My heart goes out today to the victims of the horrible shooting over in Aurora this morning. By "victims" I am including the families of all those involved.
The news is reporting that most of the people in the theater were between the ages of 14 and 49 (depending on the report) with the vast majority being teenagers. I have two teenagers myself and cannot fathom what it would be like to have sent them off to see a movie, a late-night showing, only to learn that they would not be coming home again.
I have been near tears today with that very thought.
There are families today who are without their children, without their parents. Families who wait at the hospital, anxious, for their infants, toddlers, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, even mothers and fathers. They are all victims.
Strike that: WE are all victims of this act of terror.
"What?" I hear you say. "How dare you presume to take away from their grief!" To the contrary, I want to make sure we remain focused on their grief.
Because of this event, calls for gun control and gun laws are going to increase.
Blame will assigned and fingers will be pointed, all with screeds and strident rhetoric.
Assumptions will be made about the alleged shooter: his lifestyle, his hobbies, his religion, and his politics.
Guilt will be assumed before he ever gets a day in court.
Calls will go out for stricter guidelines on violence in movies. Calls will be made to install metal detectors in every theater. Calls will go out to restrict the wearing of costumes to fantasy and sci-fi movies. Calls will be made to throw away more of our personal freedoms.
In short, there will be hysteria and a lack of reasoned response.
We will all suffer for this, and for this reason I label us all "victims" of the tragedy.
And because of the hysteria, the outrage, the rhetoric, and the hate, I am afraid that the real victims--those from the theaters, and their families--I am afraid that the suffering, pain, and grief that these individuals, these human beings are going through will be whitewashed and/or forgotten.
Instead, let us be adults about this. Do not give in to the impulses of the Natural Man.
Keep the real victims in your thoughts today and in the coming days and weeks as the backstory unfolds. Keep them in your prayers. Pray for comfort and for peace for these, our brothers and sisters. Pray that their burdens will be lightened.
Pray also for the alleged shooter.
And take a little time to pray for all of us, that we can make it through the Chaos that is, unfortunately, likely to follow. That we can make it through unscathed. Heck, pray that the Chaos will not come.
But whatever you do, pray.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Friday, July 20, 2012
Wednesday, June 06, 2012
In Memorium: Ray Bradbury (1920-2012)
.
"The great fun in my life has been getting up every morning and rushing to the typewriter because some new idea has hit me. The feeling I have every day is very much the same as it was when I was twelve. In any event, here I am, eighty years old, feeling no different, full of a great sense of joy, and glad for the long life that has been allowed me. I have good plans for the next ten or twenty years, and I hope you'll come along." --Ray Bradbury
Sam Weller, Bradbury's biographer, quoted Bradbury as saying he would sometimes open one of his books late at night and cry out thanks to God.
"I sit there and cry because I haven't done any of this," he told Weller. "It's a God-given thing, and I'm so grateful, so, so grateful. The best description of my career as a writer is, 'At play in the fields of the Lord.' "
Me again: What an amazing outlook. Can you imagine if we all had this kind of perspective on our work?
Farenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, Something Wicked This Way Comes, Dandelion Wine, The Illustrated Man, "The Fog Horn": all works that have influenced my thinking and have stuck with me since I first read them. ("The Fog Horn" was adapted into the movie The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms.) He even penned the screenplay for John Huston's version of Moby Dick and wrote for The Twilight Zone.
I can still remember, for example, how I felt the first time I read The Martian Chronicles and came across the "twist" that threw the astronauts for a loop--if you've read it, you'll know what I mean. Only later did I read the book again and realize the deeper social issues that Bradbury was trying to convey. Obviously, as a book-lover, you can imagine what Farenheit 451 has always done for me.
His biographer was quoted today on the news that "a star has gone out of the Universe." The sky is certainly a bit darker today.
I would like to think that he's on Venus right now, riding his way across the face of the Sun (from our perspective).
Thank you, Mr. Bradbury, for everything.
"The great fun in my life has been getting up every morning and rushing to the typewriter because some new idea has hit me. The feeling I have every day is very much the same as it was when I was twelve. In any event, here I am, eighty years old, feeling no different, full of a great sense of joy, and glad for the long life that has been allowed me. I have good plans for the next ten or twenty years, and I hope you'll come along." --Ray BradburySam Weller, Bradbury's biographer, quoted Bradbury as saying he would sometimes open one of his books late at night and cry out thanks to God.
"I sit there and cry because I haven't done any of this," he told Weller. "It's a God-given thing, and I'm so grateful, so, so grateful. The best description of my career as a writer is, 'At play in the fields of the Lord.' "
Me again: What an amazing outlook. Can you imagine if we all had this kind of perspective on our work?
Farenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, Something Wicked This Way Comes, Dandelion Wine, The Illustrated Man, "The Fog Horn": all works that have influenced my thinking and have stuck with me since I first read them. ("The Fog Horn" was adapted into the movie The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms.) He even penned the screenplay for John Huston's version of Moby Dick and wrote for The Twilight Zone.
I can still remember, for example, how I felt the first time I read The Martian Chronicles and came across the "twist" that threw the astronauts for a loop--if you've read it, you'll know what I mean. Only later did I read the book again and realize the deeper social issues that Bradbury was trying to convey. Obviously, as a book-lover, you can imagine what Farenheit 451 has always done for me.
His biographer was quoted today on the news that "a star has gone out of the Universe." The sky is certainly a bit darker today.
I would like to think that he's on Venus right now, riding his way across the face of the Sun (from our perspective).
Thank you, Mr. Bradbury, for everything.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Constructive Thoughts: Dad, Part 2
I wish today to celebrate with my family and friends the life of my father: our brother, granddad, and friend. I tried desperately to find a quotation from Dad’s favorite author, Louis L’Amour, but nothing seemed to fit–everything was filled with flying lead and oats. So I went to one of his other favorite authors, Victor Hugo, who wrote that “There are times that no matter the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees.” The past few weeks have been full of those times for me and my family. On behalf of my mother and all of our family let me again express our gratitude for the love you had for our father and for the outpouring of love and respect we have seen.
Father’s Day was difficult for me, my brothers, and my mother this year. But what better time to be able to remember what Dad meant to us? What a fitting time to celebrate his life and memory? And what a great time to consider the fact that he has gone ahead to prepare the way for us, and the fact that we will see him again? That our separation will be, in the grand scheme of things, only a little while. How wonderful is the thought that my children can embrace him once again, that we can sit at his feet and listen to his stories? That we can be together, forever, as a famliy?
And this is possible because nearly a millennium ago, an individual knelt in a garden and prayed to his Father. He was known as the “Carpenter’s son,” yet he was the Son of God. It was there, in that garden, that he took upon himself the sins of all mankind, the sins of all the world, both past, present, and future. It was an event that had been foretold by prophets throughout history.
It was there in that garden that night, as he bled from every pore, that Christ, “The Son of Man . . . descended below . . . all.” [D&C 122:8]
This was “the blood that maketh an atonement for the soul.” [Leviticus 17:11]
“Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.” [John 1:29]
“Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows . . . he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities . . . and with his stripes we are healed.” [Isaiah 53:4-5]
“He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.” [Isaiah 53:3]
“God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” [John 3:16]
The agony he suffered in that garden is unfathomable to us, both in intensity and in cause. But the gift that he gave us through that suffering is also marvelous, magnificent. On that night, Jesus shouldered the burdens of all of our transgressions -— my transgressions and your transgressions. I added to his anguish that night, as did each one of us. But he picked up that burden and took it upon himself so that a price would be paid. That price was paid so that I might escape, and so that you might escape, the required punishments that correspond to our sins. The scriptures tell us that the gift is ours if we but believe in him, accept his gift, repent and be baptized, receive the gift of the holy ghost, and to continue faithfully to observe and keep the commandments all the days of our lives. Christ gifted us with salvation from spiritual death, which grants us eternal life with our heavenly father.
Many years ago, a newspaper writer was asked, “What would be the most important news story the world could receive?” Think about how you would answer that question: would it be the development of the atomic bomb? Man walking on the moon? The death of a (fill in the blank) celebrity? The assassination of a president? After some thought the reporter finally answered that the most important story he could report would be that a man that had lived and died had come back to life; and specifically that Jesus Christ was truly resurrected and lives today.
No event in all history compares to the importance of the resurrection of Christ. Because of this gift all mankind will come forth, each in his own order. We will live eternally. We will be resurrected and overcome physical death.
Isn’t this a joyous, glorious message? It means that we will one day be reunited with Dad. I bear you my testimony that this Gospel principle is true; the Atonement is real — Christ has given us gifts that will liberate our spirit and our body from the bonds of death and allow us to live in God’s presence forever.
We are understandably sad. We have lost a loved one. I should restate that; I do not like that phrase. We have not “lost” Dad —- We know exactly where he is. He is with his loving parents, grandparents, and in-laws, his brothers and his close friends that preceded him from this earth. The list goes on and on. To paraphrase David O. McKay, a former President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints: “[Our father] closed [his] eyes in peaceful slumber, and awakened with loved ones.” While no one mortal was with him when he passed from this life, the speed with which the event happened, and how he looked afterwards attests to the fact that his last minutes were indeed peaceful; it was indeed as if he was only sleeping when his spirit left this world. His pain and suffering were removed from him.
It has been written that “Death is the liberator of him whom freedom cannot release; the physician of him whom medicine cannot cure; the comforter of him whom time cannot console.” [Charles Caleb Colton] Dad has been liberated. He is happy. He is youthful, and joyful once again, just as he was before the travails of mortal life began to take him away from us. We know where he is and we rejoice in who he is once more.
Yet we are filled with sorrow. Our sorrow is understandable, it is human: it is sorrow for us, not for him. Speaking for myself, as I have elsewhere here, it is a sorrow born of selfishness. In spite of knowing where he is and who he is with, I still want him back as a part of my everyday life. Dad is no longer physically present to talk to, to listen to our stories and concerns. We can no longer hear his stories, get his advice, or see or hear, except in our hearts and minds, his smile and his laugh. We can no longer go to him for advice and we can no longer learn from him skills such as woodworking. I cannot call him during a college football game and complain about a referee’s call or rave about an amazing play. These are the things that I am sorrowful for — the things that I have lost.
When I consider this, and think about the precepts of Christ’s gospel and turn my thoughts from an inward focus to an outward focus, when I consider these things and think about where dad is and who he is with, not to mention the fact that we will see him again in time, then my sorrow is lessened and the pain eases. He has graduated from the test of mortality to an institution of higher learning.
It is a change of attitude that is required. Anyone that knew Dad well knew that attitude was an important concept to him. It was something that he tried with his sons at an early age to instill: “ATTITUDE MAKES THE DIFFERENCE.” He was forever reminding us of this principle. Growing up, one of the most oft-heard phrases in the home was my father telling one us to “CHECK YOUR ATTITUDE!” It was his way of telling us to shape up. Eventually it got to just simply “CHECK IT!” That was one of those times you knew you were in trouble.
In my scriptures I still carry a laminated card that I made on my mission that reads “AMTD” — an acronym that Dad used when even “Check it!” didn’t work. “Attitude makes the difference.” My friends, to all who knew Dad: “Check your attitude.” Do not dwell on the sorrow, do not dwell on the pain. Negative attitudes are of the Adversary. Remember instead a man who very patiently, hour after hour, threw a baseball to his youngest son in the front yard -— a son who was somehow completely incompetent and inept in the handling of a baseball glove. Remember a man who learned to fly a plane, who flew around the world, while sitting with his brother on a log in a meadow in Southern Idaho. Remember a man who never failed to bring home from a business trip some treat for his youngest son, whether it be a Matchbox car or a bag of airline peanuts, even though that son fairly quickly realized that -— more than likely -— most of those treats were sent with him by my mother. Remember a man who always came home. Remember a man who did all he could to find work to support his family, while not allowing his family to suffer or, at least in my case, to even know that the family was struggling. Remember a man who grabbed every task set before him and performed it to the utmost of his ability, whether it was working, woodworking, whether it was supporting the University, or whether it was teaching the Gospel and sharing his testimony of the Lord. Remember a man who labored faithfully in the Temple of the Lord each week, even when his own physical health was declining, who begged to be allowed to serve the Lord, even when he physically could no longer do it. Remember a man who freely shared his testimony of the Savior to anyone that would hear it. Remember a man who walked ready and unafraid to the veil which separates this world from the next.
Most importantly, remember a man that is now free from pain and free forever from the specter of Death. The poet John Donne penned these fitting words, “One short sleep past, we wake eternally, and Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!” Because of our Savior’s gifts to us, our beloved father, brother, granddad, and friend yet lives, in a higher place. Because of our Savior’s gifts, we can be assured of seeing him again one day; we can embrace him as he one day meets us on the other side of mortality.
I want to leave you today with the words of Norman Macleod:
Dad still lives and we shall see him once again, in a better place. I know this for a fact. May we, each one of us, feel within us the peace that the Savior promised, and may our attitudes reflect joy and peace. This is my prayer for all of us who knew Dad. I leave this with all of you -- whether you knew Dad or not -- along with my testimony of these things, in the name of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
Father’s Day was difficult for me, my brothers, and my mother this year. But what better time to be able to remember what Dad meant to us? What a fitting time to celebrate his life and memory? And what a great time to consider the fact that he has gone ahead to prepare the way for us, and the fact that we will see him again? That our separation will be, in the grand scheme of things, only a little while. How wonderful is the thought that my children can embrace him once again, that we can sit at his feet and listen to his stories? That we can be together, forever, as a famliy?
And this is possible because nearly a millennium ago, an individual knelt in a garden and prayed to his Father. He was known as the “Carpenter’s son,” yet he was the Son of God. It was there, in that garden, that he took upon himself the sins of all mankind, the sins of all the world, both past, present, and future. It was an event that had been foretold by prophets throughout history.
It was there in that garden that night, as he bled from every pore, that Christ, “The Son of Man . . . descended below . . . all.” [D&C 122:8]
This was “the blood that maketh an atonement for the soul.” [Leviticus 17:11]
“Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.” [John 1:29]
“Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows . . . he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities . . . and with his stripes we are healed.” [Isaiah 53:4-5]
“He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.” [Isaiah 53:3]
“God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” [John 3:16]
The agony he suffered in that garden is unfathomable to us, both in intensity and in cause. But the gift that he gave us through that suffering is also marvelous, magnificent. On that night, Jesus shouldered the burdens of all of our transgressions -— my transgressions and your transgressions. I added to his anguish that night, as did each one of us. But he picked up that burden and took it upon himself so that a price would be paid. That price was paid so that I might escape, and so that you might escape, the required punishments that correspond to our sins. The scriptures tell us that the gift is ours if we but believe in him, accept his gift, repent and be baptized, receive the gift of the holy ghost, and to continue faithfully to observe and keep the commandments all the days of our lives. Christ gifted us with salvation from spiritual death, which grants us eternal life with our heavenly father.
Many years ago, a newspaper writer was asked, “What would be the most important news story the world could receive?” Think about how you would answer that question: would it be the development of the atomic bomb? Man walking on the moon? The death of a (fill in the blank) celebrity? The assassination of a president? After some thought the reporter finally answered that the most important story he could report would be that a man that had lived and died had come back to life; and specifically that Jesus Christ was truly resurrected and lives today.
No event in all history compares to the importance of the resurrection of Christ. Because of this gift all mankind will come forth, each in his own order. We will live eternally. We will be resurrected and overcome physical death.
Isn’t this a joyous, glorious message? It means that we will one day be reunited with Dad. I bear you my testimony that this Gospel principle is true; the Atonement is real — Christ has given us gifts that will liberate our spirit and our body from the bonds of death and allow us to live in God’s presence forever.
We are understandably sad. We have lost a loved one. I should restate that; I do not like that phrase. We have not “lost” Dad —- We know exactly where he is. He is with his loving parents, grandparents, and in-laws, his brothers and his close friends that preceded him from this earth. The list goes on and on. To paraphrase David O. McKay, a former President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints: “[Our father] closed [his] eyes in peaceful slumber, and awakened with loved ones.” While no one mortal was with him when he passed from this life, the speed with which the event happened, and how he looked afterwards attests to the fact that his last minutes were indeed peaceful; it was indeed as if he was only sleeping when his spirit left this world. His pain and suffering were removed from him.
It has been written that “Death is the liberator of him whom freedom cannot release; the physician of him whom medicine cannot cure; the comforter of him whom time cannot console.” [Charles Caleb Colton] Dad has been liberated. He is happy. He is youthful, and joyful once again, just as he was before the travails of mortal life began to take him away from us. We know where he is and we rejoice in who he is once more.
Yet we are filled with sorrow. Our sorrow is understandable, it is human: it is sorrow for us, not for him. Speaking for myself, as I have elsewhere here, it is a sorrow born of selfishness. In spite of knowing where he is and who he is with, I still want him back as a part of my everyday life. Dad is no longer physically present to talk to, to listen to our stories and concerns. We can no longer hear his stories, get his advice, or see or hear, except in our hearts and minds, his smile and his laugh. We can no longer go to him for advice and we can no longer learn from him skills such as woodworking. I cannot call him during a college football game and complain about a referee’s call or rave about an amazing play. These are the things that I am sorrowful for — the things that I have lost.
When I consider this, and think about the precepts of Christ’s gospel and turn my thoughts from an inward focus to an outward focus, when I consider these things and think about where dad is and who he is with, not to mention the fact that we will see him again in time, then my sorrow is lessened and the pain eases. He has graduated from the test of mortality to an institution of higher learning.
It is a change of attitude that is required. Anyone that knew Dad well knew that attitude was an important concept to him. It was something that he tried with his sons at an early age to instill: “ATTITUDE MAKES THE DIFFERENCE.” He was forever reminding us of this principle. Growing up, one of the most oft-heard phrases in the home was my father telling one us to “CHECK YOUR ATTITUDE!” It was his way of telling us to shape up. Eventually it got to just simply “CHECK IT!” That was one of those times you knew you were in trouble.
In my scriptures I still carry a laminated card that I made on my mission that reads “AMTD” — an acronym that Dad used when even “Check it!” didn’t work. “Attitude makes the difference.” My friends, to all who knew Dad: “Check your attitude.” Do not dwell on the sorrow, do not dwell on the pain. Negative attitudes are of the Adversary. Remember instead a man who very patiently, hour after hour, threw a baseball to his youngest son in the front yard -— a son who was somehow completely incompetent and inept in the handling of a baseball glove. Remember a man who learned to fly a plane, who flew around the world, while sitting with his brother on a log in a meadow in Southern Idaho. Remember a man who never failed to bring home from a business trip some treat for his youngest son, whether it be a Matchbox car or a bag of airline peanuts, even though that son fairly quickly realized that -— more than likely -— most of those treats were sent with him by my mother. Remember a man who always came home. Remember a man who did all he could to find work to support his family, while not allowing his family to suffer or, at least in my case, to even know that the family was struggling. Remember a man who grabbed every task set before him and performed it to the utmost of his ability, whether it was working, woodworking, whether it was supporting the University, or whether it was teaching the Gospel and sharing his testimony of the Lord. Remember a man who labored faithfully in the Temple of the Lord each week, even when his own physical health was declining, who begged to be allowed to serve the Lord, even when he physically could no longer do it. Remember a man who freely shared his testimony of the Savior to anyone that would hear it. Remember a man who walked ready and unafraid to the veil which separates this world from the next.
Most importantly, remember a man that is now free from pain and free forever from the specter of Death. The poet John Donne penned these fitting words, “One short sleep past, we wake eternally, and Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!” Because of our Savior’s gifts to us, our beloved father, brother, granddad, and friend yet lives, in a higher place. Because of our Savior’s gifts, we can be assured of seeing him again one day; we can embrace him as he one day meets us on the other side of mortality.
I want to leave you today with the words of Norman Macleod:
We picture death as coming to destroy; let us rather picture Christ as coming to save.“Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.” [John 8:12] “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” [John 14:27]
We think of death as ending; let us rather think of life as beginning, and that more abundantly.
We think of losing; let us think of gaining.
We think of parting, let us think of meeting.
We think of going away; let us think of arriving.
As the voice of Death whispers “You must go from Earth,” let us hear the voice of Christ saying, “You are but coming to me!”
Dad still lives and we shall see him once again, in a better place. I know this for a fact. May we, each one of us, feel within us the peace that the Savior promised, and may our attitudes reflect joy and peace. This is my prayer for all of us who knew Dad. I leave this with all of you -- whether you knew Dad or not -- along with my testimony of these things, in the name of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Rest in Peace, America
We lost two entertainment icons last week. Farrah and Michael. May they rest in peace.
America may be history as well. But more on that in a moment.
The loss of any human life is, at its most basic, a tragedy. There is some tragedy in how these two lived their lives, but I am not going to belabor that or lessen the impact their deaths have had on their families. Whatever you think of them, they were human beings, plain and simple.
What I will do, however, is excoriate the mainstream media for forcing it down our throats, non-stop. EVERYTHING on cable programming yesterday afternoon was about the death of Michael Jackson. Everything. I think I even saw him on a Beverly Hillbillies re-run, although I may be mistaken on that point.
I had to literally search for something -- anything -- that discussed the outcome of the vote on the biggest tax attack perpetrated upon the American People. I mean, of course, the so-calledcap and trade "HR.2454: Title: To create clean energy jobs, achieve energy independence, reduce global warming pollution and transition to a clean energy economy.
Politically-correct Global Warming crap.
Even the local news spent more time trying to link Michael Jackson's life, somehow, however tenuously, to our little town than they did reporting on how our representatives voted on the cap and tax scheme.
You see, the mainstream media and the Washington insiders did not want the American people to focus on this bill. They knew that there was grave danger to the bill if the people really stood up and took notice.
So what did they do?
What do you do when you take a young toddler to get his or her picture taken? What do you do in church when the same child starts to fuss because you've taken something away from him or her?
You distract them.
You use the squeaky duck toy. You jingle your bright, shiny keys in front of them. Anything to get them to forget the camera or the fragile book you want to get away from their grasp.
At first, I believed that South Carolina Governor Sanford's saga was the shiny thing. After all, why make such a big deal over a person -- even though a Governor -- disappearing to hike in the mountains? I think I would do the same thing if I were in public office: just disappear and be by myself. I did not blame him in the least. But remember how the media kept harping and harping on how horrible it was that he would just "disappear"?
The jingling had started.
Then it was revealed he'd actually been in Argentina, not the Appalachian Trail. Even then, I must say, I was still on his side.
The jingling got louder.
Then it was revealed that the married Governor had left his wife at home and traveled to meet up with his Argentinian girlfriend. Whoops. I jumped off his bandwagon at that point. But the media kept harping and harping, louder and louder.
I think at some point I may have seen a big squeaking bunny toy on the lecturn next to Governor Sanford. Honest.
He looked a bit like Harvey, actually.
I don't blame the criticism of the Governor on this issue. After all, your wife should be the most important part of your life. If you're willing to cheat on that, if your wife means as little to you as that, what are your constituents? "Governor" is just a job, after all is said and done. If I was a South Carolinian, I would feel abused and cheated upon. I would want him run out of the Capitol on a rail.
I still believe that he was the intended "shiny thing." It was all a bit too convenient, timing-wise.
But can you tell me any man in America more grateful at the passing of Michael Jackson? Really? OK, granted, it's a pretty tactless thing to say or think.... But Michael's death (and to a much lesser extent Farrah's death) knocked Sanford right off the front page.
Jingle. Jingle. Look at the shiny keys, Little Darlings.
Unfortunately it appears as the deaths of these two human beings has become the latest "shiny thing" held up and jingled in front of the public to distract them from the more important things in life.
Come to think of it, we lost an "infotainment" icon this morning as well. Mr. Billy Mays. You may not know his name (I did not) -- after all, he's just an infomercial frontman -- but you'll remember him as the pitchman for Oxi-Clean and OrangeGlo, the guy with the big beard and loud, annoying voice. Rest in peace, Billy.
But take notice: an awful lot of attention is being paid to his passing. He was the pitchman for cleaning products in infomercials, for crying out loud. No disrespect intended for the newly-departed, but does he really warrant the barrage of coverage his death is getting? What accounts for this press coverage?
In my opinion, it's simple: the AmericanSheeple need first to be distracted from the passage of the cap-and-trade fiasco. They do not want you to know about the 300-page amendment that was added to the bill at the last minute.
They do not want you to know that, under this bill, if you sell your house, an environmental group is required to come out and "rate" your house, and you will not be allowed to sell your house until you "modernize" your appliances and have a certified "green" home. Liberty? You rest in peace, will you?
Jingle. Jingle. Jingle.
I am willing to bet that the conspiracy-theorists out there are having a field day. Michael and Billy both die under strange and still-unexplained circumstances? Anyone see the Men in Black around their homes?
Jingle. Jingle. Jingle, JINGLE.
I will be willing to bet there is more -- much more -- coming down the pike that will require further distractions.
What will those distractiosn be? It is anybody's guess at this point.
Rest in peace, Farrah, Michael, and Billy. Rest in peace. At least they do not have to worry about all this any longer. Just rest in peace.
And apparently, I may as well say this while I have my First Amendment right to do so: Rest in peace, America.
At least, the Free America I once knew and loved.
America may be history as well. But more on that in a moment.
The loss of any human life is, at its most basic, a tragedy. There is some tragedy in how these two lived their lives, but I am not going to belabor that or lessen the impact their deaths have had on their families. Whatever you think of them, they were human beings, plain and simple.
What I will do, however, is excoriate the mainstream media for forcing it down our throats, non-stop. EVERYTHING on cable programming yesterday afternoon was about the death of Michael Jackson. Everything. I think I even saw him on a Beverly Hillbillies re-run, although I may be mistaken on that point.
I had to literally search for something -- anything -- that discussed the outcome of the vote on the biggest tax attack perpetrated upon the American People. I mean, of course, the so-called
Politically-correct Global Warming crap.
Even the local news spent more time trying to link Michael Jackson's life, somehow, however tenuously, to our little town than they did reporting on how our representatives voted on the cap and tax scheme.
You see, the mainstream media and the Washington insiders did not want the American people to focus on this bill. They knew that there was grave danger to the bill if the people really stood up and took notice.
So what did they do?
What do you do when you take a young toddler to get his or her picture taken? What do you do in church when the same child starts to fuss because you've taken something away from him or her?
You distract them.
You use the squeaky duck toy. You jingle your bright, shiny keys in front of them. Anything to get them to forget the camera or the fragile book you want to get away from their grasp.
At first, I believed that South Carolina Governor Sanford's saga was the shiny thing. After all, why make such a big deal over a person -- even though a Governor -- disappearing to hike in the mountains? I think I would do the same thing if I were in public office: just disappear and be by myself. I did not blame him in the least. But remember how the media kept harping and harping on how horrible it was that he would just "disappear"?
The jingling had started.
Then it was revealed he'd actually been in Argentina, not the Appalachian Trail. Even then, I must say, I was still on his side.
The jingling got louder.
Then it was revealed that the married Governor had left his wife at home and traveled to meet up with his Argentinian girlfriend. Whoops. I jumped off his bandwagon at that point. But the media kept harping and harping, louder and louder.
I think at some point I may have seen a big squeaking bunny toy on the lecturn next to Governor Sanford. Honest.
He looked a bit like Harvey, actually.
I don't blame the criticism of the Governor on this issue. After all, your wife should be the most important part of your life. If you're willing to cheat on that, if your wife means as little to you as that, what are your constituents? "Governor" is just a job, after all is said and done. If I was a South Carolinian, I would feel abused and cheated upon. I would want him run out of the Capitol on a rail.
I still believe that he was the intended "shiny thing." It was all a bit too convenient, timing-wise.
But can you tell me any man in America more grateful at the passing of Michael Jackson? Really? OK, granted, it's a pretty tactless thing to say or think.... But Michael's death (and to a much lesser extent Farrah's death) knocked Sanford right off the front page.
Jingle. Jingle. Look at the shiny keys, Little Darlings.
Unfortunately it appears as the deaths of these two human beings has become the latest "shiny thing" held up and jingled in front of the public to distract them from the more important things in life.
Come to think of it, we lost an "infotainment" icon this morning as well. Mr. Billy Mays. You may not know his name (I did not) -- after all, he's just an infomercial frontman -- but you'll remember him as the pitchman for Oxi-Clean and OrangeGlo, the guy with the big beard and loud, annoying voice. Rest in peace, Billy.
But take notice: an awful lot of attention is being paid to his passing. He was the pitchman for cleaning products in infomercials, for crying out loud. No disrespect intended for the newly-departed, but does he really warrant the barrage of coverage his death is getting? What accounts for this press coverage?
In my opinion, it's simple: the American
They do not want you to know that, under this bill, if you sell your house, an environmental group is required to come out and "rate" your house, and you will not be allowed to sell your house until you "modernize" your appliances and have a certified "green" home. Liberty? You rest in peace, will you?
Jingle. Jingle. Jingle.
I am willing to bet that the conspiracy-theorists out there are having a field day. Michael and Billy both die under strange and still-unexplained circumstances? Anyone see the Men in Black around their homes?
Jingle. Jingle. Jingle, JINGLE.
I will be willing to bet there is more -- much more -- coming down the pike that will require further distractions.
What will those distractiosn be? It is anybody's guess at this point.
Rest in peace, Farrah, Michael, and Billy. Rest in peace. At least they do not have to worry about all this any longer. Just rest in peace.
And apparently, I may as well say this while I have my First Amendment right to do so: Rest in peace, America.
At least, the Free America I once knew and loved.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Quote of the Day -- June 10, 2009
Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not ‘seems.’
’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forc’d breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly; these indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within which passeth show;
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, Act I, Scene ii.
And to think that at one point in my life I thought this was detestable drivel. As I think I have stated here before, I will be forever grateful to a High School teacher, and later two Professors, that instilled in me a love for Shakespeare.
Now, I cannot understand how anyone cannot read this and not say, "wow."
I am trying to instill in my own children a love of Shakespeare early in their lives. It seems to be working, too. I am grateful and hopeful; I see so many others, even within my own extended family (nieces, nephews, cousins) who simply turn up their nose at Shakespeare but drool over the latest from JK Rowling, Danielle Steele, or [shudder]
Thank you, public education. Well done. Yet another reason to Home School.
Needless to say, when I read or hear something like this passage, I am embarrassed to even pick up a pen to put to paper. Oh that my best could someday equal The Bard's worst.
Finally, I wonder: am I the only one that reads this (and reads it aloud) for fun? I hope not.
OK. I am a nerd.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Naturally Blonde
I must say ahead of time that I am sorry if I offend any blondes or blonde-related readers today. But this must be shared.
From FoxNews.com: Judge Tosses Hair Dye Lawsuit for Blonde Who Had Less Fun as Brunette
I will admit that I do not have much experience with hair dyes, but c'mon ladies, help me out here.... It grows out, does it not? Hair dye ain't permanent, is it? I mean, that's what keeps L'Oreal in business, right? Repeat customers?
OK, sure.... It may take a while to grow out...but was it really L'Oreal's decision that Ms. Feeney stay home? Really?
It's a good thing that Mr. Laudano declined to comment. He should be ashamed of even filing the stupid case.
I'm hoping it's just because he's blonde too.
What does this say about my profession? What does this say about our society? What, she couldn't read the label where it said "Brown" not "Blonde" before applying the dye? Really? or is it just a case of everyone trying to hit the Lawsuit Lottery?
Bankruptcy attorneys are not generally well-thought of among attorneys; our clients are not flashy or wealthy and we usually don't get rich from the practice. But we all console ourselves with one thing:
We're not personal injury/tort lawyers.
UPDATE:
Apparently her blonde brother sells cars. Also from FoxNews: Woman, 90, Dies After Crashing New Sports Car
But the salesman.... He must have been blonde.
I don't want to think there are people that greedy, that desperate to make a commission.
Think about it. Did he not have a moral obligation to say, "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but isn't this big muscle car just maybe a bit too much car for you? We have this nice little car over here, although it costs much less."
He sold a 90-year-old woman a dang muscle car. A $23,000 muscle car.
That's not to say that he should be sued, or found liable in any way in her death. Please, you should know me better than that by now. She was an adult; I'm guessing her son went with her as well. He too is an adult. They made the choice.Do not pick up the phone to call David Laudano about this case. The salesman was not complicit in her death.
But he may just have been a bit blonde.
From FoxNews.com: Judge Tosses Hair Dye Lawsuit for Blonde Who Had Less Fun as Brunette
BRIDGEPORT, Conn. — A judge has brushed off a Connecticut woman's claim that L'Oreal Inc. ruined her social life when she accidentally dyed her hair brunette with one of its products.OK. Is it just me, or does this woman truly, truly epitomize blondeness? (Blondinity? Blondification?)
Charlotte Feeney of Stratford said she can never return to her natural blonde hue, a shock that left her so traumatized she needed anti-depressants.
She says she suffered headaches and anxiety, missed the attention that blondes receive and had to stay home and wear hats most of the time.
A Superior Court judge dismissed Feeney's 2005 lawsuit Monday, saying she never proved her allegation that L'Oreal put brown hair dye in a box labeled as blonde. The company also had disputed the claim.
Feeney's attorney, David Laudano, declined to comment and she could not be reached after the judge's decision.
I will admit that I do not have much experience with hair dyes, but c'mon ladies, help me out here.... It grows out, does it not? Hair dye ain't permanent, is it? I mean, that's what keeps L'Oreal in business, right? Repeat customers?
OK, sure.... It may take a while to grow out...but was it really L'Oreal's decision that Ms. Feeney stay home? Really?
It's a good thing that Mr. Laudano declined to comment. He should be ashamed of even filing the stupid case.
I'm hoping it's just because he's blonde too.
What does this say about my profession? What does this say about our society? What, she couldn't read the label where it said "Brown" not "Blonde" before applying the dye? Really? or is it just a case of everyone trying to hit the Lawsuit Lottery?
Bankruptcy attorneys are not generally well-thought of among attorneys; our clients are not flashy or wealthy and we usually don't get rich from the practice. But we all console ourselves with one thing:
We're not personal injury/tort lawyers.
UPDATE:
Apparently her blonde brother sells cars. Also from FoxNews: Woman, 90, Dies After Crashing New Sports Car
POMPANO BEACH, Fla. — A 90-year-old woman was killed when she lost control of her new sports car and slammed into a pole, authorities said.I have more sense, tact, taste, and pathos than to say anything ill against the dead. I truly feel for this poor woman; my own grandfather mistook the gas for the brake on several occasions, one of which cost my family a garage door. So I feel for this woman and her family.
State motor vehicle records show that Maria Brunetti, of Pompano Beach, got the 2009 Dodge Challenger Friday on her birthday. A Broward Sheriff's spokesman said the car's odometer only showed 151 miles.
Detectives believe that Brunetti lost control Sunday when she accelerated instead of braking while trying to make a turn. The car hit a concrete pole and caught fire with Brunetti and her son, 47-year-old Peter Brunetti, trapped inside.
Witnesses pulled the them from the burning car, and fire-rescue took them to the hospital. The woman was pronounced dead a short time later, and her son was in serious condition.
But the salesman.... He must have been blonde.
I don't want to think there are people that greedy, that desperate to make a commission.
Think about it. Did he not have a moral obligation to say, "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but isn't this big muscle car just maybe a bit too much car for you? We have this nice little car over here, although it costs much less."
He sold a 90-year-old woman a dang muscle car. A $23,000 muscle car.
That's not to say that he should be sued, or found liable in any way in her death. Please, you should know me better than that by now. She was an adult; I'm guessing her son went with her as well. He too is an adult. They made the choice.Do not pick up the phone to call David Laudano about this case. The salesman was not complicit in her death.
But he may just have been a bit blonde.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Lest thou forget....
[L]est thou forget the things which thine eyes have seen, and lest they depart from thy heart all the days of thy life: but teach them thy sons, and thy sons’ sons. {Deut.4:9.}In loving memory of the 3,000+ American lives that were brutally cut short seven years ago today. God bless them and their families, friends, and loved ones. Lest we forget. It's only been seven years and where are we now?
It's next to impossible to find footage of these events that are not wrapped up in "truther" conspiracy theories. Have we already forgotten? Why are we not seeing these videos, these images, on the news all day long?
These are the sights and sounds of our fellow Americans dying.
These are the sights and sounds of what we are fighting against.
Don't bother giving me your Truther spins. Sorry, but that money's no good here. I won't go into my reasons for this position here. Suffice it to say first that there were simply too many variables to keep quiet for this long and second that this Administration is too unpopular for someone truly in the know to have not yet stepped forth and said, "Here's how we did it. Yes, WE did it." There. That is all I will say about the conspiracy theorists. What matters today is that it happened.
I will tell you how it happened: EVIL.
It is not a popular position in our modern world, that Evil exists. Sure, lip service is given, but it is not generally believed, truly believed, that Evil is alive, well, and active in the world.
It is.
See above for an example.
How many lives cut short? How many families broken and destroyed? How many individual faiths and testimonies shattered? How many beliefs in God shredded?
You tell me these acts were not Evil and I will raise an eyebrow.
We must not forget.
We must teach it to our sons and our sons' sons.
Some may say that we must forgive and forget. That it is pointless to dwell on the images and the events of that day.
That's like saying that we should not dwell on the instances and examples of evil pointed out in the Scriptures.
Forgive and forget? Excuse me? Hello? If you weren't aware, there is Evil in the world.
EVIL.
Maybe, maybe you could make a case for forgiving those who actually committed the acts? But only so far as you forgive their individual choice. But to cast a "blanket of forgiveness" over it? We should turn a blind eye to it and forget about it?
No. It is our responsibility to watch for and expose that Evil. It is our duty to make sure that our friends, families, and children understand this Evil and can recognize it for themselves.
Recognition is key to stopping Evil, crushing Evil, and digging out its roots. We are at war with Evil; the ancient War in Heaven continues today. {Aside: Please do not misquote me and tell me I am equating any specific religion or people with Evil. I am talking about a much larger scale, a larger philosophy than this narrow view.} I will say it again: We are at war against Evil. This is not just Iggy talking; this was expressed by a Prophet of the Lord. {See Gordon B. Hinckley, "The Times in Which We Live," Ensign, Nov. 2001.)
Granted, the people of this country have done some really, really stupid things in the guise of stopping Evil. And yes, I am talking stupidity on both sides of the political aisle. We, as a country, have made some mistakes.
But the acts that happened seven years ago? These were works of Evil, not mistakes. As President Hinckley said, "Out of that vicious and ugly attack we are plunged into a state of war.... But this was not an attack on the United States alone. It was an attack on men and nations of goodwill everywhere.... It was cruel and cunning, an act of consummate evil." {Id.}
An act of consumate evil. Recognition of this fact is key, lest we forget.
On this day, and every day, God Bless America.
We really need it.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Constructive Thoughts: Dad
I've had a difficult weekend.
I learned my father has cancer.
He has been fighting benign bladder tumors for several years, but they've not been serious.
Now he has cancer. Prostate cancer.
They're not going to operate, because the physicians figure it would only buy fifteen years, and my father is old enough that they don't expect he has fifteen years anyway.
That's a nice bedside manner, eh?
It has not metastasized, so that's a bit of good news.
As good as it can be, I suppose. Needless to say, it's been tough to concentrate on anything else this weekend. Watching him hold my six-month-old in his arms just minutes after reassuring me of his mortality was nearly more than I could take. The question popped into my mind: would she ever know him, remember him?
I don't know how even to begin putting into words my memories of the stories of and experiences with my father.
Some of my fondest memories of Dad center around the little black-and-white television that stood in Mother and Dad's bedroom for so long, perched precariously upon the little, rickety television stand. The tear-streaked, red, laughing face that always appeared following Barbra Streisand and Ryan O'Neal's race through the streets of San Francisco. Michael Douglas and bulbous-nosed Karl Malden racing through the Streets of San Francisco. There was F.B.I. and Hawaii Five-O. And of course, M*A*S*H*. Nothing (other than What's Up Doc?) would make Dad roar with laughter like Hawkeye's antics or Frank Burns' buffoonery. I didn't always understand the joke, or what was going on in the show, but just to see that twinkle in Dad's eyes was something special.
Dad would get that same twinkle in his eye when he had the opportunity to tease. He loved to tell stories in front of my grandmother about her and my grandfather. I'll never forget how he would tease my siblings' dates and spouses. It was never mean or hurtful; he always knew how far to go and how to do it with love. Dad could also take it well as he could dish it out.
There were the years and years of University of Utah football--Dad's alma mater--that just seemed to end in misery, with Dad frustrated, yelling, and pounding his open hand on the bedspread, and the inevitable gloating telephone call from his brother after every BYU win.(Aside: Of course, now when I do the same thing watching the Utes or the Utah Jazz, it has somehow become "just a game" and I'm told to settle down and just enjoy.) Dad eventually got his fair share of gloating telephone calls in . . . but Dad's brother wasn't nearly as good a sport about getting the calls as he was about making them! Then there were the late nights at the local college watching basketball, while eating smuggled-in popcorn and sodas out of Mother's big white purse--that Dad inevitably ended up carrying into the building.
Dad would also be the one to carry the purse into movies--it was a giant purse, usually filled with home-popped popcorn in supermarket produce sacks and illicit canned sodas. The movies? They were movies such as the interminable Gandhi, Chariots of Fire, and King David experiences. Dad was always trying to broaden my horizons like that--we never seemed to go to thegood "fun" movies that I wanted to see, or do the "fun" things that I wanted to do. Instead, it was hours and hours of boredom while we went around on odd jobs while he was unemployed. I can still remember the heat and the boredom--I was never allowed to take a book or any toys, except for a large, plastic, yellow model of a Honda Civic. There were also the (seeming) hours of travel to visit family, or to after-hours business meetings. Traveling to and from anywhere seemed like forever when reading in the car was forbidden.
But Dad made up for those times by introducing me to the dean of science fiction, Robert Heinlein, and to Martin Caidin, and to David Morrell--authors whose names my classmates seldom, if ever, recognized. It was Dad to whom I could turn to discuss books, although it will forever baffle me how his taste in books could be so broad, from Burroughs to Heinlein, from Clancy to L'Amour, but he could never stomach for a moment anything fantasy-related. "Why should I read about something that never happened and never could happen?" he would ask me. "It's just fantasy." The argument would frustrate me and I would simply let it die. Someday I hope to find a fantasy novel that he will read and enjoy . . . Someday.
Dad was forever trying to bring my head out of the clouds. Somehow, it was always he who would assist me with my math homework. He would get so livid at my inability to retain the quadratic formula or simple mathematic definitions, while being able to recite trivia ad nauseam. Sometimes I wonder whether, subconsciously, I did it on purpose, just to harass him. Years later, when I first read David Copperfield, I felt that I could relate in some small way to the terror and anguish young David felt when reciting his lessons (or attempting to) to his step-father. While Dad was never that harsh or brutal, the circumstances were similar--I could never keep the figures in my mind, but would soon find myself thinking about the crack in the wall, or the book I was reading, or anything but my homework. Dad would just get more and more upset. He would pound the table and drill me until I cried, but somehow the numbers would slip away; the more he pounded, the faster the numbers would fly. Inevitably, there would come a point where the futility was apparent and one (or both) of us would flee the table to find sanctuary elsewhere.
I know Dad tried so hard because he loved me. I can see that now; with the benefit of time and the aid of fatherhood, I can see many things more clearly, and I'm grateful for the patience that he showed in trying to teach me. I am grateful for the love he showed in trying to teach me, and for the quiet pride--and the sometimes not-so-quiet pride--he would show at my accomplishments: the first time I ever directed the music in Priesthood Meeting; the first time I ever water-skied; the first time I trailered the boat by myself; the first time I ever backed the trailer down the ramp, or parked the van and trailer; high school, college, and law school graduations; the look--and tears--in his eyes as I boarded the plane for my mission.
However, the feelings of pride are not one-sided. Dad likely does not know the pride I have for him, and the esteem in which I hold him. For example: the years as a Gospel Doctrine teacher, the dedication, knowledge, and spirit he could bring to bear on a given Sunday; the feeling of seeing him lead the congregation in song for many years; the dedication to the service, and the endurance that the many hours of long flights and lonely vigils that flying involved; the firm, quiet testimony he would sometimes stand and bear; hearing my voice blend with his on Sunday, singing hymns; the strength and knowledge in his hands as he would perform some simple chore or repair; and the love with which he has always looked at Mother.
As time goes by, I regret more and more the years I have wasted when I could have been learning from Dad. All those years, complaining about yard work, or helping Dad with the car, plumbing, or other odd jobs; I could have learned so much. Instead, I did as little work as possible--always excusing it with schoolwork, or reading, or any available excuse. When I did help, it was grudgingly, never thinking for a moment that any of what I was being asked to do, or what I could have done, would ever benefit me in my life in any way. Putting it in print even now embarrasses me beyond belief. I remember Dad spending his time to come to summer camp with the Scout troop one year. I am mortified now to think of how embarrassed I was to have my Dad there, lecturing to my buddies and taking them to task. Or at family reunions when I was too concerned about my own activities and pleasure to listen to and learn from Dad the stories of my heritage. Or the plethora of times I was too annoyed to listen to the lectures and the lessons he was trying to teach me.
I see now that I spent too long blinded by my youth to recognize the storehouse of knowledge that is Dad. If I was ever to tell him that I consider him such, he would pass it off as vain praise, but to me it is a statement of truth. Dad worked so hard with me as a Scout to learn knot-tying; to this day, I have to struggle to remember a simple square knot--anything more complex is beyond my abilities. He struggled to get me to achieve my Citizenship merit badges; how much that knowledge could have helped me in school classes if I had bothered to learn it! (Aside: "Learn it" rather than "know it long enough to pass off the merit badge.") There is so much I could have learned from him as a child that would have enriched my life and helped me to grow. Instead, I was too "busy" and just didn't care--there would always be another time, after all. In retrospect, I wonder just how much my inattention and my uncaring attitude hurt Dad. I know that it did, and hope that I can make up for that injury someday, somehow.
As I look back, I am amazed at how Dad's work troubles never seemed to impact the family, at least not that I ever saw. He was able to separate his professional and family lives, and not let the stress of daily life interfere with his time with his wife and children. He was always able to provide a wonderful Christmas or birthday for us, and he always had a little something--usually a Matchbox car (in the old cardboard box) and a packet of airline peanuts--tucked away in his suitcase every time he came home from a trip. Those little gifts always made me feel so special, showing me that he had he had thought about me and missed me while he was away.
More recently, it has been a joy to grow closer to Dad as an adult friend. The rapport I feel and the snippets of telephone conversations we have back and forth while watching Everybody Loves Raymond or a particularly gritty NBA game ("Where was the foul?!") are priceless and important to me. So is being able to discuss the gospel with one another and to be taught by his example, or having someone there to whom I can turn for advice. Most importantly, as one who was not able to fully experience the joys of vital and vigorous grandparents, it is touching beyond words to see the expressions of love and the level of devotion that Dad shows my children. In some ways, I am able to imagine what it would have been like for me to have the opportunity to truly know my grandparents, and can vicariously enjoy the thrills, joys, and love that my children feel for their grandfather.
I can only hope that, one day, I can be as good a grandfather as he has been to the Horde. I only hope that I can be as good a father-in-law to my children's future spouses as he has been to his. I can only hope that I can be as good a father to my children as he has been to his.
I'm going to jealously guard every moment I have with him. Hoard every snippet of family lore I can gather. Glean every bit of life-knowledge from him that I can. Ask for his advice while I can get it.
Make him proud of me.
And love him while I can.
I love you, Dad.
I learned my father has cancer.
He has been fighting benign bladder tumors for several years, but they've not been serious.
Now he has cancer. Prostate cancer.
They're not going to operate, because the physicians figure it would only buy fifteen years, and my father is old enough that they don't expect he has fifteen years anyway.
That's a nice bedside manner, eh?
It has not metastasized, so that's a bit of good news.
As good as it can be, I suppose. Needless to say, it's been tough to concentrate on anything else this weekend. Watching him hold my six-month-old in his arms just minutes after reassuring me of his mortality was nearly more than I could take. The question popped into my mind: would she ever know him, remember him?
I don't know how even to begin putting into words my memories of the stories of and experiences with my father.
Some of my fondest memories of Dad center around the little black-and-white television that stood in Mother and Dad's bedroom for so long, perched precariously upon the little, rickety television stand. The tear-streaked, red, laughing face that always appeared following Barbra Streisand and Ryan O'Neal's race through the streets of San Francisco. Michael Douglas and bulbous-nosed Karl Malden racing through the Streets of San Francisco. There was F.B.I. and Hawaii Five-O. And of course, M*A*S*H*. Nothing (other than What's Up Doc?) would make Dad roar with laughter like Hawkeye's antics or Frank Burns' buffoonery. I didn't always understand the joke, or what was going on in the show, but just to see that twinkle in Dad's eyes was something special.
Dad would get that same twinkle in his eye when he had the opportunity to tease. He loved to tell stories in front of my grandmother about her and my grandfather. I'll never forget how he would tease my siblings' dates and spouses. It was never mean or hurtful; he always knew how far to go and how to do it with love. Dad could also take it well as he could dish it out.
There were the years and years of University of Utah football--Dad's alma mater--that just seemed to end in misery, with Dad frustrated, yelling, and pounding his open hand on the bedspread, and the inevitable gloating telephone call from his brother after every BYU win.(Aside: Of course, now when I do the same thing watching the Utes or the Utah Jazz, it has somehow become "just a game" and I'm told to settle down and just enjoy.) Dad eventually got his fair share of gloating telephone calls in . . . but Dad's brother wasn't nearly as good a sport about getting the calls as he was about making them! Then there were the late nights at the local college watching basketball, while eating smuggled-in popcorn and sodas out of Mother's big white purse--that Dad inevitably ended up carrying into the building.
Dad would also be the one to carry the purse into movies--it was a giant purse, usually filled with home-popped popcorn in supermarket produce sacks and illicit canned sodas. The movies? They were movies such as the interminable Gandhi, Chariots of Fire, and King David experiences. Dad was always trying to broaden my horizons like that--we never seemed to go to the
But Dad made up for those times by introducing me to the dean of science fiction, Robert Heinlein, and to Martin Caidin, and to David Morrell--authors whose names my classmates seldom, if ever, recognized. It was Dad to whom I could turn to discuss books, although it will forever baffle me how his taste in books could be so broad, from Burroughs to Heinlein, from Clancy to L'Amour, but he could never stomach for a moment anything fantasy-related. "Why should I read about something that never happened and never could happen?" he would ask me. "It's just fantasy." The argument would frustrate me and I would simply let it die. Someday I hope to find a fantasy novel that he will read and enjoy . . . Someday.
Dad was forever trying to bring my head out of the clouds. Somehow, it was always he who would assist me with my math homework. He would get so livid at my inability to retain the quadratic formula or simple mathematic definitions, while being able to recite trivia ad nauseam. Sometimes I wonder whether, subconsciously, I did it on purpose, just to harass him. Years later, when I first read David Copperfield, I felt that I could relate in some small way to the terror and anguish young David felt when reciting his lessons (or attempting to) to his step-father. While Dad was never that harsh or brutal, the circumstances were similar--I could never keep the figures in my mind, but would soon find myself thinking about the crack in the wall, or the book I was reading, or anything but my homework. Dad would just get more and more upset. He would pound the table and drill me until I cried, but somehow the numbers would slip away; the more he pounded, the faster the numbers would fly. Inevitably, there would come a point where the futility was apparent and one (or both) of us would flee the table to find sanctuary elsewhere.
I know Dad tried so hard because he loved me. I can see that now; with the benefit of time and the aid of fatherhood, I can see many things more clearly, and I'm grateful for the patience that he showed in trying to teach me. I am grateful for the love he showed in trying to teach me, and for the quiet pride--and the sometimes not-so-quiet pride--he would show at my accomplishments: the first time I ever directed the music in Priesthood Meeting; the first time I ever water-skied; the first time I trailered the boat by myself; the first time I ever backed the trailer down the ramp, or parked the van and trailer; high school, college, and law school graduations; the look--and tears--in his eyes as I boarded the plane for my mission.
However, the feelings of pride are not one-sided. Dad likely does not know the pride I have for him, and the esteem in which I hold him. For example: the years as a Gospel Doctrine teacher, the dedication, knowledge, and spirit he could bring to bear on a given Sunday; the feeling of seeing him lead the congregation in song for many years; the dedication to the service, and the endurance that the many hours of long flights and lonely vigils that flying involved; the firm, quiet testimony he would sometimes stand and bear; hearing my voice blend with his on Sunday, singing hymns; the strength and knowledge in his hands as he would perform some simple chore or repair; and the love with which he has always looked at Mother.
As time goes by, I regret more and more the years I have wasted when I could have been learning from Dad. All those years, complaining about yard work, or helping Dad with the car, plumbing, or other odd jobs; I could have learned so much. Instead, I did as little work as possible--always excusing it with schoolwork, or reading, or any available excuse. When I did help, it was grudgingly, never thinking for a moment that any of what I was being asked to do, or what I could have done, would ever benefit me in my life in any way. Putting it in print even now embarrasses me beyond belief. I remember Dad spending his time to come to summer camp with the Scout troop one year. I am mortified now to think of how embarrassed I was to have my Dad there, lecturing to my buddies and taking them to task. Or at family reunions when I was too concerned about my own activities and pleasure to listen to and learn from Dad the stories of my heritage. Or the plethora of times I was too annoyed to listen to the lectures and the lessons he was trying to teach me.
I see now that I spent too long blinded by my youth to recognize the storehouse of knowledge that is Dad. If I was ever to tell him that I consider him such, he would pass it off as vain praise, but to me it is a statement of truth. Dad worked so hard with me as a Scout to learn knot-tying; to this day, I have to struggle to remember a simple square knot--anything more complex is beyond my abilities. He struggled to get me to achieve my Citizenship merit badges; how much that knowledge could have helped me in school classes if I had bothered to learn it! (Aside: "Learn it" rather than "know it long enough to pass off the merit badge.") There is so much I could have learned from him as a child that would have enriched my life and helped me to grow. Instead, I was too "busy" and just didn't care--there would always be another time, after all. In retrospect, I wonder just how much my inattention and my uncaring attitude hurt Dad. I know that it did, and hope that I can make up for that injury someday, somehow.
As I look back, I am amazed at how Dad's work troubles never seemed to impact the family, at least not that I ever saw. He was able to separate his professional and family lives, and not let the stress of daily life interfere with his time with his wife and children. He was always able to provide a wonderful Christmas or birthday for us, and he always had a little something--usually a Matchbox car (in the old cardboard box) and a packet of airline peanuts--tucked away in his suitcase every time he came home from a trip. Those little gifts always made me feel so special, showing me that he had he had thought about me and missed me while he was away.
More recently, it has been a joy to grow closer to Dad as an adult friend. The rapport I feel and the snippets of telephone conversations we have back and forth while watching Everybody Loves Raymond or a particularly gritty NBA game ("Where was the foul?!") are priceless and important to me. So is being able to discuss the gospel with one another and to be taught by his example, or having someone there to whom I can turn for advice. Most importantly, as one who was not able to fully experience the joys of vital and vigorous grandparents, it is touching beyond words to see the expressions of love and the level of devotion that Dad shows my children. In some ways, I am able to imagine what it would have been like for me to have the opportunity to truly know my grandparents, and can vicariously enjoy the thrills, joys, and love that my children feel for their grandfather.
I can only hope that, one day, I can be as good a grandfather as he has been to the Horde. I only hope that I can be as good a father-in-law to my children's future spouses as he has been to his. I can only hope that I can be as good a father to my children as he has been to his.
I'm going to jealously guard every moment I have with him. Hoard every snippet of family lore I can gather. Glean every bit of life-knowledge from him that I can. Ask for his advice while I can get it.
Make him proud of me.
And love him while I can.
I love you, Dad.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Prayers for the Senator
There are plenty of bad things I could say about Massachusetts Senator Edward M. "Ted" Kennedy. I've been thinking about this for several weeks now.
I am not going to go there, however.
I have heard over the past few weeks talk-show hosts and talk-show listeners of various ilk, persuasion, and political leanings make constant reference to these things, and some have even made fun of the man.
But I refuse to follow in their footsteps.
Because of the brain tumor.
I am not--as others have--going to bring up any of the bad legislation, rumored questionable antics, or alleged scandalous personal issues the man has spawned over the years.
I am going to give him a pass on all that for a while.
Because of the brain tumor.
I have lost two uncles to cancer.
Another one has not much longer to live.
I have rarely agreed with anything Senator Kennedy has ever said, save for some of his positions on the so-called Bankruptcy Reform Act back in 2005.
But I am going to give him a pass this time.
Because of the brain tumor.
He is a human being, after all. The man has a family; a family who loves him. And I know a little bit about what his family is going through and what they must be thinking. What realizations they are having and eventualities they are coming to accept.
I have seen the pain, the physical ravages that this disease causes in the victim. I have seen the pain, the emotional ravages, the psychological storms, the spiritual questions that this disease causes in the victim's family.
The Honorable Edward Kennedy has, by all accounts, received a death sentence.
And that weighs a bit more heavily than partisan politics and disagreeable policies.
I do not know the man and he and his family will probably never know how I feel.
But all the same, I wish to send him and his family God's blessings and comfort. I hope for all the best for him. I truly wish him all the best and hope he has a speedy recovery. I'm going to include him in my prayers.
I hope his family has him around--to love and appreciate--just as long as they possibly can.
Because I know how they feel.
I am not going to go there, however.
I have heard over the past few weeks talk-show hosts and talk-show listeners of various ilk, persuasion, and political leanings make constant reference to these things, and some have even made fun of the man.
But I refuse to follow in their footsteps.
Because of the brain tumor.
I am not--as others have--going to bring up any of the bad legislation, rumored questionable antics, or alleged scandalous personal issues the man has spawned over the years.
I am going to give him a pass on all that for a while.
Because of the brain tumor.
I have lost two uncles to cancer.
Another one has not much longer to live.
I have rarely agreed with anything Senator Kennedy has ever said, save for some of his positions on the so-called Bankruptcy Reform Act back in 2005.
But I am going to give him a pass this time.
Because of the brain tumor.
He is a human being, after all. The man has a family; a family who loves him. And I know a little bit about what his family is going through and what they must be thinking. What realizations they are having and eventualities they are coming to accept.
I have seen the pain, the physical ravages that this disease causes in the victim. I have seen the pain, the emotional ravages, the psychological storms, the spiritual questions that this disease causes in the victim's family.
The Honorable Edward Kennedy has, by all accounts, received a death sentence.
And that weighs a bit more heavily than partisan politics and disagreeable policies.
I do not know the man and he and his family will probably never know how I feel.
But all the same, I wish to send him and his family God's blessings and comfort. I hope for all the best for him. I truly wish him all the best and hope he has a speedy recovery. I'm going to include him in my prayers.
I hope his family has him around--to love and appreciate--just as long as they possibly can.
Because I know how they feel.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Constructive Thoughts: Death
I have had a hard time writing anything this week after hearing from a friend over in Salt Lake City, Utah, that his uncle had suddenly passed away. When he first called me, my friend told me that his uncle had been sick for several months, but went downhill quickly and it had taken him very much by surprise. It was very difficult for him to speak of the circumstances surrounding the event, and difficult for him to keep his composure. I was immediately reminded of the death of my own uncle some time ago.
I know what my friend is going through, because like him, I am not well-acquainted with death and was close to my uncle. The things that my friend has been telling me this week have hit very close to home. This is the first time I have put into writing any of my thoughts or feelings about the death of my uncle. I am a little bit afraid of the memories or emotions that I might feel.
When I heard the news about my own uncle from my parents, I was numb, initially--calm, reserved, even stoic; within just a few hours I remember standing in the shower, tears streaming down my face, mixing with the water and soap and swirling down the drain. I felt helpless and drained. My throat and eyes hurt. The sorrow was coming in waves, every ten to twenty minutes there would be another bout.
My Utah friend tells me it was much the same for him. He thought a hot shower would help ease his aching eyes and stuffed-up sinuses. Instead, it provided a mask for his tears. His wife told me he even punched the tile wall several times; he could not even bring himself to talk to her about anything past the basic details. He couldn’t put any of his feelings into words.
I know how that feels.
I told him what I had been told in the same circumstances: that his uncle was at peace; he was in a better place; that through the gifts that Christ gave us, his family would be together again; this was a joyous time, like a graduation ceremony from this life to a better one, and that we all should be happy.
Funny--his response was the same one I gave those who tried to comfort me: I know all that, but I have every right to be selfish right now.
I know how that feels too.
You see, it IS a joyous time, a graduation from this life of pain and trial to a new life of happiness and glory. Those who leave us behind do so facing a return to a place of infinite beauty.
We who are left behind, however, are left with only our memories of our loved ones. We are left with the knowledge of our mortal minds that we will never see our beloved uncle again in this life. That is the key, of course: IN THIS LIFE. We can tell ourselves--and we can actually know and believe--that all that made our loved ones who they are still exists. But still we cry. Why? It is out of our selfishness.
We are envious, perhaps, of where they are and what they are experiencing.
We are selfish, wanting to share more time and experiences with our loved ones.
We are angry, lashing out at other loved ones because of the envy and selfisness.
We are sorrowful, knowing that we feel all these things and cannot seem to help it.
It is our mortal mind warring with the knowledge of our eternal souls.
Knowing this, helps. A bit.
What really helps is the aid of the Comforter.
My friend described to me attending the viewing and seeing one of his cousins wracked in grief, telling a sister that “I’m just waiting for what you always hear about, when the peace descends over you, and you’re able to move on.”
I know how this feels too. I waited and waited for that peace. Looking back, I think I tried too hard to force that peace to come.
The Comforter cannot--WILL NOT--be forced. He has to be ALLOWED to come in to your heart and mind.
My uncle also passed away quite close to Easter. I think this fact was part of what helped me finally overcome the grief I felt at his passing. It helped me see past the selfishness and envy. I was able to see the Big Picture, because--with the Easter celebration--reminders of the Big Picture, or the Plan of Salvation, were all around me.
Knowing this, helps. A lot.
It was a constant reminder that because of His sacrifice for us, we may be forgiven of our sins, but also that we may conquer the physical death. That through His example--His resurrection--we will once again have our spirits and our bodies reunited, to live forever.
And importantly: to live forever WITH OUR FAMILIES.
It took several days for the peace to descend over me. I remember that I was next-to-useless at the office until it happened. My friend tells me that he felt the same: he was unable to focus or concentrate for any extended period of time on any task. Little things would set me off, either in tears or in anger. I have also lashed out at my friends and family, until no-one wanted to talk to me or confront me.
Once I let myself be reminded of all those things, of all the things that Easter stands for, I instinctively stopped trying to force the Spirit to help me, and instead opened my heart, mind, and soul to allow him to come in. And I felt peace.
With any death of a family member, particularly those with whom one has an especially-close bond, there will be selfishness. There will be envy and anger.
But the reminder... the knowledge.... His sacrifice changes everything. We need to remember that. Because it helps.
I will see my uncle again someday. My friend will once again see his uncle. Maybe the four of us will be able to sit down and swap stories. My uncle had been a scoutmaster with the Boy Scouts; his uncle had been in scouting his entire life, and had many honors and accolades. My friend told me this morning that one of the themes of the funeral was the scouting, and an image of his uncle sitting around a campfire with his heroes.
I’d like that.
Sitting around a campfire with my friend, our uncles, and all of our heroes someday.
I wonder what s’mores would taste like in Heaven?
Cutting through the envy, the selfishness, and the anger is the realization that I can and will see my family members again someday. This realization lets the Comforter descend, who helps pull me back from the edge and reminds me--helps me--to live my life so that I will have the opportunity to live with my loved ones forever.
My uncle.
And my heroes.
And my Savior.
Knowing this, helps.
Infinitely.
I know what my friend is going through, because like him, I am not well-acquainted with death and was close to my uncle. The things that my friend has been telling me this week have hit very close to home. This is the first time I have put into writing any of my thoughts or feelings about the death of my uncle. I am a little bit afraid of the memories or emotions that I might feel.
When I heard the news about my own uncle from my parents, I was numb, initially--calm, reserved, even stoic; within just a few hours I remember standing in the shower, tears streaming down my face, mixing with the water and soap and swirling down the drain. I felt helpless and drained. My throat and eyes hurt. The sorrow was coming in waves, every ten to twenty minutes there would be another bout.
My Utah friend tells me it was much the same for him. He thought a hot shower would help ease his aching eyes and stuffed-up sinuses. Instead, it provided a mask for his tears. His wife told me he even punched the tile wall several times; he could not even bring himself to talk to her about anything past the basic details. He couldn’t put any of his feelings into words.
I know how that feels.
I told him what I had been told in the same circumstances: that his uncle was at peace; he was in a better place; that through the gifts that Christ gave us, his family would be together again; this was a joyous time, like a graduation ceremony from this life to a better one, and that we all should be happy.
Funny--his response was the same one I gave those who tried to comfort me: I know all that, but I have every right to be selfish right now.
I know how that feels too.
You see, it IS a joyous time, a graduation from this life of pain and trial to a new life of happiness and glory. Those who leave us behind do so facing a return to a place of infinite beauty.
We who are left behind, however, are left with only our memories of our loved ones. We are left with the knowledge of our mortal minds that we will never see our beloved uncle again in this life. That is the key, of course: IN THIS LIFE. We can tell ourselves--and we can actually know and believe--that all that made our loved ones who they are still exists. But still we cry. Why? It is out of our selfishness.
We are envious, perhaps, of where they are and what they are experiencing.
We are selfish, wanting to share more time and experiences with our loved ones.
We are angry, lashing out at other loved ones because of the envy and selfisness.
We are sorrowful, knowing that we feel all these things and cannot seem to help it.
It is our mortal mind warring with the knowledge of our eternal souls.
Knowing this, helps. A bit.
What really helps is the aid of the Comforter.
My friend described to me attending the viewing and seeing one of his cousins wracked in grief, telling a sister that “I’m just waiting for what you always hear about, when the peace descends over you, and you’re able to move on.”
I know how this feels too. I waited and waited for that peace. Looking back, I think I tried too hard to force that peace to come.
The Comforter cannot--WILL NOT--be forced. He has to be ALLOWED to come in to your heart and mind.
My uncle also passed away quite close to Easter. I think this fact was part of what helped me finally overcome the grief I felt at his passing. It helped me see past the selfishness and envy. I was able to see the Big Picture, because--with the Easter celebration--reminders of the Big Picture, or the Plan of Salvation, were all around me.
Knowing this, helps. A lot.
It was a constant reminder that because of His sacrifice for us, we may be forgiven of our sins, but also that we may conquer the physical death. That through His example--His resurrection--we will once again have our spirits and our bodies reunited, to live forever.
And importantly: to live forever WITH OUR FAMILIES.
It took several days for the peace to descend over me. I remember that I was next-to-useless at the office until it happened. My friend tells me that he felt the same: he was unable to focus or concentrate for any extended period of time on any task. Little things would set me off, either in tears or in anger. I have also lashed out at my friends and family, until no-one wanted to talk to me or confront me.
Once I let myself be reminded of all those things, of all the things that Easter stands for, I instinctively stopped trying to force the Spirit to help me, and instead opened my heart, mind, and soul to allow him to come in. And I felt peace.
With any death of a family member, particularly those with whom one has an especially-close bond, there will be selfishness. There will be envy and anger.
But the reminder... the knowledge.... His sacrifice changes everything. We need to remember that. Because it helps.
I will see my uncle again someday. My friend will once again see his uncle. Maybe the four of us will be able to sit down and swap stories. My uncle had been a scoutmaster with the Boy Scouts; his uncle had been in scouting his entire life, and had many honors and accolades. My friend told me this morning that one of the themes of the funeral was the scouting, and an image of his uncle sitting around a campfire with his heroes.
I’d like that.
Sitting around a campfire with my friend, our uncles, and all of our heroes someday.
I wonder what s’mores would taste like in Heaven?
Cutting through the envy, the selfishness, and the anger is the realization that I can and will see my family members again someday. This realization lets the Comforter descend, who helps pull me back from the edge and reminds me--helps me--to live my life so that I will have the opportunity to live with my loved ones forever.
My uncle.
And my heroes.
And my Savior.
Knowing this, helps.
Infinitely.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Two Constants: Death and Taxes
Now, I'm generally not one to go in for the whole conspiracy theory fascination that so many seem to have. Granted, I don't entirely trust my government any longer and I find a lot of things that happen in the world news to be "fishy" at best, but I have yet to fit myself with a tinfoil hat and I am proud to say I have never read--and do not own--a copy of Catcher in the Rye. Also, Conspiracy Theory is really one of Mel Gibson's worst movies.
That being said, in browsing the 'web today, two stories caught my eye. The first story--at World Net Daily--reveals a settlement agreement between the IRS and the Scientologists, courtesy of a recent report by the American Bar Association Journal and a Wall Street Journal report in 1997.
Apparently, under their secret agreement with the Internal Revenue Service, Scientologists "can deduct the cost of religious education as a charitable gift." Now the question becomes whether members of other religious groups can cut the same agreement or whether Scientology is getting special treatment.
The ABA Journal report deals with a case currently on appeal before theNinth Circus Court of Schlemiels Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. Granted, it may be the most-overturned court in the country, but it appears that there is some sanity on that court after all. "The [ABA Journal] report said Judge Kim Wardlaw noted during arguments that the issue 'does intrude into the Establishment Clause,' and that the 'bottom line' is whether the IRS has, in fact, agreed to treat members of one religious group differently from members of another group."
Proof? The WND story concludes with a comment that "when the Sklars attempted to take the deduction the IRS sent them letters explaining the terms for Scientologists to take such deductions, but then disallowed theirs because they didn't provide receipts from the Church of Scientology."
Then we had this story from the St. Petersburg Times.
This was a man who taped hours and hours of camera footage, staking out Scientology buildings, and then produced a local "pseudo-documentary" for local cable television. Granted, there may be better ways to spend your time, and all indications point to the fact that Mr. Lonsdale had tired of his crusade and was pulling his life into good shape.
Then he kills himself?
Say what?
You never know.
Except sometimes you do.
There are much easier ways, I'm told, to commit suicide. But as a movie buff and avid reader, I know that there are many harder ways to kill someone else. There are also many more obvious ways to kill someone else.
I started out thinking about a humorous angle to the connection between these two stories; instead, I'm a little bit weirded out right now, to tell you the truth. Big time heebie-jeebies. The more I think about it, the more I wonder: the story says Clearwater, Florida is "the heart of Scientology's religious headquarters." It would be interesting to see exactly who in the community was on thechurch membership rolls. Any investigators on the Lonsdale case, perhaps?
Show of hands?
After all, we've seen that Scientology gets a pass from the government on Taxes. Why not also on Death, the other constant?
We don't have anything firm. Nothing but circumstantial evidence at this point.
So, you never know.
Except sometimes--deep down inside--you do.
That being said, in browsing the 'web today, two stories caught my eye. The first story--at World Net Daily--reveals a settlement agreement between the IRS and the Scientologists, courtesy of a recent report by the American Bar Association Journal and a Wall Street Journal report in 1997.
Apparently, under their secret agreement with the Internal Revenue Service, Scientologists "can deduct the cost of religious education as a charitable gift." Now the question becomes whether members of other religious groups can cut the same agreement or whether Scientology is getting special treatment.
The ABA Journal report deals with a case currently on appeal before the
Proof? The WND story concludes with a comment that "when the Sklars attempted to take the deduction the IRS sent them letters explaining the terms for Scientologists to take such deductions, but then disallowed theirs because they didn't provide receipts from the Church of Scientology."
Then we had this story from the St. Petersburg Times.
Lonsdale, whose one-man crusade against Scientology made him a public enemy of the church, was found dead at his home over the weekend in an apparent suicide. He was 39.
Police discovered Lonsdale's body at 12:20 p.m. Saturday after neighbors reported a foul odor. They found a garden hose stretched from the exhaust pipe of Lonsdale's car into a window of his home at 510 N Lincoln Ave., according to Clearwater police spokeswoman Elizabeth Daly-Watts.
Daly-Watts said there were no signs of foul play, and police found what appeared to be a suicide note. It was not immediately available.
The medical examiner's office said the official cause of death is pending toxicology reports.
It was a lonely end for a man who emerged out of nowhere in 2006 as a thorn in the side of the Church of Scientology.
This was a man who taped hours and hours of camera footage, staking out Scientology buildings, and then produced a local "pseudo-documentary" for local cable television. Granted, there may be better ways to spend your time, and all indications point to the fact that Mr. Lonsdale had tired of his crusade and was pulling his life into good shape.
Then he kills himself?
Say what?
Randy Payne, a former Scientologist . . . said that he last spoke to Lonsdale two months ago, and that Lonsdale had found steady work. . . . He talked about going back to school and getting a private investigator's license.
"He was getting on with his life," Payne said. "He had every reason to live."
Landlord Joe Critchley said Lonsdale was an ideal tenant: He paid the $650 rent on time every month and he kept the place clean. The last time they talked, Feb. 1 or Feb. 2, Lonsdale seemed fine. "He would be one of the last people I would expect to commit suicide," Critchley said. "But you never know."
You never know.
Except sometimes you do.
There are much easier ways, I'm told, to commit suicide. But as a movie buff and avid reader, I know that there are many harder ways to kill someone else. There are also many more obvious ways to kill someone else.
I started out thinking about a humorous angle to the connection between these two stories; instead, I'm a little bit weirded out right now, to tell you the truth. Big time heebie-jeebies. The more I think about it, the more I wonder: the story says Clearwater, Florida is "the heart of Scientology's religious headquarters." It would be interesting to see exactly who in the community was on the
Show of hands?
After all, we've seen that Scientology gets a pass from the government on Taxes. Why not also on Death, the other constant?
We don't have anything firm. Nothing but circumstantial evidence at this point.
So, you never know.
Except sometimes--deep down inside--you do.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Deities and Irony Pt. 2 (**Warning: Black humor**)
As we first discussed last month, it appears that it is not only possible for Deities to understand and appreciate irony, but they have a sense of humor about it as well. (And let's not get into a discussion about my use of the plural Deities--it's for effect.)
Well . . . it's happened again. We have more proof.
news.com.au has the following report:
Just a side thought here: are theseinsurgents terrorists really that bad at math. The report cites "hundreds" of civilian deaths. Let's round that up to 1,000. That leaves 5,000 rebel terrorist deaths. That's 83%. That means 375,000 virgins waiting. Do none of these so-called men stop and say "Whoa, dude . . . . If we build this bomb, five of us in this room are going to die for every civilian we take out?" Has no-one crunched the numbers?, Are you mad, people? ARE YOU INSANE?!? Just from a logic point of view: (a) you're more likely to take out your buddies than an infidel and (b) where's the proof of the virgins?!? I mean, that's 375,000 virgins per year. That's one heckuva lot of virgins!
And let's not even discuss the fact that the "virgin promise" is non-gender specific. (Thank you to Jeff Dunham and Achmed the Dead Terrorist for bringing that point to light.)
Now, the report doesn't say this . . . but I understand from my research that the cleric had blue eyes.
One "blew" this way and one "blew" that way. (drum flourish).
I also understand that--despite what you would expect--the cleric and his sons were actually not thinking about their respective 75 virgins. That's right . . . the last thing to go through their collective minds?
Their feet! (drum flourish).
Thank you folks. Try the veal. I'll be here all week.
And don't forget to tip your waiter.
Well . . . it's happened again. We have more proof.
news.com.au has the following report:
A LANDMINE blew up in the home of a religious cleric in southern Afghanistan, killing the mullah, two of his sons and two other men who had been preparing an attack, police said today.
The cleric's wife was critically wounded in the blast in their compound in the southern province of Helmand late yesterday, and a daughter was hurt, provincial police chief General Mohammad Hussein Andiwal said.
The bodies of the mullah and his two sons, both under 15 years old, remained at the site of the blast, he said.
Other people in the compound said two other men were killed but their bodies had been removed before police arrived, he said.
The group was likely associated with the Taliban, he said. The extremist militants are particular active in Helmand province, where they are said to be tied up with opium and heroin traffickers.
An insurgency by the Taliban, who were in government between 1996 and 2001, was its deadliest last year with more than 6,000 people killed, most of them rebels but including hundreds of civilians.
Just a side thought here: are these
And let's not even discuss the fact that the "virgin promise" is non-gender specific. (Thank you to Jeff Dunham and Achmed the Dead Terrorist for bringing that point to light.)
Now, the report doesn't say this . . . but I understand from my research that the cleric had blue eyes.
One "blew" this way and one "blew" that way. (drum flourish).
I also understand that--despite what you would expect--the cleric and his sons were actually not thinking about their respective 75 virgins. That's right . . . the last thing to go through their collective minds?
Their feet! (drum flourish).
Thank you folks. Try the veal. I'll be here all week.
And don't forget to tip your waiter.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Deities and Irony (**Warning: Black humor**)
From news.com.au (although I found it on The Jawa Report, a little story that proves Deities understand humor, irony, and above all-- slapstick comedy.
It would all be so funny if it were not for the innocent deaths.
The story? Dateline--Afghanistan, January 24, 2008.
Wikipedia--Yeah, I know, gimme a break. I know that Wikipedia isn't the fount of all wisdom and knowledge, let alone accuracy, but it works for my purposes here--Wikipedia has this to say about slapstick comedy:
What makes this story even funnier? (and yes, we ARE allowed to laugh at the story--Wikipedia tells us: "The style is common to those genres of entertainment in which the audience is supposed to understand the very hyperbolic nature of such violence to exceed the boundaries of common sense and thus license non-cruel laughter." [Emphasis added.]
What makes it even funnier is the additional information the article provides:
Talk about a Technicolor Dreamcoat!
Now if there were only some way to thank these gentlemen for the hard work they put into making us all laugh. They had it all: unerring calculation of execution, tremendous character reaction--all of it.
Oh wait...I remember! They don't need any payment from us, their appreciative public.
They're getting virgins!
It would all be so funny if it were not for the innocent deaths.
The story? Dateline--Afghanistan, January 24, 2008.
The would-be attacker tripped as he was leaving a building apparently to target an opening ceremony for a mosque that was expected to be attended by Afghan and international military officials, said Sakhi Mir.
"Coming down the stairs, he fell down and exploded. Two civilian women and a man were wounded,'' Mir said.
Wikipedia--Yeah, I know, gimme a break. I know that Wikipedia isn't the fount of all wisdom and knowledge, let alone accuracy, but it works for my purposes here--Wikipedia has this to say about slapstick comedy:
the performance of slapstick comedy--based on exquisite timing and unerring calculation of execution, character reaction, and audience laughter--is considered among the more difficult tasks facing a live performer.
What makes this story even funnier? (and yes, we ARE allowed to laugh at the story--Wikipedia tells us: "The style is common to those genres of entertainment in which the audience is supposed to understand the very hyperbolic nature of such violence to exceed the boundaries of common sense and thus license non-cruel laughter." [Emphasis added.]
What makes it even funnier is the additional information the article provides:
It was the second such incident in two days, with another man killing himself and three others on Tuesday when his bomb-filled waistcoat exploded as he was putting it on....
Talk about a Technicolor Dreamcoat!
Now if there were only some way to thank these gentlemen for the hard work they put into making us all laugh. They had it all: unerring calculation of execution, tremendous character reaction--all of it.
Oh wait...I remember! They don't need any payment from us, their appreciative public.
They're getting virgins!
Friday, February 03, 2006
Losing Friends, redux
I just realized that from my previous post it almost sounds as if a friend had died. My mistake. I was simply referring to the all-too-oft-occuring alienation and disaffection that happens in friendships. Again: lest I be misunderstood, I was not referring to death, but being "released" from a friendly relationship.
Although death of a friend may sometimes be preferable to the outright disaffection one feels. At least with death (as with alienation of a sibling) it was not a choice of either person's making. (Although, I suppose in some circumstances death may have been a choice of paths away from the friendship, but I digress too much.) OK. usually not a choice of either person's making.
With death, you generally do not have to be worried about "bumping into" your ex-friend. You don't have to worry about them spreading lies and gossip to mutual acquaintances. You certainly don't have to worry about them coming after you for some imagined and misperceived slight. At least with death, you can remember your friend fondly without the memories being clouded by negative feelings of a more recent origin.
I'm just saying . . . it hurts.
And better deceased than released.
Although death of a friend may sometimes be preferable to the outright disaffection one feels. At least with death (as with alienation of a sibling) it was not a choice of either person's making. (Although, I suppose in some circumstances death may have been a choice of paths away from the friendship, but I digress too much.) OK. usually not a choice of either person's making.
With death, you generally do not have to be worried about "bumping into" your ex-friend. You don't have to worry about them spreading lies and gossip to mutual acquaintances. You certainly don't have to worry about them coming after you for some imagined and misperceived slight. At least with death, you can remember your friend fondly without the memories being clouded by negative feelings of a more recent origin.
I'm just saying . . . it hurts.
And better deceased than released.
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