Dear _______ ,

Hi! Some of you are my family, some of you know me from church, and some of you are friends of my parents, whom I assume must have some money. Don\’t you just love the Northeast this time of year? Or whatever part of the country you might live in? I just love it when the snow melts and the growing grass seems to scream, “Time for a short-term mission trip!”

That\’s right — while our youth group leader isn\’t sure yet where he feels “led” to take the youth group on our annual summer mission trip to any non-American place that\’ll have us, we\’ve been told to raise $3000 anyway. So I\’m writing you! Won\’t you please donate $100 so I can spend a day traveling to Honduras or somewhere, a day to recover from jet lag, four days to hammer away on a roof or something, another day to sight-see, and then a day flying home?

I\’ll take pictures!

While I am already knee-deep in college planning and other social trappings that will ensure a life lived here in the States, I think it best not to invest myself completely in a summer job that will expose me (and the Gospel) to my unbelieving contemporaries. Instead, I want to spend a week or two struggling with the language somewhere visually stunning and, quite possibly, way more Christian than my own country! Viva wherever!

I\’ll be going with 20-25 other young people and in addition to our iPods, we’ll also be taking our petty dramas and romances. Yeah, Shannon is going but she\’s being really weird lately. We, like, never play foosball anymore on Wednesday nights. I think Tyler may have told her how I kissed Esther. OMG! Hopefully we can work it out over a pile of rubbish.

Look, it\’s just $100, but it’ll look like a million bucks on a college application. So whaddya say?

What’s that? I live mere miles from inner cities choked with poverty and crime, places where Satan has laid easy claim? I have friends in school who don\’t even know I\’m a Christian? (My art teacher does — she goes to my church!) My understanding of theological matters is at best elementary, while my concept of missions will soon be forever shaped by gross excess and lack of commitment, in an appallingly poor nation we will leave to flap in the wind? And — worst of all — I only stand to (maybe) accomplish temporary physical gain, while learning to accept that as reasonable proxy for the eternal and spiritual?

Well… How ’bout $50 then?

My first question when I received this assignment was how exactly we were defining short-term mission trips. Since Job was involved, I should have known the answer would be “narrowly and cynically.”

So, if the question is whether I think it’s a good idea to take weeklong trips, masquerading as vacations, to areas so distant as to be a financial burden, by large groups of people with questionable spiritual maturity, then I guess not. But what we’re looking at here is an error in execution, not a wholesale indictment of short-term missions.

Let me start by conceding that I don’t believe ministry is ideally accomplished in the short term, that it takes commitment and often immersion to make real Gospel connections. But many people have ministries almost entirely defined by the short term, including the apostle Paul, and — in a way — Job’s own pope-whuppin’ hero, Billy Graham. One man plants, another waters, you know the drill.

And who said a missions trip has to be to the other side of the world? Job correctly recognizes that there are fields to be harvested right in our backyard, and yet he still frames this debate in caricature. Having personally led student-based mission teams all over the northeast United States, I can assure you that not every effort fits that mold.

Ultimately, I think short-term missions should have a few goals in mind. Energizing existing ministries with extra manpower and new perspective is obvious. So is the idea of encouraging both the visiting team and the host church, by shrinking the world and expanding the body of believers.

But what is also okay is to concede that sometimes the visitors will be the ones most blessed and convicted, challenged to go back boldly to the need at home, while not forgetting the world of need they’ve witnessed firsthand.

You might even be able to get that all done in a week.

What did you do with your spring break?

The Flyers started their postseason with a loss this year, but it was this game, and the game that followed, that convinced me they had a legitimate shot at winning Lord Stanley\’s Cup this year.

In the opening game they lost 5-4 at Washington, before a sellout crowd that could only be called “manic.” They were so pumped! Alex Ovechkin had almost singlehandedly led them through a streak of 11 games without a loss to win the Southeast Division. He had also pretty much clinched the season MVP award, by scoring 65 goals and lifting his team into the playoffs. Winning game one was inevitable for the Caps.

So why was I so sure Philly would win the series and have a shot at winning it all? Because, while weathering the first game storm, they still scored four times — and each goal was effortless. Washington scored five goals in a frantic pace they could never sustain, but the Flyers sat back, played patient hockey, and netted four effortless goals.

It takes three things to win the Stanley Cup — solid defense, opportunistic offense and hot goaltending. The Flyers show all three.

Solid defense — The Flyers have a deep defensive core with a good mix of young guys and hardy veterans. Hatcher, Modry and Timonen are three solid veterans, while Coburn, Jones and Kukkonen are three young guys with size and speed. And the entire team is playing with a patience that dictates defense first, then offense.

Opportunistic offense: Solid defense produces turnovers, and a turnover in the hands of a sniper winds up in the back of the net. The Devils made a living, and won a couple Cups, with a lineup that featured no superstars but snipers on every line. The Flyers’ top seven forwards averaged nearly 28 goals each this year. That’s the kind of depth a team needs to take advantage of every opportunity to score, and the Flyers have it. So far, in this series, they have scored 16 goals from 8 different players, and they have done it effortlessly. It’s sustainable.

Hot goaltending: Marty Biron gave up five goals in game one, so you might question calling that hot goaltending — but let me explain. That loss was, as I said, inevitable. If the Flyers put ten men on the ice, it would not have kept the Capitals from doing whatever it took to win. Strike it from the record.

But Biron ended the season by shutting out Pittsburgh and New Jersey, the two best teams in the Atlantic Division. He came back in game 2 in Washington and pitched another shutout. His last six games, including that five-goal game, give him a GAA of 1.83 and a .933 save percentage with three shutouts. I call that hot goaltending!

Hello Lord Stanley!

As an amateur Chaotician and part-time Historian, I bring good tidings of great joy. The curse of William Penn will be lifted this spring, and the Broad Street Bullies shall win the Stanley Cup.

For those of you who aren’t familiar, William Penn founded the original British colony of Pennsylvania, or “Penn’s Woods.” Residing atop Philadelphia’s City Hall is a statue of Mr. Penn, complete with goofy colonial hat and shoe buckles. For years and years, the city maintained a gentlemen’s agreement (strictly enforced by the city planner) that no building in the City of Philadelphia would exceed the statue’s prominence of 548 feet.

The ’70s and ’80s saw a veritable hotbed of sporting-related successes in Philadelphia. Championships were won by the Flyers in ’74 and ’75 (with Stanley Cup Finals appearances in ’76, ’80, and ’85); the Phillies won the World Series in ’80 and the NL pennant in ’83; the Eagles won the ’81 NFC championship; and even the 76ers won the NBA Championship in ’83, making the finals in ’77, ’80, and ’82. Things were looking good in the City of Brotherly Love.

But then, disaster struck. Developers broke ground on One Liberty Place, the first skyscraper slated to supersede the statue in height. Since construction of the 945-foot behemoth began in 1985, Philadelphia has not seen a championship in baseball, football, basketball, hockey, college basketball — or (worst of all) even horse racing’s Triple Crown.

But today, things are changing. Eclipsing even the shadow of One Liberty Place is the new Comcast Center, the tallest building in all of Pennsylvania. How will this change the sporting atmosphere of Philadelphia?

Two reasons:
1. Comcast owns the Flyers and the 76ers.
2. Attached to the tallest beam on the skyscraper is a statue of William Penn.

From his new perch, high atop the Comcast Center, ol’ Billy Penn can finally stand at ease as the tallest man in his woods, lifting his curse with him.

Go Flyers and God bless America!

The context of this clash was whether it would be wise for a Christian college to build a dorm that would house both men and women. I think it would be both foolish and unnecessary.

I strive, in all areas, for a realistic philosophy, based on facts and data. History tells me it is impossible for sinful humanity to eradicate poverty. Obvious physical and emotional differences between the sexes illustrate why (in general) I prefer my firefighters male and my schoolteachers female. I would be a terrible painter, so rather than fighting for a Pyrrhic victory in the name of fairness, I seek the best realistic outcome.

To fight poverty, that means capitalism — using greed to increase wealth for all. In the workplace, that means a system where anyone can work a job, but we don’t lower standards to achieve arbitrary quotas. And when it comes to young adults, it means we consider all the consequences of having them (not just ones on close-knit ministry teams) sleep in close proximity. Without some tremendous benefit, the simple biology of the matter rules it out instantly. I don’t see that benefit.

Erin argues that separating genders “warps the ideals” each holds about the other. That might be true — MIGHT — if we were returning to the days of separate classes and segregated chapel services. But we’re talking about separate sleeping areas — places where men can be fools without irritating women, and where women can be fools without feeling judged by men. We’re talking about a system that makes it easy to see who belongs in a dorm, making sexual assault far more difficult.

Besides, if anything warps gender ideals, it’s co-ed dorms. At Syracuse, they corroded and profaned relationships, breeding misbehavior, distracting from studies, and (from all accounts) eliminating romance. They were a buffet of loveless hookups and debauchery. In this era where so much of our lives are open to the world, there is still something powerful to be said for mystery — for boundaries. Houghton is not Syracuse, but co-ed dorms still do not reflect real life, because they are not much like reality. They are a contrived environment vastly unlike any other in the world, and if you think they’ll help you learn about men, I expect you’ll learn the wrong things.

Living with the opposite sex is not the same as knowing them. I learned about women by growing up with a mother and sisters, and by meeting women outside my home. I don’t understand how seeing female classmates brushing their teeth in pajamas would have improved our interaction — or much of anything, really… At least anything worth improving.

As for “real life,” the point of college is to educate people and prepare them for careers. Thus, it need not reflect “real life” in any significant way; in fact, it’s easier to learn when you don’t have to work for a living at the same time. And so students choose their own schedules; sleep in with few consequences; queue up at certain times to be fed by others; and deal with virtually none of the hassles of independent life. American colleges give students the illusion of maturity while protecting them from real responsibility. Many students never even connect the experience of college with its rapidly rising costs, thanks to loans and parents.

Yet, perversely, when college students speak of being treated as adults, they always want more of the freedom and none of the responsibility. If a college truly wished to prepare students for real life, it would not make it easier for them to act — it would make them more immediately responsible for the consequences of their actions. That is reality.

So not every decision a college makes is based on whether it trusts its students. Some things are just bad ideas. Even for good people.

I agree with what Steve says about college students crying out for “real life” and actually meaning more freedom with less (meaning almost never an equal amount of) responsibility.

Just as much as any other college student, I certainly have wanted to be treated more like an adult and then, when it happens, been a bit overwhelmed by all that it entails. Where I think that I differ is in my idea that although perhaps the modern Christian college is not intended to reflect real life, this can in no way be a positive thing.

Yes, there should be an element of the monastic, but especially at small Christian colleges, that element can very easily be taken and shoved down the throats of students who either do not understand it, do not understand why it is in place, or will continue to act out despite any actions taken to keep them in a study-focused “good student mode.”

Keeping women in one dorm and men in the other warps the ideals that either gender has of each other. Maybe I’m just exaggerating, or my experience has been strange, but this I have seen: when all women live together in one place, and are always together, warped expectations that emerge from that bunch as regards how men act on a day-to-day basis.

I’ve lived in close proximity to unrelated men for extended lengths of time, and I can honestly say that every time, I came away either thinking about, or beginning to understand, some of the differences between the sexes — and appreciating them! This you can’t get from across campus… not really.

As for mystery eliciting romance – if there’s one thing that a lot of (especially conservative) Christian youth need, it’s a deromanticizing of the college experience. I’m not saying that people shouldn’t date, but often that mystery about the opposite sex, when coupled with traditional expectations and parental pressures to get married (so common at Christian colleges…and most colleges, really) translates into a hyper-romanticized experience, which can be all the more disappointing for those who don’t themselves get a ring by spring. Does the sentiment, “God told me that you’re the one I’m supposed to marry!” disturb anyone at all?

I’m not saying that I didn’t appreciate having nights where I could walk from the shower room to my room without having to worry about a guy somewhere (and mutual embarassment). I’m not pretending that in many schools (the one where my best friend attends, Central Michigan, is a prime example) that do have co-ed dorms have seen a corroding of the male-female relationship, or distraction.

But what I am saying is that when the administration tells the student body just how deeply they care for us and believe in our ability to make choices… then go on to delineate, point by point, all of the regulations set in place to keep us dependent, immature, and well-behaved, I get frustrated.

I don’t think that, had South Hall been co-ed by wing as was possible when it was built, Houghton would have seen a major decay in the behavior of its students. To tell someone that they are mature and able and adult, but then not give them the freedom to prove that, is the same as saying that you don’t trust them, and although co-ed dorms would not solve that problem, it would certainly give that freedom.

Those who dislike basketball need to meet my wife. I\’m 6\’3” and she\’s 5\’3”. I\’m stocky and she\’s, well, slight. (At least she was before she was pregnant, but that is not the point of this story nor is it particularly wise to say.)

When pressed to choose, most assume that I was the high school basketball player in our home. After all, I\’m a fair shooter and a middling rebounder. But I was not the high school varsity player ”” she was.

This is because basketball is the most egalitarian game one can play. A $10 basketball and a neighborhood court, YMCA, or high school gym, and you can play. No bats, no helmets, no pads.

There are no height requirements; there are advantages to being small and quick, and advantages to being a giant though slow afoot. There are advantages to being able to shoot 30 feet from the basket, and advantages to banging around under the hoop.

Basketball also can serve as a language when words will not do. I spent seven summers working as a camp counselor at a local YMCA in a small, economically depressed city near my home. Though my charges were near-universally of a different color from me, though we spoke differently and had different heroes and role models, basketball was a way I could communicate with them. Whether it was a standing challenge to beat me in H-O-R-S-E or running five-on-five with local high school kids, it was a way to fit in, a way for my ideas and being to be taken seriously, a way to break down barriers between us.

Perhaps basketball could even help President Bush\’s much-maligned foreign policy. A game of 21 with Kim Jong Il? Around the World with Kofi Annan? One-on-one with Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper ”” if we win, they have to take North Dakota; if they win, we have to take Manitoba?

The possibilities are endless ”” thanks to basketball.

A sporting event is a contest, a pitting of self against other, in which there can only be one champion. The players are combatants, playing through pain, injury, and weather to bring the battle to a close. But not so basketball. No, organized basketball is most often played indoors, protecting its mollycoddled players from the danger of sun, rain and wind. A polished wooden floor and sterile fluorescent lighting lend a bleak aura to the basketball landscape.

The Mayans in pre-European America had a similar sport. But their hoop was vertical, their court was outdoors and there was no use of the hands. Any child can toss a ball through a hoop with their opposable thumbs, but try doing so with a bounce off a hip. Combine that with the imposing physical nature of basketball’s ideological predecessor and you have a sport worth playing!

In contrast, modern basketball players are kept apart throughout the “struggle,” the least physical contact resulting in a foul. They trot up and down the court like so many braided-maned polo ponies, either bouncing the ball against the ground while they prance or limply slapping at it in an attempt to jar it from another’s control. The observed proper technique for these slaps leaves the wrist hanging as limply as the decorative nylon netting that hangs, streamer-like, from hoops at either end of the court.

These aforementioned hoops separate basketball from true sports of the people. Without the resources to find a tall pole with an attached hoop of metal, a young person cannot practice this loathsome pastime. But any enterprising youth can find a stick and a ball, improvise some bases, and have a rousing game of baseball. Likewise can be improvised a soccer pitch, with markers delineating the goals’ width and a spirit of good sportsmanship their height. The only firm requirement for these sports is space.

From the super-short super-tight shorts of the 70s to the ridiculously baggy ones popular today, basketball has long acknowledged its status as court jester in the kingdom of sport. Yes, basketball remains true to its roots: slapdash construction of a peach basket with a hole in it, dreamed up by some Canadian to give his students something to do when it was too wet to go outside and play a REAL sport.

Ever since I taught my younger brother to play chess I have been avoiding this day — the day of face-to-face competition. Now you\’re going to see why I hid the chess pieces.

The first thing I noticed about my dear brother\’s piece is that except for our own canines, every other dog he mentioned was fictitious. Why is this pertinent? Well, I submit that my esteemed opponent lives in La-La Land with those fake doggies. Here\’s what happens in the real world, Dave.

Thanksgiving ’98: I run home for a stick of butter I left on my kitchen counter. As I enter, I encounter a strange smell that could only be described as “fouler than death,” and the butter is missing. When I call my dog, she slinks over to me. Suddenly, I see why: there is butter-induced dog puke all over my kitchen — and my living room. But we weren’t finished! To top it off, she left a cow liver in the hallway!

That’s not all! A year earlier, when she had puppies, she broke out of her carefully constructed kitchen kennel, and had a puppy in every room before we got home! So point 1 is this: cats make cat-sized messes. When a dog makes a mess, it can change your family vocabulary forever: “Life is rough, and then your dog eats butter.” Check.

Point 2: The worst thing a cat will do to a visitor is ignore her. But when visiting dog-occupied homes, I’ve experienced a number of horrific scenarios — the large dog that hates me and wants to kill me, the large dog that loves me and want to slobber all over me. Or the VEEERRRY large dog who thinks I smell reeeally greeeaat, and would love to smell me more, forcing me to push its huge face (where the teeth are) away, at risk of great physical harm. Finally, there’s the small dog who sees me as a threat and barks loudly and constantly, threatening to bite if I so much as move.

Yip yip yip, yip yip! Yip, yip, yip, yip yip! Yip yip!!

Yip!

Check.

Why do I like cats? Because they know how to shut up!! Plus, they\’re soft and cuddly, don\’t need a lot of attention, and can be left alone for a weekend with a bowl of Special Kitty and a dripping faucet. A cat is like a stuffed animal with a personality! We get ours fixed and train them to go to the bathroom outdoors, then sit back and enjoy the benefits — which include killing massive numbers of rodents (ridding the world of potential epidemics), with no thanks asked in return. A recent study says that cats can even prevent heart attacks! Maybe it’s the calming effect of not having to clean up butter puke and roadkill.

By the way, Dave, your rook\’s in the hall closet. Love you, bro — checkmate.

Wallace P. MacSweet. Liberty Diefenbaker Proton Fay. Lady and the Tramp. Rin-Tin-Tin, Lassie and Ol’ Yeller. Benji, Air Bud, Underdog, Chance, and Shadow, to mention but a few. Time fails me to tell of all the shining examples of dogs who have distinguished themselves in the annals of human history through their loyalty, bravery and undying devotion.

When the Phantom needs a sidekick, does he turn to anyone but Devil to watch his back? Where would Charlie Brown be without Snoopy? And speaking of Snoopy, does he content himself to lie around eating up the family food budget, producing nothing but fertilizer? No. He is a certified war hero and flying ace, an attorney, and a hockey player to boot.

What does the cat world have to set against this? A lazy, fat, lasagna-eating, hairball-hacking fleabag that takes every opportunity he can find to embarrass and humiliate his owner?

And which side was Catwoman on in the epic battle of good and evil in Gotham City?

The dog has always been regarded as man’s best friend. Whether it’s for companionship, protection, or a hot meal in a pinch, dogs have always been the one animal on this planet that man could turn to in a time of need.

Imagine running the Iditarod across the frozen tundra, temperatures hovering near 50 below, and your life depending on a pack of . . . felines. If you ever even got a cat into Alaska, you certainly could never get it to leave the house in those sub-zero temperatures.

Dogs are domesticated friends, fellow laborers in all our troubles. Cats are parasites, who somehow attached themselves to the human race long ago, finding a soft place to sleep and free food.

Dogs are working animals. Blind people use seeing-eye dogs to navigate the world, and policemen use specially trained dogs to search for drugs, firearms, and explosives. Dogs control crowds; they find escaped criminals and lost Boy Scouts. Ranchers use dogs to round up sheep and cattle — nursing homes use them to improve the mental and physical health of the elderly. What do cats do, again? Oh yes, nothing.

I read that the essential difference between cats and dogs is this: When you come home after work, feed your dog, and pet him, he looks at you with devotion and wonder, thinking, “Wow, he must be a god!”

But when you do the same to a cat, it looks at you with contempt and annoyance, and thinks, “I must be a god.”

I was mildly coerced into getting a personal MySpace page and I regret the decision to this day.

It’s not that I think I’m too good for personal networking websites; I love the Facebook and I was using sites like the long-since-obsolete Quickdot when most of today’s MySpace users were still stuffing crayons up their noses and putting anything that wasn’t nailed down into their mouths.

What’s that? They still . . . Okay, that’s a bad example. But the fact remains I was annoying other people through telnet way back before many of you modern MySpacers were even born.

I just hate MySpace.

I hate its clunky, horrifying design, strips of blue flanking unreadable text links and unending advertisements for insurance, movies, and ladies’ underwear. I hate Tom.

I hate the terrible things people do to their own pages; I hate when someone’s lousy taste in music is automatically inflicted on me; I hate the uniformly awful attempts at changing the default layout.

I hate that I can spend an hour ranking my ‘top friends,’ and I hate the way (mostly) girls use their profile pictures to draw attention to all the wrong things for all the wrong reasons.

And I hate, more than anything, how every time I go on the blasted site, I have to clear out solicitations from seminude women, advertisements for natural male enhancement, and spam comments full of broken images and Trojan horses.

As Job says, it’s YourSpace, honey child. Not Mine. And as I toss and turn my way to fitful sleep tonight, haunted by the constant fear that I might have missed the chance at a lower rate on my second mortgage, with every labored breath, I’ll wish I’d held out.

I pray you have the strength I did not.

Or, if you don’t, that you’ll at least add me and our band!

Hey Steve.

How’s it goin? I just moved to the NEW YORK,United States area and I wanna meet a nice guy around here :-). I moved here to NEW YORK,United States a couple of weeks ago for work and now that I’m here I have nobody to hang out with! I read your profile… You’re cute and I liked what you had to say :-).

DO you know whats on most girl’s minds but they won’t tell you or will they. I am telling you this because it is the honest truth, look I should know…

Anyway you won’t believe this. that day I just filled my zip and my address in a form. A few days later I got a Visa Gift Card worth $500,and was told it can be used at any store!!! It really worked when I trying to buy an iPod!! Cost me nothing! LOL….

**~PERSONAL questions~**
Do you think I’m a good person?

Would you let me sleep with you (in the same bed)?

Would you let anything happen in that bed?

If you could change anything about me — would you?

Our lenders are ready to give you a loan! Approval process will take 1 minute!

Plus I’m just graduated college and I’m lookin for a guy who is a little bit older or more mature than me. You say you’re 27 and you’re cute so I guess you’re qualified :-)

if u don’t like out of the box thinkers that leave me alone!noo i’m just kidding really…lol..

And If you weren’t there FRIDAY NIGHT i lost that bet with ryan, so i made those SPECIALpictures available for ONE WEEK ONLY!! rember to stop by my webcam anytime!!

I’ll be the first to admit that I am generally less informed than the average high school sophomore about politics, though you might not know it from how animatedly I like to shout at my more conservative friends (either because I perceive more holes in their arguments than those more liberal, or I just like to be argumentative). Writing this clash is largely the result of my foolish and hasty statement of belief that there is too much money in politics. This is based on a deeper idea which I will try, briefly, to explain.

Whether or not spending more money will make a potential presidential candidate more likely to get elected: I’m sure this can be proved and disproved many ways, and has been already. It’s the nature of numbers, the ability to be manipulated. There are always new statistics coming out, to exhibit or ignore one side of the argument or the other.

Whether the president or other politicians make too much money: that is for each person to decide as well. The current congressional salary (2008) is $169,300 per year. The annual salary of the president was increased to $400,000 per year, including a $50,000 expense allowance, and the vice president makes $221,100.

So given the facts that “not just anybody” gets elected to public office (thank goodness!); one must have at least some degree of personal means, influence, and experience to get elected; and that the majority of politicians have families, businesses, and hobbies to support — are these salaries too much? I have heard that every president ever elected took a pay cut when he entered office. So are they being paid too much? I think so.

The bigger idea that I want to address (which I am only in the early stages of thinking through) is that there is too much money in society as a whole.

I am just as a slave to money as the next hapless American college student. I am studying at a college that, by the time I graduate, will have collected in payment for my undergraduate education more than the golden $100,000 that seems to represent a comfortable income for middle class America. So I will have paid — or have promised to pay — what a great deal of middle class families strive to make in a year. Isn’t that too much?

And why do middle class families feel that $100,000 would be a comfortable amount to live on? Property and income tax. Utilities. Groceries. Food. Clothing. Hobbies. Family outings. Transportation. The same things that lower-class and upper-class families spend money on. Isn’t there a simpler way to do all this?

Instead of going to a theme park that costs $60 per person and wastes electricity flinging souls around on aerodynamically sexy roller coasters, why not wade in a river and catch crawfish — or make a game out of clearing brush away from an old campfire-pit, not worrying about how soon it gets done or how well? Why must we take three trips to town each day to cart kids to school, get items for a honey-do list, and pick up a pizza for dinner?

Simplicity is just that: simple. Some might say that it is for the simple-minded, and I will admit that I have said that to myself many times. But when I say that there is too much money in politics, I am lumping politics in with life in general: things could be done a lot simpler and a lot cheaper. Yes, it might require cutting back. Creativity. Sacrifice. But wouldn’t we be the better for it?

I’ll see your bet and I’ll raise you. Not only do I disagree that there’s too much money in politics, I actually believe that there’s not enough.

I’m happy to admit that the money we have in the system now might not be the best money. It might not be used for the best things. It might not be spent for the best reasons. But I’m convinced that it’s impossible to actually get the best of all those things — and any attempt to try is likely to produce even more problems, while unconstitutionally limiting speech. Frankly, the problem isn’t money, or more correctly, the speech that money facilitates. The problem is accountability.

Whenever possible, I like to err on the side of freedom. That’s especially true when it comes to matters of how people can spend money they have earned. Take Mitt Romney, for instance. He received a lot of criticism for spending tens of millions of his own money in an attempt to become the Republican nominee for president. But why? He earned it honestly, in business, through hard work and effort. And although many less affluent candidates sneered that he was trying to “buy the nomination,” the results actually proved that dollars alone do not lead to electoral success.

Yet many remain convinced not only that money is the main key to winning elections, but that there’s something inherently wrong with money in politics. And this opinion, often informed by a confusion of the effects of money and incumbency, has led to a system that drastically limits the way we can spend our money, and what we can say when we do.

Well, call me old-fashioned, friends, but I happen to take the First Amendment at face value. You’ll remember it from high school; it’s the part of our Constitution that states (among other things) that Congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech. When “reformers” prevent me from spending money to espouse a certain view on the political stage, how can they pretend this is anything other than a restraint on speech? How can they defend it in light of the text of the First Amendment?

Maybe you think that the danger of money influencing politics makes these laws a necessary compromise, a proper exception to our First Amendment rights. But I answer you — what speech could possibly be more important to protect from government regulation than that speech which criticizes the government?

I support greater transparency, so we can know who writes the checks before we cast our votes. But the current system is designed to just shut it all down, like we’re a bunch of children, too stupid to understand issues, willing to vote for whichever candidate runs the glossiest ads. Please explain to me — I would love to know! — how we are helped by this convoluted system that prevents a group of Americans from publicly talking about a candidate, favorably or unfavorably, within 60 days of an election, when the information is most relevant.

Presidential candidates in 2004 spent about $661 million in that race. That sounds awfully high, doesn’t it? But it turns out McDonald’s spent $635 million in advertising by itself — back in 2001! General advertising for “cooking products and seasonings” topped $675 million four years before that! And way back in 1998, $720 million was spent on alcohol advertising JUST INSIDE STORES.

I happen to think that the future of our country — the First Amendment — is a little more important than Mrs. Dash and Captain Morgan.

There comes a time in every superpower’s life when it looks at the steaming, writhing squalor that once could have been greatness and think: “Enough is enough.” There are as many reasons for the US to remain in the UN as there are for a battered husband to remain married — two. Ridiculously stubborn masculine pride and oh-so-foolish feminine hope.

After rescuing the world from its second global conflict in as many decades, the United States scooped up what was left of her allies, dumped the equivalent of trillions of dollars into their stagnant, welfare-state supporting economies, and created the United Nations. As with all wars to end all wars, most folks were pretty eager to make peace. So 51 nations signed on, creating a group dedicated to end war, safeguard human rights, promote social and economic progress, improve living conditions, and achieve other worthwhile, lofty goals.

Now 60 years, countless wars, at least a dozen genocides, and epidemic after epidemic later, the UN is still cautiously optimistic about the possibility of forming a subsidiary body of a specialized agency’s functional commission (under the direct control of no fewer than two regional commissions), with oversight from the secretariat, charged with maybe getting around to fixing that world peace thing some day. But for now, they’re all pretty focused on hating America.

The crux of UN stupidity is giving two-bit, third-world dictatorships equal footing with the United States, United Kingdom, and other reasonable, civilized, developed countries. For Heaven’s sake! The UN still can’t decide whether the crisis in Darfur is regional unrest, civil unrest, or just plain, old, run-of-the-mill GENOCIDE! Oh, sorry, the UN-sanctioned term is “gross violation.” So, sorry, 200,000-400,000 dead Sudanese, you haven’t been genocided, you’ve been “grossly violated.”

What I propose is simple: relegate the UN to the minor leagues and start our own global organization devoted to awesomeness and peace through strength. Let the socialists and dictatorships have the UN. Until countries grow up, institute democracy and capitalism, and reach a certain level of development, the UN is all they get. I say that the US, UK, Japan, Germany, Australia, Canada, South Korea, Israel, and Taiwan all leave the UN (and leave the French there as well) and form our own permanent multi-national coalition.

Just like the EU won’t let just anybody in until they’re sufficiently developed, neither will we. It’ll be like a members-only club that demonstrates to the world that you’ve made it.

And while the UN is busy mailing letters requesting the cessation of hostilities against civilians in Sudan, we’ll send our letter too. Taped to the front of a cruise missile.

The political side of the UN won’t win a whole lot of points with me or any thinking person. It’s slow, bloated, and controlled by either a handful of elites who can singlehandedly stop it from taking any meaningful action (i.e., the Security Council) or a large number of countries from the developing world with no particular qualms about abusing their citizens (i.e., the General Assembly).

That said, though, the UN has had a positive humanitarian influence on the world. The greatest example is probably smallpox; with cooperation from many of the world’s governments, the World Health Organization took on one of the greatest killers in history, successfully making the world a whole lot safer for those born in developing countries.

The World Bank (chartered separately, but technically under UN jurisdiction) offers inexpensive loans to not only help countries escape poverty (their weaker suit), but also to reconstruct after major crises (their stronger suit). They provided some of the funding that helped Germany and Japan become the economic powerhouses and strong Western allies that they are today. Finally, other arms of the ECOSOC have made significant strides in providing vaccines, education, and food to children in impoverished countries.

Of course, most arguments about the United Nations aren’t about what it has done; instead, they are about what it could do differently, or how much better everyone would be if these crises had been handled by the free market and private donations. There is obviously no factual data on a hypothetical UN-less world, but given the intransigence of the private sector and individual governments to today’s humanitarian crises (even with UN help), it’s very difficult to believe that we could have defeated smallpox or rebuilt Western Europe so quickly, without UN resources and organizational tools.

It’s true that the UN will probably never give the United States as much as it asks us to give to them. This is the case with governments at any level; the ones who need their services are never those who are able to pay for them, so someone else has to pick up the bill. The UN was created partially to fill a perceived need for world government, but it is not particularly effective politically. As a result, it instead finds its strength in coordinating and administering humanitarian responses, and it has performed these types of missions very successfully.

Whether or not the UN could be 1000 times better than it is, its existence has helped the world.

Today, Syracuse will swelter. It’s the hottest day of the year. The high will be 95; combined with tropical humidity, this will make it nearly unbearable outside. Last week, I spent 7 days in New Mexico, Satan’s sauna, where highs reached triple digits every day.

What a perfect time to extol the joys of cooler weather!

I’ve worked outside in temperatures that ranged from 25 below to 95 above, and I’ll take the colder end anytime. Most of the worst jobs in America face extreme heat, including cowboys, ironworkers, longshoremen and roofers. Horses and hot tar don’t give you a 6-hour break at high noon!

It’s true people are more comfortable in warm-weather attire, but let’s think about extremes. If you’re too cold, you can always put on warmer clothing, or more of it. But when it’s hot outside, there’s a pretty strict legal limit on how high you can, uh, let your freak flag fly. Even if you can get nekkid, there’s no guarantee that unfortunate decision will cool you down enough to be comfortable.

Plus they say freezing to death is one of the least objectionable ways to die. Your extremities slowly go numb, which sounds like bliss compared to the searing pain of heatstroke pounding your head into seizure, hallucination and coma.

Maybe the best reason to like cold weather is its effect on relationships. When it’s hot like today, unless you’re submerged in a body of water, you don’t want to be near anyone. Tempers shorten, fuses blow, and even a platonic hug exchanges more fluid than a blood transfusion.

But not only do you want to be around other people when it’s cold, it’s practically necessary to conserve heat! Cuddling up on the couch with someone special isn’t an unpleasant, sweaty chore like in July — in the winter, it keeps up both morale and body temperature.

Hot weather is for individuals — sweaty, uncomfortable, and alone — but cool weather? Cool weather brings us together.

Imagine yourself, eight years old, waking up one morning and noticing the air is unusually crisp and muted. As you tumble out of bed, heart racing, breath quickening, you know that — yes, out the window — SNOW!

You run screaming down the hall, smack into your mother’s knees. “Not without these!,” she chirps, pointing to the mountain of snow gear she will soon inflict on your person.

By the time she finishes protecting your cute little extremities from frostbite, you have to pee, you couldn’t play in the snow if your life depended on it (or get up if you fell down), and the radio has announced the roads are plowed, so school is not canceled.

This would not happen if it were hot. For one thing, you can easily move in the attire required for a hot day, which is next to nothing. More importantly, school can’t be canceled in the heat because there is no school! That means days filled with tans, swimming pools, water fights, picnics, sports, and siestas.

Oh, yes, siestas. It’s a physical impossibility to work when it’s 105 degrees out, ladies and gentlemen. That means you quit at 1:00 and don’t start up again until 6:00, if at all!

Still not convinced? Let’s not forget these other important points:

— Ice will kill you on the road. Hot asphalt will not, unless you’re stupid and walk barefoot on it, and then it’s your own fault.

— Heat makes all the scary things go away, like snakes, big things with teeth, and children.

— Heat stroke is temporary, but another good reason not to work. Frostbite is forever, like diamonds, but without the jewel or the finger to put it on.

— Water parks, ice cream, barbecues, parades. Have you ever tried to have a parade in below-zero weather?

If you still prefer the cold, I’ll pull the patriotic card. As Americans, we stand for liberty, and if shorts, tank tops and flip flops aren’t liberating, I don’t know what is. Certainly not your snow pants.

I hail from the Advent Christian denomination, the Millennium Falcon of Protestants — old and small. Two main tenets from our statement of faith create the most distance between us and the Empire.

First, we believe in “soul sleep” — a person doesn’t immediately ascend or descend to heaven or hell but remains, well, dead (1 Thessalonians 4:16) until Christ’s return and the subsequent judgment. Second, we don’t believe hell lasts forever, as some might imagine. We believe that when Matthew writes that “these (the wicked) will go away into eternal punishment,” he means eternal destruction (not necessarily torment) and separation from God.

Let me clarify that point. My opposition would seem to read that verse to mean the wicked will go away into an eternal life of punishment; I read it to say the end of their lives is the punishment. While neither of these Adventist points pertain to salvation and are best summed up as “splitting hairs,” they are, nevertheless, important for Christians to discuss because of the way the world has begun to paint our views. This point can lead to the larger and more relevant debate — how else is our faith colored by things other than Scripture?

Be it Gary Larson’s Far Side or the iconic film It’s a Wonderful Life, we — and the world — have begun to view both heaven and hell through the filter of modern fiction, lore and whimsy. The idea of the torment one might receive eternally in hell or the bliss awaiting in heaven is largely produced by our “Mind’s Eye.” Lava, steam, wailing, pitchforks? Clouds, togas, gold, pearly gates? With this as our tapestry of thought, our theology tends to coordinate itself with it. I don’t think anyone would argue accuracy has been the foremost concern of Christianity over the past few centuries.

But rather than deferring to Dante, I note instead the words of the Apostle Paul in his second letter to the Thessalonians (1:8-10) — “He will punish those who do not know God and do not obey the gospel of our Lord Jesus. They will be punished with everlasting destruction and shut out from the presence of the Lord, and from the majesty of His power on the day He comes to be glorified in His holy people and to be marveled at among all those who have believed.”

While I can find a duality of thought in some verses, this one is far too straightforward to be renegotiated per the notion that the damned are due the déjà  vu of recurrent scorched skin. Paul infers nothing but a totality of dismissal from consciousness. I think the word “everlasting” is employed here and elsewhere concerning the afterlife because of the pagan religious thinking that Thessalonica and other locations were prone to. The idea of a soul as a cockroach, able to scurry under the fridge of malleable consequences, was one Paul was urgent to dispel. And it’s making a comeback.

While I have already noted that our main concern should be what happens here in the fourth quarter, not in the locker room after the game, take it from Chewbacca — things are not always as you’ve always thought them to be.

“There is no doctrine I would more willingly remove from Christianity than [hell], if it lay in my power…”
C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

In 1793 William Blake published The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. Although he confessed ambiguity over Blake’s meaning, C.S. Lewis intended and entitled The Great Divorce as a response of sorts; in his view, the inhabitants of Heaven and hell could never be reconciled, for they are ever growing further apart, not closer. It’s a salient point in whether hell is eternal — if hell is temporary, we must assume that either its inhabitants are, in some fashion, being reformed, with an eye toward reuniting them with the inhabitants of Heaven — or their immortal soul has to be destroyed, allowing it to escape eternal damnation through annihilation. Is there some hint in the Bible of a place where such reconciliation could be accomplished? Is there evidence for annihilation to render Hell temporary?

First let me make clear that my belief in eternal hell is not based on Lewis’s work or personal preference, but the authority of the Bible. It is stated clearly in Matthew 25:46 that “these [the wicked] will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.” The word eternal, used twice, is the same word in the Greek and carries the same meaning in both phrases. The punishments of hell are just as eternal for the wicked as eternal life is for the righteous, whether we consider purgatory or annihilation. Other references, including Mark 9:42-48, Luke 16:19-31, 2 Thess. 1:8,9, Jude 7-13, and Rev. 14:9-11, affirm that Hell and its attendant punishments are eternal.

The only Christian doctrine to support a temporary rehabilitation arrangement after death is purgatory. This is a doctrine of the Catholic Church whereby God takes people at death and holds them in torment until someone ransoms them. Originally this could be accomplished through prayers and good deeds on their behalf, but during fundraising for St. Peter’s Basilica, the church shifted its preference to cash.

Any attempt to make hell less than permanent on the basis of reforming the wicked completely removes the belief in hell, leaving us with Heaven and purgatory. But this would be purgatory even the Catholic Church does not believe in, for in their doctrine, purgatory is purification the believer undergoes in preparation for Heaven. It’s never portrayed as a place the wicked can go. In Catholic doctrine, no one escapes Hell; only the Christian sees purgatory, then Heaven.

Annihilation is a more modern achievement that rests on two arguments. The first is that God can’t punish finite sins with an infinite Hell, for this would be unfair and disproportionate. But how then can we expect God to reward finite obedience to the Gospel with an infinite Heaven? Each position is taught in equality in Matthew 25; what applies to one certainly would apply to the other.

The second argument is that the Bible doesn’t say all men possess immortality, only God and the righteous. This would mean men would eventually perish and hell would cease to exist. There is more evidence for this, as Scripture does not seem to make any explicit statement that all men possess an immortal soul. But the enormous weight of passages presenting hell as eternal gives sufficient reason to believe it is taught by inference.

Nowhere, New Mexico

It’s 6:15 in the morning, and I’m on my way to work. The sky has a mashed potatoes and golden butter look to it, and the sunrise’s fingers turn pink as they stretch further west. The sunflowers are blooming, yellow heads turned up to worship the sun. A few times on the mountain pass, I have to slow for the massive elk wandering across the road.

The cafe opens at 7, and like clockwork, Frank and Roy and Robert come in for their eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. I don’t ask how they want their eggs done, or what kind of bread they prefer. They’re here every morning; I already know.

Throughout the day, Anne and Mike, Sam and Elaine, Mark, Lisa, and Jacob will probably come in to chat and check out the special. Today will be busy, both with work and with catching up with everyone, passing on praises and prayer requests.

On the way home, I’ll wave at the people I pass on the mountain. Some I recognize, others I don’t. When I get home, Grandma and I will eat dinner on the porch and watch the thunderstorm march over the valley. We’ll take the dogs on a long walk before settling down with some hot chocolate and a good book by the time the storm breaks over us.

London, UK

Some friends and I have decided to go to a pub for dessert — a pub that we frequent at least once a week. It’s close to Guy Fawkes Day and there are fireworks going off everywhere, but we don’t linger. It’s after dark and this is a park; we should move as fast as we can.

We spend two hours at the pub, oblivious to the passing time and the Sunday drunks surrounding us. When we look up again, my purse is gone.

The gruff bartender promises that he’ll provide the police with CCTV and takes my name down, but won’t let me use his phone to call the police myself: “Don’t you have a mobile?”

“Well, I did. It’s in my purse.” Moron.

My friends and I leave the pub. I call the police from a friend’s phone while several sirens scream by me. They don’t answer. When I try again and they pick up, the Cockney operator tells me disdainfully to call the non-emergency number.

I run home down London’s dirty streets under the patches of dark clouds because I have to get rid of the nervous energy. I don’t stop shaking till morning.

I was raised in the city, that noted bastion of civilization, and although the country is a wonderful place to visit, I would not choose to live there full time, and the main reason is the lack of people.

I once lived on a farm for a summer, and I can assure you, it gets boring when your nearest neighbor is a mile or more away. What good is a chess set with no one to play? What good is a softball field if all you can do is bat rocks with a stick while playing an imaginary game in your mind? Any truly joyous activity requires the presence and participation of other human beings. And you can find them in the city.

Ever since the first rude barbarians realized that domesticating animals and cultivating crops was much easier than chasing your food down and killing it in the forest — while trusting serendipitous encounters with edible fruits and vegetables for roughage — cities have been generally acknowledged as the best mode of living upon this green earth. Indeed, the entire course of civilized history was one in which barbarians settled down to the good life, lost their wild lonesome ways, then patiently waited to be conquered by the next envious band of brutes who realized what they were missing in their rustic wanderings.

I believe that every person needs a good balance of quiet solitude and lively social intercourse. For me, the city provides the best opportunity for both. When I want to be left alone, I go into my library and close the door, or I watch TV with my wife in the living room. When I want to be with people, I go sit on my front porch, or we go out to eat.

And nothing equals a walk through our neighborhood, where the sidewalks are sheltered by ancient shade trees, bordering the twilight beauty of gentle homes twinkling with warm light — as evening settles on the distant spires of chapels, and various towers of commerce, that grace our small city.

Alexander the Great did the world a signal act of service, for which we should all feel gratitude, when he conquered the entire civilized world, establishing one common language and a culture that revered education and the building of public libraries and theaters. Where would we be without this grand impetus toward education and social intercourse, which was followed up and fortified so well by the laws and roads of Rome?

Never mind, I know where we would be — the Dark Ages. When libraries were burned, priceless art was destroyed forever, and the great cities were broken and all but abandoned.

Tribuo mihi urbs!

I am a reasonable woman. I try to look for the good in other people, and I’m perfectly willing to listen to opposing points of view, because it’s only when we truly engage those with whom we disagree that we are able to learn anything about ourselves! Most disagreements, from parking spaces to peace in the Middle East, could be settled by nothing more than a steaming pot of coffee and a double dose of understanding.

But not this one.

Simply put, if you don’t hang your roll of toilet paper so it hangs down from the front, you’re a subhuman insect that I can and will crush like the Wicked Witch of the East. With the weight of my WHOLE. FREAKING. HOUSE.

I’ve tried to reason with you people. I’ve tried to show you that it’s obvious that if you set up the roll of toilet paper to hang from the front, it’s easier to reach, easier to tear, and easier on the eyes. After all that I’ve done for you, I guess I just don’t understand why you’re still so incredibly stupid! Why can’t you do anything right?

Don’t you understand how important this is??

Sometimes I’ll be visiting a friend’s house and I’ll politely excuse myself to use the bathroom. I usually don’t need to go — after all, my bladder is Hellga-strong — but I like to do spot checks, just to make sure my friends are toileting smart. Usually things check out just fine in the potty department, but last week, my yoga buddy Stacey failed the test big time. First thing I did was whip and flip, spin that bad boy right round so I could piddle proper, the way God intended, with that Quilted Northern rolling down before me like justice, or a clear mountain stream.

Second thing I did was stomp back out to the living room and smack Stacey down. Some women would have thought, Let it go, Tawny, or It’s not a big deal, or At least wait until after the baby shower, but not me! And what kind of woman hides behind a pregnant lady anyway?

See, when it comes to toilet paper, there’s one way, period. And if any of you ever try to bring those weak backwards ways into my bathroom, I’ll shiv you with the roller, wrap you up with Charmin King Tut-style, and drag you out to my trunk in the dead of night.

The police will never find your body.

I thank you for your time.

Oh, it is so on.

You read that old biddy’s babbling? Goin’ on and on about “easy to tear” and “easy on the eyes” and all, like we’re too stupid to trust our own brains over the prejudices of a two-time felon?

That’s right, Tawny, I’m callin’ you out. Or should I call you “Psycho T”?

But let’s get to the point. If you roll your toilet paper from the front, like Tawny Nutjob over there, you’re an uncultured boob. Let me tell you why.

The bathroom — at least my bathroom — is a place of peace and rest, a getaway from the stress of my life as a full-time housewife and part-time Herbalife saleswoman (CALL NOW for a great deal on HOODIA!).

So when I go in for my afternoon constitutional, I want to be soothed. I crave beauty and grace in a world of harsh plainness. What I absolutely do not want to see is a nasty ol’ strip of toilet paper all up in my face, reminding me again of the unpleasantness of life, and the task that will so soon be behind me.

No, no, my friend. The paper belongs in the back. It’s prettier. It’s more elegant. It’s safer from the claws of my four cats (Muffin, Muffin II, Chatty Catty Kitty, and Muffy). It balances the energies in my bathroom and restores me to a state of inner peace.

And if you disagree with me, may God have mercy on your soul.

Tawny may have a point when she says it’s easier to tear from the front, I don’t know. I guess I don’t think of it much. But you know what would make it even harder to tear? HAVING NO HANDS!! Is that a risk you want to take? Because that’s how much this means to me! You come to my house, I’ll cut your hands off, Tawny! Let’s see what you think about toilet paper when all you’ve got are a couple of stumps at the end of your bony, wizened arms!!

Do not mess with me on this.

In conclusion, rolling the toilet paper toward the back provides a general increase in aesthetics, protection from the playful paws of silly kitties, and allows you to remain in possession of all your important extremities.

The choice is yours.

On a Thanksgiving day a few years ago, my brother Joel slaughtered, scalded, plucked and then deep fat fried two ducks, to serve as our turkey proxy. They were good ducks, by all accounts, well-bred, well-fed and extremely well-cared for. They were cooked well and thoroughly. There was nothing suspect about their life or culinary preparation…but they were doomed from the minute they were born, because ducks are all dark meat.

The time spent between conception and parsley was merely spent building up to my disappointment. I blame cinema and literature for instilling in me a sense of awe concerning duck: that it was a sort of Everest of edibles. In fact, duck is oily, salty, fatty and overwhelmingly underwhelming. I ate the duck, I tried to appreciate the duck, I smiled and said I liked the duck. But my soul gobbled for the unhyped, protein-infused, and profusely healthier heaps of white meat a turkey offers.

White meat is not only healthier, easier to handle, and not disgusting — but it complements, and is complemented by, other foods. It doesn’t demand a stage all to itself, but instead favors a team effort in pleasing your palate. From gravy to casseroles to cold sandwiches to soups, white meat knows how to delegate.

Now, don’t get me wrong — I’m a bachelor. I’ve eaten my fair share of dark meat and I will eat it again. I’m not prejudiced against any food, and my stomach is the Ellis Island of your kitchen. Give me your fried, your baked, your raw; give me your tarts that pop, your topping of melted cheese. I don’t care. But as a proverbial immigration officer stamping the papers of the aliens seeking entrance to the new world of my tummy, I can discern those that stand a chance of climbing the menu ladder, and those doomed to spend their lives as esoteric members of an old cookbook. The forgotten. The undesirable.

Thus is dark meat. It is, as a fact, edible, but it is not mainstream. It is not everyday. It is, my friends, the dreaded entity that is an acquired taste. If you either prefer dark meat, or are one of those souls who say they do, so they can be different, I actually don’t wish to dissuade you. Your contributions to the Thanksgiving meal — throwing yourself on the grenade of that greasy mess on the other side of the platter — only serves to distribute the wealth of white meat among those who know that it is the vehicle to a truly satisfying and diversified meal.

Dark meat? You’re dead to me.

Unless you’re free.

There are few things I enjoy more than roasted chicken. My favorite way of preparing my bird is my crock pot, but be careful! Overcooking makes her fall apart, which is fine for Kickin’ Chicken Soup, but not if you want to enjoy the actual chicken pieces with the bones still attached. I like to put a whole orange or a peeled onion into the cavity of my bird while it’s cooking, then season it with an herb mix called Citrus Grill.

Within minutes I’m carving away — carefully putting the boring, tasteless white meat on one side of the platter, and the juicy, flavorful darker portions on the other. I’ve always preferred the dark meat because of the flavor, and it’s not just limited to the meat family. I also like darker versions of gravies, breads, ice creams (Friendly’s Chocolate Almond Chip!), rice, even milk — and of course chocolate. White chocolate is simply disgusting!

I’ve heard all of the stories about how dark meat contains more fat, but for years, I’ve been singing the old song, “If loving you is wrong, then I don’t wanna be right.” And now, I’ve been vindicated — as you shall see from my research. By the way, that research says red meat belongs in the the dark meat family, so a vote for the pasty white stuff is a vote against the good old American Porterhouse!

The primary reason dark meat has been labeled bad — besides the political agenda — is saturated fat content. Unfortunately, the general public was considered too dumb to understand the difference between saturated fats and other fats. I cannot accept that. Dark meats simply have more myoglobin proteins, the magic stuff that ships oxygen to the muscle cells; they need them to transfer oxygen more efficiently to the muscles. Muscles which are used more frequently become dark. This is why non-flying poultry drumsticks are dark meat, while breast meat is white.

Dark meats tend to contain more zinc, riboflavin, niacin, thiamin, vitamins B6 and B12, amino acids, iron than white meats. Chicken dark meat contain vitamins A, K, B6, B12, niacin, folate, pantothenic acid, minerals as selenium, phosphorus and zinc. Even the fats in most of the dark meats have healthy parts; they contain Omega-3 and Omega-6 fatty acids, and other ‘healthy’ fats. Now take a look at the fat content of that bowl of morning cereal twigs with a cup of organic milk. I will take my steak on a grill with some wood chips, thank you. Preferably with Djere grilling.

It’s easy to hate on Oprah. Oprah is generally blamed, perhaps rightly, for perpetuating a sort of pseudo-religion, a stand-in for the Gospel, if you will. She promotes self-help books like The Secret that promote un-Christian (and downright wacky) ideas, and darn it, she’s just more successful and has more money than the rest of us.

Yet amid all the derision, we often forget the remarkable good Oprah has done. I’m not simply talking about her new South African school or other big donations, important though those are. I’m talking about a far greater accomplishment.

I’m talking about the fact that I have been in many gatherings of white women, my grandmother’s age, talking about a black woman seriously. Some of these women are quite liberal, while some put the fun in fundamentalist, but none of them grew up in a culture where African-American women were accorded respect. And yet, here they are, talking about her last show, reminiscing about great interviews in the past, forming an emotional bond with a black woman. Astonishing.

Is the emotional bond with Oprah perfect and praiseworthy? Probably not. It’s arguably not even real; you could argue white people love to have pseudo-relationships with African-Americans who remain safely behind television screens and stereo speakers. But you have to admit that it is something, given where we have been as a nation, that ladies of privilege–young and old–dab their tears and share their smiles with a woman of color born into hard Mississippi poverty and raised in a ghetto.

Oprah’s not a messiah; but let’s celebrate the significant inroads she has helped to make in the racial arena.

Let me start by saying that I’m not the type to begrudge anyone the opportunity or ability to become rich, famous, and influential. So I’m not here to hate on Oprah just because she’s probably the most powerful woman (person?) in the world.

I also think it’s great that she’s so philanthropic, even if that is part of her shtick. For what it’s worth, I’m sure it’s mostly genuine, even if it is undeniably crucial to her own future success.

But when it comes to the hero worship of the big O, I just don’t get it. Other than going on several semi-successful diets and giving away more cars than Bob Barker, what has she done that’s all that impressive? I mean, besides all that charity work. More to the point, what has she done for me?

I guess what really bothers me isn’t so much that everyone else takes her so seriously, but that she does as well. A couple years ago, she rubber-stamped James Frey’s memoir as a best seller by recommending it to her lemmings via her all powerful book club. When it later came out that Frey was a fraud, he was summoned back to the show for a good whuppin’. How dare he lie to Oprah… er, I mean, to the people? He threatened her credibility… um, I mean, betrayed millions!

In the end, I simply find the Oprah entity to be vapid, but probably no more so than everything else on TV. Considering what she’s up against in the daytime lineup, I suppose it’s no wonder she’s emerged as the people’s champion.

Fire as a survival tool? Yeah, whatever. Fire? You’re dead to me…

I understand that when man first left the Garden, fire may have played a very important role in the survival and perpetuation of our species. Whether it was used for cooking bacteria out of meat or as an agent of warmth, I’m sure fire proved priceless to our ancestors.

But I believe we need to ask ourselves, “Fire, what have you done for me lately?”

If my little single-engine plane crashed in Alaska, leaving my bush pilot dead and me miraculously alive, you best believe I ain’t wastin’ none of my precious time or energy runnin’ around like JoJo the Idiot Circus Clown, trying to make fire. What’s it gonna do, really? Warm my extremities? Cook the snow rabbit I’ll never catch? I’m sure that’s how most search and rescue people find their targets — hunched over some feeble kindling and moss, the face of their watch frozen in their hand, telling the tale of their futile and desperate efforts to refract sunshine into flame.

Me? They’ll find me back at base camp, ripping through some MREs, reading the newspaper, and telling them where I left the bush pilot. Wanna know why? I didn’t stay put and waste my time on combustion; I sucked it up and com-busted my way right outta there!

Okay, I can hear you now. “Job, you’re an idiot!” “Job, you’re gonna die.” “No, Job, seriously, you’re an idiot.” But perhaps I’m just forward-thinking. For centuries people thought Earth was flat, and as a result, tethered themselves to familiar ports, afraid to sail off the edge of the world. Similarly, for centuries, people in survival situations have trusted Fire to save their sorry selves, and they’ve stayed tethered to their locations, rubbing sticks together and acting like they actually know what flint is, SOSing themselves crazy.

But me? I’m a latter-day Columbus, willing to thumb my nose at accepted science and Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria-ing myself to new frontiers.

Fire might be a luxury, but when it comes to survival, it is SO overrated.

Of all the survival tips, tools, and tricks, fire is the American Express: don’t leave home without it.

Any storied mercenary, mountaineer, or adventurer such as myself will tell you that when it comes to surviving the chilling cold winter winds of Siberia, the torrential monsoons of Southeast Asia, or a hostile desert crawling with wildlife, without fire, you will die.

You. Will. Die.

The benefits of fire are obvious and threefold.

First, heat. When the sun goes down, Earth loses its heat source. When the planet loses its heat source, so do you. And a survival situation is more than just the discomfort you face while jogging six blocks down the street to Starbucks to get warm, Job. When base camp is hundreds of miles away, when there are no straight lines to gauge direction and distance, when you’re injured and you can’t just follow your nose back to your Froot Loops, what will you do? When hypothermia sets in, there’s only one way to stave off the cold that permeates, debilitates, and suffocates. Fire will save your life.

Second, protection. Most of the predators that will attack a human in the wild are both nocturnal and opportunistic. Wolves, jackals, jihadists, dingos, and ROUSes all attack under the cover of darkness. Light from a fire will reveal your enemy and, in a pinch, make for an effective weapon. Use of tools separates the higher primates from the lower primates; use of fire separates us from the higher primates. Every other creature is instinctively afraid of the very tool some would so callously cast aside — fire will save your life.

Third, morale. The greatest obstacle to survival is not nature, predators, or enemy combatants. It’s human nature. Fear and hopelessness will debilitate you more effectively than any RPG: from the inside out. If your survival depends on others, keeping morale high will increase your chances immensely. In the cold and dark, fear creeps in, and though light and heat may seem like creature comforts, they’ll keep you sane. Fire will save your life.

As a luxury item, fire is overrated. But as a survival tool, it’s next to none.

Fire will save your life.