being utilized to avoid having to pay the human price that war normally extracts. But just as electrocution as a means of imposing the death penalty has been replaced by the more ‘humane’ method of lethal injection (in many places) so, too, does unmanned warfare appear to be little more than a veiled attempt to sanitize what is arguably the most unsanitary act—the intentional killing of another human being.

It can be argued that war only ever comes about as the inevitable consequence of repeated and escalating prior moral failures. Could the invasion of Afghanistan have been averted had Al-Qaeda operatives working out of that country not conspired to attack the World Trade Center killing nearly 3,000 people? Would the attacks on the World Trade Center ever have occurred had the United States not had a history of global imperialism and native subjugation for over 200 years? Could the police officers’ shooting of the deranged suspect have been averted had the suspect not been moved to extreme anti-social behavior brought on by repeated violent abuse during his early life? In each of these cases, acts of seriously questionable morality are perceived as justification for responses which, in and of themselves, are of dubious morality at best.

Perhaps the most important kind of failure war has come to exemplify is failure of the imagination. If the peaceful processes of reason and negotiation are to make any difference in the face of unreason and those unwilling to negotiate, more so than the might of arms, creativity and imagination may be the most potent tools in the human arsenal. The uniqueness of conflicts demands the road less travelled—or never before travelled—be examined in the full light of day.

And what about pacifism? Is pacifism in the face of violence and evil ever the right response? Will the only eventuality with the power to obviate the need for war and violence ironically be the unequivocal renunciation of war and violence themselves? Sam Harris argues in his book The End of Faith that pacifism in the face of precisely such evil and violence is itself acutely immoral. The clear implication here is that war is sometimes justified.

It appears achieving the ability to reason represents merely a starting point from which man can endeavor to overcome his baser impulses and learn to resolve conflict without resorting to violence. At which point—it is hoped—a peace paradigm will emerge and become the guiding force in both interpersonal as well as international relations.

The question is, If two wrongs never really do make a right, is war truly—the ultimate expression of failure?

Joel Osteen: Closet Atheist?

The amazing popularity of mega-pastor Joel Osteen of Lakewood Church in Houston, Texas, has for some time now been giving more traditional, conservative Christians a kind of mega-headache.

Mr. Osteen is not one to strictly conform to the evangelical playbook. As with most mainstream Christian denominations, the theological center of this playbook asserts unequivocally that the only way to salvation is through Jesus Christ: knowledge of, acceptance of, and commitment to Christ is the only way to redeem one's existence and thereby qualify for a life of eternal bliss in heaven.

Mr. Osteen, however, has let it slip—on more than one occasion—that only God can judge the heart of another human being, and that it is not his place to condemn, or disqualify from salvation, others just because they may be Jewish, Muslim or Atheist. This does not sit well with the powers that be among mainstream evangelicals, most of whom are given to judging others at the drop of a hat. Some have even referred to his sermons as "heretical."

What does the popularity of Mr. Osteen's message say about religious faith and its standing in the world? Could it be that popularizing a watered down of version of Christian dogma is but a first step on the long road toward a pantheistic or deistic worldview where God is little more than a metaphor? Dogmatic Christians suggest precisely such an eventuality if those like Joel Osteen aren't called out for their blasphemy and appropriately marginalized. On this point, it seems we atheists are in agreement with the Christian dogmatists. We would assert, however, that this is something humanity should strive for—not wish away.

It's also possible Mr. Osteen is taking a page right out of the religious playbook of Barack Obama, who I believe is in fact a closet atheist. Acting as a virtual double agent, the president persistently panders to religious interests for no other reason than to placate and mislead them, all the while surreptitiously working against their interests behind their backs. Employing these deceptive tactics, the president is managing to slowly empty the world's immense ocean of religiosity one small teaspoon at a time.

The question is does Joel Osteen possess this kind of duplicity. Or is he, in the end, just a little wishy washy about God? One can only wonder.

It's the Effort That Counts

Okay. So some things don't always work out the way you plan them. What's important is that we give it the old college try. (I have no idea what that means, as I am a tenth-grade dropout.) Anyway. . . I just got back from Dunkin Donuts. Yes for the second time today! Alycia and I were on our way back from Best Buy where we bought a new external CD/DVD drive for her laptop. As soon as Jami goes to sleep tonight, we'll sneak it in from the car.

Oh the humanity! For some of us, apparently there is no hope.

I'm Not One for New Year's Resolutions, However ...

There are no doubt a few things—hell, many for that matter—about my life that a resolution to change could only help. But are these disingenuous promises we make to ourselves every January 1st really doing us any good, or do they just set us up for failure?

I can only recall one New Year's resolution I ever made that met with even the most modest level of success. Three years ago I resolved to start drinking coffee, whether self-brewed or purchased from a coffee shop, that was made of one-half regular and one-half decaffeinated coffee. My crack medical team impressed upon me the notion that too much caffeine was probably not good for someone with a history of less-than-stellar impulse control. Amazingly, I managed to habituate myself to the task of buying and brewing only semi-caffeinated java for about 18 months! Then one day I forgot to ask for half-decaf and was treated to the most delicious-tasting, fully satisfying, 100% caffeinated coffee. Wow! For several moments I wondered why my coffee tasted so good, then it dawned on me: there was no decaf in this mug! I made a new resolution on that day: to never drink half-decaffeinated swill ever again.

It's December 31st again, and I've been considering a few resolutions for this New Year that I am determined to make succeed:

1. Every day in my email in box, I receive several 'words-of-the-day' from various sources. (It's been very helpful for improving my vapid vocabulary.) Each of these words comes, of course, with its definitions as well as a sentence or two exemplifying its uses. At the bottom of each word entry is a paragraph dedicated to the etymology of the featured word. As a rule, I don't bother reading this part. On those occasions when I do, I am usually amazed, impressed, and informed to the point of giddiness. It's one thing to know a word's definition; it's quite another to be able to expound about its origins and historical significance. I am therefore resolved this coming New Year to reading the entire contents of my 'words-of-the-day' emails—including etymologies—for the betterment of my appreciation for words and how to properly use them.

2. At this point, things get a little dicey. My Dunkin Donuts habit is in dire need of intervention. For the coming year, I resolve not to go into a Dunking Donuts coffee shop more than once on any given day. Do I hear snickering? No, this is not meant as a joke. Committing to this resolution would realize a significant step forward in my quest to save a little money as well as moderate my caffeine intake. Those who know me understand full well what an achievement this would be. Well, let's just move on. I sense some of you are still laughing.

3. This is a big one. My daughter and I have to stop conspiring to buy techno-gadgets for the computer or stereo system behind Jami's back. It's really quite devious, to say nothing of immature. Besides, I think Alycia is a rat anyway; Jami always seems to find out everything. Some partner-in-crime she turned out to be.

4. And finally, I resolve to remove not just some, but all, of the rust that is accumulating on my treadmill. It's such a pain. Every time I go to use it (every January 1st) it squeals so loudly I am forced to turn it off before it catches fire. I'll just have to achieve my Richard Gere physique some other way.

This year is going to be different. There's no reason a few well thought out resolutions can't succeed. This year I resolve to stick to my resolutions. (Can you do that?) Sure you can. You just watch. This year is going to be different.

Legend for the Ages: The Story of Christmas

The beauty of mythology is that it celebrates one of man's most treasured possessions—the imagination. With the unique powers of the imagination, one can construct that which reason tells us cannot be constructed; travel to places reason tells us we cannot go; become something reason tells us we will never become. Reason, it seems, has no place in such a conjured world.

The cult of reason and rationality often fails to satisfy our collective appetite for the unreal, the unachievable, the unknowable. But we have ingeniously devised a way to go to these very places where none have gone before. The imagination takes us on these fantastical voyages to worlds which cannot become real, and yet manage to become nearly real through the magic of belief! By believing something to be true, we ground in our own reality that which would otherwise remain forever outside the world of possibility.

And so it is with Christmas. For the faithful, this holiday commemorates events believed to have actually occurred. For the rest of us, it has evolved into a legend of grand proportions—a myth worthy of the gods. And frankly, this is where Christmas belongs—as a fable among fables, the finest of folklore.

As unassailable dogma, the story of Christmas fails completely; as fruit from the tree of the imagination, however, it succeeds in grand style. Here it can be embraced for the quaint and charming fiction that it is. That being said, wishing someone a "Merry Christmas" nonetheless has the feel of a ratifying gesture many of us are not comfortable offering. Until such time as the story of Christmas is relieved of the religious burden to ground itself in reality, the seasonal greeting of choice for us skeptics will likely remain "Happy Holidays."

Perhaps in another thousand years, the Christmas tale will be told to our young without the taint of religious indoctrination, and will instead be appreciated for what it truly is—precious fodder for the untamed imagination.

Self or God: The False Choice

Auxiliary Bishop Peter Rosazza of the Roman Catholic archdiocese of Hartford, Connecticut was interviewed recently on the Colin McEnroe Show on Connecticut Public Radio. (Check out the interview.) It was an oddly entertaining encounter—as revealing as it was nonsensical.

First off, Bishop Rosazza is an affable figure. He engagingly interacted with the host who is self-professed in his religious skepticism. At no point did the bishop appear to be condescending, though he could not help but come across as somewhat instructive—no doubt for the benefit of the godless Mr. McEnroe. The problem the bishop had was the same one religious apologists face the world over: having to explain the inexplicable.

To every substantive question posed by the interviewer about matters of faith, God, spirituality, etc., Bishop Rosazza's responses were constructed of little more that compounded metaphors, as though he were speaking in a code only the faithful could comprehend. He didn't seem to possess the tools of articulation necessary to put forth even a modest defense of his own life of faith. Circular reasoning, ambiguous logic, and flowery ruminations were all he offered, which shouldn't surprise anyone. Many apologists amazingly find success with these tools, especially when addressing those who are more predisposed to conformity and group-think in the first place.

While acknowledging that man is indeed responsible for the condition of his fellow man, the bishop nonetheless asserts that successfully fulfilling this duty requires “faith in action.” The objectionable insinuation is that without religious faith, man is ill equipped to adequately tend to his fellow man. Scores of godless humanitarians might have something different to say on the subject.

Of particular interest was the bishop’s assertion that without God in his life, man is unalterably self-centered. In other words, by not believing in the supreme transcendence of an omnipotent and omniscient god, man is anointing himself supreme entity in all things. What other choice is there? One could easily infer from this rhetorical device that there is nothing else to put one’s “faith” in. How often it is said, We can not do it alone. About this, those who say such things are absolutely correct. We humanist skeptics understand all too well that we are powerless to manage life’s complexities on our own. We turn to a different place for answers, however. We turn to one another. We worship nothing; we worship no one. Instead, we value and respect man’s ability to strive for his own betterment by committing to that which brings out the best of his nature. This mindset not only fills our lives with meaning and purpose, it even provides a sense of worldly salvation.

The human individual—on his own—is just as impotent as any supernatural entity when it comes to conquering life’s challenges. Living, loving, and working in concert, however, man has no need to conjure an entity that serves only to condemn him for his failures.

Twenty Years and Counting

It was a day like no other — at once ordinary and unique. Having as yet to be emancipated from the sticky tentacles of religiosity, Jami and I passively relented and were married in a church ceremony.

The weight of expectations, in retrospect, was enormous. Where else would one get married? Certainly not in a civil ceremony at the Town Hall. That's just not where good Catholics tie the knot. But why? That we didn't even entertain the notion of having the local Justice of the Peace formally unite us says much about how conforming our state of mind had become.

Jami and I married one another because we loved each other and wanted our union to be recognized. We were married in a Catholic church, however, for no other reason than we were expected to be. Such is the power of religious culture, family influence, and ritualized conformity.

We take comfort in the knowledge that our marriage was recognized by the state, having met certain state-imposed criteria. In a practical sense, then, it was a civil union. Today we celebrate the twentieth anniversary of our marriage not our religious wedding ceremony. We take joy in recalling the social ritual of eating, drinking, dancing, and otherwise partying with so many who wished us well on that special night.

Our relationship is stronger today because we have freed ourselves to be who and what we really are: two human beings tethered by sweetness and good humor, intent upon learning how to better love ourselves, each other, and our precious daughter Alycia.

It may not be the perfect relationship, but it is one built upon respect, and for that reason alone, it's a fair bet we're gonna make it.

My One-Time 'Encounter' with Uncle Frank

It was the Summer of ’72. School was out, but the livin’ wasn’t exactly easy. I had just finished my second of three attempts at completing the tenth grade. Needless to say, I needed a diversion in the worst way.

Enter dear old Dad—Henry F. Cooney. Pop was not saying much, but I could tell something was brewing. For several days he kept checking the weather station telex for cities from Williamsburg, Pennsylvania to Grand Island, Nebraska. I had learned from years of “stand-up, speak-up and shut-up” indoctrination, however, not to ask questions.

Usually Pop and I would just fly to New Haven or Keene, New Hampshire, have a cup of coffee and turn around. But the clues were all around that a longer trip might just be in the offing. He upgraded to a bigger ‘ship’— as he liked to call his plane. A Cessna 182 with variable pitch prop! (I still don’t know what that means.) The incessant weather checks for all points west and the conspicuous reminiscing about his family and the old neighborhood further aroused my suspicions.

Sure enough, as soon as the moment was right, we took off from Brainard Airport on the wings of that old adage, Go west young man. Except Pop wasn’t so young anymore—and neither was his brother Frank who, as it turns out, was clinging to what was left of his life in a VA hospital bed in Colorado Springs. Without even telling him we were coming, the race was on to surprise Frank with a visit before his time would run out.

The trip west was almost uneventful. Severe thunderstorms chased us to the service ceiling of our aircraft before Pop finally gave up and asked Cleveland Control to vector us down through the muck. Plus a landing gear problem held us up for a day in Omaha. We sure didn’t need the delay.

The vastness of the Plains gradually gave way to higher elevations until, almost suddenly, the majesty of the Rocky Mountains was upon us. After a parallel runway miscommunication nearly landed us on the windshield of an oncoming DC9, we settled in for the night in Denver.

The final leg to Colorado Springs was a short one. The terrain between the two cities tops off at nearly 9,000 feet! Any higher and we would have had to find another mode of transportation. We rented a car, got directions and made it to the hospital without a hitch. The suspense was beginning to build. When Pop asked what room Frank was in—and managed to get an answer—we figured we had beaten the Grim Reaper to the punch. We figured right.

Upon opening the door to Frank’s room, we saw a frail old man sitting on the edge of his bed, facing the wall and clinging to his oxygen mask. Henry quietly moved closer until he could tap Frank gently on the shoulder. In a flash, Frank tossed away his oxygen mask, sprung to his feet (well, kind of sprung), looked in disbelief at who it was and greeted him with, “Henry, you old son of a bitch! How the hell are you?” I learned that day that swearing at your brother under some circumstances was a good thing. The two then embraced in a kind of bear hug only brothers know how to give.

When Frank noticed me on the other side of the bed, he asked Henry, “Who’s that?” My Dad simply replied, “Don’t mind him. He’s just the co-pilot.” At that point I figured my home for the next half hour or so was sitting in the chair—on the other side of the room.

I listened in amazement as the two aging brothers went on about the old days and how nearly everyone they ever knew had already died. It was clear Frank knew he was soon to be gone as well, but that reality only served to make this reunion all the more special.

To this day, whenever anyone asks me if I ever had occasion to meet Uncle Frank, I usually tell them “meet” is such a strong word, but that I was once in the same room with him.

The chair in the corner was my place that afternoon, but more importantly, Henry and Frank found their place on that special day—in each other’s arms.

Brotherly love is such a cool thing.

Skepticism: The Critical Commodity

In the world some of us grew up in, obedience and conformity were the rule. Questioning authority was a sin. Was that the way it really should have been?

As it turns out, obedience and conformity are necessary when the only sustenance being offered one's intellect is wrapped in dogma. Anything less is insubordinate. Rather than eagerly engaging a child when he or she invokes his instinct to question everything, those who value conformity over skepticism will instead say, "Because I am your mother, and I said so." Putting aside the fact that one's parents have decades of experience with life and, as a rule, know better than a child what is best for him or her, great pains should nonetheless be taken to indulge a child's inquisitiveness to the greater end that its natural sense of skepticism be cultivated rather than quashed. Critical thinking is not just for grown-ups.

This kind of free thinking, however, is anathema to god-driven ideology. Recalling the Jesuit master who proclaimed that as long as he had the attention of a child for the first seven years of life or thereabouts, his mind forever after belonged to him, the nefarious nature of compulsory religious education of the young is brazenly exposed.

How best then to pass down accumulated wisdom if not via the rigidity of dogmatism? When a child is told to repeat, "five times five equals twenty-five" one hundred times, odds are he will assimilate this truism. Why not the same methodology for learning about life? Compel one to memorize The Ten Commandments and he may well trust that these, too, are based on a truthfulness worthy of ritualization.

A much better approach is to instill values, and values are best shared by example. But isn't conformity a value? Yes, but the essential aspect of conformity as a value is that it functions only when not held up as a value of dimensions so nearly absolute it serves as little more than an end unto itself. Conformity at the expense of one's uniqueness is abhorrently dysfunctional.

A natural skeptic questions vigorously even those whom, and that which, he is predisposed to agree with. Being of the liberal political persuasion, I might be inclined to go along with a public health care option, but I am highly skeptical when the president claims his plan will more than pay for itself over the life of the bill. Likewise, when a conservative denounces a government health care option—for reasons other than the inane—I am immediately suspicious of my own instinct to dismiss him. If skepticism is a worthy value for one, it should be just as worthy a value for the other.

An unquestioning faith in anything, whether religious or secular, is not a value worthy of passing on to those whose intellects we are charged with nurturing. Rather it is an invitation to denigrate that which should be cherished: an independent and inquisitive mind.

In the pursuit of knowledge, skepticism most surely is—the critical commodity.

America's Resilient Racist Underbelly

In the Srednyaya, Akhtuba province of Russia, African-born farmer Joaquim Crima is running for leading office. In a coffee shop the other day - right here in America - one Caucasian customer made his feelings about the matter very clear: "Don't worry. He'll probably end up in a ditch somewhere, just like Obama will."

This racist utterance was remarkable for its openness - its lack of self-censorship. There is obviously more work to be done at the task of marginalizing the hate-mongers among us.

It was probably too good to be true - that America might actually begin to function as a "post-racial" society. With the election of its first African American president, the signs of hope were everywhere. Throughout the grueling vetting process, Barack Obama proved himself to be cautious, deliberate and tolerant, while at the same time revealing a sense of balance between healthy idealism and necessary realism in the debates of the day. But a recent spate of events leaves one wondering what is really behind all the hostility toward President Obama:

• As congressional leaders go home for their August recess, many are taking their case for health care reform directly to their constituents in town hall meetings. In a number of Democratic-sponsored events, forces opposed to reform have taken to boisterously interrupting the proceedings and stifling the debate. The claims that these are grass-roots protesters seeking to be heard doesn't bear out. The facts point to organized groups with ties to the health care industry and conservative lobbying firms sending out virtual rent-a-mobs to intentionally disrupt the goings-on, giving legitimate Republican opposition a bad image;

• Disseminating lies about Democratic health care proposals including one that government "death panels" would tell doctors when to deny care and 'pull the plug' on aging people;

• Senate confirmation hearings over the nomination of Hispanic Judge Sonia Sotomayor to the Supreme Court were rife with remarks by dissenting Judiciary Committee members questioning her integrity and commitment to the rule of law. Some tried to label her a kind of reverse racist for her "enlightened Hispanic woman" remarks;

• A strange coalition of lawmakers, pundits, celebrities and others have latched onto the absurd notion that President Obama was not born in the United States, and therefore is not the legitimate president;

• Ultra-conservative media types - Rush, Glen, Bill-O, etc., - are attempting to demonize the president by giving voice to those offering extremist rhetoric, e.g., comparing liberals and reformists to Nazis and depicting the president as an Adolf Hitler clone;

• Sara Palin continues to make references to "the America I know and love" - presumably the same "real America" she referred to during the presidential election - serving only to mock the America others know and love;

• In an effort to swell their ranks with new recruits, militia groups are stoking fears about the direction the country has taken since Barack Obama took office;

• Labeling the president a "socialist" for his handling of the bank bailouts, auto company bailouts and health care reform, taps into the fears many people were programmed to feel about the very concept of socialism.

In addition, there seems to be a contingent of Americans coalescing into a lot whose substance is nebulous and yet cohesive, leading a chorus of voices with the suspicious refrain, "We want our country back." The clear implication being that a certain someone has taken their country away from them. The unnamed culprit is no doubt the newly elected African American president. What is becoming painfully clear is that many of the people voicing their dissatisfaction with President Obama are merely angry, white people who cannot stomach the notion that an intelligent and popular black person has ascended to the presidency and is now the face of the country. To these people, Barack Obama represents all that they fear. But because overt expressions of racism are not tolerated, cloaking their hatred in a veneer of populist rhetoric deceptively gives voice to their frustrations.

The larger view of these events points to a sea change in the American political landscape. The right wing of the Republican Party is plainly convulsing in the throes of death. Much as a severely wounded animal lashes out uncontrollably just before expiring, ultra-conservatives are lashing out knowing their days of political viability are numbered as well. The inane antics flowing from conservatives at the moment reveals a desperation, knowing they have lost the hearts and minds of the reasonable masses from the left and the right. The resurgence of the Republican Party lies in its moderating influences, not the resurrection of its angry, white faction.

Of course, President Obama is not in a position to call out these malcontents for their prejudice. He can only refer to them as "those who would spread lies and misinformation," leaving the crude task of exposing the racists to those who have less to lose.

There are many white people who fear they are losing their grip on this country. They are correct to point out they are losing their grip on America. Their mistake lies in fearing such an eventuality. That Whites will soon be a minority is a simple reality that holds no promise one way or the other as to whether it will be a good thing or not. What is clear is that those of color who will soon make up a majority will likely be up to the challenge of asserting a more enlightened benchmark for truly democratic reforms.

Though it won't be totally eliminated, racism will no doubt become even more offensive to an even greater number of people once this recent virus runs its course. Then, maybe, the journey toward a truly post racial society can commence.

Glenn Beck: Have Camera, Will Vomit

Hmmm. Let me see. Eenie meenie miney moe. . . A. Glenn Beck is a racist; B. President Obama is a racist. Such a difficult choice. Well fuck it. I guess I'll take A.

Very happy to help you get out your message, Mr. Beck. The vomitus has to be exposed before it is cleaned up. Keep your nonsense coming. With every hate-filled inanity you utter, the world you inhabit gets a little smaller.

The Legacy of Subjugation

It must be Pick On Pat Buchanan Week. But then again, his ignorance and prejudice are such that exposing them is the only responsible thing to do. The problem with Mr. Buchanan receiving as much air time as he does is that viewers are duped into thinking that he speaks for a large number of people. The consequence of this is the further polarization of the races. The marginal thinking of Mr. Buchanan deserves marginal exposure. But the networks eat it up because nothing sells like controversy.

Newsflash: Pat Buchanan does not represent the thinking of educated and informed white people. If he speaks for anyone anymore, he speaks for an ever-dwindling fringe of backward-thinking, ultra-conservative people who have no sense of history or responsibility vis-à-vis Black Americans and their experience.

Mr. Buchanan likes to point to statistics that reveal a state of affairs in the Black community today that is, shall we say, wanting. And then he has the temerity to suggest that Blacks in America are wholly responsible for whatever blight has befallen their condition. Statistics in a vacuum of context mean absolutely nothing. What does it mean that the illegitimacy rate among Blacks is 70%? What does it mean that Blacks commit crime at a rate seven times that of Whites? What is really behind the phenomenon of so-called self segregation among so many Blacks? What does it mean when no Blacks perform highly enough on a New Haven firefighter's examination to qualify for promotion?

We could ask questions like this all day long, and those who tend to disregard the truth about the Black experience in America probably see no connection between hundreds of years of subjugation to White authority, subordination to White privilege and the state of affairs in the Black community today. Plus, pointing up only the negative statistics serves to contradict and deny the reality that despite what they have had to endure, Blacks have enriched American culture immeasurably.

When Black intellectuals like Michael Eric Dyson or Cornell West make the point that White America has yet to accept its responsibility for the struggling plight of African Americans or that this country has yet to live up to its promise of equality and opportunity for everyone, they are castigated by those able to disguise their ignorance and prejudice as moderate, populist rhetoric.

The irony of Mr. Buchanan's statistical pontificating is that any enlightened interpretation of these statistics is infinitely more damning to Whites than Blacks. Rather than revealing a lack of responsibility by African Americans for their own plight, they reveal the extent to which White America has abdicated its responsibility for cultivating a society where fairness and opportunity are not just words but cherished ideals.

While it cannot be denied that much progress has been made toward realizing America's promise, it is ludicrous to pretend that we have done all that is necessary to level the playing field. As it exists today, the so-called playing field is pockmarked with craters of injustice. White America needs to grow up and accept its share of responsibility for the disproportionate levels of social ills afflicting Black America. It has had a big hand in fomenting the conditions where hopelessness and despair can take hold and complicate the struggle to thrive.

Black Americans aren't looking for excuses - just validation.

Theory vs. Fact: The Erroneous Premise

A common representation by many religious people who are skeptical of the theory of evolution is that it is "just a theory" and not "fact." Making this statement reveals an underlying misconception of just what a theory is. In the realm of science, "the meaning of theory is very rigorous: a theory must be based on observable facts and must make testable predictions." (Wikipedia: Evolution As Theory and Fact)

In some respects, theories are on a higher order than simple facts because theories serve to explain facts. Very often the word "fact" is used to convey something that is presumed to be immutable or unalterably true. This is not the case in a scientific sense. Something is factual when its predictions have survived so many tests that continuing to perform tests makes little or no sense; its degree of probability is extremely high. In this context, the consensus among scientists is that evolution is indeed a fact as well.

It's quite possible that what many skeptics intend to say is that evolution is a hypothesis, i.e., a proposition set forth as a possible explanation for certain phenomena. The problem here is that it has been a hundred and fifty years since evolution has been considered a hypothesis. It has long since graduated to accepted theory. Bearing in mind that theories are never proven absolutely true, current or accepted theories - to be more precise - have survived numerous tests to invalidate them, thereby rendering their probability very high.

At this point, we arrive at the reason something like intelligent design is unacceptable as a scientific theory: its predictions are not testable! Rational scientists do not preclude the possibility that there may be an intelligent designer behind the creation of the universe; they merely contend that such a hypothesis is untestable, ergo not fit for presentation in the scientific classroom. To be more precise, predictions made by intelligent design are not based on observable facts. They often purport to be, but so far these claims of fact have been scientifically refuted. The essence of ID is that where there is no explanation for something as of yet, e.g., gaps in the fossil record, the default explanation is there must be an intelligent designer.

In short, ID proponents thought that if they presented intelligent design as a scientific theory, it would be suitable for the science classroom. As jurisdictions throughout the country are beginning to confirm, whatever ID is, it is not science. "...[I]t is unconstitutional to teach ID as an alternative to evolution in a public school science classroom." (The TalkOrigins Archive: Kitzmiller v. Dover Area School District)