How Far We’ve Come

It’s interesting living in a metropolitan area of a progressive state, especially with the 2008 presidential elections presenting the possibility of either a female or African American nominee. Since the outset of the initial fundraising efforts I’ve taken for granted that US citizens would be ready to vote for Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama. Putting political parties aside, I’ve assumed that we’ve moved forward as a society to a point where we would look past gender or race to fairly assess the qualifications and leadership abilities of a candidate (again, not necessarily endorsing either one).

But I’d like to take you all to a place called Jena, Louisiana. This town of 3,000, located in the middle of the state, has a long and violent history of racial tension and segregation which has only risen in intensity over the last year following a string of racially motivated crimes.

It all started with a tree.

At Jena High School black and white students don’t associate with each other. While socializing at school, the white students gather under a big shade tree in the courtyard, the black students by the auditorium.

Or so it was, until last year, when an impetuous African American freshman challenged this status quo just a few days into the first semester by asking the principal at a school-wide assembly if he, too, could sit under the tree, and was told that he had the right to sit anywhere he wished.

Members of Jena High’s rodeo team didn’t see it that way, and the next morning three nooses hung from the tree. Many wanted the perpetrators arrested, expelled. Technically this was a terroristic threat and would qualify as a hate crime. Officials decided it was a prank and the “jokesters” received in-school suspension.

A group of African American athletes organized a silent protest, defiantly gathering under the tree until a school assembly was called. The police and the district attorney were brought in. DA Reed Walters warned students that he “could be their friend or worst enemy.” “With one stroke of my pen,” he reportedly said “I can make your life disappear.”

African American students felt he was speaking directly to them (a point of debate amongst those in attendance). White students felt triumphant, black students resentful.

On November 30 somebody started Jena High on fire. Everyone was pointing fingers. Fights began to erupt throughout the city. 16-year-old African American Robert Bailey was jumped at a mostly white party. The next day, at a local convenience store, Bailey exchanged heated words with a white classmate who had been at the party. The white student went to his truck and pulled out a shotgun. Bailey and his friends wrestled the weapon away from him and brought it home. They were charged with theft of a firearm, second-degree robbery and disturbing the peace. The white student wasn’t charged (inarguably absurd).

The following Monday, white student Justin Barker was spreading the word at school that Bailey had been “whipped by a white man.” When he walked outside, into the courtyard, he was jumped and beaten by a group of black students.

Barker’s injuries were minor. He was examined by doctors and released, going on to attend a social function that very night.

But six African American students were arrested and charged with attempted second-degree murder. The first to go to trial was Mychal Bell. He’s facing 22 years in prison. The rest are awaiting trial.

I don’t condone violence or retaliation. The six African American Jena High students were absolutely wrong to beat Justin Barker and they need to be held accountable for their actions (I think the attempted second-degree murder charge is pretty extreme, however). But so do the white students who jumped Robert Bailey and the white student who pulled a gun on him. So do the white students who hung the nooses, painfully reminding a southern town of its still visible scars; marks left by years of hatred and fear.

Living in the north, it’s easy to forget that places like Jena exist; that there are still towns where deep racial divides permeate the culture and rot any hope for reconciliation or mutual respect before they ever have an opportunity to take root.

Maybe the US isn’t as progressive as I thought (or hoped).

Thanks for reading.

Zizzle-Zot will be in Disney World for the next few days. He’ll be back on Tuesday. Until then…

Michael Vick: The Zot Weighs In

I realize I’ve been pretty quiet concerning the Michael Vick fiasco. I’ve got a bit of a soft-spot for animals, dogs in particular, and the whole thing disgusts me to no end. I’d be thrilled if I never heard another word about it, particularly the grizzly details, but it’s apparently unavoidable. I suppose Vick’s the biggest animal there is, so maybe I should have more of a soft spot for him. Plus, everyone else in the blogosphere has given their two cents and I’d hate to be a step behind.

Michael Vick, prepare to feel the wrath of the Zot.

What got me fired up is this story from ESPN reporting that Vick is remorseful and has apologized for his actions: http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/news/story?id=2992890.

To Hell with that. I understand this runs contrary to my Christian tenets, but Michael Vick doesn’t now, nor will he ever, deserve our forgiveness. The cruelty with which he treated those dogs (subjecting them to electrocutions, beatings and brutal fights. Killing underperformers by hanging or drowning them) offers conclusive proof that he is a savage completely detached from the sanctity of life. At the most severe, Vick deserves no better treatment than those dogs received. At the very least he should be locked up in a sanitarium, barred from contact with normally functioning human beings. If one has no compassion, no morals, no ethics, then one ceases to be human and becomes a beast. It simply isn’t safe or prudent to have monsters like him interacting with society.

Vick has been suspended indefinitely by NFL commissioner Roger Goodell for violating the league’s gambling policy. At this point are we really worried about the gambling policy? 50 some dogs were confiscated at Vick’s Surry County property. Vick and his cohorts had turned these dogs into blood-thirsty killing machines. One of your league’s biggest stars is slaughtering man’s best friend in the backyard and burying the corpses under the tool shed. I think there are bigger problems here than the gambling policy. You know who else shows a penchant for cruelty to animals? Serial killers. We’re talking about a disturbed and depraved individual.

Vick has assured us that he didn’t personally place any bets or share in the winnings, he merely provided the funding for others to do so. Does he think we’re all morons? He gave other people money to gamble with, but didn’t share in the winnings? Bullshit. And now it’s been two weeks and he sees the error of his ways? All of a sudden he realizes just how horrible dog fighting is and renounces it forever? Once again, bullshit. His estranged father came out of the woodwork and announced he’s been telling Vick for years to give up dog fighting, to no avail. Why should we believe that things are now any different?

My favorite part is how Vick has found Jesus as a result of the charges. Often we hear of excruciatingly difficult and trying conversion experiences. I’m happy to hear it was so easy for Michael Vick.

At least he’s aksing for our forgiveness. Dumbass. But we’d be even dumber if we believe a word this guy says.

Thanks for reading.

P.S. If you check out the Source section of the Star Trib today they’re running a tribute to the Weekly World News, over two weeks after Zizzle-Zot. I’m not even getting paid for this. Boo ya.

People of Note: Neal Cassady

One of modern America’s archetypal tragic figures, Neal Cassady was the father of the Beat Generation and the granddaddy of the psychedelic movement. His cross-country travels with the writer Jack Kerouac were the inspiration for On the Road, the manifesto of the Beat legions. Allen Ginsburg also alludes to Cassady in his groundbreaking poem Howl, which is in my opinion one of the greatest American literary achievements.

Cassady was born in 1926 and was raised in Denver by an alcoholic father, bouncing between run-down hotels and reform schools. He met Kerouac and Ginsberg at Columbia University in 1946 and quickly joined their circle of friends, which included several prominent writers and artists.

Over the next year Cassady and Kerouac traveled from New York to Denver to San Francisco several times, also making stops in New Orleans and Mexico. Kerouac’s accounts of these journeys would turn into On the Road, finished in 1951.

Cassady and Kerouac had a falling out towards the end of their travels together when Kerouac developed dysentery in Mexico, and Cassady abandoned him there. Their friendship was irreparably damaged, and they drifted apart.

In 1948 Cassady married Carolyn Robinson and settled down south of San Francisco. They had three children, but Cassady could not escape his roaming past. He was finally arrested in 1958 on drug charges after offering to share marijuana with an undercover officer. He did a brief stint at San Quentin, and upon his release found himself unable to meet the obligations of his wife and children. Carolyn eventually divorced him.

In 1962 Cassady met Ken Kesey (author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and founder of the Merry Pranksters). He eventually joined Kesey’s group of flower children, which included Wavy Gravy, Tom Wolfe, and Mountain Girl (Carolyn Adams, wife of Jerry Garcia).

The Merry Pranksters were, in essence, the psychedelic movement. They believed psychedelic drugs could be used to transform society and attempted to spread this message through events they labeled “Acid Tests.” During “Acid Tests” participants were given LSD (which was legal until 1966) and asked if they could “pass the acid test.”

Don’t get it? Neither do I, but I imagine that’s a good thing.

Cassady was with the Pranksters until 1967, when he traveled to Mexico with fellow Prankster George “Barely Visible” Walker and girlfriend Anne Murphy. They ended up just south of Puerto Vallarta and held legendary parties at their beachside house. It was following one of these parties that Cassady died, in1968, after passing out near a railroad track on a cold, rainy night wearing nothing but a T-shirt and jeans. He was in a coma when he was found and later died of exposure. He was five days short of his 42nd birthday.

The tragedy of Neal Cassady is that he represents that small cross section of humanity that is truly alive. He ravenously consumed life, wandering from experience to experience freely, but far from aimlessly. He was driven by the desire to taste, to smell, to hear, to see, to feel, to love, to hate, to live through suffering and ecstasy alike. He dared to bypass the American dream for the chance to truly come alive, and in the end he lost. He became lazy, finding it easier to artificially manifest sublime experiences with drugs and alcohol, never realizing that these were the very things making him numb to life.

Maybe the lesson to take from the life of Neal Cassady is best coined using his own words: “Twenty years of fast living – there’s just not much left, and my kids are all screwed up. Don’t do what I have done.”

Thanks for reading.

Nickelback Admits to Writing Own Lyrics

After years of silence and outright denial, Nickelback frontman Chad Kroeger has finally admitted that the band does in fact write their own lyrics, bringing dramatic conclusion to years of speculation that Mr. Kroeger and bandmates Mike Kroeger, Ryan Peake, and Daniel Adair are the four shallowest, lamest and most banal human beings ever assembled into one group.

With a string of hackneyed hits such as “Photograph,” “If Everyone Cared,” and “Rockstar,” Nickelback has set new industry standards for mundanacity and forehead-slapping idiocy by spewing out such trite lyrics as “Kim’s the first girl I kissed/ I was so nervous that I nearly missed” and “I want a brand new house on an episode of Cribs/ And a bathroom I can play baseball in/ And a king size tub big enough for ten plus me.”

Nickelback has also successfully demonstrated to music executives everywhere that most consumers are uninformed, ignorant boobs who actually prefer uninspired, watered-down pseudo-rock to anything resembling originality or true talent. Said one music buyer, caught outside an area Best Buy in possession of the latest Nickelback album, “I like that I don’t have to think too much. It’s like I already know the songs before I even hear them. And they’re lyrics always rhyme, which is important.”

We can thank Nickelback for paving the way for a number of other shitty, inexplicably successful “rock” bands such as 3 Doors Down, Lifehouse, and the latest incarnation, Daughtry, which fill our airwaves with overdone posturing, overplayed power chords and the unmistakable stink of desperation as they attempt to make their borderline homosexual rock star personas appear hip and badass.

In a related story, researchers at the University of Minnesota have announced a new study on the correlation between Nickelback listening and IQ scores. Lead scientist Dr. Marvin Hargrove says he hopes to prove that actively listening to Nickelback lyrics diminishes test scores by a significant margin. Though Dr. Hargrove understands that the margin may vary depending on the test subject’s level of enjoyment during the experiment, he expects the study to offer irrefutable evidence that Nickelback is responsible for the dumbing down of America.

Thanks for reading.

The Fascination with Intoxication Part 2

Apologies for yesterday, folks. Can’t really pass up lunch and a Twins game with the boss man. So, to pick up where we left off…

Big thanks to all who commented (and by that I mean P Corcs, Werd, Joey, and welcome back Late Night, it’s about damn time. Too bad Socrates08 has been MIA. He would’ve enjoyed this one). You all have raised some interesting points on both sides of the issue, and it’s good to see that we have a broad range of opinions on the matter.

Werd, you’re absolutely right to say that alcohol isn’t a prerequisite to good conversation. It’s very possible, and in many ways ideal, to form deep connections with people without the aid of alcohol. In reality, I doubt very much you could build long lasting, meaningful connections if you were only vulnerable while drunk (a fact which undoubtedly has been the downfall of many relationships, families, etc.).

P Corcs and Joey, I think, both raised a question that plays a central role in this conversation. What is drunkenness? Does drunkenness mean being over the limit to drive? Does it mean vomiting, blacking out? Where is the line?

It’s tough because the limit isn’t set in stone, and as Late Night pointed out, it’s far from black and white. Drunkenness varies from person to person, day to day. Personally, I would define drunkenness as P Corcs did: belligerent, uncomprehending, blacked out. I’ve been there a couple times, and I promise that this isn’t the intent of alcohol or the fun of alcohol. It’s miserable, and I aim to never cross the line again.

I know this was a concern for Werd. As we drink we approach that line and once we get there we can’t turn back. He has chosen to avoid that line by never approaching it. I respect him for this choice, but I also respect P Corcs, Joey and Late Night for knowing where that line is for themselves and making the conscious effort not to cross it.

So, without crossing the limit of “drunkenness” (I realize this argument is a little arbitrary since we all define drunkenness by different standards), is it a sin to get a buzz from alcohol? Joey, P Corcs, and Late Night don’t think so, and I’m inclined to agree with them (sorry Werd). I appreciate P Corcs visual of the wedding feast. These people were drinking throughout the celebration, enjoying each others’ company and as a result they ran out of wine, which led to Jesus creating more for them. Jesus didn’t say “no, you’ve had enough.” He said “Here, share in my abundance, receive my blessing, and celebrate.”

Joey also brought up an interesting perspective on this topic. It’s accepted that Jesus drank wine, he was present at the wedding feast mentioned and he was completely human. Is it realistic to imagine that he never caught a buzz from alcohol? (I’ve heard the arguments that wine back then was weaker than it is now, but I say that’s hogwash. There’s no way anyone could know that conclusively.)

I won’t lie and say that I don’t do anything stupid/sinful while I’m drinking. But I’m always doing stupid/sinful stuff. Everybody is. For the most part, the stupid acts I commit while drinking are in fun and love.

Now we get to a real dilemma. A problem that is, I imagine, near the core of Werd’s concerns.

Throughout this conversation we have been speaking of ourselves and our closest friends. We have spent years growing together, bonding by living together, participating in Bible studies, going through difficult times. We all come from stable backgrounds, have developed solid foundations in our faith, have college educations and all in all have our lives on the right track. Because of this, we are able to drink occasionally and make good decisions, without it impacting other areas of our lives.

It’s easy to forget that many people are not in the same position and for many people alcohol is a crutch. They use it to escape the reality and responsibility of the world around them and the results are never good.

What is our responsibility concerning such people? It’s another fine line to walk. If we refuse alcohol we’ll inevitably be viewed as Pharisees. But if we drink, to a certain extent it condones excessive drinking in others. Is it hypocritical to say it’s okay for me to drink, since I’ve got my feet on the ground, while saying others can’t handle the responsibility of alcohol?

What are your thoughts?

Thanks for reading.

Gone!

So I was working on a response to the comments on yesterday’s post, but then my boss called and wants to take me to the Twins game. Lata!!! Wahoooo!

Back tomorrow with the response.

In the meantime, enjoy some Onion (which I find delightful.)

http://www.theonion.com/content/news_briefs/no_one_in_womens_shelter

http://www.theonion.com/content/news/fucking_yankees_reports_nation

The Fascination with Intoxication

Following the WeFest posts Werd (aka my voice of reason) raised some thoughtful concerns on the issue of drunkenness. I know that P Corcs and Joey are interested in having a conversation on this topic, and hopefully other readers will join in the debate as it progresses. Zizzle-Zot would like to begin with some initial thoughts which hopefully open up into a forum for discussion.

The consumption of alcohol is an ancient tradition and has been used for millennia as a means of fellowship and celebration. In addition, many poor civilizations throughout history haven’t had access to clean drinking water and would therefore drink wine or ale with meals for health reasons.

From a Biblical stance, the consumption of alcohol isn’t condemned, and several passages portray alcohol in a positive light (Ecclesiastes 9:7, Psalm 104:14-15, Amos 9:14). Jesus himself drank wine (John 2:1-11, Matthew 26:29) and turned water into wine for a wedding celebration.

That said, I would never attempt to make the argument that drunkenness is Biblical. Christians are called to avoid drunkenness and to condemn its effects (Ephesians 5:18, Proverbs 23:29-35). Plus, it would be a huge stretch to say that intoxication is glorifying to God.

It’s no secret that I, on occasion, find myself intoxicated, and Werd would like to know why. I can honestly say that the first two explanations Werd proposes (lack of will power, peer pressure) are not the case. I have no problem having a beer or two and stopping, and if I don’t want to drink I have no problem abstaining from alcohol while I’m around friends who are drinking. I can confidently say that most (not all) of the friends I drink with are in the same position. The next explanation used is taste. I do like the taste of beer and certain liquors, such as whiskey, but I’d be a fool to pretend that I get intoxicated because I like the taste. I like the taste of orange juice, but I rarely drink it in quantities larger than a glass at a time.

To be perfectly blunt, I would argue Werd’s fun argument (“Don’t tell me because it’s fun”). It’s a lot of fun, that’s a fact. But I understand Werd’s trepidation surrounding this reasoning. We are held to a higher standard and to live life based on “fun” is selfish and hedonistic. And the results of intoxication (headaches, exhaustion, etc.) certainly aren’t very much fun.

So why do we do it?

I’ve actually been thinking about the reasoning a lot lately, particularly since I’ve had to cut back drastically because of my marathon training. What, exactly, is the draw? I had an interesting conversation with a girl at WeFest about it, and felt like I was on to something. It was, and still is, an undeveloped theory (and I’m sure the girl thought I was certifiably insane), but now’s a good chance to give it a try.

The essence of humanity is connection. We are creatures designed to be social, to be in fellowship, to know and be known, to be loved and accepted. We long to be vulnerable, to be open, to let someone see who we truly are and not be ashamed.

It’s true that some people drink to escape themselves, so that they can be someone else for a while.

But speaking for myself and the people I surround myself with, I feel free to be truer to who I am when I’m intoxicated. Our daily lives are spent building barriers that prevent connection. We have so many boundaries created by social customs, mutual misunderstandings, intolerance, etc. that it becomes nearly impossible to communicate honestly on a personal level.

Alcohol, by lowering inhibitions, establishes a comfort zone. I can have conversations, deeply personal, intense conversations, that I would never have without a few drinks. I can talk to a complete stranger about important issues like spirituality or premarital sex (both conversations I had at WeFest) with complete openness. These types of connections would be nearly impossible for me to establish in any other setting. I believe most people have the same difficulties.

This is what I was trying to explain to the girl I mentioned at WeFest. How amazing that tens of thousands of young people drove for hours to camp out in a field, be filthy and tired for days, just so that they could feel that connection to each other. Like I said, she thought I was crazy, so it’s very possible that I’m way off base.

Of course I think it’s unfortunate that this is a reality. I wish I could maintain that level of vulnerability and honesty without alcohol. I’m working on it, but so far I still find it difficult. Do I think this is a good excuse, or a justification? Probably not, but for now it’s what I’ve got…

Thoughts?

Thanks for reading.

WeFest: The Tenth Circle of Hell Part 2

I’ll begin with the disclaimer that I’m not really into country music. The fact that most country artists don’t write their own songs costs them a degree of credibility in my eyes. When they sing about love or loss I simply don’t believe them because they are singing in the first person about someone else’s experiences.

That and I really don’t care about their trucks, their dogs, their tractors or their women. I think Toby “we’ll stick a boot up their ass” Keith is ignorant, I’ve heard rumors that Keith Urban is a coke snorting dick, and Alan Jackson seems to have about as much personality as an old boot.

With that said, those mo-fos put on one hell of a show. Each night of concerts was better than the last. Starting on Thursday with Jackson rolling out hit after hit (many of which I was completely unaware he even sang) to Friday with Keith Urban bouncing all over the stage (he plays a mean guitar, too) to Saturday with Toby Keith whipping the swelling crowd into a frenzy and paying tribute to our soldiers (I found it very respectful, but bear in mind I was intoxicated).

I’m in some ways embarrassed to say that Toby Keith was my favorite performer of the weekend. I still think he’s ignorant, but his songs are perfect for a mega concert full of drunkards – cheeky, irreverent and catchy with simple choruses even country newbs can sing along to.

The only disappointment was Carrie Underwood. Her songs are some of the few country tunes I would listen through if they happened to come on the radio. Plus I’ve got a bit of a crush. She looked overwhelmed by the massive audience (sort of a deer in the headlights effect) and ended up playing the whole show way too safe. And she had a side-pony. Enough said.

The real treats of the WeFest concert bowl actually had nothing to do with the concerts at all. One of these was found in an obscure corner of the bowl. A gamblers dream game, which was essentially a combination of roulette and darts. The game consisted of a large checkerboard, a single thrower, and a circle of gambling addicts willing to win or lose on a whim. Participants placed money on the color they thought the dart would hit (red, white, or black (line)). Hit the color, double your money. You can imagine the wild swings. I’m not even sure how the game could’ve been legal.

And then there was the legendary Oof-Da Taco. Heaps of ground beef, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, jalapeños and sour cream all atop what could most accurately be described as a puff pastry. My fellow concert-goers had been hyping the Oof-Da for months, so by the time I got in line for my first experience my expectations were sky-high. I wasn’t disappointed. Messy to eat, brutal the next morning, but definitely worth the trouble.

I felt like I was hung over for a week after WeFest. Severe dehydration, a mild case of sunstroke, and several days in dangerously unsanitary conditions had left my immune system weakened and my body begging me for a little compassion. It truly was a harrowing, horrifying experience.

WeFest, I loathe you…until next year.

Thanks for reading.

WeFest: The Tenth Circle of Hell

So I’m sure you’ve all noticed that it’s been nearly two weeks now since my adventures at WeFest, the super-sized country music festival in Detroit Lakes, MN, and I have yet to even mention it, let alone post an article about it. The truth is, it’s taken me this long to process, assess, decompress, detoxify, and move past the post traumatic stress of arguably the most hellish voluntary experience known to man (outside of war, but I’d say people who volunteer to go to war are a little unhinged to begin with).

Allow me to give you the rundown of a typical WeFest day. Everybody was up by 8 AM at the latest. The sun baking our poorly ventilated tents haphazardly pitched in treeless fields made sure of it. Once up, the typical WeFester had to make a choice: either face a wicked hangover, pop an Advil and attempt to rehydrate, or have a drink, catch a quick buzz and hope that for the rest of the day you won’t even remember you have a head to ache.

Most opt for the latter.

The showers at WeFest were crowded and virtually unusable (imagine the collected grime of thousands of people spending days in the dirt). Most mornings we had someone drive us into town where we would grab breakfast, a round of screwdrivers and a bath in the lake (which was actually awfully refreshing).

We’d finally make it back to camp around noon, at which point it was time to “go walking” (apparently a WeFest tradition of literally just walking around). Assuredly more fun than it sounds, the beauty of “walking” lies in the people. We met some strange characters on our walks, from a beer guzzling WeFest medic cruising around on a four wheeler to a vagrant who looked as if he made a regular home of that desolate field, and WeFest built up around him.

It helped that we had a tricked out Radio Flyer, customized in John Deere green and reinforced to hold 600+ lbs, to cart our cooler around in (a particularly effective mode of transportation when it came to hills).

You can find pretty much anything at WeFest, depending on where you walk. Slip-N-Slides, pools, booze-infused watermelons, yard games galore, dance parties. It truly is a party for the Renaissance man.

The lengths of our walks varied depending on the groups’ energy level, success in finding outrageous people/events, and most importantly, beer supply. We’d typically hobble back to the campsite at around five and someone would drunkenly fire up the grill for dinner (which we would eat dangerously undercooked because no one had the patience to wait it out).

And then it was the night time, which we all know is the right time. The concerts, the crowds, and of course, the Oof-da Tacos.

To be continued...

Thanks for reading.

People of Note: Brother Lawrence

Note: To give everyone the heads up, this is the first of a sporadically recurring series in which I will focus on intriguing historical or modern figures that for whatever reason most people (myself included) are unfamiliar with.

Brother Lawrence

Brother Lawrence, born Nicholas Herman (1610-1691) was a Carmelite monk at the Discalced Carmelite Monastery in Paris. His legacy is the text “The Practice of the Presence of God,” which chronicles his intimate relationship with God and the overwhelming joy this relationship gave him.

Herman’s extreme poverty forced him to join the army and serve in the Thirty Years’ war as a young man. It was during this time that he had a revelatory experience which shaped the rest of his life.

By all accounts, the revelation and ensuing realization was simple. As he gazed at a leafless tree in the dead of winter, Herman realized that he too was seemingly dead, but, like the tree, God had new life waiting for him. At that moment, he said, the leafless tree “first flashed in upon my soul the fact of God.” An unfailing love for God consumed Herman from that point onward.

Shortly after this experience Herman was injured and was forced to retire from the army. With his newfound love for God, he set out to find a place where he could “suffer for his failures.”

He entered the monastery as a lay brother, lacking the necessary education to become a cleric, and took the name “Lawrence of the Resurrection.” He was assigned to the kitchen, and amidst his daily chores of cooking and cleaning he developed his philosophy of spirituality and work. He writes “Men invent means and methods of coming at God's love, they learn rules and set up devices to remind them of that love, and it seems like a world of trouble to bring oneself into the consciousness of God's presence. Yet it might be so simple. Is it not quicker and easier just to do our common business wholly for the love of him?"

Brother Lawrence believed that the presence of God, and the medium for His love, was found in daily tasks. Our only calling was to perform our duties wholly for God’s glory.

Because of Brother Lawrence’s profound, if simple, peace, many powerful religious leaders sought him out for spiritual guidance. The wisdom that he passed on to them would become the basis for “The Practice of the Presence of God,” which was compiled posthumously by Father Joseph de Beaufort, one of the many Brother Lawrence inspired.

To me, Brother Lawrence’s life philosophy is amazing in its simplicity. Imagine finding such fulfillment, value and worth from everyday tasks as simple as scrubbing pots and pans. Is it possible for all of us to attain contentment, peace, and ultimately uncontrollable happiness just by performing every task as an act of worship?

Imagine the overwhelming joy we could experience if everything we did was a medium of God’s love. We would never be absent from the presence of God. We wouldn’t get caught up in worldly affairs, in the superficiality of pride, possession, or the external pressures of “success.”

Is such a life desirable? Part of me thinks it would prevent us from striving for higher goals, leaving us stagnant. Is this my pride talking?

Tell me your thoughts.

Thanks for reading.

Barry Bonds: My Fallen Hero

Last week, as we all know, Barry Bonds broke Hank Aaron’s longstanding career home run record when he blasted his 756th longball 435 feet over the right-center field fence.

I realize this isn’t the timeliest response to such a historic event. Aaron’s mark of 755 career homeruns had endured for 33 years. Barry Bonds has already become an infamous public figure, whether for his mind-boggling athletic feats (73 home runs in a single season), his alleged steroid use, or his tempestuous relationship with the media, teammates and fans. In reality, this story was a big deal. And yet it has taken me a week to respond.

To be honest, I still don’t know how I feel about it. The truth is that Barry Bonds was my hero. Back when Barry Bonds was batting .330, hitting 30 home runs, stealing 30 bases, and winning Gold Gloves I looked up to him as everything baseball could be. He was, in my eyes, the prototype of the complete player.

When he was traded to the San Francisco Giants, they quickly became my favorite team. I followed every player, from Matt Williams to Will Clark. From John Burkett to Rod Beck (RIP). I saved my money to buy a San Francisco fitted hat. When it became dirty and faded from overuse, I bought another one. I used my remaining cash to buy Barry Bonds baseball cards (I still have an impressive collection). My best friend even got the San Fran logo shaved into the back of his head.

And when the media went after him, saying he was a pompous ass, that he was a terrible teammate and he was degrading to his fans, I defended him. I truly believed he was misunderstood, that he was just a private person and that he was uncomfortable with all the attention.

I still think he’s misunderstood, but at the time I didn’t understand him either. The truth is, Barry Bonds is a child. Maybe it’s because his father, former major leaguer Bobby Bonds, was virtually absent as young Barry grew up, and as a result he never matured into a man. Maybe it’s because he lived a life of privilege. He was always so naturally gifted that everything he ever wanted was handed to him.

Whatever the reason, Barry Bonds is an insecure, immature child. According to longtime girlfriend Kimberly Bell, this is the reason he started using steroids in the first place. His jealousy of Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa as they pursued the single season home run record in ’98 led him to jeopardize his career and his life for a taste of that spotlight. He had won multiple league MVP awards, even more Gold Gloves. He was one of baseball’s highest paid players. Opposing pitchers feared him and he was a future first ballot Hall of Famer. But it wasn’t good enough.

When the allegations of steroid use first surfaced, I defended Bonds as I always had. I maintained that it was a new workout regimen that led to the increased bulk and spike in homerun production. But eventually the delusions wore off, and I now see him for the cheater that he is.

Barry Bonds stole my childhood. I have no idol I can turn to; no role model I grew up with that I can nostalgically remember as a representative of better times. I can never say to my children “let me tell you about a time when baseball players were real American heroes.” For all the records he holds, my favorite baseball player has become a disgrace.

I’m tired of being angry at Barry Bonds. What’s done is done, and my disillusionment has sunk into apathy.

Congratulations, Barry, on your awe-inspiring achievement. But if anybody asks, my favorite player was Darryl Strawberry. At least he was honest about his drug problem.

Thanks for reading.

Grown Man Soils Himself in Joke Gone Awry

Over the weekend Milwaukee resident Donald Hester, 47, reportedly shit his pants, effectively ruining the 10th annual Hester Family Reunion, after eating a meal of bratwursts and baked beans, washing it down with a six pack of Milwaukee’s Best, and spending the rest of the evening requesting that young relatives “pull his finger.”

Attempting to solidify his reputation as “Crazy Uncle Don,” Mr. Hester devoted much of the reunion to this sophomoric, though tried and true, joke in which he would hold out his index finger for a young Hester to grab hold of at which time he would forcibly expel the loudest fart he could manage.

In the early stages the gag was working exactly as hoped, drawing delighted applause from nephews, girlish giggles from nieces and admonishing glares from adults. The plan turned sour, however, when Mr. Hester experienced an unsettling rumble from deep in his bowels and noticed that his gaseous releases were becoming increasingly noxious, to the point that Mr. Hester himself would quickly retreat from the fallout zone after completing the act for fear of gagging on one of his own feces tinged fart particles.

Ready to retire the joke, Mr. Hester had just reentered the arena of adult conversation, becoming deeply engaged in a discussion about the weather with his older brother Joe Hester, when his youngest nephew Stevie, 6, approached and requested an encore performance. For Mr. Hester, the barely containable pressure now pushing on his rectum was surpassed only by the pressure of living up to the title “Crazy Uncle Don,” and he kindly obliged.

In a futile attempt to maintain the delicate balance of releasing an audible gas bubble while preventing any solids from sneaking out, Mr Hester bit his lip, closed his eyes, stuck his rear out ever so slightly (while careful to keep his buttocks clenched), and pushed.

But no fart would come. The surprised look on Mr. Hester’s face, the dark stain on the backside of his trousers, and the otherworldly stench emanating from “Crazy Uncle Don” (henceforth known as “Uncle Poopy Pants”) told the rest of the story.

Thanks for reading.


P.S. I realize there was some mega news today with Karl Rove announcing his resignation, effective August 31, but I needed to have a little fun, and how better than with a poo story?

Maybe I’ll put together a post discussing Rove’s departure, or maybe not. You’ll just have to wait and see…For now, my initial reaction: at least with Rove around somebody in the White House was making decisions. Now I’m not so sure.

If you want to know how I feel about Mr. Rove, check out these posts: http://erikgruber.blogspot.com/2007/05/heart-of-darkness.html and http://erikgruber.blogspot.com/2007/06/heart-of-darkness-karl-rove.html.

WWN: A Eulogy

Weekly World News, the delightful harbinger of shockingly delicious, borderline unbelievable tabloid fodder, has finally decided to call it quits, leaving me dismayed, morose and lost in a world now devoid of alien babies, celebrity clones and bat-boys hiding in caves. To whom will I turn for my facts?!?

Arguably the granddaddy of shock pseudo-journalism, WWN has spent the past 28 years delivering such headlines as “Preacher Explodes During Sermon,” “Saddam and Osama’s Gay Wedding,” and “Firefighter Fired for Fighting Fire With Fire.” (Where do they come up with this stuff? If only I were so brilliant…)

Now the WWN, which boasts to be the “World’s Only Reliable Newspaper” will unplug the presses, turn out the lights and lock its doors “due to the challenges in the retail and wholesale magazine marketplace that have impacted the newsstand.”

Really, it’s my own fault. It’s your fault. We all share in the blame. Let’s not lie to ourselves; we weren’t as supportive of the WWN as we could’ve been. Sure, I would peruse the pages in the checkout lines like anybody else, but I never actually bought a copy (at least I would never admit to it). I enjoyed the quirky stories about alien impregnations as much as the next guy, but naturally I questioned their veracity. And now these stories are gone forever, relegated to the tombs of briny ship captains telling tales of monstrous sea serpents and manipulative mothers ominously warning children about the boogieman so they will eat their broccoli. It’s a shame we will have to bear for the rest of our days.

Then again, maybe it’s the WWN’s fault. Maybe if the editors were more attuned to the inclinations of supermarket impulse buyers. Maybe if the fact-checkers were more on point. After all, how could the ghost of Elvis be haunting a herd of cattle in Northern Texas and the still-living Elvis simultaneously be dwelling in a cave in the Himalayas?

Maybe there’s no one to blame. Maybe it was market forces. No room for the little guy in the overcrowded magazine industry. Maybe we’ve become too jaded, too cynical to believe in the fantastic. Maybe we’re too smart for our own good.

Any way you look at it, we’ve lost a prestigious American publication that strove to report the facts, no matter how bizarre. As we gather ourselves in collective mourning, let us remember the better days. The days of “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse Lost – Wandering Near Paris” “Man Searches for His Own Severed Head,” and “Chocoholic Mom Has Sugar-Coated Baby.”

Weekly World News, I salute you.

Thanks for reading.

What Aren’t They Telling Us?

I read an article in the Star Tribune the other morning that scared the hell out of me. This story was so unsettling it nearly ruined my breakfast experience (fortunately I was eating Honey Bunches of Oates, a cereal too delicious to be fully tainted).

Apparently, they knew that the 35W Bridge wasn’t safe.

Beyond being unsafe, state bridge inspectors were warning Minnesota Department of Transportation (MnDOT) officials nearly 10 years ago that the bridge “had ‘severe’ and ‘extensive’ corrosion of its beams and trusses, ‘widespread cracking’ in spans and missing or broken bolts.”

In addition to the poor condition of the superstructure, “certain components were ‘beyond tolerable limits,’ and one of the bridge's piers had ‘tilted to the north.’”

Despite these serious concerns by bridge inspectors, Gov. Pawlenty defended the decisions made about the bridge, saying that “the earliest suggested date for replacement by MnDOT engineers had been 2020.” Basically, they were crossing their fingers and hoping. Please God, don’t let this thing collapse while we’re on the job. Yes, there were concerns year after year about the stability of the bridge, but not one official had the gonads to say “we need to fix this before something bad happens.”

Ok, keep the bridge open. But the Star Trib also reports that starting in 2000, “inspectors urged the state to replace bolts in a specific area of the bridge, a job listed each year under ‘Immediate Maintenance Recommendations.’ And since 2004 the reports repeatedly cited fatigue cracking in two girders as another problem requiring immediate maintenance, possibly including measures to relieve stress.”

Why weren’t these concerns addressed?

We place our trust in elected officials that they are doing whatever necessary to ensure our safety. We can’t inspect bridges, nor can we build new bridges. As citizens who drive over these structures daily, we have a right to hold the people we elect and employ accountable for their failures. Failures which ultimately resulted in needless deaths.

Sort of makes me wonder what other daily dangers we face that they aren’t telling us about….

I’m not big into lawsuits; most of the time they stem from our excessive greed. But I imagine there will be many. I also image that some symbolic firings will take place as the public demands that heads roll. This doesn’t do much for me either. I guess I just expect that the only change will be an inexperienced, incompetent boob replacing a lackadaisical, incompetent boob.

But we the citizens must demand that our leaders do better. We must demand that the people we put in charge of protecting us (which has been much debated the last two days) are actually protecting us.

Or else give me the job. I’m sure I could manage to be an equally incorrigible, equally colossal ninny.

Thanks for reading.

Shhh…They’re Still Listening

This post was initially intended to be a one and done deal, but as usual P Corcs and Late Night have brought up some interesting talking points, and I’d say an issue like this is worthy of a miniseries. So here goes.

Clearly we're looking at this from opposite ends of the spectrum. When it comes to political happenings, I’m cynical and paranoid (or in the words of Late Night, a born pessimist), you all are trusting and hopeful. I haven’t decided yet which is more dangerous. On the one hand, I’m far more likely to end up as A) a fugitive a la Enemy of the State or B) in a padded room a la 12 Monkeys. On the other hand, unquestioning acquiescence to governmental action that we know to be unjust, whatever their reasoning, further blinds us to what injustice is. MLK Jr. said that “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” It was passive acceptance of minor injustice after minor injustice which permitted the Holocaust. (Obviously I’m not comparing anyone to Nazi sympathizers. It was an extreme example to make a point.)

Do I really believe that the Protect America Act is unjust? The government is trying to protect us, right? (More on this tomorrow.) Maybe. For now. It’s important for the government to monitor terrorist activity in the US. That's their job. However, they could've done so with the provisions I laid out in yesterday’s post. As is, they can listen to every word I say, read every word I write, and not need a reason to do so. It's governmental overreach at its worst.

With the absolute impunity they now enjoy, how long till they use their power to gather information about political opponents or to preemptively break up protests? How long till they use this information to silence vocal critics, to intimidate the free press, to punish dissenters? I absolutely hate the term slippery slope, but that’s exactly what this is.

My point is that we cannot assume our politicians are any better than the iron-fisted dictators throughout history; they are merely bound by a different set of circumstances. The FISA was created because Richard Nixon, our former president, was spying on political opponents. Karl Rove has made a career of using questionable tactics. The whole Scooter Libby fiasco started because the name of CIA agent Valerie Plame was leaked to the press to discredit her husband, Ambassador Joseph C. Wilson, who accused the government of lying about Iraq’s supposed attempts to purchase yellowcake uranium. And check out this link for a fascinating story about our Attorney General, Alberto Gonzalez: http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,1622832,00.html.

These are the men and women that stole America from the Native Americans. That experimented on African Americans in Tuskegee http://www.infoplease.com/ipa/A0762136.html. That secretly trained and armed Latin militants who would go on to slaughter millions in violent coups. These are not men and women I expect to act with integrity. Nor do I expect them to respect the spirit of a law when they have it in writing that they can do whatever the hell they want. I trust my family and my friends. I don’t trust a man wearing a red tie and a blue suit because he appears on TV and tells me that he's trying to protect me. For these men the constitution is a nuisance, and I don’t believe for a second they wouldn’t burn the thing if given the opportunity (which they have now been granted).

No, I don’t have anything to hide. Hopefully, I never will. But I will continue to voice my opinion when I see politicians overstepping their bounds, an action which, with the direction this country is headed, will one day be outlawed. I don’t want the feds busting down my door in 20 years because I had a conversation with an old buddy about the injustice of a tyrannical president making it a felony to speak the name of God on government property. Neither do you.

In conclusion, I agree with Werd. Go Celtics!

Thanks for reading.

Shhh…They’re Listening

I’m not really much of a conspiracy theorist. I’d say odds are good we did in fact land on the moon in 1969, John F. Kennedy was shot by one man (Lee Harvey Oswald), and Elvis is, as he has been for some time, dead.

That being said, I’ve come to believe I must be going crazy. Or else everyone around me is. Or maybe just the government. I don’t know who it is yet, but somebody’s flown completely off their rocker.

In the last few days a bill, known as the Protect America Act, passed through the Senate and the House which makes it legal for the director of national intelligence and the attorney general to intercept, without a warrant, any telephone call or email message that moves in, out of or through the United States as long as there is “reasonable belief” that one party is not in the United States.

Given my little understanding of the technology involved, and an even smaller understanding of the legalese, let me attempt to offer you a little history lesson (apologies if it’s more like history for dummies).

Following the Watergate scandal the government passed the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (FISA) to govern domestic spying. When it was originally written, the act required anyone wanting to eavesdrop within the US to obtain a warrant. It didn’t apply to purely foreign communications, which the NSA could listen to and gather as they pleased.

But with new technology problems have arisen. With the arrival of telecommunications and the internet, a communication between, for example, London and Baghdad might be routed through the United States, making it off limits for government agents.

Naturally, this gap had to be closed, and it could have been a fairly simple fix. Just add an amendment to the FISA that made it legal to intercept foreign communications as they transited through the US. In fact, a bill was proposed that would do just this, complete with oversight mechanisms including FISA court review, periodic audits, and explicit provisions against purely domestic surveillance.

This wasn’t good enough, however, for the Bush administration. They wanted all of the power with none of the oversight, and by threatening to hold Congress hostage during their summer vacation (they usually take August off – wouldn’t that be nice?) until they got “a bill he (Bush) could sign,” Bush and friends bullied Congress into agreeing to a new act which, for all practical purposes, gives him the power of a Fidel Castro, a Kim Jung Il, or a Joseph Stalin.

Now, thanks to Protect America, all the NSA needs to listen in on every conversation you or I have is a “reasonable belief” by presidential croneys (the president appoints both the director of national intelligence and the attorney general) that you could possibly be talking to someone outside of this country. Government agencies simply don’t have the manpower or technical resources to sort through the billions upon billions of bits of data passing through America’s telecommunications systems (as reported by the New York Times; don’t take my word for it), let alone the capabilities to establish who is or is not communicating with foreigners. Plus, we’ve already seen that the government plays loose and fast with the concept of “reasonable belief” (WMDs, Guantanamo Bay), and with no one to answer to the government has awarded itself unchecked power. We have been ushered into a terrifying era of unprecedented governmental control, and I can assure you that the founding fathers are rolling over in their graves.

Think what you will about George W. Bush. I’m not trying to pass judgment. I don’t think he’s an evil man. He’s been placed in some difficult situations and it wouldn’t be fair to blame him for the majority of them.

But think about the repercussions of the Protect America Act. I’ve read 1984, Fahrenheit 451, and Brave New World. Let me tell you that this is how it all starts. Next thing you know we’ll all be taking Soma and speaking in Groupthink.

Maybe I’ve already said too much. Good luck and Godspeed.

Thanks for reading.

And the Next Zizzle-Zot Reader of the Month Is…

Named in 8 BC in honor of the Roman Emperor (because several of the most significant events in his rise to power, including the fall of Alexandria, occurred during its days), August is at times begrudgingly referred to as the “dog days of summer.” True, it can be oppressively hot and overwhelmingly humid, the mosquitoes gnaw at our ankles and youngsters are filled with angst as the upcoming school year looms over them. But think of the good that August brings. It’s National Immunization Awareness Month, National Psoriasis (a skin disease which cases scaly red patches to form) Awareness Month, and Women’s Small Business Month.

More importantly, August means that it is time to announce a new Zizzle-Zot Reader of the Month!

I gotta admit, this month was a tough one. Several qualified candidates came strong out of the gate, posting early, often, and with vigor. Interesting, insightful conversations were initiated, ideas and world views were challenged, and I think it’s safe to say that we all did some intense ruminating on our beliefs.

Werd (Drew backwards. Very clever. Good work Joe and Pat on cracking that riddle) presented a compelling case in the beginning and was an early favorite. I enjoy writing about sports and he enjoys reading about sports, so seemingly we are a match made in heaven. But Werd’s performance in recent weeks has been lacking (he claims he was on a missions trip to Minneapolis. Sounds kind of sketchy (no one tried to missionize me. I say missions trip smissions trip)). Sorry about the parentheses overkill. Anyways, glad to see you’re back, Werd, but I would be remiss to award you Reader of the Month. There’s always September.

Socrates08 presents some intriguing views and thought-provoking counterpoints, but his posting has been sporadic at best. And I like paragraphs.

Many, many paragraphs.

So, to put an end to the suspense, Augusts’ Zizzle-Zot Reader of the Month is Christopher “I log on while I get my log on” Casselman (AKA Late Night Cassel).

Christopher has proven himself to be a loyal reader and poster, and we can always count on some interesting perspectives from him (especially on posts dealing with theology). Plus they call him the Hiphopopotamus, his lyrics are bottomless.

August looks to be an exciting month for Log On. His band, Limit, is set to release a new album and a CD release party is scheduled for Thursday, August 9 at O’Gara’s in St. Paul (check Facebook for details, or go to this link for info about O’Gara’s Garage: http://www.ogaras.com/garagecalendar.html). I expect to see you all there. August is also Chris’s last month in Minnesota. He is set to take a cross country road trip at the beginning of September before he relocates to the West Coast to attend Fuller Seminary in Pasadena, California.

Congratulations Late Night on being named Augusts’ Zizzle-Zot Reader of the Month.

Thanks for reading.


P.S. You smell like pee.

Menopausal Clinton Calls for Global Warming Study to Explain Hot Flashes

Junior Senator and presidential hopeful Hillary Rodham Clinton introduced a bill to the senate floor Monday afternoon in an effort to secure funding for a new global warming study. She expects that the study, to be conducted by the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), will show the links between climate change and the hot flashes she has been experiencing in recent months.

Addressing the senate, Clinton spoke of feeling intense waves of heat, particularly at night, which leave her feeling sweaty and irritable. She believes that the unexplained periods of intense heat, which last anywhere from ten minutes to several hours, have a direct correlation to the increase of greenhouse gases and will definitively establish global warming as scientific fact.

She also believes that her back pain, fatigue, and urinary incontinence are caused by increased levels of toxic pollutants in the air, claiming that unacceptable levels of carbon emissions are the reason she, from time to time, wets herself and begins bawling uncontrollably.

Former president Bill Clinton seemed optimistic about the proposal: “Hopefully the EPA will also be able to tell me why my wife is such a cold, calculating bitch.”

Thanks for reading.


P.S. Apologies for the absence last week. I spent Thursday, Friday and Saturday at the country music festival WeFest (more on that to come).

P.S.S. Look for the unveiling of the next Zizzle-Zot Reader of the Month in coming days.

P.S.S.S. Prayers out to anyone affected by the bridge collapse.

Goodbye, KG

To this day I remember the 1995 NBA Draft. Minnesota had the 5th pick of the night, and when their turn rolled around there were a number of good players on the board. Dominant Oklahoma State big man Bryant Reeves was there, as was star Arizona point guard Damon Stoudamire. At the time drafting a player straight out of high school was unheard of, so when David Stern took the microphone and announced that McHale and friends had selected Kevin Garnett of Farragut Academy High School, I was shocked, I was speechless.

As the 7 foot, rail thin man-child strolled to the stage, his long gait, long arms and gaunt face looking underdeveloped, almost frail, I remember thinking to myself “the NBA’s gonna eat this kid alive.” McHale’s tenure with the team had just begun, and already he had assured his own demise. Or so I thought.

What we all know now that I didn’t know then is that Kevin Garnett was a godsend. In the years since, McHale has proven himself truly incompetent, incapable of running a basketball team. But this adolescent, known then only as Da Kid, was the luckiest thing that ever happened to him.

As KG matured into The Big Ticket and eventually The Franchise, he became the face of Minnesota sports. He became our bragging rights. He evolved into a new breed of player, able to do it all: shoot, pass, rebound, defend. He established himself as one of the top 25 players of all time. He was a leader on and off the court. He demanded the respect of players, coaches and fans alike. He was, and still is, one of few saving graces for the NBA.

But that’s not why I’m sad to see him go. I’ll miss Kevin Garnett because in a sports world plagued by dishonesty, immaturity and selfishness, KG was a class act. He was a man of integrity, honor, commitment. He was a warrior that battled night in and night out to win. Even when upper management failed, time and again, to provide him with supporting players, Kevin Garnett held his head high and did everything a man can be expected to do when asked to carry the hopes of millions on his shoulders.

Kevin Garnett never brought us shame. He never embarrassed us. He was never arrested for drug possession or assault. He stood up for his teammates when they needed support, but he never instigated a bench clearing brawl. He was never accused of cheating, never accused of betting on games, never accused of rape. When even Kirby Puckett let us down, Kevin Garnett became our hero.

And he was loyal to a fault. He loved Minnesota, he loved the Twin Cities and he loved the fans, even when we failed to show him the love in return. I wish Kevin Garnett nothing but the best. I hope he gets his ring in Boston. I hope they become a dynasty. I hope he shows Glen Taylor and Kevin McHale what could have been. He has every right to be angry at an organization that was dishonest and disloyal, but I hope he realizes that he will be missed.

Thanks for reading.