**A neutron walks into a bar. "I'd like a beer" he says. The bartender
promptly serves up a beer. "How much will that be?" asks the neutron. "For
you?" replies the bartender, "no charge".
**Descartes walks into a bar, and the bartender asks "Would you like a
beer?" Descartes replies "I think not" and POOF! he vanishes...
**A hamburger walks into a bar, and the bartender says, "I'm sorry, but
we don't serve food here..."
**Two vampires walk into a bar and call for the bartender. "I'll have
a glass of blood," says one. "I'll have a glass of plasma", says the other.
"Okay," replies the bartender, "that'll be one blood and one blood lite..."
**Two hydrogen atoms walk into a bar. One says, 'I think I've lost an
electron.' The other says 'Are you sure?' The first says, 'Yes, I'm
positive...'
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
Primary Colors
Sitting Grandpa and watching the marvelous movie, Primary Colors, based on the novel by Joe Klein. I've noshed on it off and on today. The movie is funny -- hilarious! -- and sad and tragic and politically astute and true. It's West Wing in hyperdrive -- on cocaine, I'd say, except I've never done cocaine, but I can guess. Travolta and Emma Thompson are marvelous as "Jack and Susan Stanton" who are too good at impressions to be mistaken for anyone but Bill and Hillary. I am in awe of Emma's rendering of the Chicago suburbese of Hillary. Other than having legs Hillary would die for, Emma out-Hillaries Hillary. Billy Bob Thornton as the fictional James Carville is good, funny, outrageous. His character asks a foxy young woman if she wants to "walk the snake" and unzips his pants and waves the lily in a room filled with campaign workers. "What do you think?" he asks. The girl says, "I've never seen one so -- old." When Henry, the African-American reprimands him for this egregious behavior, he says, "I'm blacker than you are. I got some slave in me, I can feel it." Everybody, pretty much, is from the South. Henry, played by Adrian Lester, remains incredulous throughout of the antics of the "Stantons" and their coterie. I've not seen him in anything else but he is a first-rate actor. Stanton-Clinton is outrageous as a womanizer and a teller of anything people want to hear. BUT he has the makings of a hell of a president -- a good and decent man on balance and smart as a whip and truly caring about the common people. With all his faults. And lies. Sure! But a hell of a president! Instead of the president from hell who succeeded him.
I recall when the real Bill Clinton and Al Gore -- "Huck and Tom," some of us called them back then -- made a bus tour of much of the nation in 1992. Bill and Al are the only men who have won the oval office (Al won it in 2000, right?) with whom I've ever shaken hands. The kiddies and wife and I drove to Butler State Park, Carrollton. I don't remember the details but I know that my cousin Martha and a grandchild or two of hers were along too. When I shook Bill's hand I said "Give 'em hell, Billy!"
After that visit, which reminded me of the whistlestop, give-'em-hell campaign that Harry Truman made in 1948 from the presidential train, I began to have hope that a populist president -- capital P -- President, by God! -- would at last be back in the Oval Office after a long spell of rich imperialists. We got a decent president for a while. We will have a decent one again. Until then, God help us to oppose the one who is ravaging this nation now.
I recall when the real Bill Clinton and Al Gore -- "Huck and Tom," some of us called them back then -- made a bus tour of much of the nation in 1992. Bill and Al are the only men who have won the oval office (Al won it in 2000, right?) with whom I've ever shaken hands. The kiddies and wife and I drove to Butler State Park, Carrollton. I don't remember the details but I know that my cousin Martha and a grandchild or two of hers were along too. When I shook Bill's hand I said "Give 'em hell, Billy!"
After that visit, which reminded me of the whistlestop, give-'em-hell campaign that Harry Truman made in 1948 from the presidential train, I began to have hope that a populist president -- capital P -- President, by God! -- would at last be back in the Oval Office after a long spell of rich imperialists. We got a decent president for a while. We will have a decent one again. Until then, God help us to oppose the one who is ravaging this nation now.
P. Diddy Cool Rove Dawg
Some of you, gentle readers, may still be recovering along with me from a severe emetic attack from seeing Karl Rove, in a tux and with an absurd hairdo, busting a move with, among others, White House NBC reporter David Gregory. (We've come a long way from the days of Edward R. Murrow as the gold standard for the press.) The event was a dress-up dinner of White House correspondents. What, they have those things every other week? Jon and Keith have had their way with that pukey event, but I especially enjoyed this Huffington blog by Adam McKay, titled "Patriotic Trash."
I must give you a flavor:
"...And there you have it. Let's face it, the reason these criminals get elected and hold office is because they know how to master the spectacle -- the events that hit you in the repro organs, not the brain. I'm talking war, gayness, affairs, crime... This is the ground that Rove, Bush and Cheney walk on. Because if they were telling us what they want to do -- and have done -- using logic, they would never have gotten elected host of a book club. "As President, I will lead us into war because it gives me more centralized power and lets me give huge payouts to corporations that are headed by all my buddies!! Are you with me?" Smash cut to find he's speaking to an empty auditorium with a janitor played by the late Scatman Crothers sweeping up: Mister, you're crazy...
"So instead they give us the good stuff. And I'm not just talking about Rove break dancing, though that is definitely an example of "good stuff." They also give us Britney with no panties and missing co-eds in Aruba and visions of ethnic gangs wanting to invade our homes. They give us nerdy liberals who can't make a decision and want to quit and leaders who wear cowboy hats and American Idol. This is really, really good shit.
"And if you're asking how Bush and the big money Repubs gave us Britney with no underwear, well just look at who owns all the TV stations: GE, Disney, Viacom. And then watch Fox News when Bush is in the middle of a big scandal and notice how much Anna Nicole Smith coverage there is.
"So here's the idea: We should combine the sensational with the smart and productive. We connect all reform bills and ideas that will actually help the country to sensational tabloid events.
"So if Nancy Pelosi wants to push through a campaign finance bill (which would do tons of good but bores people when you talk about it) then we have her blouse slip down to show a nipple while she's out at Bungalow Eight with Stephen Dorff. Then while she's explaining the accidental "nip slip" (as the tabloids call it) she can casually mention that she had been working hard on the campaign finance reform bill which will take big business out of government and put Americans first. Now I know Nancy Pelosi is a dignified woman but she is also a patriot and I think will let a button pop for her country.
"A recent hard issue to get across is the damage done to the Constitution by the illegal NSA wiretapping without a warrant. People need to be safe, the Repubs say, and the rest of us counter with talk about the rights of individuals and checks and balances and the long term health of our nation. And it's a bore. So here's what we do: We get Joe Biden to date Jennifer Aniston. It's that simple. And maybe after a few weeks he cheats on her with Courtney Cox. Yes, everyone hates him because be broke up a friendship between America's sweetheart and Cox and broke Aniston's heart but remember, Mr. and Mrs. Smith made a fortune after Pitt broke up with Aniston. The idea of bad press at this point is almost quaint..."
Hm, that "quaint." Like the Geneva Conventions, according to a certain Bush pal who happens to be the chief law enforcement officer of this nation -- holds that title -- you know what I mean. He fired eight US attorneys for purely political reasons -- except when grilled, he knew nothing about it, I just serve at the pleasure of the president, who me? Honest, Mommy, I didn't steal the cookies.
This elephant and this pig and this Bush appointee walk into a bar...
I must give you a flavor:
"...And there you have it. Let's face it, the reason these criminals get elected and hold office is because they know how to master the spectacle -- the events that hit you in the repro organs, not the brain. I'm talking war, gayness, affairs, crime... This is the ground that Rove, Bush and Cheney walk on. Because if they were telling us what they want to do -- and have done -- using logic, they would never have gotten elected host of a book club. "As President, I will lead us into war because it gives me more centralized power and lets me give huge payouts to corporations that are headed by all my buddies!! Are you with me?" Smash cut to find he's speaking to an empty auditorium with a janitor played by the late Scatman Crothers sweeping up: Mister, you're crazy...
"So instead they give us the good stuff. And I'm not just talking about Rove break dancing, though that is definitely an example of "good stuff." They also give us Britney with no panties and missing co-eds in Aruba and visions of ethnic gangs wanting to invade our homes. They give us nerdy liberals who can't make a decision and want to quit and leaders who wear cowboy hats and American Idol. This is really, really good shit.
"And if you're asking how Bush and the big money Repubs gave us Britney with no underwear, well just look at who owns all the TV stations: GE, Disney, Viacom. And then watch Fox News when Bush is in the middle of a big scandal and notice how much Anna Nicole Smith coverage there is.
"So here's the idea: We should combine the sensational with the smart and productive. We connect all reform bills and ideas that will actually help the country to sensational tabloid events.
"So if Nancy Pelosi wants to push through a campaign finance bill (which would do tons of good but bores people when you talk about it) then we have her blouse slip down to show a nipple while she's out at Bungalow Eight with Stephen Dorff. Then while she's explaining the accidental "nip slip" (as the tabloids call it) she can casually mention that she had been working hard on the campaign finance reform bill which will take big business out of government and put Americans first. Now I know Nancy Pelosi is a dignified woman but she is also a patriot and I think will let a button pop for her country.
"A recent hard issue to get across is the damage done to the Constitution by the illegal NSA wiretapping without a warrant. People need to be safe, the Repubs say, and the rest of us counter with talk about the rights of individuals and checks and balances and the long term health of our nation. And it's a bore. So here's what we do: We get Joe Biden to date Jennifer Aniston. It's that simple. And maybe after a few weeks he cheats on her with Courtney Cox. Yes, everyone hates him because be broke up a friendship between America's sweetheart and Cox and broke Aniston's heart but remember, Mr. and Mrs. Smith made a fortune after Pitt broke up with Aniston. The idea of bad press at this point is almost quaint..."
Hm, that "quaint." Like the Geneva Conventions, according to a certain Bush pal who happens to be the chief law enforcement officer of this nation -- holds that title -- you know what I mean. He fired eight US attorneys for purely political reasons -- except when grilled, he knew nothing about it, I just serve at the pleasure of the president, who me? Honest, Mommy, I didn't steal the cookies.
This elephant and this pig and this Bush appointee walk into a bar...
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Simple Gifts
Had an adolescent appetite, home alone (not my shift to sit Daddy Jones), and decided to cook. Sliced and fried potatoes in olive oil, then sliced sharp cheddar cheese all over the top and covered the skillet and let the cheese melt. As the Okie says in The Grapes of Wrath, "God almighty it's good!" Right now I'm watching the DVD of the first season of Love and Marriage (Ed O'Neill as Al and Katy Sagal as Peg, Christina Applegate as the daughter). My role-models are weird, as I am weird: I love Ed O'Neill in anything, and especially as Al Bundy, and I love The Old Man (Darren McGavin) in A Christmas Story, and I love Clark Griswold, and of course I love Homer Simpson, above all. Goodnight. Keep cool, my babies!
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Tony Snow and Elizabeth Edwards: God Be With You
Jesus said, "The rain falls on the just and the unjust." Sorrow and suffering come to all. If religion has a meaning, it must transcend the sadness of this world. First Elizabeth Edwards, wife of John, the VP candidate on the 2004 ticket, announces that her cancer has recurred. Then Tony Snow, the current White House press secretary, reveals that his cancer has recurred. Pray for your enemies, folks, whomever they might be. Jesus had a good, radical idea there. God bless and spare both Mrs. Edwards and Mr. Snow. Amen.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Wee Small Hours and Other Cliches
3:39 a.m. and enjoying the "Beethoven Satellite Network," a 7-day all-night broadcast of "classical" music, DJ'd by Peter Van De Graaff, who has the best job in the world.
I think the dramatic orchestral work I'm listening to is by Shostakovich, or somebody who has played the sedulous ape to him and in the process has developed his own wonderful voice. There are elements of this that do not sound like dear Dimitri, but that brilliant Russian musician had versatility to squander as one of his many great virtues. Lord! How I wish I had enough knowledge of music to write intelligently of the sublime sounds I'm hearing.
OK. It was George Antheil! Pronounced "Ann-thile," An American, and he was a film composer! His dates are 1900-1959. The work I heard was the Fourth Symphony. I could listen to what I just heard many times without tiring of it. It was rich; the orchestration was a banquet. I've heard a couple of his other symphonies and loved the richness of them too.
This guy, besides writing the score for Hellcats of the Navy (1957), a forgettable WWII movie with Ronnie and Nancy, wrote six symphonies, a number of sonatas, and even a couple of operas. Antheil was serious enough to study under Ernest Bloch, a respected Israeli composer, and whose works, incidentally, I have heard little of Shostakovich in.
A while ago, Pete played some tunes by Leroy Anderson. Mr. Anderson and I go back to when I was about seven or maybe eight. He is he composer of "Sleighride," a winter holiday song I'd risk guessing that everybody who reads this dreck is familiar with, perhaps even by name. Tonight Pete played two pieces for trumpet and orchestra, "Trumpeter's Lullaby" and "Bugler's Holiday," and then he played a piano concerto by Anderson. I've never heard anything by the maestro that was not simply melodic, pleasing, undemanding, just a sweet, short diversion from this vale of tears.
Speaking of harmless fluff, my father-in-law and I watched a TCM Saturday matinee of El Dorado,a 1967 oater starring the Duke, Bob Mitchum, Jimmy Caan ("Sonny Corleone") as "Mississip", and Arthur Hunnicutt as "Bull." Listening to the four of them banter throughout that movie as they fight the baddies is a party. I've seen El Dorado at least eight times and I enjoyed it this time best of all.
Well, it's half-past four and I think I might be able to go to sleep. I'd gone to spend the night with Rosie and her dad but couldn't sleep and was afraid I'd upset Howard, who gets confused after dark, so I slipped out and came home. Rudy never gets confused. He's snoring right now. A choral work is on WUOL -- Purcell or somebody like that -- and it is euphonious. Old Shoe and I must retire. Peace and God bless you all.
I think the dramatic orchestral work I'm listening to is by Shostakovich, or somebody who has played the sedulous ape to him and in the process has developed his own wonderful voice. There are elements of this that do not sound like dear Dimitri, but that brilliant Russian musician had versatility to squander as one of his many great virtues. Lord! How I wish I had enough knowledge of music to write intelligently of the sublime sounds I'm hearing.
OK. It was George Antheil! Pronounced "Ann-thile," An American, and he was a film composer! His dates are 1900-1959. The work I heard was the Fourth Symphony. I could listen to what I just heard many times without tiring of it. It was rich; the orchestration was a banquet. I've heard a couple of his other symphonies and loved the richness of them too.
This guy, besides writing the score for Hellcats of the Navy (1957), a forgettable WWII movie with Ronnie and Nancy, wrote six symphonies, a number of sonatas, and even a couple of operas. Antheil was serious enough to study under Ernest Bloch, a respected Israeli composer, and whose works, incidentally, I have heard little of Shostakovich in.
A while ago, Pete played some tunes by Leroy Anderson. Mr. Anderson and I go back to when I was about seven or maybe eight. He is he composer of "Sleighride," a winter holiday song I'd risk guessing that everybody who reads this dreck is familiar with, perhaps even by name. Tonight Pete played two pieces for trumpet and orchestra, "Trumpeter's Lullaby" and "Bugler's Holiday," and then he played a piano concerto by Anderson. I've never heard anything by the maestro that was not simply melodic, pleasing, undemanding, just a sweet, short diversion from this vale of tears.
Speaking of harmless fluff, my father-in-law and I watched a TCM Saturday matinee of El Dorado,a 1967 oater starring the Duke, Bob Mitchum, Jimmy Caan ("Sonny Corleone") as "Mississip", and Arthur Hunnicutt as "Bull." Listening to the four of them banter throughout that movie as they fight the baddies is a party. I've seen El Dorado at least eight times and I enjoyed it this time best of all.
Well, it's half-past four and I think I might be able to go to sleep. I'd gone to spend the night with Rosie and her dad but couldn't sleep and was afraid I'd upset Howard, who gets confused after dark, so I slipped out and came home. Rudy never gets confused. He's snoring right now. A choral work is on WUOL -- Purcell or somebody like that -- and it is euphonious. Old Shoe and I must retire. Peace and God bless you all.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Letter to Cornelius Crane Chase
Dear Chevy,
Congratulations on your “potty-mouthed Bush-bashing rant” in December 2004, which I just read about, thanks to the internet.
I suppose you’ll never read this, but I want someone to let you know that in my opinion your remarks from that podium on that night were truly PATRIOTIC and most assuredly “appropriate,” no matter what anybody might have said in that creep’s defense. Nobody should ever refer to that man who stole the presidency and has reviled it from January 20, 2001 to this present tragic day as anything but a fuck. You were absolutely right.
Bush 43 is the most loathsome human being ever to occupy that office. He should be removed from it and he will not be removed because we are so cowardly and “appropriate.” You were courageous in your tirade against him. Every public figure such as you should trash this odious man. So I commend you, sir. You did right, no matter what Tom Daschle and the Washington Post writer and the other pussies present at that gathering said. You did the good and proper thing. Please, Chevy, have no remorse whatever about what you said that night. God was with you – have my doubts about such an Entity (who would let GWB be president) but if there is One, he was with you that night.
I also want to say that I read your sweet eulogy of Gerry Ford in the New York Times and agree with you that Gerry was a dear, kind good-humored man (if not an outstanding President – he probably did the least harm to that office of anyone ever with the possible exception of Benjamin Harrison of Indiana and there is something to be said for that).
And one more thing: in that op-ed you said that Oh! Heavenly Dog was a bad movie. No, Chevy! That adorable genius dog and your genius comic voice were made for each other! Schmucks like me loved that movie. Wish to God we all could sit around and watch movies like that and not engage in wars. I mean, god damn. What the fuck is wrong with us?
I also wanted to say that I have loved your “Fletch” movies and the one you did with Goldie Hawn – Foul Play, was it? And there were all those wonderful episodes of Saturday Night Live.
You’re a good man, Chevy. Love you. Keep up the good work. Speak your peace about this 666 Antichrist beast now in the White House. We common people need you to speak for us. And do your thing, bro. You’re a comic genius.
With the utmost regard,
JT Evans
Congratulations on your “potty-mouthed Bush-bashing rant” in December 2004, which I just read about, thanks to the internet.
I suppose you’ll never read this, but I want someone to let you know that in my opinion your remarks from that podium on that night were truly PATRIOTIC and most assuredly “appropriate,” no matter what anybody might have said in that creep’s defense. Nobody should ever refer to that man who stole the presidency and has reviled it from January 20, 2001 to this present tragic day as anything but a fuck. You were absolutely right.
Bush 43 is the most loathsome human being ever to occupy that office. He should be removed from it and he will not be removed because we are so cowardly and “appropriate.” You were courageous in your tirade against him. Every public figure such as you should trash this odious man. So I commend you, sir. You did right, no matter what Tom Daschle and the Washington Post writer and the other pussies present at that gathering said. You did the good and proper thing. Please, Chevy, have no remorse whatever about what you said that night. God was with you – have my doubts about such an Entity (who would let GWB be president) but if there is One, he was with you that night.
I also want to say that I read your sweet eulogy of Gerry Ford in the New York Times and agree with you that Gerry was a dear, kind good-humored man (if not an outstanding President – he probably did the least harm to that office of anyone ever with the possible exception of Benjamin Harrison of Indiana and there is something to be said for that).
And one more thing: in that op-ed you said that Oh! Heavenly Dog was a bad movie. No, Chevy! That adorable genius dog and your genius comic voice were made for each other! Schmucks like me loved that movie. Wish to God we all could sit around and watch movies like that and not engage in wars. I mean, god damn. What the fuck is wrong with us?
I also wanted to say that I have loved your “Fletch” movies and the one you did with Goldie Hawn – Foul Play, was it? And there were all those wonderful episodes of Saturday Night Live.
You’re a good man, Chevy. Love you. Keep up the good work. Speak your peace about this 666 Antichrist beast now in the White House. We common people need you to speak for us. And do your thing, bro. You’re a comic genius.
With the utmost regard,
JT Evans
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Brave Men: Chapter 2
In LaPorte, I determined to get it right. I stayed assiduously off the sauce and associated with a group of people who were also recovering topers. One of them was an older lady named Zora, who much later confessed that she was sexually attracted to me. (News to me.) There was also a Lee, who was illiterate, and with whom another guy and I went fishing on the Kalamazoo River in Michigan one warm, humid night. Didn't catch anything myself but the others caught catfish and carp and other nasty aquatic organisms. There was also Don, an old fart with a flattop who liked to talk about sex at our gatherings. I might have enjoyed that but his predilections were foreign to me and I found them totally repulsive.
The other part of my social life involved fellow reporters: Fred, Paulette, Doug, and the editor, Don, who was one of those rare bosses I liked. He was a little man and I recall that he looked like Gary Hart. With two fingers he could type at least 60 words a minute -- without typos. His copy was crisp and terse: he practiced the rule of Will Strunk: "Omit needless words." I had the police beat and sundry other assignments. I also was (am) a two-fingered typist and always made my deadlines. I made lots of typos but I was (am) an impeccable proofreader. Don was also a shot-and -a-beer man after the deadline and he was one of those many guys who I've ruefully wished I could drink with.
Still another part of my social life was a girl, of course. I've tried my damnedest to remember her name and the best I can come up with is Carol but I just plain damn don't remember. I do remember that she had brown eyes and fair perfect skin and a sweet, sad face, and she was a sweet, sad girl. I also know for an absolute fact that she was a virgin and remained so while I dated her. She was a court steno and made literally twice as much money as I did. She drove a Pontiac GTO convertible, and she liked for me to drive it when we were dating. I recall an evening with her in my upstairs apartment on Jefferson Street and I wish I'd made the both of us happy that night. She was willing and I was afraid.
Carol took me to visit her family in Gary, where I met her pathologically racist father, who strongly turned me off. We went water-skiing on Lake Michigan and it was all I could do to keep quiet when backing his boat trailer into the water he said of an African-American man on the shore (out of earshot, thank God), "Out of the way, you big black boogie." I decided I didn't want a bigoted racist prick for a father-in-law and slipped-out-the back-Jack on Carol or whatever her name was. She was sad about it but I'm sure she found somebody. Or maybe not: which, as the 2 x 2 ANOVA on gender vs. marital status and happiness shows, is best for single women. So maybe she was lucky enough not to find somebody and decided being a spinster wasn't all that bad.
I'd become afraid of storms that year -- phobic about tornadoes -- and we had a storm that scared the beJesus out of me. I held the misconception that tornadoes were confined exclusively to plains, not hills of Indiana (4/3/1974 sure blew that nonsensical idea away, so to speak) and I started wanting to get the hell out of there. My Uncle Link died while I was there and when I got the news I drove down the street to see my friend Zora and some asshole smacked into me and I was thrown clear of my Volkswagen on to the street. Lucky -- I guess -- that I didn't get my brains dashed out on the pavement.
LaPorte was a bitch. I was always getting parking tickets there because of their bizarre changing rules from day to day about where you could park and where you couldn't. The people there were downright fucking unfriendly compared to the folks of Madison. Life was a bitch there. I decided I wanted to get the fuck out.
One Sunday evening I went downstairs to visit a neighbor, an agricultural engineer (Purdue) who worked at Allis-Chalmers. Nice guy. He was drinking Budweiser and I busted my abstinence and started drinking Bud with him. Somehow we ended up in the little town in Michigan (I had no car then -- wrecked and being repaired) -- just over the line -- and we continued to drink. They drank on Sunday in Michigan then, figuring that Jesus had no objection. Got pleasantly fucked up that night: Jesus, what a relief from the misery of white-knuckled abstinence I'd gone through for the past two months.
Next morning, once again, didn't go to work for a newspaper. Don, the editor, came to me and tried to get me to come back to work. I gave him a shot and a beer, which he gratefully took, and I drank one with him too, but I told him no, I was kaput. End of newpaper reporting for then.
The other part of my social life involved fellow reporters: Fred, Paulette, Doug, and the editor, Don, who was one of those rare bosses I liked. He was a little man and I recall that he looked like Gary Hart. With two fingers he could type at least 60 words a minute -- without typos. His copy was crisp and terse: he practiced the rule of Will Strunk: "Omit needless words." I had the police beat and sundry other assignments. I also was (am) a two-fingered typist and always made my deadlines. I made lots of typos but I was (am) an impeccable proofreader. Don was also a shot-and -a-beer man after the deadline and he was one of those many guys who I've ruefully wished I could drink with.
Still another part of my social life was a girl, of course. I've tried my damnedest to remember her name and the best I can come up with is Carol but I just plain damn don't remember. I do remember that she had brown eyes and fair perfect skin and a sweet, sad face, and she was a sweet, sad girl. I also know for an absolute fact that she was a virgin and remained so while I dated her. She was a court steno and made literally twice as much money as I did. She drove a Pontiac GTO convertible, and she liked for me to drive it when we were dating. I recall an evening with her in my upstairs apartment on Jefferson Street and I wish I'd made the both of us happy that night. She was willing and I was afraid.
Carol took me to visit her family in Gary, where I met her pathologically racist father, who strongly turned me off. We went water-skiing on Lake Michigan and it was all I could do to keep quiet when backing his boat trailer into the water he said of an African-American man on the shore (out of earshot, thank God), "Out of the way, you big black boogie." I decided I didn't want a bigoted racist prick for a father-in-law and slipped-out-the back-Jack on Carol or whatever her name was. She was sad about it but I'm sure she found somebody. Or maybe not: which, as the 2 x 2 ANOVA on gender vs. marital status and happiness shows, is best for single women. So maybe she was lucky enough not to find somebody and decided being a spinster wasn't all that bad.
I'd become afraid of storms that year -- phobic about tornadoes -- and we had a storm that scared the beJesus out of me. I held the misconception that tornadoes were confined exclusively to plains, not hills of Indiana (4/3/1974 sure blew that nonsensical idea away, so to speak) and I started wanting to get the hell out of there. My Uncle Link died while I was there and when I got the news I drove down the street to see my friend Zora and some asshole smacked into me and I was thrown clear of my Volkswagen on to the street. Lucky -- I guess -- that I didn't get my brains dashed out on the pavement.
LaPorte was a bitch. I was always getting parking tickets there because of their bizarre changing rules from day to day about where you could park and where you couldn't. The people there were downright fucking unfriendly compared to the folks of Madison. Life was a bitch there. I decided I wanted to get the fuck out.
One Sunday evening I went downstairs to visit a neighbor, an agricultural engineer (Purdue) who worked at Allis-Chalmers. Nice guy. He was drinking Budweiser and I busted my abstinence and started drinking Bud with him. Somehow we ended up in the little town in Michigan (I had no car then -- wrecked and being repaired) -- just over the line -- and we continued to drink. They drank on Sunday in Michigan then, figuring that Jesus had no objection. Got pleasantly fucked up that night: Jesus, what a relief from the misery of white-knuckled abstinence I'd gone through for the past two months.
Next morning, once again, didn't go to work for a newspaper. Don, the editor, came to me and tried to get me to come back to work. I gave him a shot and a beer, which he gratefully took, and I drank one with him too, but I told him no, I was kaput. End of newpaper reporting for then.
Brave Men: Chapter I
Reading Dan Carpenter's commenting on a deceased Indiana newspaper columnist, I decided to say something about my days as a newspaper reporter, such as they were. In 1966, when I was forty years younger than I am now, I determined I was going to become a writer. I'd read that writers like Hemingway had begun their salad days as newspaper reporters. And so I followed suit.
First I wrote a story for the North Vernon weekly, about a gathering of teachers which involved a nice banquet free to me and an entertaining motivational speaker, a World War Two Purple Heart vet. I remember that his name was "Tooter" Tenius (it's incredible even to me the flotsam and jetsam that's embedded in there in that strange collection of gray matter behind my eyes), and he'd lost some limbs in the European Theater. Moreover, he made fun of a colonel who was gung ho but was nowhere to be found when hostilities began on Normandy Beach on June 6, 1944. Tooter came away from the conflict with fewer limbs and a saying by the bloviating colonel he liked, to wit: "When the going gets tough, and the going gets rough, that's just the way we like it."
Then I found out about the trade magazine, Editor & Publisher, which had want ads for editors and reporters, including "cubs." I found two in Indiana that I decided to check out. One was in Marion, the other in Franklin. I recall driving to Marion on a windy March day -- the reason I recall the weather was that when I drove through Gas City, the girls were out of high school and their skirts were lifted indecorously high by the wind and I along with several males driving through town at that hour did our best not to wreck our vehicles.
I also recall that the editor of the Marion paper (Tribune?) gave me a little test to see if I could write a story. He had a vignette of breaking news which included the 5 W's of a news story -- a fire or something -- and I was to write a story from the facts given. I passed with ease and he offered me a job on the spot.
I didn't take it and ended up instead taking a job for the Franklin daily. Can't recall why I didn't choose the Marion job. (I often think about Frost's poem, "The Road Not Taken." What if I had gone to Marion instead of Franklin? What if I had stayed in Chicago in 1960 instead of returning to Hanover? What if my family and I had stayed in Columbus, Indiana in 1976? Etc.)
Anyhow, I went to work at the Franklin daily and turned in several stories on the first day and the editor was obviously impressed with my ability and that evening I volunteered to cover a meeting -- seem to recall it was volunteer firefighters. I'd started drinking about noon that day, I think, and by nine o'clock that night I was shit-faced. I walked out of that meeting and before the evening was over in the early darkness hours of the morning I'd migrated to a bar whose clientele were principally African-American and I was having a great time.
Funny thing: there I recognized a man from my hometown of Madison, a good seventy miles away from Franklin, also having a good time, but much better behaved than I, not drawing attention to himself as I almost always did in drinking situations. I knew who he was because he was a friend of Bill, my brother older by sixteen years. He happened to be Jewish, not unremarkable in Madison, the Jewish population of which was about five. This gentleman was a mensch, an admirable human being. For a definition of that word, see The Apartment starring Jack Lemmon and Shirley McLain. The physician who saves the life of Shirley's character is a mensch.
Well, I recall leaving that genteel establishment and driving to an apartment I'd rented in Franklin and getting out of my car and falling down, blotto. I'd driven the car there but was too drunk to walk.
I didn't turn in the story and was fired early the next day.
Next, I struggled to get sober and, hanging on to abstinence with white knuckles, I went to work for the LaPorte Herald-Argus. LaPorte is on the periphery of "da Region," in the same county as the Indiana State Prison (Michigan City), at that time it had an Allis-Chalmers tractor factory, and at Hudson Lake in LaPorte County, Chicago hoodlums had once come to listen to hot jazz and consort with "flappers," the hot chicks of the Prohibition era.
And the LaPorte Herald-Argus was where Ernie Pyle, the World War Two journalist had worked. Ernie wrote several books, one of them, Brave Men, about the soldiers in Europe*. Ernie was an embedded journalist, and he was killed by a Kraut* bullet. Folks told me it was quite a distinction to work for the H-A because Ernie, an authentic Indiana hero, had worked there.
I worked there for a couple of months in 1966, and then once again my alcoholism caught up with me.
* My bad: Ernie was killed by a Japanese sniper's machine gun on Okinawa (where the Marines staged raising a flag** -- they also fought bravely and bloodily -- not knocking their valor in that just war, just their being so goddamn stagey. When I was a dogface for that short while, I remember Sarge Delaney saying that the Army had 11 men to a squad instead of 12, like the Marines. Eleven to fight and one to take pictures). I thought the movie in which Burgess Meredith ("The Penguin" in TV's Batman and spokesman for the Honda Accord and Sargento Cheese and -- oh yes! -- a very fine "George" to Lon Chaney's "Lenny" in Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men) played Ernie, from Dana, Indiana (west of Nap Town on 36 in Vermillion County, near the Illinois line) was set in the ETO rather than the PTO (European and Pacific Theater of Operations, respectively). It probably was, considering how Hollywood in the forties played so fast and loose with the facts. C'mon! Bogie as Roy "Mad Dog" Earle with that Manhattan accent from INDIANA in High Sierra? Do you want to sell me a bridge in Brooklyn? Bogie probably never set a foot in Indiana in his entire life. (If anybody knows different, please disabuse me.)
**My second bad of which I'm aware in this post: the immortal photo of the Marines raising the flag from World War II was on the island of Iwo Jima -- not Okinawa.
First I wrote a story for the North Vernon weekly, about a gathering of teachers which involved a nice banquet free to me and an entertaining motivational speaker, a World War Two Purple Heart vet. I remember that his name was "Tooter" Tenius (it's incredible even to me the flotsam and jetsam that's embedded in there in that strange collection of gray matter behind my eyes), and he'd lost some limbs in the European Theater. Moreover, he made fun of a colonel who was gung ho but was nowhere to be found when hostilities began on Normandy Beach on June 6, 1944. Tooter came away from the conflict with fewer limbs and a saying by the bloviating colonel he liked, to wit: "When the going gets tough, and the going gets rough, that's just the way we like it."
Then I found out about the trade magazine, Editor & Publisher, which had want ads for editors and reporters, including "cubs." I found two in Indiana that I decided to check out. One was in Marion, the other in Franklin. I recall driving to Marion on a windy March day -- the reason I recall the weather was that when I drove through Gas City, the girls were out of high school and their skirts were lifted indecorously high by the wind and I along with several males driving through town at that hour did our best not to wreck our vehicles.
I also recall that the editor of the Marion paper (Tribune?) gave me a little test to see if I could write a story. He had a vignette of breaking news which included the 5 W's of a news story -- a fire or something -- and I was to write a story from the facts given. I passed with ease and he offered me a job on the spot.
I didn't take it and ended up instead taking a job for the Franklin daily. Can't recall why I didn't choose the Marion job. (I often think about Frost's poem, "The Road Not Taken." What if I had gone to Marion instead of Franklin? What if I had stayed in Chicago in 1960 instead of returning to Hanover? What if my family and I had stayed in Columbus, Indiana in 1976? Etc.)
Anyhow, I went to work at the Franklin daily and turned in several stories on the first day and the editor was obviously impressed with my ability and that evening I volunteered to cover a meeting -- seem to recall it was volunteer firefighters. I'd started drinking about noon that day, I think, and by nine o'clock that night I was shit-faced. I walked out of that meeting and before the evening was over in the early darkness hours of the morning I'd migrated to a bar whose clientele were principally African-American and I was having a great time.
Funny thing: there I recognized a man from my hometown of Madison, a good seventy miles away from Franklin, also having a good time, but much better behaved than I, not drawing attention to himself as I almost always did in drinking situations. I knew who he was because he was a friend of Bill, my brother older by sixteen years. He happened to be Jewish, not unremarkable in Madison, the Jewish population of which was about five. This gentleman was a mensch, an admirable human being. For a definition of that word, see The Apartment starring Jack Lemmon and Shirley McLain. The physician who saves the life of Shirley's character is a mensch.
Well, I recall leaving that genteel establishment and driving to an apartment I'd rented in Franklin and getting out of my car and falling down, blotto. I'd driven the car there but was too drunk to walk.
I didn't turn in the story and was fired early the next day.
Next, I struggled to get sober and, hanging on to abstinence with white knuckles, I went to work for the LaPorte Herald-Argus. LaPorte is on the periphery of "da Region," in the same county as the Indiana State Prison (Michigan City), at that time it had an Allis-Chalmers tractor factory, and at Hudson Lake in LaPorte County, Chicago hoodlums had once come to listen to hot jazz and consort with "flappers," the hot chicks of the Prohibition era.
And the LaPorte Herald-Argus was where Ernie Pyle, the World War Two journalist had worked. Ernie wrote several books, one of them, Brave Men, about the soldiers in Europe*. Ernie was an embedded journalist, and he was killed by a Kraut* bullet. Folks told me it was quite a distinction to work for the H-A because Ernie, an authentic Indiana hero, had worked there.
I worked there for a couple of months in 1966, and then once again my alcoholism caught up with me.
* My bad: Ernie was killed by a Japanese sniper's machine gun on Okinawa (where the Marines staged raising a flag** -- they also fought bravely and bloodily -- not knocking their valor in that just war, just their being so goddamn stagey. When I was a dogface for that short while, I remember Sarge Delaney saying that the Army had 11 men to a squad instead of 12, like the Marines. Eleven to fight and one to take pictures). I thought the movie in which Burgess Meredith ("The Penguin" in TV's Batman and spokesman for the Honda Accord and Sargento Cheese and -- oh yes! -- a very fine "George" to Lon Chaney's "Lenny" in Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men) played Ernie, from Dana, Indiana (west of Nap Town on 36 in Vermillion County, near the Illinois line) was set in the ETO rather than the PTO (European and Pacific Theater of Operations, respectively). It probably was, considering how Hollywood in the forties played so fast and loose with the facts. C'mon! Bogie as Roy "Mad Dog" Earle with that Manhattan accent from INDIANA in High Sierra? Do you want to sell me a bridge in Brooklyn? Bogie probably never set a foot in Indiana in his entire life. (If anybody knows different, please disabuse me.)
**My second bad of which I'm aware in this post: the immortal photo of the Marines raising the flag from World War II was on the island of Iwo Jima -- not Okinawa.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Winston Smith Here: Watching, Big Brother?
11:02 p.m. Watching Jon Stewart ridiculing the hypocrisy – I forgot to say the latest hypocrisy – of “the Bushies,” as Karl Rove calls them. Which is the firing of US attorneys for not being loyal enough Bushies. And Bush has called a press conference to say that the “Democrats on a fishing expedition” will have a fight on their hands if they try to subpoena the communications of “honorable employees” in order to get to the bottom of the latest scandal. (Those "honorable employees" include Alberto Gonzales and Harriet Miers. Hell, they are "honorable," if you can consider anybody who associates with Bush honorable -- nothing wrong with their honor, I guess. They're just stupid.)
Watching Bush coming out fighting when it is obvious to the world that he is dead wrong, one concludes that the man is an infuriatingly stubborn son of a bitch. He will use every power at his command -- and, God help us, he has more of them than anybody in the world -- to fight to the very, bloody end.
That having been said, I realize that I am skating on thin ice and may get a visit from the Secret Service for this -- and those redoubtable folks have no doubt morphed into the Thought Police a la 1984 in this hideous regime -- but I have imagined a not entirely satirical skit where W experiences "extraordinary rendition" to one of those US-subsidized torture places in undisclosed locations somewhere outside the United States (that spares the USA from being accountable, of course), where they waterboard the Shrub over and over and over and say, "Say it! Say it, you pigheaded son of a bitch! Nuclear! Nuclear! Oh oh, he said it again! Every time you say "nucular" from now on, Junior, you get a shock in the testicles too! Zap him, boys! Raise it to 440 volts the next time!"
You can't even get him to pronounce it "nuclear!" How can you get him to consider the wishes of seventy percent of the people of this nation?
What does it take? A national strike? A Bolshevik revolution? God please -- I am in bad odor with you these days, I know -- but please, PLEASE -- help us. God help us. Bring this man and his regime down before he destroys any more of this world.
Oh well, Adam Sandler has his dog, an adorable big old fat bulldog bitch named Matzo Ball, on Letterman (Dave's off tonight), and she and Adam and Don Cheadle are making the pain a little more bearable. Then Don is followed by Danica Patrick, who I'm praying will win the Indianapolis 500 soon.
Watching Bush coming out fighting when it is obvious to the world that he is dead wrong, one concludes that the man is an infuriatingly stubborn son of a bitch. He will use every power at his command -- and, God help us, he has more of them than anybody in the world -- to fight to the very, bloody end.
That having been said, I realize that I am skating on thin ice and may get a visit from the Secret Service for this -- and those redoubtable folks have no doubt morphed into the Thought Police a la 1984 in this hideous regime -- but I have imagined a not entirely satirical skit where W experiences "extraordinary rendition" to one of those US-subsidized torture places in undisclosed locations somewhere outside the United States (that spares the USA from being accountable, of course), where they waterboard the Shrub over and over and over and say, "Say it! Say it, you pigheaded son of a bitch! Nuclear! Nuclear! Oh oh, he said it again! Every time you say "nucular" from now on, Junior, you get a shock in the testicles too! Zap him, boys! Raise it to 440 volts the next time!"
You can't even get him to pronounce it "nuclear!" How can you get him to consider the wishes of seventy percent of the people of this nation?
What does it take? A national strike? A Bolshevik revolution? God please -- I am in bad odor with you these days, I know -- but please, PLEASE -- help us. God help us. Bring this man and his regime down before he destroys any more of this world.
Oh well, Adam Sandler has his dog, an adorable big old fat bulldog bitch named Matzo Ball, on Letterman (Dave's off tonight), and she and Adam and Don Cheadle are making the pain a little more bearable. Then Don is followed by Danica Patrick, who I'm praying will win the Indianapolis 500 soon.
Trying to Understand Evil
We had another bizarre murder in the Madison area of late. A 23-year-old woman, Ashley Robinson, two months pregnant, was the victim. A Brandon Skinner, 24, has said he shot her in the head, at close range, with a shotgun, by accident, and then shot her again to put her out of her misery. Four other people, ranging in age from 27 to 18, are accused of conspiring to murder the girl. The story is that they threw the victim's body in the Ohio River: it has not yet been found. The five people have been locked up without bail. The incident is said to have occurred in a remote river bottom that I drove to once, a place that I thought was a little bit of paradise -- instead of the hell these people turned it into.
I said "another" bizarre murder. I'm still haunted by the Shanda Sharer homicide in the 1990s, perpetrated on that 12-year-old girl by four other girls. They tortured this child one night, all night long, sodomizing her with a tire iron and setting her body afire. These children, now women, will actually be eligible for parole not so long from now. Not fair: I am an opponent of capital punishment but I do believe in life imprisonment without parole for certain people, based on how heinous the crimes they have committed. The two most culpable of these women should never be in a free society again -- ever. I fear for the lives of my loved ones should they come back here.
As a once-upon-a-time psychologist, I never understood the nature of evil -- not the kind involved in these two crimes. And I've never been impressed with the explanations of profilers and great psychologists. Why are we so indifferent to the suffering of our fellow human beings?
I said "another" bizarre murder. I'm still haunted by the Shanda Sharer homicide in the 1990s, perpetrated on that 12-year-old girl by four other girls. They tortured this child one night, all night long, sodomizing her with a tire iron and setting her body afire. These children, now women, will actually be eligible for parole not so long from now. Not fair: I am an opponent of capital punishment but I do believe in life imprisonment without parole for certain people, based on how heinous the crimes they have committed. The two most culpable of these women should never be in a free society again -- ever. I fear for the lives of my loved ones should they come back here.
As a once-upon-a-time psychologist, I never understood the nature of evil -- not the kind involved in these two crimes. And I've never been impressed with the explanations of profilers and great psychologists. Why are we so indifferent to the suffering of our fellow human beings?
Sorry, Subject of Smoking Again
Just want to call folks' attention to this essay in the New York Times today.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Welsh Roots
Looking at biographical information on the internet, I observe that Richard Burton and Anthony Hopkins were Welsh. Hopkins is up there in my top ten favorite movie actors. I pray that I, as an Evans, am more like him than like his countryman Burton. The two are as different as night and day. I've liked about everything I've seen Hopkins in. An exception is The Desperate Hours remake, so vastly inferior to the original that starred Bogie and Frederic March. I've enjoyed a thing or two with Burton, but it would have been nice to see the bastard smile once in a while. He always seemed to take life and himself so very, very seriously. (I recall E.L.Doctorow, novelist, writing that Dick thought he was important, that his farts were important.) Hopkins obviously does not take himself seriously. If you want to see him playing himself, study The World's Fastest Indian.
I was delighted that the Evans forbears that I know of date back to at least the eighteenth century on this continent, knowing that I have a great-great grandfather named Charles Evans. I really like that name: Charles Evans. These folks were hard-working dirt farmers in Kentucky way back then. Charles was born in 1794 and married Lena Palmer in 1814 in Cynthiana, Kentucky. Lena was also born in 1794 in good old Kentucky, that "dark and bloody ground," as one translation of the name renders it. (Perhaps daughters of the American revolution are not all that hard to come by!) Charles and Lena moved to Trimble County and propagated, among others, James T., my great grandfather, who went away to be a corporal in the "Orphan Brigade" of the CSA, and then came home to beget with his wife Jo Agnes, John Thomas Evans I, my namesake. JTE1 was born during the American Civil War and died in 1916, 23 years before my birth, at the age of 56. My dad did not like his father but the baby, Roy Thomas, said that "Tom" was (1) not alcoholic and (2) was a very loving and not at all harsh father, as my dad had read him. Brother Bud told me that Tom had come to Madison before his death and was fascinated with the horseless carriages and telephones and electric lights of that big city.
Well, I guess Kentucky is far from Wales. One thing the two lands have in common is coal mines, but in the case of Kentucky they are far to the southeast, in the mountains, and my forbears settled in the north, where growing fruit (apples and peaches) and sot-weed (that's t'backer) are the agri-products.
And so to bed.
I was delighted that the Evans forbears that I know of date back to at least the eighteenth century on this continent, knowing that I have a great-great grandfather named Charles Evans. I really like that name: Charles Evans. These folks were hard-working dirt farmers in Kentucky way back then. Charles was born in 1794 and married Lena Palmer in 1814 in Cynthiana, Kentucky. Lena was also born in 1794 in good old Kentucky, that "dark and bloody ground," as one translation of the name renders it. (Perhaps daughters of the American revolution are not all that hard to come by!) Charles and Lena moved to Trimble County and propagated, among others, James T., my great grandfather, who went away to be a corporal in the "Orphan Brigade" of the CSA, and then came home to beget with his wife Jo Agnes, John Thomas Evans I, my namesake. JTE1 was born during the American Civil War and died in 1916, 23 years before my birth, at the age of 56. My dad did not like his father but the baby, Roy Thomas, said that "Tom" was (1) not alcoholic and (2) was a very loving and not at all harsh father, as my dad had read him. Brother Bud told me that Tom had come to Madison before his death and was fascinated with the horseless carriages and telephones and electric lights of that big city.
Well, I guess Kentucky is far from Wales. One thing the two lands have in common is coal mines, but in the case of Kentucky they are far to the southeast, in the mountains, and my forbears settled in the north, where growing fruit (apples and peaches) and sot-weed (that's t'backer) are the agri-products.
And so to bed.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
I & I
I talk a lot about having been in the Army. I'm not a "veteran," according to the official definition, because I was in the reserve, for six months active duty only. I did six years, almost, of enrollment in the reserve, and I was not called up to active duty that whole time. The luck of the draw: my brother Bud was called up during "the Berlin crisis," during the Cold War, "mobilized" for a hot war we might be getting into with the USSR. (No hot war: else you wouldn't be reading this.) For that, he was made officially a "veteran," eligible for VA benefits and all of that.
I'm not. Moreover, I spent most of those years, from 1958-1964, not going to drills or summer camp. (I was never AWOL. That is only the prerogative of Presidents.) Of course I spent two of those years in the Peace Corps. I was nevertheless honorably discharged from the United States Armed Service on 29 January 1964 with the rank of Private First Class. I recall seeing that document many years ago and to my dismay it seems to have disappeared from the earth. My dismay is compounded by the fact that my Army records were destroyed in a fire at their repository in Saint Louis, Missouri.
Oh well.
I recall this and that from my Army days. I just wanted to share with you one little witticism from a drill sergeant (Korean veteran , he) -- the military has all kinds of little acronyms and abbreviations. One is for a short leave: R & R = "rest and recreation." Sergeant Delaney from Brooklyn (who was always going to put a "boot in your ass") said an alternative name for that leave was I & I: "intoxication and intercourse."
I'm not. Moreover, I spent most of those years, from 1958-1964, not going to drills or summer camp. (I was never AWOL. That is only the prerogative of Presidents.) Of course I spent two of those years in the Peace Corps. I was nevertheless honorably discharged from the United States Armed Service on 29 January 1964 with the rank of Private First Class. I recall seeing that document many years ago and to my dismay it seems to have disappeared from the earth. My dismay is compounded by the fact that my Army records were destroyed in a fire at their repository in Saint Louis, Missouri.
Oh well.
I recall this and that from my Army days. I just wanted to share with you one little witticism from a drill sergeant (Korean veteran , he) -- the military has all kinds of little acronyms and abbreviations. One is for a short leave: R & R = "rest and recreation." Sergeant Delaney from Brooklyn (who was always going to put a "boot in your ass") said an alternative name for that leave was I & I: "intoxication and intercourse."
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Intelligent Remarks About Tolerance
Saw Hate Crime, to wit, the murder of a gay man (Robbie) by a judgmental man (Pastor Boyd). The movie was disappointing for a number of reasons, but the main one was that the enemy was painted in black and white only, with no allowance for shades of gray, and the movie was a failure as a result.
Roger Ebert reviewed this movie and I like some of the things he said:
"Yes, there are plenty of fundamentalists who believe homosexuals (and many others) are on the highway to hell. Yes, they are intolerant and extreme and do not do unto others as they would be done unto themselves. Yes, they talk a lot about Jesus but seem unable to practice his principles, especially those involving charity. Yes, Jesus in their theology is not a spiritual leader so much as their spokesmodel on reactionary social and political issues. To drive its point home, the movie counterpoints Pastor Boyd's hellfire and brimstone with the gentler Christianity of Robbie's church.
"But there are other fundamentalists, a great many more, I believe, who are gentle and humane, positive and well-meaning, and although I may disagree with many of their beliefs, well, there are a lot of religious beliefs in the world and most people disagree with most of them. (my italics) In a sense, Pastor Boyd and his team represent Islamic terrorists, and most fundamentalists are like most Muslims, religious but not extremist, valued members of the community, good citizens and neighbors."
I post this because I need to remind, not inform, myself. For better or worse, the world is not a dichotomy of black and white, it is a continuum of many shades of gray.
Roger Ebert reviewed this movie and I like some of the things he said:
"Yes, there are plenty of fundamentalists who believe homosexuals (and many others) are on the highway to hell. Yes, they are intolerant and extreme and do not do unto others as they would be done unto themselves. Yes, they talk a lot about Jesus but seem unable to practice his principles, especially those involving charity. Yes, Jesus in their theology is not a spiritual leader so much as their spokesmodel on reactionary social and political issues. To drive its point home, the movie counterpoints Pastor Boyd's hellfire and brimstone with the gentler Christianity of Robbie's church.
"But there are other fundamentalists, a great many more, I believe, who are gentle and humane, positive and well-meaning, and although I may disagree with many of their beliefs, well, there are a lot of religious beliefs in the world and most people disagree with most of them. (my italics) In a sense, Pastor Boyd and his team represent Islamic terrorists, and most fundamentalists are like most Muslims, religious but not extremist, valued members of the community, good citizens and neighbors."
I post this because I need to remind, not inform, myself. For better or worse, the world is not a dichotomy of black and white, it is a continuum of many shades of gray.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
ClaraBel Smoot Jones, 1916-2007
Rosie's mother passed away in the early hours of March 2, 2007. Born in Henry County, Kentucky, she grew up near Lockport, on the Kentucky River, eventually moving to Indiana and graduating from Hanover High School. She turned down a scholarship to Hanover College to marry Howard Lawrence Jones, who was a meatcutter and manager for the Kroger Company most of his life, while Clara was a homemaker. They were married for over seventy years. Howard survives her; so does their only child, Rosalie Jones Evans. Also surviving her are her sister, Rosella, and her brother, Edwin. Clara was an accomplished seamstress, making, for example, her daughter's wedding dress; and she was a quite good cook. (She made a great pot of Great Northerns and ham! And her angel cakes were excellent, even for one who prefers devil's food cakes.) Clara's mother was a one-room schoolhouse teacher, her father a farmer. Clara was a character, stubborn and opinionated, a storyteller, devoted wife, mother, and grandmother. She spoiled hell out of her three grandchildren, David, Brian, and Suzy, and they are better people for it. She raised a truly exemplary daughter somehow, who became a nurse and has been involved in ministering to literally thousands of people in Jefferson County, Indiana. She could make her daughter mad as hell, especially in her last years, but all in all she was a damned good old girl. ClaraBel, R.I.P. I'm sure you're up there now giving St. Pete his marching orders!
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