Christmas Auld Lang Syne

12/23/2008, 4:00 pm -- by Connie | 1 Comment

The last in the series from Stories Behind the Best-Loved Songs of Christmas.

Auld Lang Syne is one of the most familiar songs in the world. But this traditional New Year\’s Eve anthem wasn\’t even considered a holiday song until Dec 31, 1929. That night Guy Lombardo and His Royal Canadians played it at a huge celebration at NYC\’s Waldorf Astoria, complete with a radio link that beamed them across the nation. Just before ringing out the old year, he picked up his baton and launched into this number, and suddenly millions of Americans had the mistaken impression that Scottish poet Robert Burns had penned it just to welcome in the New Year.

It was probably chosen as the lead-up to the countdown because of the nation\’s dark mood. The stock market had crashed and the economy was in a shambles. Fortunes had been lost, people were out of work, and no one seemed able to stop the country\’s descent into a great depression. For Lombardo, a song that embraced the value and importance of friendships over worldly possessions seemed a perfect way to look back and find good things in a very bad year, while looking forward to the new decade that offered more hope. Sounds too familiar, doesn\’t it?

Elements of the original poem can be traced back to the 1500s, and a 1694 publication called Scotch Presbyterian Eloquence Display\’d, which quoted a sermon. In this Sunday morning homily, God said: “Jonah, now billy Jonah, wilt thou go to Nineveh, for Auld lang syne (old kindness).” Its subsequent reworking kept it mostly in the pubs for the next few hundred years, but about 30 years after Lombardo’s performance, Frank Military took another look at the song and took it in another direction — something that expressed the birth of Christ as a “yuletide valentine.” He built on the theme of ultimate love and told a story not just of trees and toys, but of answered prayers. In this version, cheer was not found in a drink, but in the spirit of those who knew the real meaning of the holiday.

More than 200 years ago, Robert Burns reworked an old Scottish poem about love and friendship into a song that evoked a longing for days gone by. A century and a half later, Guy Lombardo took that song and through its lucky placement on a set list, made it into a New Year\’s Eve tradition. But it would be Frank Military who would rework the lyrics again, shaping them back into a love song. Not earthly love this time, but rather a spiritual love that started before time began, was realized in a manger, and will live on forever.

When mistletoe and tinsel glow
Paint a yuletide valentine
Back home I go to those I know
For a Christmas auld lang syne

And as we gather ’round the tree
Our voices all combine
In sweet accord to thank our Lord
For a Christmas auld lang syne

When sleigh bells ring and choirs sing
And the children’s faces shine
With each new toy we share their joy
With a Christmas auld lang syne

We sing His praise this day of days
And pray next year this time
We’ll all be near to share the cheer
Of a Christmas auld lang syne

In sweet accord to thank our Lord
For a Christmas auld lang syne

The Year in Review (Part Three)

12/19/2008, 10:00 am -- by David | 6 Comments

Read part one and part two!

July:
In politics, the fireworks got started when Jesse Jackson was caught articulating his desire to emasculate Barack Obama for “speaking down to black people,” after Obama espoused personal responsibility in raising children. Perhaps Rev. Jackson’s desire for sterilization was just misplaced?

With the Democratic primary finally resolved, Obama began his heads-up match with John McCain by touring Europe, speaking to 200,000+ in Germany and wowing the various characters inhabiting the nation of France. Meanwhile, John McCain responded with lunch at a German restaurant in Berlin, Pennsylvania. A good indicator of things to come.

In entertainment news, the summer movie hits were Wall-E, a dark cartoon exploring the forbidden world of robot love, and the latest Batman movie (The Dark Knight), hyped to an epic level of anticipation after the accidental death of star Heath Ledger from a drug overdose. In the wrold of celebrities, baseball star Alex Rodriguez split with his wife after being romantically linked to himself — as well as rapidly fading pop diva Madonna — and star blogger Tom was involved in a late-night scuffle at an Arby\’s in Ithaca, New York, the first of many troubles during his sophomore season with Bweinh!

In personal news, Bweinh! CEO Steve Maxon and his entourage visited the Opelika office, as part of his whirlwind tour of all his U.S. facilities. Our grandkids came for two weeks and our kids all visited for the 4th — giving us a record 14 visitors in the month of July. Good times.

In sports news, Brett Favre un-retired again, and signed a sponsorship deal to promote The Mummy III. In baseball, Tampa Bay\’s Evan Longoria became the first rookie to be named All-Star MVP while starring in a TV series (Desperate Housewives) — and the WNBA has its first brawl, when Lisa Leslie of the L.A. Sparks shows up wearing the same earrings as an opposing player.

August:
As the dog days of August rolled in, the Republican party saw its first glimmer of hope in a dismal presidential race when Joe Biden was announced as Obama\’s running mate. He raised fresh questions about plagiarism when he began his nomination acceptance speech: “I am honored that Senator Kerry would choose me to be his running mate.”

In a further display of Russia\’s new friendliness, they invaded Georgia. Prime Minister Putin appeared at a press conference with President Dmitry “Winky” Medvedev, declaring that the rapid move to democracy has now progressed beyond the Russian border. In other news, John Edwards confessed to an affair, giving me yet another reason to dislike a man I never liked anyway.

At the movies, we watched The Mummy III and Indiana Jones IV on the same day — I am still confused about which special effects, lame dialogue, and ridiculous plot twists go with which one. The prospect that I may have watched National Treasure III just adds to the confusion. These types of movies are attractive for only one reason: as an excuse to consume an entire tub of popcorn and a barrel of Coke for the low, low price of $55.

Hurricane season got off to a roaring start in Alabama, as our neighbors boarded up their windows and stocked up on emergency supplies three times in a month — once for Eduardo, once for Faye, and once when they heard Russia had invaded Georgia.

In sports, Michael Phelps won a record eight gold medals in Olympic competition, the Yankees faded from contention, and three Syracuse Orangemen finally get the team in the news — for sexual assault charges.

September:
Hurricanes Gustav and Ike wrought devastation on the Southeast and Gulf Coast, but paled in comparison to Hurricane Sarah from Alaska, who stormed onto the national scene: annihilating the Democratic convention, reviving the floundering McCain campaign, and single-handedly turning around the dying SNL franchise.

A financial meltdown began, as Freddie Mac, Fannie Mae, Lehmann Bros., AIG, and Washington Mutual Bank all began to fail, while economists continued to debate whether we were in a recession. In a sign of the times, Canadian currency actually surpassed the U,S. dollar in value for the first time, and Americans are caught sneaking over the border into Mexico.

In entertainment news, Bweinh! blogger Tom injured his finger and became addicted to painkillers; he was caught at 2 AM in a bad section of Rochester trying to buy prescription-strength ibuprofen from an undercover DEA agent. The Syracuse football team started its season 0-2, including a home loss to the mighty Akron Zips. Clearly it\’s going to be a long season.

A List of Lists

12/18/2008, 11:05 am -- by Steve | No Comments

It’s that time for end-of-the-year lists! But I’m not interested in the 200,000 identical lists of albums (“lol chineese democracy rocks dude, axls still got it”), movies, and “hunks.” It’s the more unique lists that I look for.

For example, National Geographic has released their top ten photos of 2008. My favorite was only #2.

If it’s quantity you crave, Time has gone overboard with the thing with the “Top 10 Everything.” I’m not going to click all those links to test that claim, but it certainly appears to be quite thorough.

If you like ads, you’ll probably enjoy the top 10 viral advertisements and worst ads of the year.

Assuming you’re really bored and really interested in projectors, there’s even a top 10 projectors of the year! What’s that? A native XGA resolution, 2500 ANSI lumens, and an 1800:1 contrast ratio? Be still, my heart!

Oh, and how could we forget the top cricketers of the year, a pantheon which includes the delightfully named Michael Hussey? “Hussey combines his easiness on the eye with a basic and compact technique, something which makes his wicket particularly difficult to claim.”

You can’t make that stuff up.

It Wasn’t His Child

12/17/2008, 2:30 pm -- by Connie | No Comments

The next in the series from Stories Behind the Best-Loved Songs of Christmas.

In 1987, Skip Ewing was living in Nashville, trying to make a name for himself, when he found himself home for Christmas, despondent over his imperfect family situation. He thought about the first Christmas family, and specifically Joseph\’s role, and realized that it hadn’t been the perfect family situation either.

Joseph had to watch Jesus’ birth and raise Him as his own son, even though He wasn’t. In a way, this was even more significant than if Jesus had been Joseph’s own child. Joseph was a role model for Jesus — love and acceptance flowed to Him from this man. “Even though Jesus was as spiritual as He was, He still must have grown and been given such wonderful gifts from both of his earthly parents.”

The song Ewing wrote as a result became one of only two legitimate country Christmas classics (the other is Rudolph). And he used an unresolved chord at the end of the song to signify that this story goes on, a never-ending pursuit for all of us. “It is what Jesus brought to earth, what God revealed in Him, and what Joseph stood for as both a husband and a father.”

Give a listen to this song. Don\’t get caught up in thoughts about how “perfect” your family should be this Christmas. Look to God for your contentment and satisfaction; maybe you\’ll write the next classic.

He was her man and she was his wife
And late one winter night
He knelt by her as she gave birth
But it wasn’t his child, it wasn’t his child

Yet still he took Him as his own
And as he watched Him grow
It brought him joy, he loved that boy
But it wasn’t his child, it wasn’t his child

And like a father, he was strong and kind and good
And I believe he did his best
It wasn’t easy for him, but he did all he could
His son was different from the rest
It wasn’t his child, it wasn’t his child

And when the boy became a man
He took his father’s hand
And soon the world would all know why
It wasn’t his child, it wasn’t his child

And like His father, He was strong and kind and good
And I believe He did His best
It wasn’t easy for Him, but He did all He could
He grew up with His hands in wood
And He died with His hands in wood
He was God’s child, He was God’s child

He was her man, she was his wife
And late one winter night
He knelt by her as she gave birth
But it wasn’t his child; it was God’s child

The Year in Review (Part Two)

12/12/2008, 12:00 pm -- by David | 2 Comments

Read part one here!

April:
In politics, one of the largest April Fool’s Day hoaxes in history is pulled off, when an American negotiator suggests beginning a trial placement of Patriot missiles in Poland, then ships a half-dozen missiles with instructions to place them in a corner of each round silo. Chaos ensues as teams work around the clock for several days to accomplish the impossible. President Bush later apologizes, admitting privately that he completely understood the confusion.

In other news, the international space station was rocked by a gust of wind from Earth after Britney Spears’ 16-year-old sister Jamie Lynn is found to be pregnant, and the entire population of the United States screams, “SHE HAS A SISTER?!?!?”

In more entertainment news, world-renowned artist Robert Indiana, famous for his LOVE sculpture that first appeared in 1966, returned to the public eye. His original sculpture — described at the time as groundbreaking — consisted of the letter L, followed by an O canted to the right, standing over a VE. In April 2008 he followed up that success with a HOPE sculpture, consisting of an H, followed by an O canted to the right, standing over the letters PE.

It only took him 22 years to come up with this brilliant follow-up. I hope he had a part-time job or something. Meanwhile, “Hannah Montana” caused a stir when she appeared in a photo shoot, wearing only a blanket, canted to the right, standing over nothing at all.

In the world of sports, the NHL playoffs got underway; the Philadelphia Flyers beat Washington in the first round on the strength of Danny BriÃ¨re’s offense and the stellar goaltending of Marty Biron. Go Flyers!

May:
The Presidential primaries continued to drag on, and Barack Obama\’s campaign took another hit when his pastor, Jeremiah Wright, released a new book: The Racially Tinged Rantings of Jabez. Obama vowed to stick by him. Only a few days later, however, Pastor Wright referred to Obama as a “politician” in a TV interview, causing Obama to denounce him and completely disassociate himself from the church. Hillary Clinton won Pennsylvania and lost North Carolina, but stayed in the race, claiming that she could “galvanize the white vote.”

In personal news, my family attends our nephew’s wedding in New York in a beautiful stone church built in the 1800s, with a reception at the historic Carriage House restaurant. It is a beautiful ceremony with the groom and all his groomsmen wearing tuxedos and flip-flops. For me, the highpoint was still when several of us discovered the letters on the sign outside the reception hall could be rearranged to read “Pirate Lion & Oxen Camp.” And they were.

In sports it was disclosed that Roger Clemens apparently carried on a decade-long affair with country singer Mindy McCready, starting when she was still in her teens. I detest this guy more and more every time I hear his name. Meanwhile, my beloved Flyers closed out their second-round series against the Montreal Canadiens on the strength of eight goals from forward R.J. Umberger. Every long-time fan knows what this means: Umberger will be the first player traded in the offseason.

Meanwhile, in the NBA, Carmelo Anthony was arrested for DUI and the Nuggets flamed out in their series against the Los Angeles Lakers. In baseball, the Yankees’ first season in a dozen years without Joe Torre at the helm began with a slump, while Torre’s new team, the Dodgers, stood five games over .500.

June:
Summer 2008 began with a nationwide scare reminiscent of Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!, as people all over the country were sickened by salmonella poisoning purported to be from fast-food tomatoes. The outbreak was later traced to Mexican jalapeno peppers, but somehow Attack of the Killer Jalapenos! doesn\’t roll off the tongue as well, and never got the press coverage it rightly deserved.

Other than that, it was business as usual across the nation; gasoline climbed to over $4 per gallon, the big auto companies suffered devastating losses, the West Coast raged with wildfires, and the Midwest dealt with massive flooding again — all of which, of course, was President Bush\’s fault. Meanwhile, Obama captured enough delegates to claim victory in the Democratic primary, but Hilary Clinton refused to concede until a deal was worked out to include delegates from Michigan and Florida. Eventually, she still lost and had to go home — to Bill Clinton.

In entertainment news, the nation mourned the passing of Tim Russert and George Carlin. Carlin\’s death reminded me of one of his early routines, where he talked about what a great thing the two-minute warning is in football. He went on to say how nice it would be if life worked that way. In his fantasy, an angel would come down just before you die, blow a whistle, and give you two minutes to get everything right. I guess he knows now that it doesn\’t work that way. In sports, the Flyers were eliminated in the conference finals by Pittsburgh, who then lost to Detroit in the Stanley Cup finals. The Boston Celtics won the NBA Championship.

Bweinh! Goes to the Movies — Four Christmases

12/11/2008, 2:00 pm -- by Connie | 1 Comment

I went to the movies with my girls last week over Thanksgiving break, and we saw Four Christmases, the latest (with Fred Claus) in the ongoing series of Vince Vaughn holiday movies. Maybe he\’s trying to corner Christmas the way Will Smith has hijacked the Fourth of July.

Anyway, I was hoping to like it — really, I was — but there was just something off. I sensed no onscreen chemistry between the two stars; as a matter of fact, they did not appear to fit together at all. Maybe it\’s that I just don\’t care for Vaughn, but imagine Bob Hope and Lucille Ball in It\’s a Wonderful Life, and you might get a sense of how uncomfortable I felt.

The plot was sadly relevant and timely, I suppose. I like to enjoy holiday movies, though; having to watch the protagonists visit four sets of parents, the aftermath of two divorces and remarriages, is not exactly something to warm the heart. And then! To have them ALL be completely dysfunctional, even dangerous, was just too much to swallow.

And the story? Predictable and boring. Slapstick has never appealed to me; I prefer depth and an actual storyline for my characters to explore. These two looked like they were just counting down the minutes until they could get to the end of the movie and go home. Funny, I know exactly how they felt…

It gets a 3 out of 7 on the Bweinh! scale: a hearty Eh!

Here Comes Santa Claus

12/10/2008, 9:30 am -- by Connie | No Comments

For those of you fed up with Christmas commercialism, I\’d like to take you back to a simpler time, a nicer time — when songwriters knew how to keep things in perspective.

I recently ordered a book on the stories behind the songs of Christmas. While I was perusing the titles, I was shocked by some of them. But after all, the cover did promise I\’d discover a “deeper appreciation for these melodic messages of peace, hope and joy that celebrate THE BIRTH OF JESUS.”

And so I present Here Comes Santa Claus (w/m Autry/Haldeman):

Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus,
Riding down Santa Claus Lane.
He doesn’t care if you’re a rich or poor boy,
He loves you just the same.
Santa knows that we’re God’s children,
That makes everything right.
Fill your hearts with Christmas cheer,
’cause Santa Claus comes tonight.

Well, here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus,
Riding down Santa Claus Lane.
He’ll come around when the chimes ring out,
It’s Christmas morn again.
Peace on earth will come to all
If we just follow the light
Lets give thanks to the Lord above,
’cause Santa Claus comes tonight.

The Year In Review

12/5/2008, 4:00 pm -- by David | No Comments

Note: Dave Barry again refused to write a year in review article for us, so I am once again filling in.

January:
The new year opened with a bang politically, as Barack Obama and Mike Huckabee opened their presidential primary campaigns with big wins in Iowa. Hillary Clinton climbed back into the race with a win in New Hampshire, based mainly on the strength of a tearful moment captured on camera and televised nationwide. Terrell Owens teared up after the Dallas Cowboys’ playoff loss and quickly became the favorite in the upcoming South Carolina primary. In international politics, Iran attempted to attack the US Navy in the Persian Gulf with five rowboats, providing an apt analogy for Ron Paul\’s assault on the Republican front-runners.

In entertainment news, Britney Spears dominated the headlines by suffering a breakdown, losing her children, and facing criticism from Dr. Phil, who told the nation, “She needs help.” She attempted a comeback in a much-panned live appearance at the Grammys. Not only was she fiercely criticized for her physical appearance, but she was further humiliated when a Sea World spokesman noted that much of her routine was eerily similar to their killer whale show. “Other than eating live fish and splashing the crowd, everything she did can be seen every day at the 10:20, 2:20, or 4:20 shows.”

In sports, the unsinkable Jose Canseco floated to the surface again with new charges against Roger Clemens, Alex Rodriguez, and Sen. Henry Waxman of California. The confusing charges involved an alleged Clemens appearance at a Canseco cookout, and a confirmed Clemens appearance at a congressional hearing — where he brought in his nanny, who later confirmed, under oath, that Waxman, chairman of the hearing, was in fact the ugliest man she had ever seen.

February:
In politics, the primary season was in full swing, and John McCain solidified his place at the head of the Republican pack, while Mitt Romney ducked out to allow the administration to focus on the wars in Iraq & Afghanistan. Huckabee vowed to stay in until the bitter end, running on a shoestring budget. Although the decision was initially praised, his campaign soon suffered bad press when, at a rally in Texas, a man holding a “We Need Change” sign turned out to be his budget director, panhandling for the campaign.

In entertainment news, the writers’ strike finally came to an end, and no one noticed the difference.

In sports news, baseball’s spring training began, with 63-year-old Roger Clemens bench-pressing a Greyhound bus while denying that he ever took any performance-enhancing substances. In football, Eli Manning led the New York Giants to a Super Bowl win, marking the first time in league history that back-to-back Super Bowls were won by goofy-looking guys with big ears.

March:
In the world of politics, Gov. Eliot Spitzer of New York was caught by a wiretap (which he approved) ordering and consorting with prostitutes. It is reported that he spent more than $80,000 on the service, suggesting “multiple occurrences.” If not, the sum would certainly explain his trouble balancing the state’s budget. He was immediately replaced by the lieutenant governor, who is legally blind — explaining why he made such a good sidekick for Spitzer in the first place.

In a further sign of Russia\’s rapid democratization, Russia’s Vladimir Putin appeared at a press conference wearing a sock puppet named “Winky,” and nominated him to replace Putin as president. The sock puppet accepted (while Putin drank a glass of water, spilling much of it on his shirt) under one condition: that Putin assume the title of prime minister. Winky was then shifted to Putin\’s right hand, where he quickly signed a bill giving the prime minister all powers formerly assigned to the president.

In election news, Hilary Clinton angered Barack Obama by offering him a part-time job stuffing envelopes for her campaign, though she still trailed him in the delegate count. She quickly changed the offer to the role of vice-president, however, calling it the “dream ticket.” Obama quickly told her to dream on. Meanwhile, Obama\’s campaign took a hit when his pastor released a series of motivational videos, including: “Death to White America,” “The Nation You\’ve Always Hated in Flames in 15 Days,” and “Your Best Revolution Now.”

In sports, the baseball season opened with games between Boston and Oakland in Japan. The series nearly ended in disaster when David Ortiz visited a beach and became the center of Greenpeace protests over whether he should be left alone or returned to sea. In the entertainment world, Al Gore admitted that he was originally cast in the title role for Brokeback Mountain. The deal fell through when he could not lose weight fast enough to meet production schedules, leaving the role of the mountain for America’s sweetheart, William Shatner.

The Second Thanksgiving

11/25/2008, 10:30 am -- by David | No Comments

So much has been written about the First Thanksgiving in 1621 that the follow-up celebration in 1622 has been all but forgotten, by historians and citizens alike. At this time of year, I think it would be helpful to look back at that second celebration, to glean what we can from the complex Pilgrim-Indian interplay that helped found this great institution.

Everyone knows that Thanksgiving originated with the feast held in the autumn of 1621 by the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag to celebrate the colony’s first successful harvest. It was well-attended by over 90 Wampanoag braves, the great Indian king Massasoit, and his daughter, Princess Pocahontas, who had recently married Cpt. John Smith, precipitating her invitation by Gov. Miles Standish.

The second year was a little different. To begin with, when John Smith informed Pocahontas of the upcoming celebration — and the expected attendance of her relatives — he was rebuffed by her argument that they had “spent every Thanksgiving with his people,” so this year they would spend it with her parents in the Wampanoag encampment. Miles Standish was informed of the change, and after much discussion, he decided that the colonists would make the trek to the Wampanoag Casino Resort Hotel (located near present-day Piscataway, New Jersey) and celebrate by partaking in ancient American rituals including blackjack, roulette and three-card Monte.

Although many colonists were skeptical, they soon took to the ceremonial tents with fervor. Especially intriguing were the “One-Armed Totems,” which allowed a user to deposit a small coin for a chance to receive a small measure of parched corn; the amount varied depending on the alignment of certain mystical figures that spun on three sticks. The bar, the cherry, and the lemon, among other powerful symbols, could produce anywhere from 5 to 500 kernels of corn on a single turn. Many colonists soon found that a simple sack of coins could win them several pockets full of meal. Consider that the “All-You Can-Eat Buffet” was complimentary for anyone who spent the equivalent of five gold sovereigns, and you can see why this should have been the ideal celebration.

But, as everyone knows, the original celebration was three days long, and that’s where the real trouble started. On day two of the second feast, while some of the men were still deeply engaged in ritual wagering, some others had assembled on a green to watch the Redskins play the Pilgrims in a friendly game of touch football (this game, of course, took place before the Pilgrims moved to Dallas and became the Cowboys under Tom Landry). Many female colonists — including Pocahontas — rebelled, announcing that they would not spend the first shopping day of the Christmas season watching football. The women stormed off, in search of a mall rumored to be under development by the Massapequa Indian tribe to the north.

In the fourth quarter, with the Redskins trailing by 2 points, the Pilgrims were expecting an upset. They appeared to hold the home team to a three-and-out with under three minutes remaining, but the Redskins elected to go for it on fourth down. The ensuing play-action pass resulted in an incompletion to the left side, but an Iroquois official threw a late flag and whistled pass interference on the Pilgrims. This put the Indians in field goal range and they nailed a 43-yard kick to win the game.

Needless to say, the colonists were not happy. They had lost their money to the gaming tables, their wives to the mall, and now a shot at the playoffs to what was obviously a “homer job” by a biased official. So that, my friends, is why there was no third Thanksgiving celebration with the Native Americans — and why today we still celebrate separately.

The Wisdom of Ecclesiastes

11/20/2008, 10:30 am -- by David | No Comments

I saw a car yesterday in traffic, a mid-’80s compact model, and it reminded me of something that I hadn\’t thought of in years. Two decades ago, I was working as a salesman — like I am now, only with far less success — and I wandered into a car dealership to make a sales call. It was yet another rejection when I desperately needed a sale.

The salesman noticed me eyeing a brand-new compact car and began giving me his pitch on the way out. He opened the door and made me slide in; I experienced that “new car smell” and took in the spotlessly clean interior. It was mesmerizing, and as far out of reach as the constellations in the sky. I thanked him, turned down a test drive, and slogged through the snow back to my old junker, which I drove off into the gathering gloom of a wintry evening.

I thought about that car forever, struggling to make ends meet raising a family on my income while my wife stayed home to raise our children. I marveled at a world that seemed so far beyond my reach: a world where people could buy a house, not rent; where people bought their children new clothes whenever they needed them; where people could walk into a dealership and buy a new car if the mood struck. All I could see was my poverty, and I was convinced that this other world would be a happy one indeed.

When I saw that same model, dented and rusted, smoking its way through traffic the other day, I was amazed at how small and unspectacular it really was. I\’m 47 now, almost 48. My wife went back to school after the kids were grown, and now she teaches. We certainly aren\’t rich, but we have bought and discarded a half-dozen new vehicles that all put that low-end GM product to shame. The poverty that shamed me and left me feeling so helpless at times is just a distant memory. Like all young couples, we struggled. but God was always faithful to provide what we needed — we never went without.

We’re reading through Ecclesiastes in our Bible study, and someone asked what value the book holds for a Christian. Well, when you understand it was written by a man of unlimited wealth, who sought to test the limits of the happiness it could buy, always coming up empty, then you see the wisdom of Ecclesiastes.

There is no “other world,” where material wealth brings forth a joyous existence of unbounded peace and contentment. Test if you must, but my experience with automobiles shows me that Solomon knew what he was talking about: “Vanity, vanity! All is vanity!”

Four Weeks — The Complete Series

11/18/2008, 10:52 pm -- by Steve | 1 Comment

Read the series in parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

PART ONE:
Ever since the night I lay awake crying at the pending approach of my tenth birthday, I have been acutely aware of the impact of the passage of time. Although I have been blessed to avoid much significant loss so far in my life, there has stayed in my mind, throughout times both mundane and happy, a constant reminder that they will not and cannot remain. Nothing lasts under the sun.

Inertia may rob me, at times, of golden opportunities for entertainment, education or exercise, but I have vowed that I will never have cause to lament the days I could have spent with ones I loved and could have seen. This attitude is what takes me back to my family home and church most weekends, at the cost of a five-hour drive. It led me to spend the last week before my bar examination with my girlfriend amidst the New Mexico mountains, fording a stream in flight from deluge. And this year it brings me along on a four-week tour of America — and the people I love who make it their home.

The itinerary was to begin directly following my sister\’s graduation, when two of my brothers and I would set out by car for far-off Alabama. After that, a few days in Georgia, a wedding in South Carolina — then the others were to head home, dropping me on Staten Island. From New York, a flight to California, a day at home to exchange clothing (thanks to my own scattershot planning), and another flight to the Southwest. The month would end with three days of basketball officiating at a camp with that same now-graduated sister, perhaps a chance to give her a celebratory technical.

Four weeks. At least 14,577 miles. And perhaps the most exciting month of my life to date.

PART TWO:
If you have ever driven through southwestern Virginia, you may have noticed that, for nine miles, Interstates 77 and 81 form what is called a “wrong-way concurrency.” I-81 travels from northeast to southwest, while I-77 was built from northwest to southeast; as a result, when the two roads meet and ever-so-briefly join, the unsuspecting driver (heading due west by compass) finds herself simultaneously traversing I-81 south — and I-77 north.

Up looks down, wrong seems right, and west can be both north and south…and if you try to turn around, you’ll find that east is too.

This fact, which once crouched amidst foggy dusk to add a loathsome 45 minutes to a previous trip, returned to my mind as I recalled our preparation for the 1200-mile drive to the Deep Southâ„¢. This leg was nothing new. Several times before, I have set out on similar trips: unstopped until Pennsylvania, optimistic until West Virginia, and awake (with brief exceptions) until the bitter end, with the occasional pharmacological assist.

But this time we had a plan — to attend church with my uncle in Alabama the next morning — and it depended, or so it was thought, on leaving directly after my sister attained America’s mark of minimal educational competency that afternoon.

Circumstances prevailed, though, as is their way, and we were delayed one round hour, mostly by my brother’s newly discovered (and irrepressible) need to fold everything he owned. Wrinkles, not failure and tardiness, were to be this journey’s most fearsome enemies. Our fate we would trust to the road; his fashion he guarded with his life.

The drive was thankfully unremarkable, and once we finally did arrive, we found the church was quite new, the silver lining from unfair and contentious division elsewhere. Its services were held in the conference room of a local motel, and after the overnight drive, we savored, to some extent, the languorously maintained breakfast buffet, most notable for its pile of buttery, watery hominy grits. Two sermons later, our first experience down South was precisely what we had hoped, a small congregation of the devoted faithful, giving thanks to God in all things, even (inexplicably) for grits.

And our time of arrival? Somewhere around that I-77 merge, I realized we had overlooked the variable of the time zone — and that the hour Princess spent folding his dainties had saved us from turning up on anyone’s doorstep at the unholy hour of 6 a.m.

The wrong-way concurrency. Sometimes advance feels like retreat.

PART THREE:
Some of my co-workers expressed unguarded alarm when I mentioned that my itinerary included visits to Alabama and Georgia. One confided, in all seriousness, that although she had once been forced to drive through Alabama, she had refused to stop in the state for any reason. “It’s scary down there. Everybody’s got a gun! I didn’t know what would happen.”

Veteran of a few prior trips to the region, I was a little surprised by the unveiled condescension aimed at the people of the South, and I noted the irony of judging a group to be ignorant and uncultured on the strength of a single drive to an airport. But then we all have our prejudices — I personally dislike Turks and teenagers. The important thing seems to be choosing the ones that result in knowing nods, rather than stunned silence, when you confess them too frankly over a second Heineken.

If anything, this trip helped to reinforce to me the tremendous variety and beauty of our land, and the unmistakable similarity of its people. Our outsides may be as different as the countryside of New Jersey and New Mexico, and our behavior and language may be a function of our subcultures, but the cloak of diversity does little to hide the universal human motivations. And there is too the homogenizing effect of capitalism: every Walgreens store I passed, from Phoenix, Ariz. to Phenix City, Ala., displayed the same message about gas prices in flashing red letters. Comforting, in a way. Also eerie.

A week down South is never enough. After three short days of four-square and fireworks, we were off from Alabama, driving across the heart of Georgia to the coast — where, it seemed, the next three days leapt by in a blur of alligator spotting on the dock and reading beside the pool. My respective Southern relatives are further ammunition for my claim: vastly different in the incidental (one living room packed full with four dogs and nine people; the other as sedate and collected as the oil paintings on its walls), yet so similar in graciousness and generosity.

Amidst the haste, there are times during travel when the moment freezes, and I am overcome with identification, imagining how different life could have been for me, there, then. And for this I will remember Fort Valley, Georgia: steering around a curve, I watched two children madly pedal their bicycles along the road in front of me, then suddenly dart off the side, onto a well-worn path that wound through the knotty pines and led to who-knows-where. I recalled the paths and bikes and forts and clubs of my childhood, and thousands of miles from them, sat struck by nostalgia for a life I would never know. For a moment, that town felt like home.

And — would you believe? — I never saw a single gun.

PART FOUR:
We didn\’t plan to bring John to the wedding, but when we found out the reception was taking place on the grounds of a zoo, it only seemed fitting. And his suit was already in the trunk, after all, wedged in at the last moment by our mother, ever hopeful that we would change our minds and sneak him in. That\’s how I found myself parking in the terraced lot of a random South Carolina church, angled to block the view of passing cars, while my brothers donned the traditional, oppressive wedding garb of our people.

The Palmetto State was hot and sticky, like a candy bar sent through the dryer, and as I amused myself by releasing the emergency brake and watching John scurry to keep up with the trunk, I found it hard to fathom the state’s near-myth status in the rural Northeast. How many people — young women, especially — had I heard confess their ambition to leave New York for the temperate beauty and utopian job market of South Carolina? Slow-cooking in a black suit, the attraction puzzled me. If I\’m going to give up snow and seasons, I demand climatic perfection: Honolulu, San Diego, Omaha. This was just Florida North: sweaty, crowded, and muggy, with fewer snakes and better drivers.

The wedding itself was most notable for the objection; the objection was most notable for the $50 the groom paid to obtain it. I suspect that this combination may have also made the couple’s ride to the reception quite, er, notable.

At the lovely baked potato reception, we took a place behind the dance floor, so as best to ruin the pictures, and celebrated our friend’s wedding with a group of Syracusans, many of whom I may never see again. Nothing in life comes alone; when you open your door to one thing, you spread it wide to a world of unintended, unexpected consequences. One downside to a month-long trip of reconnection is the awareness, the repeated, painful awareness, that everything ends. The arriving is sweet, the staying divine, but there is, too, always the leaving. Without it, the joy would have no meaning; alongside it, the joy can never be complete.

After a stroll through botanical gardens, we were off again, driving in shifts through dark Virginia and a foggy D.C. We slept for a few hours in the parking lot (and, later, the well-appointed youth room) of the Exton Community Baptist Church, before joining Bweinh!’s own Rev. Mike Jordan and his church to worship. You can actually listen to that sermon right here. Running on three hours of sleep, I didn\’t doze off once.

Mike had family and a then-very pregnant wife to attend to, so soon we were on Staten Island, introducing John to the wonders of White Castle — and then my brothers were off, heading home, leaving me to complete the next portions of my trip alone: New York City, California, New Mexico. The long drives had ended, but the long flights were dead ahead.

PART FIVE:
I’ve never really cared much about symbolism. I’ve never found it very important. I hated “awareness days” in high school, enough to hang ironic posters in the halls to draw attention to deadlier, but less trendy, diseases. I remember complaining, as a child, about a news story honoring teenagers who went without food for a day to better identify with the hungry. They seemed so proud of themselves, but what good did it do anyone? Why didn’t they spend that day EATING WITH the hungry, rather than joining them in their lack?

But I have grown to understand that there are genuine benefits to symbolic gestures — like identification. This is something I never grasped as a child, growing up with leaders, teachers, coaches, and classmates who all looked like me, in a world run by my cultural and religious forebears. When everybody already resembles you, you don’t always grasp the desire to see yourself in symbols or politicians.

I am perfectly happy being different now, not only because of my personality or my loving home, but because in many ways I never chose, I already fit into my particular world. There are plenty of things I need to understand about those who don’t.

All this ran through my mind as Josh and I stepped onto a basketball court in Stapleton, N.Y., inner-city Staten Island. We were the only white people on the court. We were the only white people on the street. And we were, from the reaction of many around us, the only white people in the world. I looked to the side of the lane, and couldn’t help but laugh when I saw what lay there: two stomped crackers, smeared and crushed into the ground. Some metaphors are just too obvious to invent.

We weren’t in sufficient shape to play on the other court, so after we chased away the hordes of curious preadolescents, we took to running full-court with the JV squad: the slightly less athletic, slightly younger, slightly less motivated players from the neighborhood. We won the games, mostly because we really hate to lose, but the attention we drew focused more on what we represented than our status as teammates or opponents. When Josh stole the ball, when I blocked it, the crowd, including the recent losers from the main court, would erupt in hooting derision toward whatever player had been so unfortunate.

We were the Other, all the more so because this wasn’t even Josh’s usual court; no one knew us. In a very small way, I better understood, I grasped more powerfully, what it must be like outside my skin and culture. This might be the single most important benefit to diversity as a value: real empathy requires more than just knowledge. It takes feeling. Identification.

A few days before my trip, I played beach volleyball with an Indian friend. All the other players were Indian, some even speaking Hindi, and almost all of them were significantly better than I was. I felt, on a small scale, the discomfort of exclusion, the pressure to measure up, and the burden of being, in some odd but tangible way, alone.

And I can’t help thinking it was just the type of awareness I needed.

PART SIX:
Josh delivered me to the Staten Island ferry terminal deep in the middle of the night. I walked up the stairs through a deserted station to the waiting area, where my two bags were reasonably sniff-searched by a friendly officer and his taciturn dog. The boat itself was near-empty, containing the usual suspects: sleeping homeless men bound down for the next in a series of 30-minute naps; a few Type A white collars, off to put an early chokehold on the workday; small groups of nocturnal young men in gold chains.

I remember the exceptions very well. A 40-something black woman comforting two young children. The occasional solitary young woman, with omnipresent iPod and steely, self-reliant New York eyes. The unkempt man who screamed nonsense at the top of his lungs: like many of us, very angry about something he couldn’t quite express.

On my quarter-mile walk to the subway station, I slung my carry-on around my neck and struggled to smoothly heft my suitcase. Rolling bags were not designed for those of two-meter height. Lumbering down the sidewalk, I was startled by a horn from the street. Ten feet away, a cab had stopped in the middle of the road. Its driver looked at me expectantly, eyes and mouth open wide, gesturing to the back seat like a taxicab Messiah. “Behold! Thy salvation cometh!”

I let him down as gently as I could and descended into the bowels of the city to catch the 4 train north. The crisp, cool harbor air quickly gave way to the humid, sinister dankness of the underground. I took out my voice recorder to both capture and fight off the eerie noir. I felt safe because the setting was so impossibly clichÃ©d. True evil hides.

I switched to the JFK-bound A, boarding a car containing three other passengers, which seemed perfect. No large drunken groups, no danger from solitude. You may not always be able to count on help, but some chance beats none. If I’d been in the car with that hammerer, the story would have ended differently, one way or another. All it takes sometimes is one person who acts.

But if your troubles are more pedestrian, you may not want me in your car. We neared JFK and my closest neighbor was an elderly Chinese woman clutching a small suitcase. Both of us had been sleeping, but she had not awakened. I didn’t know if there was another JFK stop, or if she was headed elsewhere, or if she spoke English, or (God forbid) if she had died — so I took the cowardly middle ground, making as much noise as I possibly could without touching her. I slammed my bags, I cleared my throat, I even faked a sneeze. Nothing.

I got off alone. I watched the subway slide down the tracks; it still held the woman, who, still, held her suitcase. The sun was rising, and before the workday ended, I would be in California. I hope she got where she was meant to be.

PART SEVEN:
A pleasant woman from American Airlines stopped me as I handed her my boarding pass. “You won’t be very comfortable in this seat. Are you okay with moving to an exit row?” You bet I was, all six and a half feet of me! A sign of smooth travel ahead, I hoped, and I enjoyed the extra legroom all the way to Dallas, where I landed to a voicemail from Josh Tate — who told me he and his family had just left the house, and might be a little late picking me up.

But I wasn’t supposed to land for another six hours.

I called back and got his wife, who couldn’t stop laughing once we figured out that they had read the time of my East Coast departure as the time of my West Coast arrival. They would simply make a day of it in Palm Springs; it was a welcome opportunity to come down the mountain and enjoy civilization.

While they waited in the desert heat, I took off from Dallas strapped into a over-the-wing window seat, behind a fully reclined snorer, beside two of the sort of teenage girls who buy three glossy fashion magazines, then find something to loudly discuss on every perfume-scented page. It felt right somehow when the plane started shaking. I was probably shaking too.

Turned out some of those important flying-type parts weren’t working quite the way they should, so almost two hours into the flight, the pilot announced that although he could still fly the plane just fine for the time being, it might be best for everyone if we landed early, you know, while we still had the choice. But not in Palm Springs (we were almost halfway there), and not in Albuquerque (just a slight diversion north). Back in Dallas. Meanwhile, the girl next to me took out a preschool “Fun Book” and a Ziploc bag full of crayons, and proceeded to meticulously color a smiling fish. I began to seriously wonder if I was still asleep on the subway.

We waited for the plane to be “repaired,” but when I heard the gate agent give out the toll-free reservation change number, I dialed immediately. A wise move, as I beat the loudspeaker announcement by enough time to get my choice of California flights — none of which, I quickly learned, were headed to Palm Springs. LAX it was, ultimately making the Tates’ journey both ill-timed and unnecessary.

My lucky luggage, on the other hand, was already on its way to Palm Springs; no one was certain, but chances were good that it managed to sneak aboard a flight with no empty seats, but plenty of room in the cargo hold. I asked around, but I did not have the same option.

I was nearly picked up in Los Angeles by Lisa and the Barrs, who were in the neighborhood, but lacked a sixth seatbelt. It was probably for the best — my skill at meeting people is hard to understate, even on days when my plane doesn’t almost crash. And so instead I met the longsuffering Josh at the airport and dined with him at In-N-Out; after a 2-hour drive to collect my wayward luggage (temperature: 99) and a 1-hour drive back up the mountain (temperature: 72), the day was finally, mercifully, done.

PART EIGHT:
To me, California has always existed in a sort of hazy myth. Crowded, temperate, and seismic; home of heroic, half-remembered President Reagan; it was as far removed from my marooned and icy New York youth as ancient Ur.

As a boy, I spent hours planning cross-country road trips, following the example of my father, who crossed the continent at 18 and has the unpaid San Francisco parking ticket to prove it (although, he quickly reminds me, it wasn’t his car). Not many years later, the state was home to my first requited crush, a kind girl from Napa who, it turned out, was by far my wiser. And after my college graduation, my first plane ride was there, courtesy of my grandmother, who gave me a week out West with several close friends, where we climbed Tahquitz and strung up Chinese lanterns in preparation for a wedding.

Seven years later, those not-so-newlyweds had three children, and visiting their home would not only allow me to see them all and return to the California of lore, but also to meet the only Bweinh!tributor I did not yet personally know — the delightfully rational Kaitlin. All told, easily sufficient motivation to weather a return itinerary that would wing me from LA to New York to Phoenix in just under 36 hours.

Have you ever returned to a place you loved, only to find that the utopian glow of nostalgia had made it only a modest imitation of the splendor you remembered?

Me too. But this wasn’t like that at all.

No, instead, returning was all the more wonderful. I had the autonomy to do whatever I liked (including a few trips to a sturdy swing set, as well as buying and devouring a surprisingly readable translation of Don Quixote) and repeated opportunities to help my hosts, which I particularly welcomed, since my entire July had begun to feel like one unending impingement on the kindness of others. I even had the good fortune to witness a late-night thunderstorm, rumbling down from the mountains in a pyrotechnic volley.

As always, the people were the highlight, full of grace and good humor whether we were slinging trash bags into the dump or playing games around a kitchen table. I have never yet regretted a day spent with a Tate (that winter evening we slept on the floor of the unheated lakehouse is another story), Lisa and I defied predictions of a heated melee, and Kaitlin proved even more engaging than her well-crafted (if sadly rare, on these pages) prose. Watching the four sisters interact was eerily like being with my three brothers, with only slightly more talk about fashion.

Before I flew out Sunday evening, the Tates took me to Sarah’s childhood home, where her mother treated us to a delicious dinner, then watched the kids while we headed to the beach. We walked the Santa Monica Pier, past the carousels to the very end, where the brisk sea breeze whistled through the lines of the men and boys fishing for halibut off the side.

And as the sun set into the endless blue Pacific, I ran through the sand and leapt into the crashing surf, plunging beneath the warm ocean, no longer just a legend. A few hours later, as I climbed aboard the plane back to my homeland, I could feel in my brow, taste on my lips, the salty dross the sea had left behind.

I taste it still. I will feel it again.

PART NINE:
Most airports are on the outskirts of large cities, surrounded by squat tracts of industrial zoning, often abutting the discolored shores of the local lake or ocean. Flying into Ithaca was a revelation. Gliding down amid the undulating hills and rolling, cow-choked pastures, all I could see were forests and farmhouses, until suddenly, the trees opened up on a tiny stretch of asphalt: this traveler’s version of the Great Valley, with marginally fewer pterodactyls.

Tom’s car had died shortly before our trip began, and so he picked me up in mine, the ever-reliable Purpletrator. From the tiny airport, we went to his laboratory, where I donned a lab coat and posed for several pictures holding beakers, pouring liquids, and doing several other things I am manifestly unqualified for. He left me at his apartment, where I showered and laundered; once his neighbor cut off his wireless signal, I gladly succumbed to the call of the nap.

For there wouldn’t be much time to sleep. 25-cent wings were on the agenda, followed by Monday trivia at a downtown bar. When I was planning my flights, I chose Ithaca over Rochester solely for the chance to join Tom and his team. Although we fell oh-so-short of victory, my trip was not totally in vain — my evening in Ithaca led, in part, to the flowering of Tom’s nascent relationship with his triviamate. Had I not met her that night, chances are very good that I would not have given insistent pro-Lindsey advice a month down the road. The evening was also memorable for an odd phone call that found me wandering around the downtown Commons, holding my phone at arm’s length while a friend spent five solid minutes laughing at me.

It had turned to Tuesday when I drove up to Rochester, Tom asleep in the passenger seat. He then drove right back to Ithaca while I packed my suitcase to go back west — this time New Mexico, via Phoenix.

Will you mind if I don’t tell you about my week there?

Were I disciplined enough to have written all this in August, I would have recounted in detail the scenic drives, hidden lakes, pleasant dinners — even the herd of mighty elk that thundered across the mountain pass in front of us. But instead it is October: three months since that week with Chloe; six weeks since we broke up. What can I say about the trip now? I had a lovely time. She and her family are wonderful people.

As time passes, actions and feelings piling up in its wake, our memories change in a way we cannot control. The past is seen only through the lens of the inevitable present. A delightful Christmas morning is tinged with sorrow after a sudden death, the valleys of a roller-coaster year are forgotten under the ether of nostalgia. What actually happened is not as important as how it is remembered, because only the second can ever change. Only the second makes a difference now.

The happiest moments, the perfect times, the days and nights you are surest of your fate and future: the joy they bring, though great, is never eternal, or immutable. And so the challenge of life is to risk the pain, to accept our transience and uncertainty, yet still choose to live — and love — with the abandon of the One who not only laid down His life for His friends, but commanded us to do the same.

PART TEN:

Intent and Purpose of the Rules: The Game
Basketball is played by two teams of five players each. The purpose of each team is to throw the ball into its own basket and to prevent the other team from scoring.

By the time I made it to the basketball camp that would serve as the final stop on my four-week sojourn, it was already mid-Thursday. It was the first time in four years or so that I hadn’t been around for the whole week, and I immediately noticed a problem: the college-age coaches were officiating.

I didn’t care that they weren’t very good, or that they were lazy. The problem was that by starting the week responsible for officiating, they had gotten the idea that they knew what they were doing. And what’s more dangerous than people who think they know what they’re doing?

Rule 2, Section 7: Officials’ General Duties
The officials shall conduct the game in accordance with the rules.

High school basketball is like prison. Lots of rules to follow, big guys tend to dominate — and everyone’s innocent. Just ask them.

Officiating is a good job for me. I love justice, I hate mistakes, and I have a thorough confidence in my judgment. Most importantly for my mental health, if you don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t care what you think.

Officials are never popular. When you notice an official, you’re probably disagreeing with him or her. And when you disagree, you’re probably wrong. Not always — I certainly make mistakes — but probably. See, I studied the rules for three months, scored 98 on the test when the average fan would be lucky to break 50, and am never more than a few feet away from the play. I know what I’m talking about, and I don’t want to hear you loudly display your ignorance — especially when I’m volunteering at a church camp.

And so I ate alone.

Rule 4, Section 9, Article 1: Boundary Lines
Boundary lines of the court consist of end lines and sidelines.

Friday night brought more complications. Awakened by a hallway ruckus, I opened the door and leapt out to grab . . . my sister, running in formation through the guys’ dorm at the strict Bible school she hoped to attend in a month. I ordered the ladies to leave, only to be yelled at in the manner which had quickly become the norm from some coaches. I was not at my best and aptly, if inappropriately, returned fire.

I soon learned that the worst on-court offender (a tattooed, tank-topped ex-jock I’ll call “the Diva” for his foot-stomping tantrums) had actually helped incite the girls’ invasion. Back in my room, I heard the guys next door recount how the “doofy” ref had “flipped out” on the girls before they heroically told him off. At least they had the excuse of youth. Where were the adults? Who were the adults?

Rule 10, Section 4, Article 1: Bench Technical
Bench personnel shall not commit an unsporting foul.
This includes, but is not limited to, acts or conduct such as disrespectfully addressing an official . . .

The championship game was Saturday, and it pit the Diva’s team, undefeated but with a great player missing, against a team with only one loss. As the game stayed tight down the stretch, tensions rose. I called a foul against the Diva’s team and awarded two free throws.

Suddenly there he was, storming down the sideline, foaming at the mouth, demanding an audience. I briefly listened to him rant, but then told him he couldn’t do it again unless he wanted a technical. The next time he wanted to talk to me, he would have to call time out.

Rule 4, Section 7, Article 2(a): Charging
A player who is moving with the ball is required to stop or change direction to avoid contact if a defensive player has obtained a legal guarding position in his/her path.

After a timing error was corrected in the Diva’s favor, allowing his team to force overtime, his opponents took the lead. His point guard brought the ball down the right side of the court with his head down and plowed through an opponent who had slid into position in front of him.

Charging.

The Diva went ballistic. He called time out, then followed me out on the court to argue. He complained to the camp director (my co-official) that the call had not been mine to make, then commenced attacking my integrity, at one point actually calling me a liar. I am not known for extraordinary restraint. Only respect for the director and the players on the Diva’s team kept me from issuing a technical foul.

Rule 5, Section 3: Winning Team
The winning team is the one which has accumulated the greater number of points when the game ends.

The game came down to the last play — the Diva’s squad down two with seven seconds to go. One of his best players brought the ball down the floor, drove down the right side of the lane, and leaped into traffic in an attempt to draw a foul as he shot. He was not fouled. He missed the shot.

The teams shook hands and I thanked the coaches. The Diva scoffed at me. “You screwed us,” he told me.

Turning his back, he called out to the director: “You should have known better than to get a lawyer as a ref. Thanks a lot.” I sat through the awards ceremony, overlooked by the directors in the “Thank you” portion of the remarks, then loaded my car for the ride home. My vacation was clearly over.

But I was glad. It was time to return to reality, with all its disappointments, disillusionments, misunderstandings, and monotonies. Life is not lived in a series of joyous reunions, stays so brief that the surface remains blissfully unbroken. It’s in the 2 a.m. screaming match; it’s in the response to passionate, competitive anger; it’s in the constant reminders that we were not made to be fulfilled on this earth.

And I obviously had — have — much more yet to learn.

Four Weeks (Part Ten)

11/18/2008, 1:30 pm -- by Steve | 2 Comments

Read the saga in parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Or read the complete, uninterrupted series here.

Rule 2, Section 7: Officials’ General Duties
The officials shall conduct the game in accordance with the rules.

High school basketball is like prison. Lots of rules to follow, big guys tend to dominate — and everyone’s innocent. Just ask them.

And so I ate alone.

Rule 4, Section 9, Article 1: Boundary Lines
Boundary lines of the court consist of end lines and sidelines.

Charging.

Rule 5, Section 3: Winning Team
The winning team is the one which has accumulated the greater number of points when the game ends.

The teams shook hands and I thanked the coaches. The Diva scoffed at me. “You screwed us,” he told me.

And I obviously had — have — much more yet to learn.

Today’s Economic Forecast

11/10/2008, 12:00 pm -- by David | 1 Comment

More bad news out of the financial sector today, as Goldman Sachs reported that although orders of durable goods were up 3% over the last quarter, those orders, due to a filing error, were placed in a back room under a bag containing Pork Belly Futures — ruining the orders and causing a downturn in the short-term manufacturing market.

This news was especially troubling on the heels of an announcement that Sweet Light Crude Oil had risen $8.75 per barrel to close at $182.50 for spring delivery. Medium, Dark and Extra-Roast Sweet Crude have fallen in late trading today while Mocha Latte No-Foam Skinny-Boy Crude remained steady at $167 per barrel.

In other Wall Street news, Fed chairman Ben Bernanke found himself in an uncomfortable position today, when he announced another Â¼ point drop in the Fed’s major interest rate today, only to have reporters point out that the rate was at 3.25% in February and has been cut a total of 8.75 points since. An embarrassed Bernanke admitted that since the rate is used to determine the interest banks charge each other, and no bank is currently “stupid enough” to loan money to another bank, the rate is “at best, a theoretical exercise.”

When pressed to identify the actual status of the rate, Bernanke said, in effect, that since the average person in America has no idea what the heck happens on Wall Street, he simply makes sporadic announcements in the hope that they will somehow stimulate the economy.

Finally, Alan Greenspan appeared before Congress today and admitted that his policies over the past two decades were fatally flawed in ways that he is just now realizing.

“We thought that banks would police themselves when it came to subprime lending practices,” Greenspan said. “We never dreamed they would bow to federal regulations that required them to make bad loans, in bad neighborhoods, to people with no visible means to repay the debts.”

When asked about the wisdom of assuming that people could buy a house with no money down and no regular paycheck, then somehow pay the money back in a timely fashion, he quoted a line from the classic sitcom WKRP in Cincinnati: “As God is my witness — I thought turkeys could fly!”

I Five The Sandbox

11/7/2008, 1:50 pm -- by Steve | No Comments

Well, this is interesting. The history of gay marriage in California has been a contest of constant one-upsmanship, like that playground ‘game’ where you start by saying “I one the sandbox,” and proceed onward in an attempt to get your playmate to admit that he or she “eight the sandbox.”

You ate the sandbox?? Ewww! Why would you ever do that?!

This game started in 2000, when the voters of California voted by a 62-38 margin to codify “the union of a man and a woman” as the only valid form of marriage in the state. It took a few years, but soon enough, the state legislature took up the challenge, passing a bill in 2005 to legalize same-sex marriage. Ah, but beside the see-saw stood new Gov. Schwarzenegger. Ahnuuld vetoed the bill, calling it either unconstitutional or redundant, depending on how the courts eventually viewed the original vote.

The next stop was the intermediate court in California, which reversed a trial court ruling to find that the ban on gay marriage was non-discriminatory and based on a legitimate state interest. Now back to the legislature, which passed their bill yet again — and yet again found it blocked by the Governator, who said he wanted to know how the California Supreme Court felt on the issue. And they hopped onto the merry-go-round this past May, in a 4-3 ruling that constituted a breathtakingly broad expansion of precedent: finding sexual orientation to be a protected class like race and gender and subjecting any classification on its basis to “strict scrutiny.” These guys play for keeps!

But given the permissive nature of the California ballot, no one thought the game was over — and sure enough, the same tide that swept Obama into office this week also resulted in the narrow passage of a state constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage, as nearly 70% of blacks voted “yes” on Prop. 8. The voters spoke, and you could see the words formed clearly on their lips: “We seven the sandbox.” Game, set, match?

Not quite. Now comes word of future court challenges, on the ground that the constitutional change might be best termed a “revision,” which would require a two-thirds vote in the legislature before a majority vote by Californians. What Carpenter writes makes sense: given that the CA Supreme Court has already held that the right to marry is a fundamental right not to be denied on the basis of the suspect class of sexual orientation, they may well take “the importance of the right declared and the suspect nature of the discrimination into account,” and overturn (yet again) the will of the people through judicial fiat.

I’m hardly rabid on this issue, but I found the court’s decision unreasonable. And since California law provides for constitutional amendments through direct election, the people ought to have some say in the matter when they think the judges screwed it up. The only question is whether California’s highest court will submit to the people — eat the sandbox, if you will — or just conjure up a new integer ‘twixt seven and eight.

Let Freedom Ring!

11/6/2008, 9:30 am -- by David | No Comments

“I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ”˜We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.\’ ”
Martin Luther King, Jr.

Whatever Barack Obama was on Monday, today he is my president. I know that many of us — and by “us,” I mean conservatives and Republicans — watched the results of the election with a sense of dread, borne either by the fear of what a liberal president might do to the “right to life” cause, or the terrifying shadows of campaign rhetoric that somehow Obama will turn out to be a Muslim extremist or an agent for socialist change in America. But I think America is bigger than the sum of all those fears, real and imagined.

We must not let our short-term political disappointments cloud our senses and rob us of what should be a time of great rejoicing. I read through the text of King’s “Dream” speech this morning, and I have to say it gave me cold chills. In a way, it set my heart rejoicing. He noted that he had been asked, “When will you (the devotees of civil rights) be satisfied?” His answer was to quote the book of Amos: when “justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.”

It reminded me of Lincoln’s second inaugural address, when he wondered aloud if the horrible war they were fighting was God\’s judgment on slavery, and noted: “Fondly do we hope — fervently do we pray — that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue, until all the wealth piled by the bondsman’s 250 years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said 3000 years ago, so still it must be said: “the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.”

I cannot help but rejoice at the setting to rights of this nation’s past history of injustice. Perhaps it is because I live in the South, where the wound still aches in the sneers and smart remarks of my fellow white companions. Perhaps it is because I still remember the day I used the “N-word” — a word I had heard from my father many times — on the lone black girl at State Street School in Watertown, NY.

I remember how she followed me all over the school yard, smoldering anger in her eyes as I ran away. She never caught me, but the janitor, Mr. Allen, did. And when he found out what I had said, he slammed me against the wall and told me to never use that word again.

He was a white man. It was the first time I had ever seen a white man stand up for a terrified and helpless black child. It was the first time I saw that what I was learning at home from my father might not be right.

I rejoice that hopefully today 250 years of slavery is answered — every lash, every drop of blood — and that indeed “justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.”

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