The guy who sat next to me last Friday afternoon on the 5:04 out of Ogilvie Transportation Center in Chicago works downtown, has a family, enjoys a tall can of beer on the way home , and is a great conversationalist. In this year's talk of campaign promises, partisan politics, and the the attendant nastiness, we chatted for more than an hour as the train rushed through the western suburbs (first stop is Wheaton) and I can't tell you whether he's more inclined to vote Republican or Democrat. Truth to tell, it doesn't really matter. Politics gets to be that special topic of conversation that people turn to when table talk gets rancid. I'm sure had we pursued some conversational avenue long enough one of us would have taken exception to a point made. If we were lesser gentlemen, we could've gotten into the political row and walked away from a potential friendship angry because the other guy doesn't see and interpret things the same way. Something tells me we got way past that point. We connected on a much more important level by minimizing the peripheral issues and talking about life beyond them.
We both enjoy jazz legend Pat Metheny. I'll recommend one of his newest albums, "The Way Up," only after you give a listen to "Letter From Home," or "Still Life Talking." I recommend the DVD release over the audio CD performance; it just seems to have more of a hook. It may be the visual stimulation, perhaps the performances are slightly different.
I guess the thing that really connected us is the desire to have personal and family priorities in order, recognizing that life isn't all about accumulating a lot of stuff, but having things reasonably right on the home front. Lest anyone think that because we work on priorities is making us perfect, think again. I've been married a little over 35 years, my talkative and transparent traveling companion only since 2007. We're both working on ourselves and on our relationships and we've got a long way to go. But we're moving in a positive direction.
We reach his stop, he's up from his seat, down the stairs, out the door and disappears into the early evening light. We've exchanged email addresses and will stay in touch. It's been quite a day and conversation.
Where would I be without the 5:04 westbound?
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Thursday, October 02, 2008
After Summer Reading Thoughts
So here I sit this morning, hashing and re-hashing the contents of my mind, poised somewhat differently than six months ago.
Summer reading, for some people a cornucopia of new and not so new novels, celebrity bios, and sundry stuff, has taken its toll on my conscience and perspective. I feel like some things have come together; that I've had time to re-think some rather heartfelt, if not totally well thought out, views.
The books: the afore referenced "Nixonland." The second, "They Marched Into Sunlight," by David Marannis, Vincent Bugliosi's "The Prosecution of George W. Bush for Murder," and lastly, "In Retrospect: The Tragedy and Lessons of Vietnam," by former Defense Secretary Robert McNamara.
The first was eye-opening and enlarged on some general history - it's indispensable and I highly recommend it. Not a history buff? Learn how to be one via this massive volume. Have any passion about the day and time you live in? Maybe through this book you'll see that what goes around comes around, there is nothing really new under the sun, and those that don't remember history are condemned to repeat it, and that passion kindled may require a shifting of priorities. Yes, your iPod Nano is very cool; the blackberry indispensable for communication, but your brothers, cousins, loved ones, neighbors, and former playmates from down the street are dying in a war several thousand miles away. I heard a variation of that last sentence 40 years ago.
"They Marched Into Sunlight," will tear your heart in pieces; the suffering of the 1967 C-Packet guys deployed to South Vietnam nothing but wretching. In a quick instant they were gone in a Viet Cong ambush, their parents and families never quite the same afterward as evidenced by the mother of one dead solider who never again celebrated a holiday or observed a birthday. Another's children were raised only knowing their father as a hero in a book or by those who served with him. For the moment, the morality or immorality of the War doesn't matter. If Vietnam was a hideous and horrible error in judgment, it was played out on the ground by a bunch of guys who were doing their duty regardless of the cost or their respective political viewpoint. The men in foxholes didn't have time to debate intelligence estimates, they were fighting for their lives. 58,191 total were lost to the conflict.
That same October, in Madison, Wisconsin, student demonstrations against the Dow Chemical Company's recruitment program were in high gear, and with them the ascendancy of Paul Soglin from demonstrator to mayor of Madison six years later. Spoiled, wealthy kids who were anxious to set the university's academic atmosphere on its heels? Hardly. These young people were showing passion with the same intensity and vision as the C-Packet brigade in Vietnam. I like to think that both sides were fighting, more or less, for the same thing.
These separate accounts have moved me in many ways, some of them very hard to describe. Perhaps one of those movements has been one to empathy - putting myself in the place of both camps - the jungle fighter, the street fighter, what they believe in, why they believe, and what both are willing to sacrifice in pursuit of those beliefs.
Read the book; think about it, discuss it with others who have read it, and parallel its message to more contemporary times and conflicts. What have we learned in forty years? What have we discovered about passion and a well thought-out modus operandi to bring passions and visions to something tangible, that will make our lives and the world better?
Vincent Bugliosi ("Helter Skelter") offers that President George W. Bush should be tried for the murder of over 4,000 American lives lost in Iraq in the New York Times bestseller, "The Prosecution of George W. Bush for Murder." A compelling and page-turning read, this book focuses on the enormity of poor decisions, outright deception, and the tragic aftermath of the war games being played in the Middle East. If there is any passion (there's that word again) in today's world of journalism, you'll find it here; agree, disagree, whatever. He makes an earnest case.
"In Retrospect: The Tragedy and Lessons of Vietnam," Robert McNamara discusses our involvement in Vietnam from the days of military advisers sent to the country in the early 1960s to his resignation in 1968 after arriving at a stalemate with the administration, LBJ in particular, over the war's progress - or the lack of it - and what continued involvement would cost the United States in economic, political, and most of all, human terms.
Facts, opinions; could've, should've, would've. . . .
Now, how has it all affected me?
I guess I've learned again what grace is all about. It's not that I feel less passionate about what happened and what I think was the best course of action, feelings that were shared by many of my generation, but what to do with that passion now. Ther's enough blame to go around and most have now historically claimed their share of it. Pointing fingers of accusation do little good at this point and certainly aren't going to fashion a new outcome to a war 35 years afterward. Many of the principals have vanished from the scene, the jungles of Vietnam are quiet, snakes slither through the grass, and the heat and humidity are still as much a part of the region as it ever was. It virtually knocked you down, said returning veterans. The warriors have come home except for those still missing in action. We're paying for the war in many ways, but not to belabor that point, it's a given and we're all to familiar with that fact.
The times and the situations were not fair, and the phrase, although true, resounds four decades after weapons have been laid down: poor men's sons fought a rich man's war. But, I guess I've learned that fairness is not part of a fallen world. The people involved made decisions, some bad, some good, and many indifferent. Fairness and maturity demand me to cut some slack to those persons because I cannot imagine what they went endured, but I can grieve with them.
I've mellowed, I've grown, and have found an almost new sense of compassion. What's happened is not the fault of one individual, but of many people. From here on, it's up to me to be an entity of healing, and not division, to understand and empathize, not judge. I'm thinking this was a summer of personal renewal in some ways, where grace again found its way to my heart, a heart that had pretty much made its made up that my way of thinking was the way it really was.
Summer reading, for some people a cornucopia of new and not so new novels, celebrity bios, and sundry stuff, has taken its toll on my conscience and perspective. I feel like some things have come together; that I've had time to re-think some rather heartfelt, if not totally well thought out, views.
The books: the afore referenced "Nixonland." The second, "They Marched Into Sunlight," by David Marannis, Vincent Bugliosi's "The Prosecution of George W. Bush for Murder," and lastly, "In Retrospect: The Tragedy and Lessons of Vietnam," by former Defense Secretary Robert McNamara.
The first was eye-opening and enlarged on some general history - it's indispensable and I highly recommend it. Not a history buff? Learn how to be one via this massive volume. Have any passion about the day and time you live in? Maybe through this book you'll see that what goes around comes around, there is nothing really new under the sun, and those that don't remember history are condemned to repeat it, and that passion kindled may require a shifting of priorities. Yes, your iPod Nano is very cool; the blackberry indispensable for communication, but your brothers, cousins, loved ones, neighbors, and former playmates from down the street are dying in a war several thousand miles away. I heard a variation of that last sentence 40 years ago.
"They Marched Into Sunlight," will tear your heart in pieces; the suffering of the 1967 C-Packet guys deployed to South Vietnam nothing but wretching. In a quick instant they were gone in a Viet Cong ambush, their parents and families never quite the same afterward as evidenced by the mother of one dead solider who never again celebrated a holiday or observed a birthday. Another's children were raised only knowing their father as a hero in a book or by those who served with him. For the moment, the morality or immorality of the War doesn't matter. If Vietnam was a hideous and horrible error in judgment, it was played out on the ground by a bunch of guys who were doing their duty regardless of the cost or their respective political viewpoint. The men in foxholes didn't have time to debate intelligence estimates, they were fighting for their lives. 58,191 total were lost to the conflict.
That same October, in Madison, Wisconsin, student demonstrations against the Dow Chemical Company's recruitment program were in high gear, and with them the ascendancy of Paul Soglin from demonstrator to mayor of Madison six years later. Spoiled, wealthy kids who were anxious to set the university's academic atmosphere on its heels? Hardly. These young people were showing passion with the same intensity and vision as the C-Packet brigade in Vietnam. I like to think that both sides were fighting, more or less, for the same thing.
These separate accounts have moved me in many ways, some of them very hard to describe. Perhaps one of those movements has been one to empathy - putting myself in the place of both camps - the jungle fighter, the street fighter, what they believe in, why they believe, and what both are willing to sacrifice in pursuit of those beliefs.
Read the book; think about it, discuss it with others who have read it, and parallel its message to more contemporary times and conflicts. What have we learned in forty years? What have we discovered about passion and a well thought-out modus operandi to bring passions and visions to something tangible, that will make our lives and the world better?
Vincent Bugliosi ("Helter Skelter") offers that President George W. Bush should be tried for the murder of over 4,000 American lives lost in Iraq in the New York Times bestseller, "The Prosecution of George W. Bush for Murder." A compelling and page-turning read, this book focuses on the enormity of poor decisions, outright deception, and the tragic aftermath of the war games being played in the Middle East. If there is any passion (there's that word again) in today's world of journalism, you'll find it here; agree, disagree, whatever. He makes an earnest case.
"In Retrospect: The Tragedy and Lessons of Vietnam," Robert McNamara discusses our involvement in Vietnam from the days of military advisers sent to the country in the early 1960s to his resignation in 1968 after arriving at a stalemate with the administration, LBJ in particular, over the war's progress - or the lack of it - and what continued involvement would cost the United States in economic, political, and most of all, human terms.
Facts, opinions; could've, should've, would've. . . .
Now, how has it all affected me?
I guess I've learned again what grace is all about. It's not that I feel less passionate about what happened and what I think was the best course of action, feelings that were shared by many of my generation, but what to do with that passion now. Ther's enough blame to go around and most have now historically claimed their share of it. Pointing fingers of accusation do little good at this point and certainly aren't going to fashion a new outcome to a war 35 years afterward. Many of the principals have vanished from the scene, the jungles of Vietnam are quiet, snakes slither through the grass, and the heat and humidity are still as much a part of the region as it ever was. It virtually knocked you down, said returning veterans. The warriors have come home except for those still missing in action. We're paying for the war in many ways, but not to belabor that point, it's a given and we're all to familiar with that fact.
The times and the situations were not fair, and the phrase, although true, resounds four decades after weapons have been laid down: poor men's sons fought a rich man's war. But, I guess I've learned that fairness is not part of a fallen world. The people involved made decisions, some bad, some good, and many indifferent. Fairness and maturity demand me to cut some slack to those persons because I cannot imagine what they went endured, but I can grieve with them.
I've mellowed, I've grown, and have found an almost new sense of compassion. What's happened is not the fault of one individual, but of many people. From here on, it's up to me to be an entity of healing, and not division, to understand and empathize, not judge. I'm thinking this was a summer of personal renewal in some ways, where grace again found its way to my heart, a heart that had pretty much made its made up that my way of thinking was the way it really was.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Random Thought
This has been an interesting week - during a storm our walnut tree in the middle of the back yard, came crashing down. Two days later, Brett Favre signs with the New York Jets. Is this just a coincidence, or is Christ about to return?
God Bless Green Bay. . .
God Bless Green Bay. . .
Friday, August 08, 2008
Blind Faith
No, I'm not talking spirituality, but a great album from 1969 - yes, that's right, 30 years ago - three decades in other words. The group had one album titled, "Blind Faith." Is that original or what? Group members: Eric Clapton, Steve Winwood, Rick Grech, and Ginger Baker. Best tracks: all of them. Listen to this one loud, very loud; it's a 35 minute time machine. The first time I ever laid eyes on this recording it was laying on the dashboard of a 1969 AMC Rambler American SC/Rambler that had a 390 V8 and a Hurst T-handle shifter. Sweet stuff. The format was 8-track stereo and the player was a factory install. How much better can things get?
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
The Rant Goes On
I'm usung a lighter shade of green this post - while I'm a creature of habit, routine gets tiresome and troublesome.
A few random thoughts:
Kids today have IPods, Blackberries, cell phones, instant messaging and access to the world wide web at their fingertips. They can store more music on a MP3 player than I had in my vinyl collection back in the day. They drive cars that are so computer-oriented, changing the oil at home is almost impossible. The day of the shade tree mechanic is done and past. We're quick and convenient, but we're missing something - take a look at my blog of January 19 - I cited the need for us Baby Boomers to come to terms with the fact that we really needed a plan of action several decades ago. We had a vision but needed something to make the transition to viable plan. I guess that's where the young and not-so-passioned have the edge on my generation - they're thinking things through and perhaps formulating something we didn't. You'll never change my opinion, though, that we had the best music.
Listening today: Disc One, "Those Were the Days," by Cream
A few random thoughts:
Kids today have IPods, Blackberries, cell phones, instant messaging and access to the world wide web at their fingertips. They can store more music on a MP3 player than I had in my vinyl collection back in the day. They drive cars that are so computer-oriented, changing the oil at home is almost impossible. The day of the shade tree mechanic is done and past. We're quick and convenient, but we're missing something - take a look at my blog of January 19 - I cited the need for us Baby Boomers to come to terms with the fact that we really needed a plan of action several decades ago. We had a vision but needed something to make the transition to viable plan. I guess that's where the young and not-so-passioned have the edge on my generation - they're thinking things through and perhaps formulating something we didn't. You'll never change my opinion, though, that we had the best music.
Listening today: Disc One, "Those Were the Days," by Cream
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Nixonland - At Page 444
Rick Perlstein's "Nixonland" is a telling of the tumultous 1960s through a relatively new and witty voice. This is my first Pearlstein read, and I'm sure more will follow - this is a writer to listen to and hear from. About the only follow up work I could recommend would take you back more than a decade; "In Rerospect, " by former Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, published in 1995. Pearlstein wasn't around to live these scenarios first hand, but his research makes all of us who did rethink the whole process, what we were thinking at the time, (if we were thinking at all) and where some our passions were. It was far too many for many of us, myself included, to carry a sign and say we were against the War and champion the rebelliousness of the era, much more to actually get out and show colors of involvement.
I was hearing a message from the music I listened to: Jefferson Airplane, Buffalo Springfield, Cream, Blind Faith, The Beatles, Stones, and the Doors. I could smell a classic a mile away. I knew Crosy, Stills, Nash, and Young's "Deja Vu" was going to be a long remembered album, it would be pivotal to understanding the decade, but that was about all I was hearing. Other than disseminating views on the then-current rock and roll scene I considered the 1960s a stretch of paranoic fears and mistrusts that would compel me further and further into myself. I disrusted and feared people and kept to myself. It took me years to become vulnerable and I look back on that ten years as the worst of my life.
"Nixonland" at page 444 is more than compelling, more than historic, more than just another backward glance. It shows how the cult of Nixon grew up around the events of the times. Perlstein is compassionate but irrascibly and incisively charming. He tosses in tinges of humor. No one interested in this time period should miss it. I even told my neighbor, Steve, who has made a commitment to cut the trees and brush along the fence line, that if he would read Nixonland, I'd buy him a copy. He has contended for some months now that he is the greatest element to come out of the 1960s. I just want him to see what kind of world he was born in to.
Nixonland at page 444 surpasses what I thought it would be. Put down the Koontz, King, and McBain novels and crack this book and see why.
I was hearing a message from the music I listened to: Jefferson Airplane, Buffalo Springfield, Cream, Blind Faith, The Beatles, Stones, and the Doors. I could smell a classic a mile away. I knew Crosy, Stills, Nash, and Young's "Deja Vu" was going to be a long remembered album, it would be pivotal to understanding the decade, but that was about all I was hearing. Other than disseminating views on the then-current rock and roll scene I considered the 1960s a stretch of paranoic fears and mistrusts that would compel me further and further into myself. I disrusted and feared people and kept to myself. It took me years to become vulnerable and I look back on that ten years as the worst of my life.
"Nixonland" at page 444 is more than compelling, more than historic, more than just another backward glance. It shows how the cult of Nixon grew up around the events of the times. Perlstein is compassionate but irrascibly and incisively charming. He tosses in tinges of humor. No one interested in this time period should miss it. I even told my neighbor, Steve, who has made a commitment to cut the trees and brush along the fence line, that if he would read Nixonland, I'd buy him a copy. He has contended for some months now that he is the greatest element to come out of the 1960s. I just want him to see what kind of world he was born in to.
Nixonland at page 444 surpasses what I thought it would be. Put down the Koontz, King, and McBain novels and crack this book and see why.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Updated Blog
This is a blog update. . .this morning I had Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal for breakfast, a slice of whole wheat toast with Great Value (read Wal-Mart) grape jelly on it. . .I then went for a walk and listened to a collection of 50s oldies I compiled on my Sansa player. . .then I came home and did some writing, continued reading "Nixonland" (Rick Pearlstein) and here I am updating this blog especially for my over-the-fence neighbor who is promising to cut the trees along the fence line.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Bryan Comes Home
Bryan may not be my blood line nephew, but in his case that doesn't matter.
He's one of my favorite nephews and seeing him last weekend at our community's Relay For Life event impressed me that regardless of what comes and goes in life, people are most important. It's important to walk an abandoned high school track with Bryan, to share hugs, hopes, dreams, frustrations, and our combined creativity together.
Last weekend found us both wondering about the arrival of the Muse. Creativity and passion, where for art thou? What are we not seeing or sensing?
Seeing Bryan made me realize just how close the Muse was; it tapped me on the shoulder and said he had arrived in the person of Bryan. Go forth, writer, fire up Windows XP and speak.
Isn't that just like life, we wonder where the best is and find it standing next to you?
He's one of my favorite nephews and seeing him last weekend at our community's Relay For Life event impressed me that regardless of what comes and goes in life, people are most important. It's important to walk an abandoned high school track with Bryan, to share hugs, hopes, dreams, frustrations, and our combined creativity together.
Last weekend found us both wondering about the arrival of the Muse. Creativity and passion, where for art thou? What are we not seeing or sensing?
Seeing Bryan made me realize just how close the Muse was; it tapped me on the shoulder and said he had arrived in the person of Bryan. Go forth, writer, fire up Windows XP and speak.
Isn't that just like life, we wonder where the best is and find it standing next to you?
Friday, June 20, 2008
Recuperating - Later
No one has any idea how good it feels to be able to function again after a nasty fall (see my earlier blog). Walking, moving, functioning. . .if the process of injury is sometimes mysterious, the ongoing process of healing is truly unimaginable.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Recuperating
I guess it's a good idea for me to remember that I am no longer a teenager, or for that matter, a very young man. I am middle-aged Baby Boomer who on Memorial Day took boomed about 15 feet down a slope on a hiking trail. That was three weeks ago. Today, I am feeling better, although I have some distance to go before I can really say I'm back to whateve my old self was.
Falling down in the presence of others is an unintentional act of humility. It teaches you lessons you'd likely not learn otherwise.
First, you're reminded that anything can happen at any time, at any place, and it doesn't matter who you're around. If you fall and rip the seat out of your pants, it's another likely that whoever's around can go tell whoever might be listening that someone took a tumble, ripped the seat of their pants wide open and wonder of wonders, was wearing sky blue underwear. This is not a good first impression and explanations are unnecessary and pointless. It's just going to make matters that much worse. For the record, I was not wearing sky blue underwear.
Second, you're going to find that one minute you can be in the best of health and strength, the next, you're being helped along the path by a strong shoulder. I had to do the dependency bit and didn't really like it. I like my independence and hate to have to rely on someone to do stuff that I should be able to do, like walk, for instance. Spontaneous things happen, but I'd rather not enjoy this kind of suddenness.
Third, it's a control issue. When you're nursing yourself back to health, it takes time - sometimes, more than less. That's not the way we like it, and I'm no exception. If someone is going to be in the driver's seat, I want it to be me. Healing involves out of conrol issues.
Fourth, it's a reminder that life happens. It happens at work, at home, and on hiking paths.
That having been said, it's just good to feel good again - I've walked the local bike path and streets here in town for about five miles over the last two or three days. I know that joints and egos are mending, one day at a time. Rather than continue here, I think I'll head outside where there's sun, fresh air, and a beautiful summer day on tap.
Want to go hiking?
Falling down in the presence of others is an unintentional act of humility. It teaches you lessons you'd likely not learn otherwise.
First, you're reminded that anything can happen at any time, at any place, and it doesn't matter who you're around. If you fall and rip the seat out of your pants, it's another likely that whoever's around can go tell whoever might be listening that someone took a tumble, ripped the seat of their pants wide open and wonder of wonders, was wearing sky blue underwear. This is not a good first impression and explanations are unnecessary and pointless. It's just going to make matters that much worse. For the record, I was not wearing sky blue underwear.
Second, you're going to find that one minute you can be in the best of health and strength, the next, you're being helped along the path by a strong shoulder. I had to do the dependency bit and didn't really like it. I like my independence and hate to have to rely on someone to do stuff that I should be able to do, like walk, for instance. Spontaneous things happen, but I'd rather not enjoy this kind of suddenness.
Third, it's a control issue. When you're nursing yourself back to health, it takes time - sometimes, more than less. That's not the way we like it, and I'm no exception. If someone is going to be in the driver's seat, I want it to be me. Healing involves out of conrol issues.
Fourth, it's a reminder that life happens. It happens at work, at home, and on hiking paths.
That having been said, it's just good to feel good again - I've walked the local bike path and streets here in town for about five miles over the last two or three days. I know that joints and egos are mending, one day at a time. Rather than continue here, I think I'll head outside where there's sun, fresh air, and a beautiful summer day on tap.
Want to go hiking?
Friday, May 02, 2008
Chicago: Rambling Thoughts
Top title to bottom, these are great books about a great city. And let me add one, it's a story and remembrance book for kids about Chicago called, "Good Night Chicago." I'll not ruin the narrative for you or your kids or grandkids. The entire tip o' the hat will take you less than five minutes to read. When reading to the little ones, tell them about the buildings. Better yet, take them there, then get the book. It will mean more.
I don't know that anyone captures the essence of the Windy City like Studs Terkel, one of the most iconic of the city's writers. He talks up people on the street, in a neighborhood bar (are there any left?), under an El station, in the hall outside a TV studio, no matter. He lets people speak their minds, their souls, their ambitions, hopes, dreams, good times, bad times, and sundry moments in between. "Chicago" (Pantheon Books, 1986) although now out of print is a warm and engaging essay of people, places, things, times past and present in just enough pages that an ambitious reader can almost savor it in an evening. It's enchanced with black and white images that enable you to see past the high gloss color of post cards from the gift shop in the Sears Tower to the real essence of the city set on a lake - people as they are doing what they do the very best at - being themselves (poet Gwendolyn Brooks, included in the text, comes to mind here).
This blog did not start out as a book review, but since we're a few paragraphs into cyber entry, I'll just continue this affirmative rant. As for the remainder of the titles, I suggest each of them. Cameron and Antonio Attini's photojournals are found in the bargain section of big book shops. And lest I forget another Terkel tome, "Division Street; America," ( the pictured copy is signed) is a forerunner to "Chicago," without the photos. Let your mind do the photos.
So what is it about this city that has kept me enthralled ever since I was a little kid, the kid whose first real image of the skyscrapers along the river was in the late 1950s when I stepped off a train at the Chicago and North Western depot (now Ogilvie Transportation Center), walked through the Daily News Building, exited revolving doors, looked up and saw the Kemper Insurance Building towering far far above me? It has been outdistanced so many times in the intervening years as to make it seem a dwarf by comparison.
There matters stood until Bertrand Goldberg's Marina City began to take shape along the north side of the river in the early 1960s. I first saw the completed circular towers from the Chicago Historical Society in 1965 when our seventh grade class went on a field trip there. I have never tied of seeing it, and a visit to the loop always includes a walk through the lobby. I know some nice folks who live there. One sells real estate in the building and another is a photographer. He's professional with the shutter, I am a non-professional enthusiast which means that I basically point, shoot, edit, and post. But he has given my work some kudos and has told me that some of my images could be sold commercially. He also posted a rather ungratifying photo of me (I was 16 years old at the time) on a Marina City website (I contributed some archival photos) that was part of a roll that came very near toppling from a 57th floor apartment balcony in 1969, back in the day when the roof was an observation deck and the Sears Tower was a gleam in the eyes over at Skidmore, Owings, and Merrill, Architects. The Hancock was a steel skeleton about that time, if memory serves correctly, and the best after dark light show was beamed from the roof of Marina City's west tower via two television antennas that had a lot of fancy gadgetry to make them do everything but drop the balls in Bozo the TV clown's buckets. They were ripped from their moorings in 1978. Oh well, the Hancock Crown of Light that encircles the top of the skyscraper is OK, and they change the light scheme according to the holiday season, but the big drawback is that birds are attacted to the light, crash into the glass at cruising speed, and hurl to the pavement below. Not a pretty sight to go to work on a Monday morning to see the rotting remains of the city's feathered friend population under foot.
The city is the nice guys who live in Marina City that I'm acquainted with as well as the people on the street who are helpful when I need to find the right bus, a store, or who have time to bodinage with me waiting for the light to get green at State and Madison. They're the sales clerks at Macy's (OK, Marshall Field and Co.) who don't mind me taking photos, the guy on the train last summer who has kept in contact after he started grad school at Notre Dame, and even the wait staff comedian at Ed Debevic's that dumped a tray of glasses (I thought they were full) in my lap a couple years ago.
No, I'm not sure what charms this city holds that keep me returning there, loving every minute, and finding adventure at every turn. I've quit trying to figure it out. Sinatra was right: it's my kind of town.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Lessons From a Lincoln
This Lincoln Continental Town Car sits on the back of Bob's farm yard, behind a fairly new Chevy truck with dualies and big mud flaps, about two and a half miles from town. It's just sitting there, a reminder that it once was new and though still in decent shape, hasn't had a road under it for awhile. At one time this car either sat in a showroom or on a lot where someone spotted it and decided to drive it home. Its journey from that point to this would be an interesting tale, I'm sure. Sort of like life - how did we get from our starting place to where we are now? The next important question is whether or not we would have altered courses along the way. At this point in my life, I'm rather content with who I am and where life finds me. Things could be better, but things could be worse. I'm blessed with family, friends, and flickr contacts.
Blessing with contentment - quite a life lesson from a Lincoln out back of the barn, I would say.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Moving On
Somewhere in a stack of miscellaneous 45s around here (more likely on a CD compilation) is a rather corny country song about a guy who after being love torn and left alone, decides it's time to declare his independence: "I"m Movin' On."
In a culture that talks personal crises to death, this simple affirmation of what's what may be the best antiode to date.
I'm all for breaking down and unpacking the past, provided we don't pack the whole mess up again and head out the door with it later on, but think about it: here is one guy that decides enough is enough and things are going to change. Good for him, good for me. If he's moving on, then so am I.
Clarification: I'm not leaving my wife. She's been the best thing that ever came my way and she's an ever-present God moment that sustains me, keeps me focused, and lends more than just a little perspective to my world. Where I would be without her is up for grabs. Actually, I'd rather not speculate.
In my life, however, like most everyone else's, have been people. People I've been thankful for, that I've learned from, and some that I wish would have brought more constructive things to my existence. Although I usually look for the best in people, I don't always get it. Welcome to reality. What we want, what we get, are two different things.
I've had to learn to forgive myself, forgive others, and very simply refuse to be mired in what has come my way. I have had to make conscientious decisions to get with the future, deal with the past, and move ahead. The Apostle Paul had this very same vexing in the New Testament, but refused to remain stagnant. "I'm forgetting what's behind and pressing ahead. There are more important things to deal with," he said in essence.
I've made the decision to deal with past hurts, frustrations, upsets, and the people, myself included, that bring them about, and think ahead. I'm forgiving, forgetting; releasing those people and myself from the bondage they've created, and working some new ground.
It's time to grow.
In a culture that talks personal crises to death, this simple affirmation of what's what may be the best antiode to date.
I'm all for breaking down and unpacking the past, provided we don't pack the whole mess up again and head out the door with it later on, but think about it: here is one guy that decides enough is enough and things are going to change. Good for him, good for me. If he's moving on, then so am I.
Clarification: I'm not leaving my wife. She's been the best thing that ever came my way and she's an ever-present God moment that sustains me, keeps me focused, and lends more than just a little perspective to my world. Where I would be without her is up for grabs. Actually, I'd rather not speculate.
In my life, however, like most everyone else's, have been people. People I've been thankful for, that I've learned from, and some that I wish would have brought more constructive things to my existence. Although I usually look for the best in people, I don't always get it. Welcome to reality. What we want, what we get, are two different things.
I've had to learn to forgive myself, forgive others, and very simply refuse to be mired in what has come my way. I have had to make conscientious decisions to get with the future, deal with the past, and move ahead. The Apostle Paul had this very same vexing in the New Testament, but refused to remain stagnant. "I'm forgetting what's behind and pressing ahead. There are more important things to deal with," he said in essence.
I've made the decision to deal with past hurts, frustrations, upsets, and the people, myself included, that bring them about, and think ahead. I'm forgiving, forgetting; releasing those people and myself from the bondage they've created, and working some new ground.
It's time to grow.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Boys and Trains
Little guys and their Grandmas, big guys and their video recorders; the common denominator? A train - loud, smoky, reeking of diesel fuel. . .I love it - so do they - it seems to be the tie that binds the ages together. How does it happen? I've quit guessing. Maybe it's just part of the magic of life.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Tagz
I wonder why it took Hanes and whoever else so long to figure out that the tags they were using on their underwear and tee shirts were factoring in additonal costs that had to be absorbed by the consumer? In the last few years the trend is for stamped on tags that do not wash out over time, but like their sewed-on counterparts, still fade. I wonder how much of a cost savings is realized with this move?
Love Is Blind?
The singer said he only had eyes for her. . .could that mean that love makes one blind to anyone else or to everything in general?
Monday, March 17, 2008
The Portable Atheist
By now we have established that Christopher Hitchens does not believe in God. Okay, so big deal, like that's going to change the mind of most of us in the faith community. But at least it's worth our while to hear not only Hitchen but the rest of those in the "unfaith" sector speak their minds. I like his phrase "free market of ideas," (Introduction, "The Portable Atheist") which this book contributes to. This is a book that is considered "essential reading for the Unbeliever." I don't think it would hurt any of us, inside, outside, on the edges, whatever, to read this volume through and think about it. It's not exactly a summer afternoon read, but a chapter here, another chapter later on down the road, could be a challenge for us of the community of faith who seem to think we have all the i's dotted and the t's crossed.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
On Leaving the Pentecostal Church
I have toyed with this topic for a number of months, years, actually.
I've thought and thought again about what to say, how to say it, when and where, and if it should be said at all. But, since I harp on this from time to time to close friends and close Christian friends in particular, maybe that time of setting words on the screen has at last come.
My wife and I and then-young family left the traditional, pentecostal church in January of 1988. It's not that we felt there were no good people there, or that we thought better of ourselves than the rest of the church, it was just time to go, to get away from the "safety" (as the pastor at the time said) of life at 222 1st Avenue in our home town. Google it if you're curious enough about where "our home town" is, and let me know if you get a hit.
We were tired of banal traditions that had been brought in the back of someone's grandmother's 1949 Ford coupe when they relocated here from wherever it is in Arkansas they lived. We were tired of a clothes line mentality that constantly carped on women wearing jewelry, slacks, and makeup. It seemed to me both now and then that there were far more urgent things to talk about in the church; discipleship, personal growth, developing the faith that could make us a more interactive entity with the community. Those things weren't the hot button issues, though. We majored in minors. There were Sunday night services that borderlined on the fanatical. This included, but wasn't restricted to, a Holy Huddle of the church's "holiness" women who would gather at times in a circle near the front, determine fields of opportunity, and then line up on the 40 yard-line of devil-busting and go to work. Certain individuals were "rebuked;" I was present in one service where an elderly woman was virtually told to sit down and be quiet during a "message" from the Lord. Another woman started at the back of the sanctuary and started stamping her feet, screaming, waving a dismissing hand over several couples seated there. They were being dissed, you know; God showing His displeasure by sending these emmisaries to shoo them away. These things happened under the very nose of a pastor, who recieved a check each week for his pastoral duties. I guess maintaining a spirit of balance and mdoeration and seemliness during Sunday services didn't fall into that category. From where I sat, he was a spectator in a theater of spiritual gladiators. These were among the most pathetic scenes I have ever witnessed as a believer and follower of Christ, and make the suitcoat waving antics of shyster Benny Hinn pale by comparison. Why none of the men in this congregation didn't rise to quell this quasi-religious rebellion and three-ring circus is beyond me. Maybe we felt outnumbered by the female quarterbacks
This was a church that wasn't interested in dialogue with non-Christians. They were interested in their own "spiritual" agendas, of coming to church with the view not of learning the fundamentals of the faith, but generating an exclusionary religious mindset. In the time simnce my family left, other families have left the church - some to find more stable and relevant bodies of Christians with which to fellowship and worship, and sadly, some have left the church completely, only to be embittered from living in an embattled atmosphere.
I found Christ in this church. He became real to me in life-changing ways. I found my wife there; our children were born during those years, and despite much of what happened, discovered that God loves me just as I am, but loves me too much to let me stay that way.
I'm concerned about this congregation. While other churches in the area have grown, thrived, and moved ahead, this one pretty much stays the same. That, too, is pathetic. I hope the trend can change.
Several years ago we returned there for the funeral of a relative of my wife's. One of the people we knew from the very early days came up to me and asked how things were going. "Fine," I replied genuinely. "We're doing great. We've got a blessed life, our children are grown and love Christ, and we have a tremendous church family." When I told her we were attending a more "nominal" church in town she sort of paled. "Really. . . you left here, you're not attending this church anymore?" "No," I contunued, "we've not been a part of this congregation since the late 1980's." "How could you leave here for a church like that?" she queried.
It wasn't a matter of how I could leave the church; it was a decision made after a lot of discussion, thought, and prayer. We left because our lives needed a re-definition of sorts, a revival that just wasn't happening there. How could I leave? Simple - how could I not?
I've thought and thought again about what to say, how to say it, when and where, and if it should be said at all. But, since I harp on this from time to time to close friends and close Christian friends in particular, maybe that time of setting words on the screen has at last come.
My wife and I and then-young family left the traditional, pentecostal church in January of 1988. It's not that we felt there were no good people there, or that we thought better of ourselves than the rest of the church, it was just time to go, to get away from the "safety" (as the pastor at the time said) of life at 222 1st Avenue in our home town. Google it if you're curious enough about where "our home town" is, and let me know if you get a hit.
We were tired of banal traditions that had been brought in the back of someone's grandmother's 1949 Ford coupe when they relocated here from wherever it is in Arkansas they lived. We were tired of a clothes line mentality that constantly carped on women wearing jewelry, slacks, and makeup. It seemed to me both now and then that there were far more urgent things to talk about in the church; discipleship, personal growth, developing the faith that could make us a more interactive entity with the community. Those things weren't the hot button issues, though. We majored in minors. There were Sunday night services that borderlined on the fanatical. This included, but wasn't restricted to, a Holy Huddle of the church's "holiness" women who would gather at times in a circle near the front, determine fields of opportunity, and then line up on the 40 yard-line of devil-busting and go to work. Certain individuals were "rebuked;" I was present in one service where an elderly woman was virtually told to sit down and be quiet during a "message" from the Lord. Another woman started at the back of the sanctuary and started stamping her feet, screaming, waving a dismissing hand over several couples seated there. They were being dissed, you know; God showing His displeasure by sending these emmisaries to shoo them away. These things happened under the very nose of a pastor, who recieved a check each week for his pastoral duties. I guess maintaining a spirit of balance and mdoeration and seemliness during Sunday services didn't fall into that category. From where I sat, he was a spectator in a theater of spiritual gladiators. These were among the most pathetic scenes I have ever witnessed as a believer and follower of Christ, and make the suitcoat waving antics of shyster Benny Hinn pale by comparison. Why none of the men in this congregation didn't rise to quell this quasi-religious rebellion and three-ring circus is beyond me. Maybe we felt outnumbered by the female quarterbacks
This was a church that wasn't interested in dialogue with non-Christians. They were interested in their own "spiritual" agendas, of coming to church with the view not of learning the fundamentals of the faith, but generating an exclusionary religious mindset. In the time simnce my family left, other families have left the church - some to find more stable and relevant bodies of Christians with which to fellowship and worship, and sadly, some have left the church completely, only to be embittered from living in an embattled atmosphere.
I found Christ in this church. He became real to me in life-changing ways. I found my wife there; our children were born during those years, and despite much of what happened, discovered that God loves me just as I am, but loves me too much to let me stay that way.
I'm concerned about this congregation. While other churches in the area have grown, thrived, and moved ahead, this one pretty much stays the same. That, too, is pathetic. I hope the trend can change.
Several years ago we returned there for the funeral of a relative of my wife's. One of the people we knew from the very early days came up to me and asked how things were going. "Fine," I replied genuinely. "We're doing great. We've got a blessed life, our children are grown and love Christ, and we have a tremendous church family." When I told her we were attending a more "nominal" church in town she sort of paled. "Really. . . you left here, you're not attending this church anymore?" "No," I contunued, "we've not been a part of this congregation since the late 1980's." "How could you leave here for a church like that?" she queried.
It wasn't a matter of how I could leave the church; it was a decision made after a lot of discussion, thought, and prayer. We left because our lives needed a re-definition of sorts, a revival that just wasn't happening there. How could I leave? Simple - how could I not?
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Thriller 25
"Thriller" is 25 years old - a quarter of a century.
It's the biggest selling record of all time - over 52 million units; records, cassettes, some music-club generated 8-tracks even, a now, compact disc and digital downloads.
The only other amazing thing is no one these days admits they ever bought one. People are going to sneak into the big box stores late at night or early in the morning for the 25th anniversary commemorative release when they think no one is looking.
Why?
Who knows?
"Thriller" has held its own over the years - Michael Jackson's personal eccentricity aside, this is a masterfully crafted piece of music - a 1980s memorial that is going to be around for awhile. Recommended listening; a lot of fun to experience again, and the short films included on DVD ("Beat It," "Billie Jean," and the full length "Thriller") and a few bonus music tracks make this a wise buy. What are you waiting for?
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Happy Birthday Ghost Story
This morning I started reading Peter Straub's 1979 psycho-thriller "Ghost Story."
The movie, starring Fred Astaire, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., and Melvyn Douglas was to say the very least, frightening. It sort of put me in the mood of ghosts. No, I'm not looking for any. I have had enough of them to deal with in my own life, and because today is my birthday they come back in average numbers to remind me (as if I needed it) of stuff, things I don't really even like to think about.
My existence is a reminder that something went terribly wrong in my family. I am the product of something I don't understand, and certain members of my mother's family never seemed to want me around too much. Or was it I just thought that and conjured up every slight that came my way? I have been told that things would have been better had I not been born, a cousin once reminded me that I was trouble from the word go, and I can never remember getting a birthday card or Christmas present from my aunt who always seemed to be an old woman. Like the rest of the folks in my mother's family, they worked hard, lived through a Depression, a World War, and the 1950s. Perhaps a little respect is due here.
It's a funny feeling when you sense that you're not really wanted; on the top of family gatherings are the greetings of warmth and welcome, These many years later it felt like window dressing. Maybe I'm a really a ghost, another being from the past that sits in a chair, says nothing, but points accusing fingers at family members and screams, "I'm here to remind you of things that have happened. If it wasn't for me, maybe everyone would be a little happier, you could actually live in the I love Lucy world it's easy to retreat to when issues get a little hot on the table.
Perhaps I should not have been, but I am.
Life hasn't been bad - I have a wonderful wife, children I am proud of, interests, passions, and people. God says I'm OK the way I am but loves me too much to leave me that way, so He's working on me.
Me, a ghost?
Hardly.
The movie, starring Fred Astaire, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., and Melvyn Douglas was to say the very least, frightening. It sort of put me in the mood of ghosts. No, I'm not looking for any. I have had enough of them to deal with in my own life, and because today is my birthday they come back in average numbers to remind me (as if I needed it) of stuff, things I don't really even like to think about.
My existence is a reminder that something went terribly wrong in my family. I am the product of something I don't understand, and certain members of my mother's family never seemed to want me around too much. Or was it I just thought that and conjured up every slight that came my way? I have been told that things would have been better had I not been born, a cousin once reminded me that I was trouble from the word go, and I can never remember getting a birthday card or Christmas present from my aunt who always seemed to be an old woman. Like the rest of the folks in my mother's family, they worked hard, lived through a Depression, a World War, and the 1950s. Perhaps a little respect is due here.
It's a funny feeling when you sense that you're not really wanted; on the top of family gatherings are the greetings of warmth and welcome, These many years later it felt like window dressing. Maybe I'm a really a ghost, another being from the past that sits in a chair, says nothing, but points accusing fingers at family members and screams, "I'm here to remind you of things that have happened. If it wasn't for me, maybe everyone would be a little happier, you could actually live in the I love Lucy world it's easy to retreat to when issues get a little hot on the table.
Perhaps I should not have been, but I am.
Life hasn't been bad - I have a wonderful wife, children I am proud of, interests, passions, and people. God says I'm OK the way I am but loves me too much to leave me that way, so He's working on me.
Me, a ghost?
Hardly.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
To Steven, A Victim
Yesterday while under the influence of some kind of sudden yet saddened creativity, I composed something of a short eulogy for 
NIU gunman Steven Kazmierczak. Okay, I know, he doesn't probably deserve it. But, I believe that underneath all the hostility was a human being. Not knowing what pushed him over the edge and drove him to DeKalb and to Cole Hall with all that firepower makes us that much more curious to figure out what happened. I heard on the news a couple nights ago that no funeral services were scheduled for him. His body was removed to an Elk Grove Village funeral home, cremated, and that's pretty much the end of it.
I'm not hear to minimize what he did. He had no value for the lives he took, the NIU community, the families of those who were killed or injured, or for that matter, the rest of society. It was a senseless and tragic act and no one even marginally connected with the school or the student body, the victims, the survivors, is ever going to forget what happened on February 14. Nor am I hear to offer advice about what should have/could have/would have been done if we'd have known whatever or saw some obvious signs that something wasn't connecting with Steven. He was a human being. I'm like everyone else: I want to know what happened.
NIU gunman Steven Kazmierczak. Okay, I know, he doesn't probably deserve it. But, I believe that underneath all the hostility was a human being. Not knowing what pushed him over the edge and drove him to DeKalb and to Cole Hall with all that firepower makes us that much more curious to figure out what happened. I heard on the news a couple nights ago that no funeral services were scheduled for him. His body was removed to an Elk Grove Village funeral home, cremated, and that's pretty much the end of it. I'm not hear to minimize what he did. He had no value for the lives he took, the NIU community, the families of those who were killed or injured, or for that matter, the rest of society. It was a senseless and tragic act and no one even marginally connected with the school or the student body, the victims, the survivors, is ever going to forget what happened on February 14. Nor am I hear to offer advice about what should have/could have/would have been done if we'd have known whatever or saw some obvious signs that something wasn't connecting with Steven. He was a human being. I'm like everyone else: I want to know what happened.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Johnny Cash Unchained
If you haven't heard Johnny Cash "Unchained," you're missing something singular. It's part of the American Recordings discs, and if you don't have it, finish reading this blog, rush out and get it. Not a bad track to be found. Especially cool is the now-come-to-fruition completion of "Mean Eyed Cat," that never really was really finished, according to Cash. It needed something, he said, and after it had hung around for about forty years, he completed it. Wow.
What I'm Listening to and Why
Listening: An assortment of original pressing 45s on an antique RCA Victor record player - see my blog of Summer, 2007 concerning this piece of antiquity that I paid $85.00 for and ended up soaking another almost$175.00 into before it actually worked - glad I did, though. It's turned out to be quite the conversation piece. At least I like to talk about it because no one else has seen it or cares that I have it. Records slapping onto the turntable in the last few minutes:
"All of My Life," by Lesley Gore
"All In the Game," by Tommy Edwards
"I'm Not Afraid," by Ricky Nelson
"Twilight Time" by the Platters
I'm not writing about anything in particular todayso maybe this is the time to have a little go at the political scene.
President Bush is giving the State of Union Address this evening ("State of the Legacy," says Google); I'm wondering what he's going to have to say. According to Good Morning America the economny is heavy on his mind, followed quickly by Iraq. What else he's going to say is up for grabs, but I know it's going to be couched in terms that make him sound much better than he probably is. That's the state of politics, however. Tell them what you think they'll believe, what they want to hear and hit as more or less close to the truth as you can. Leave the rest for them to ponder.
"Alley Cat," by Bent Fabric just dropped onto the stack. Remember that song? No, of course you don't. . . .
"All of My Life," by Lesley Gore
"All In the Game," by Tommy Edwards
"I'm Not Afraid," by Ricky Nelson
"Twilight Time" by the Platters
I'm not writing about anything in particular todayso maybe this is the time to have a little go at the political scene.
President Bush is giving the State of Union Address this evening ("State of the Legacy," says Google); I'm wondering what he's going to have to say. According to Good Morning America the economny is heavy on his mind, followed quickly by Iraq. What else he's going to say is up for grabs, but I know it's going to be couched in terms that make him sound much better than he probably is. That's the state of politics, however. Tell them what you think they'll believe, what they want to hear and hit as more or less close to the truth as you can. Leave the rest for them to ponder.
"Alley Cat," by Bent Fabric just dropped onto the stack. Remember that song? No, of course you don't. . . .
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Thoughts on Love
Listening: Johnny Cash "Unearthed," Disc Four, "My Mother's Hymnbook"
"Love makes your soul crawl out from its' hiding place. . . ."
-Quoted
"Love makes your soul crawl out from its' hiding place. . . ."
-Quoted
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Discussion Clutters: The 60s
Currently listening: a collection from the somewhat offbeat 1960s vocal group "Harper's Bizarre" that I legally downloaded and burned from I-Tunes. Don't even think for a minute I scarfed this stuff for free. They had a huge hit with Simon and Garfunkel's "59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin' Groovy).
My at-work friend Steve used to be a pastor. He now drives a fork truck on the night crew in the plant where I have worked for almost 35 years. No, I am not thinking, even remotely, of retiring yet. Not when I can have passionate conversations about what came down in the 1960s. Actually, I'm surprised at how carried away I get with this topic and anyone listening from a distance would tend to think I am either a radical now or a throw-back to four decades ago. Neither is true. Actually, I think my world view has evened itself out. I have an appreciation for what has been, where I'm at, and where I'm going in the future. I'm at peace with myself, basically like myself, and everyone else. I can't think of anyone I dislike.
Let's move on. In this case, it means a bit of a reversal - to the mid-1960s.
What did my generation have going for it forty years ago? I've been thinking about this a lot.
We had passion and sensed the need for change. Some folks think that the Beatles came along and challenged conventional thinking, espeically after "Magical Mystery Tour," and "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band," but it seems to me that the seeds for questioning just about everything came years before that. After President Kennedy was gunned down in Dallas, there was an overall sense that things weren't as innocent and homey as we were led to believe on situation comedies of the day. Wise parents, obedient children, clean living rooms and kitchens were simply the brainchild of network set decorators. Harriet Nelson may have marched to the beat of her husband Ozzie's drum Friday nights on 1950s and early 1960s television, but the reality was more stark. With Kennedy's death and the farce of the Warren Commission stinking like a run down skunk in the middle of an interstate highway, young people and their parents clashed. Ideas, modes of dress, what was acceptable now open to question; the whole gamut came into the social crossfire. Dickens said it best. "It was the best of times, the worst of times."
Young people wanted nothing to do with a war in southeast Asia that, like its contemporary counterpart in Iraq, was unwinnable. We were fighting the "godless communists," (gotta love that phrase) and if one country, fell, what was to stop another from toppling like the next domino? Hence, the "domino theory," if it happens one place it's bound to happen in another place - or some such nonsense. I've often mused that communism may have been better than the carnage the war left, but that idea wasn't on the table. Credit Robert McNamara, Secretary of Defense under Lyndon Johnson, for having the guts to admit thirty years after the fact that we were wrong to get involved in that whole mess from the get-go. But, you know how it goes: proverbial hindsight is 20/20, foresight is -20 in both eyes.
We had passion, but we needed a plan: we knew what we wanted, an end to war; peace, equality, the rest of it, but I'm not so sure we had a method to work it all out. It was an ideal that wasn't thought out. Abbie Hoffman, David Dellinger, Jerry Rubin and the Chicago Seven mindset had the right idea in Chicago. The modus operandi, though, was somewhere out floating in Lake Michigan. At least these guys are remembered for their presence.
I'm getting fired up about now - Harper's Bizarre may have to be replaced by Cream or the Doors on the stereo if this keeps up. . . or is it possibly the coffee?
Having passion and a plan means that if many of us were thinking about what we wanted, we might have realized that change takes time. But passion, per se, was running high on both sides of the controversy, on the side of the young as well as the Establishment. Remember those patriotic construction workers in New York that attacked a peaceful anti-war demonstration? It was chaos. What surprises me these days is the apathy on full display on college campuses as an unjust, uncalled for, and totally wasteful revisiting of Vietnam is played out in the Middle East. The finest of our young people are volunteering, with all good intentions and patriotic visions. Many are coming back to a funeral. I never thought I would see the day when patriotism, or whatever it is, could cause young people possessed of promise and ambition to abandon their futures to enlist in a war that can't be won. And what's the plan for Iraq? Are we foolish enough to think the people of that country are going to embrace democracy as we know it? If that's the plan, let's check back in about 2,000 years. The entire region is a hotbed of hatred, violence, and terrorism and has been since before Saul of Tarsus was blinded by a light on the Damascus Road, culminating in one of the most dramatic Christian conversions in recorded history.
Change taking time - that's not what was on the 1960s agenda - we wanted change and we wanted it then; "We want the world and we want it now. . . " (Jim Morrison of the Doors). It didn't happen, but maybe my generation started something. We appraised the values we were raised with, questioned them, and wanted better. Perhaps looking over our shoulders, realizing that the world doesn't always respond as quickly as we think it should, helps us see what was right and wrong with our generation and the upheaval bring about. Maybe, just maybe, that backward glance can help us respond to the present generation, help them make plans for theirs and our future. JFK said it aptly: "We all inhabit the planet and breathe the same air." Why is it so hard to connect the dots?
My at-work friend Steve used to be a pastor. He now drives a fork truck on the night crew in the plant where I have worked for almost 35 years. No, I am not thinking, even remotely, of retiring yet. Not when I can have passionate conversations about what came down in the 1960s. Actually, I'm surprised at how carried away I get with this topic and anyone listening from a distance would tend to think I am either a radical now or a throw-back to four decades ago. Neither is true. Actually, I think my world view has evened itself out. I have an appreciation for what has been, where I'm at, and where I'm going in the future. I'm at peace with myself, basically like myself, and everyone else. I can't think of anyone I dislike.
Let's move on. In this case, it means a bit of a reversal - to the mid-1960s.
What did my generation have going for it forty years ago? I've been thinking about this a lot.
We had passion and sensed the need for change. Some folks think that the Beatles came along and challenged conventional thinking, espeically after "Magical Mystery Tour," and "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band," but it seems to me that the seeds for questioning just about everything came years before that. After President Kennedy was gunned down in Dallas, there was an overall sense that things weren't as innocent and homey as we were led to believe on situation comedies of the day. Wise parents, obedient children, clean living rooms and kitchens were simply the brainchild of network set decorators. Harriet Nelson may have marched to the beat of her husband Ozzie's drum Friday nights on 1950s and early 1960s television, but the reality was more stark. With Kennedy's death and the farce of the Warren Commission stinking like a run down skunk in the middle of an interstate highway, young people and their parents clashed. Ideas, modes of dress, what was acceptable now open to question; the whole gamut came into the social crossfire. Dickens said it best. "It was the best of times, the worst of times."
Young people wanted nothing to do with a war in southeast Asia that, like its contemporary counterpart in Iraq, was unwinnable. We were fighting the "godless communists," (gotta love that phrase) and if one country, fell, what was to stop another from toppling like the next domino? Hence, the "domino theory," if it happens one place it's bound to happen in another place - or some such nonsense. I've often mused that communism may have been better than the carnage the war left, but that idea wasn't on the table. Credit Robert McNamara, Secretary of Defense under Lyndon Johnson, for having the guts to admit thirty years after the fact that we were wrong to get involved in that whole mess from the get-go. But, you know how it goes: proverbial hindsight is 20/20, foresight is -20 in both eyes.
We had passion, but we needed a plan: we knew what we wanted, an end to war; peace, equality, the rest of it, but I'm not so sure we had a method to work it all out. It was an ideal that wasn't thought out. Abbie Hoffman, David Dellinger, Jerry Rubin and the Chicago Seven mindset had the right idea in Chicago. The modus operandi, though, was somewhere out floating in Lake Michigan. At least these guys are remembered for their presence.
I'm getting fired up about now - Harper's Bizarre may have to be replaced by Cream or the Doors on the stereo if this keeps up. . . or is it possibly the coffee?
Having passion and a plan means that if many of us were thinking about what we wanted, we might have realized that change takes time. But passion, per se, was running high on both sides of the controversy, on the side of the young as well as the Establishment. Remember those patriotic construction workers in New York that attacked a peaceful anti-war demonstration? It was chaos. What surprises me these days is the apathy on full display on college campuses as an unjust, uncalled for, and totally wasteful revisiting of Vietnam is played out in the Middle East. The finest of our young people are volunteering, with all good intentions and patriotic visions. Many are coming back to a funeral. I never thought I would see the day when patriotism, or whatever it is, could cause young people possessed of promise and ambition to abandon their futures to enlist in a war that can't be won. And what's the plan for Iraq? Are we foolish enough to think the people of that country are going to embrace democracy as we know it? If that's the plan, let's check back in about 2,000 years. The entire region is a hotbed of hatred, violence, and terrorism and has been since before Saul of Tarsus was blinded by a light on the Damascus Road, culminating in one of the most dramatic Christian conversions in recorded history.
Change taking time - that's not what was on the 1960s agenda - we wanted change and we wanted it then; "We want the world and we want it now. . . " (Jim Morrison of the Doors). It didn't happen, but maybe my generation started something. We appraised the values we were raised with, questioned them, and wanted better. Perhaps looking over our shoulders, realizing that the world doesn't always respond as quickly as we think it should, helps us see what was right and wrong with our generation and the upheaval bring about. Maybe, just maybe, that backward glance can help us respond to the present generation, help them make plans for theirs and our future. JFK said it aptly: "We all inhabit the planet and breathe the same air." Why is it so hard to connect the dots?
Monday, January 14, 2008
Refusing To Be Average: Thoughts on Tozer
I have a couple well worn, aged, read and re-read paperbacks by Christian writer A.W. Tozer - of all the things he's written I guess I get hit square in the eye more by one statement: "Refuse To Be Average" than anything else. I guess that's not such a profound statement after all, but it's got a lot of weight to it. I would love to step out of the confining realm of "average," and actually be someone who's just a slight notch above. I'm not interested in turning water into wine, feeding multitudes with a loaf of bread and some lunch meat (bread and fish have been done already); I just want to be a person who makes a difference to someone. I guess I look to my inspiration Johnny Cash, who was anything but average, but he was un-average in a sort of low-key, inconspicuous way. He went out of his way to help someone, took chances with people no one else would have give a second thought, hence his Columbia Records Folsom Prison and San Quentin recordings of the 196os, and was a sort of Jesus-with-skin-on to the downtrodden, misunderstood, marginalized, the down-and-out. I just want to hit somewhere around that level, be a friend, a better listener, a more sympathetic heart. Let it start today, wherever I'm at, whatever I'm doing, no matter who the person is or whether they got the spot I wanted to park in at Wal-Mart.
Friday, January 11, 2008
January Blues!
The Big Christmas Letdown has begun. . .
"Holiday Inn" has been shown on television several times. What difference does that make, since you own it on DVD - in glorious black and white. It's now put away with the rest of the Christmas stuff, and you probably jammed it in the box with the decorations, burned out mini-lights you know will not work when you take them out of the box just after Thanksgiving in November later this year. Trust me, that time will be here before you know it. In the meantime, there seems to be an eternity of time between now and then.
If you're like me, you find a certain respite from all society has to offer during the holidays - it's a time to throw off the burden of routine and live a little - you look forward to giving and receiving presents, raising a cup of Christmas cheer (responsibily, I trust). But when the Season passes, it passes and there's more than a little letdown. Routine resumes, the weather continues to be frightful and fires and still delightful if a little lonely. Looking out the window you realize you have at least two months of cabin reclusiveness to deal with. Not a good prospect, I know. If you head out to the mall, you might be tempted to kill that melancholy with purchases you really don't need - things to make you feel better that are only going to make everything a lot worse when the bill arrives - it's over 20% on the unpaid balance, you know.
I've found a lot of solace from the January blues in a good book and couple that with a few good CDs - if you've still got an old record player, dig out some vintage 78s if there are any around - and stack them up on the changer. It'll take you back to a less complicated time (or does it just seem that way?), and for a time those old scratchy records might break the monotony while making January's dog days move a little more quickly by.
That's a real 78rpm record in the photo above - I know the technology is outdated, but what goes around, comes around, and eventually there's going to be a renewed interested in those old records - basically they're a dime a dozen for the time being - they sound old because they are old, but that ancient sound and scratchiness is part of the charm.
Inspiration, Where For Art Thou?
I get myself in quite a lather from time to time about inspiration, or the lack thereof. If I need a kick in the inspirational rear end, I listen to Johnny Cash. If he doesn't inspired you to attempt something, I don't know what will. I guess it's just his attitude - it's pretty laid back; he picked up on an idea and ran with it. This late and great country music icon crossed a lot of aesthetic boundaries well. He variously recorded with Bono, Trent Reznor, Fiona Apple, Lindsay Buckingham, and his work with the Highwaymen is classic. No wonder I get inspired. Listen to "Cash Unearthed," a 5-disc work chornicling some then-unreleased outtakes and more from the American Recordings sessions. His acoustic guitar and vocals are the essence of the sublime. This set may set you back some dollars, but it's money well spent. I'd rather have better stuff in my collection than a hodge podge of junk any day. Junk this ain't.
In that regard, I have a recommendation today for anyone struggling with the inspiration flow; for that person who is trying to put concise words and thoughts down either on paper or in cybserspace - get your inspiration from the Masters - those persons whose work motivates you to get out of a chair and get busy - no, you don't have to be that person, you don't have to imitate everything they do - just do what you do pushed along by individualism realizing that what you do is unique, your form of artistic expression be it music, writing; choose your passion and find someone doing it. What is it they do and why do they do it they way they do? What do you want to do and how will you present your particular passion?
Listening to Cash last night before retiring sort of mellowed the day out and reaffirmed my passion - it put some things in perspective, a rather "holy" one at that as I listened to some old hymns of the church as only Cash in his final days could render them - honestly. And that listening caused me to settle myself, focus, and go from there. Communicating ideas, not neceessarily "truth" in the strictest sense of the word, is what I like to do best. A challenge to conventional thinking, not converting someone to see it my way, is always my first pick of things to do. In doing so I might see or at least consider something that previously just sort of went in one ear and out the other. In short, I might see life from another vantage place.
In that regard, I have a recommendation today for anyone struggling with the inspiration flow; for that person who is trying to put concise words and thoughts down either on paper or in cybserspace - get your inspiration from the Masters - those persons whose work motivates you to get out of a chair and get busy - no, you don't have to be that person, you don't have to imitate everything they do - just do what you do pushed along by individualism realizing that what you do is unique, your form of artistic expression be it music, writing; choose your passion and find someone doing it. What is it they do and why do they do it they way they do? What do you want to do and how will you present your particular passion?
Listening to Cash last night before retiring sort of mellowed the day out and reaffirmed my passion - it put some things in perspective, a rather "holy" one at that as I listened to some old hymns of the church as only Cash in his final days could render them - honestly. And that listening caused me to settle myself, focus, and go from there. Communicating ideas, not neceessarily "truth" in the strictest sense of the word, is what I like to do best. A challenge to conventional thinking, not converting someone to see it my way, is always my first pick of things to do. In doing so I might see or at least consider something that previously just sort of went in one ear and out the other. In short, I might see life from another vantage place.
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