2011

Seen & Heard Today

Every Saturday, the online Wall Street Journal carries a “Five Best Books” column. Written by an expert on certain themes, each one features his or her opinion of the five best books on that topic. I read it every Saturday. This past Saturday’s edition is on the essential reading of World War 2.

This Fred Astaire dance will blow your socks off.  5:38 long and obviously done in one long shot.  And, how on earth did he dance on the ceiling?  This was before sophisticated graphics and special effects.  Thanks to the Internet Monk for posting this.

Netspeak is a new (at least to me) website which helps you to find a phrase or quote when you can only remember part of it.  I thank Seth Godin’s blog for passing this along.

Elizabeth Scalia posted a very interesting essay on placing periods outside of quotation marks.  I too have noticed that periods are creeping outside the closing quotation mark.  The piece also diverts into semicolons.  Very entertaining.

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Seen & Heard Today

George Will has turned 70.  His column on the wonders of reaching three score and ten is a delight.

Nice piece on martinis.  Carries another version of Churchill’s recipe for martinis…glance at the vermouth while pouring the gin.

Good news: analysts expect gasoline to drop 75 cents per gallon by summer.  I paid $4.17 in Gatlinburg a few days ago.  Highest of my life.  The lowest, you ask?  14 cents per gallon.  1968.  Shawnee, Oklahoma.

This post from John Goodman’s blog on health care is one brilliant analysis.  Short version: we could easily spend ALL our national budget on health care.  So, what is the point where we have to cut back?

I spent some time in Boise, Idaho this week.  One thing I learned.  It is pronounced BoiSe, not BoiZe.

 

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Questions & Answers

A famous American politician once boarded a Washington to Los Angeles flight, settled into his first class window seat, and prepared for a long nap.  The aisle seat was empty; he expected no intrusions.

But a young man approached and asked if an equally famous and very controversial Muslim minister could sit with him a few minutes.  The politician recognized that the Muslim could have come directly and forced the issue.  Instead, he acted in wisdom and grace by sending an emissary.  Quite contrary to his public personality, he did not storm the gates.  The politician told the young assistant that he would glad to talk to the leader.

A minute later, the grandiloquent and polarizing minister slipped into the seat.  They ended up talking almost four hours.  They spoke of days of childhood; of parents, siblings, and spouses; and of triumphs and tragedies.  The politician told me, “I liked him very much.”

I thought of that story recently when I read a new poll from the Pew Research Center.   The poll sought to identify the “political typology” of respondents.  As I scanned the questions, I realized I would not answer any of them.  They were too cold and reductive.

For example, on the issue of immigration, the only choices were:

  • Immigrants today strengthen our country because of their hard work and talents.
  • Immigrants today are a burden on our country because they take our jobs, housing and health.

 

Think about the innumerable reasons and patterns behind immigration.  They are as complex and mysterious as the kaleidoscopic patterns of global weather or infection.  The survival choices faced by some people are myriad, brutal and heartbreaking.

Yet, an arbitrary set of questions tries to reduce all of that into a flattened and simplistic binary code.

People are magnificently complicated and unfathomable bundles of flesh and spirit.  Contradictory and endlessly variegated.

An African-American friend once told me, “As a black man, it is more important to me that you respect me than that you understand me.”

Those words changed my life.  In that moment, I knew he spoke for everyone on the planet.  We must respect, handle carefully, and wait to be invited into the secret gardens.  Respect should precede understanding.  We just cannot regard anyone lightly.

To slice-and-dice the human bundles, for whatever reasons, is to disrespect and dehumanize people.  Yet, the structures of today’s life do exactly that with increasing frequency and severity.

As I pay for a bag of bolts at the hardware store, the gum-chewing clerk – one third my age – suddenly blurts, “What’s your phone number?”

The only appropriate answer is, “None of your damned business.”

At the grocery store, I give a twenty-dollar-bill for $19.37 of merchandise.  The clerk says, “Want to give your change to a homeless shelter?”  Think of it; the free market now trains agents to ask that people robotically break off a piece of themselves for an amorphous notion.

I choose to bless people because of the generosity of God in my life.   But I do that on my (and His) terms.  I am very careful about opening the private garden of my thoughts or feelings to strangers.

I resent being merchandized, politicized, and…groped!  I sometimes wonder why and how our society ever granted such audacious authority to the TSA and other bureaucracies.  Or, how our personal information become digitized and open commodities.

Why and when did we first allow the barbarians to crash through our gates?  I think it may have started with our lack of vigilance and self-respect when asked personal questions.   In the words of Hosea 7:9, we gave our strength to strangers.

Perhaps refusing to answer intrusive and reductive questions from strangers will be the first step in reclaiming what we have lost.

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Seen & Heard Today

This video of 300,000 starlings in flight is hypnotically beautiful.  It’s like catching a fleeting glimpse of God’s perfection.

Michael Hyatt’s blog is one of the very best.  His latest posting is so valuable.

I do not know Dan Bouchelle, but I appreciate this piece in his “Confessions of a Former Preacher” blog.  This particular essay is on resisting the urge to squash hope in the young.  Anyone over 40 should read it.

I really love Garrison Keillor’s “The Writer’s Almanac.”  A recent edition carried this gorgeous and evocative poem.

The tao of touch

by Marge Piercy

What magic does touch create
that we crave it so. That babies
do not thrive without it. That
the nurse who cuts tough nails
and sands calluses on the elderly
tells me sometimes men weep
as she rubs lotion on their feet.

Yet the touch of a stranger
the bumping or predatory thrust
in the subway is like a slap.
We long for the familiar, the open
palm of love, its tender fingers.
It is our hands that tamed cats
into pets, not our food.

The widow looks in the mirror
thinking, no one will ever touch
me again, never. Not hold me.
Not caress the softness of my
breasts, my inner thighs, the swell
of my belly. Do I still live
if no one knows my body?

We touch each other so many
ways, in curiosity, in anger,
to command attention, to soothe,
to quiet, to rouse, to cure.
Touch is our first language
and often, our last as the breath
ebbs and a hand closes our eyes.

“The tao of touch” by Marge Piercy, from The Hunger Moon: New & Selected Poems, 1980-2010. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2011. Reprinted with permission

 

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Same Kind of Different as Me

Ron Hall and Denver Moore, the co-authors of “Same Kind of Different as Me” (Thomas Nelson, 2006) are not writers. In fact, Moore cannot even read.

But, these guys have somehow produced one riveting book (yes, I know a ghostwriter pulled it all together). This is a true story and one you’ve not read before. And, let me tell you, it will grab you by the throat and pull sounds from your windpipe which you have possibly not heard before. More than once, I inhaled or cried out so suddenly that I startled my cats and other coffee drinkers at Starbucks (separate situations; I don’t take my cats to Starbucks).

Trust me; it is best to read this book alone.

“Same Kind of Different as Me” starts in vastly different places: a sharecroppers brutal world (almost impossible to believe this was 20th century America) and the very elite — caviar and corporate jets — universe of an international art dealer. Then, the threads are pulled together in Fort Worth.

This is a “Christian” book, but it is not stereotypical at all. It bores into some very different and vividly-drawn people and does so very honestly. The large-canvas story is told in several incredible narratives of wealth, poverty, adultery, illness, hospitalization, and being black in America. Along the way, it delivers powerhouse insight on loss, grace, living and dying, the veil between this life and the next, seeing with new eyes, and the (most riveting for me) the creature’s eternal yearning.

Through it all, you will find yourself viewing homeless and “dangerous” types differently than ever before. In fact, that is part of the message. We’re all different and we’re all the same: homeless, noble, peace-loving, dangerous, rich and poor, lost and found. Our culture has created something of an artificial chasm between us. It magnifies our differences and ignores our similarities. But, in fact, we’re all the same kind of different.

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The Time it Never Rained

We all know that one of the most compelling themes in literature revolves around human struggles with the planet. Many carve out their lives in the extremes of heat and cold, the deadly swirling blasts of winds and water, and through the violent quaking of the earth’s surface. Naturally, the earth itself is a great (and inevitable) canvas for artists.

Texas novelist, Elmer Kelton, unfurled one part of that canvas — the enormous expanse of the 1950s West Texas drought — for his 1973 novel, “The Time it Never Rained.”

I read this sprawling and gripping novel of West Texas early in the morning, during lunch breaks, in the mid-afternoon, in the evening, and anytime I woke up during the night. It sunk it’s hooks into my mind and would not let go till I finished the last page.

Charlie Flagg is a salt-of-the-earth, overweight, fifty-plus, good guy rancher near the fictional town of Rio Seco, Texas. Part of Kelton’s mastery is that he lets the story unspool in the easy rhythms of agrarian life. We slowly get to know Charlie, his family (including the Hispanic family living on his place), his neighbors, banker, waitress, and others in his community… people gnarled by the meteorological and economic realities of West Texas.

But, this is far more than a story about surviving drought. Kelton attains an operatic power in this saga of land, family, community, traditions, and the new (1950s) intrusions of government and banking regulations. “The Time it Never Rained” is a “perfect storm” of life-crushing forces.

Strangely, this 1973 novel about events 20 years earlier carries a potent message for anyone living into the 21st century: government is not your friend! Bureaucracy is not merely incompetent and bungling; it is vicious and deadly. The reader feels caught and utterly helpless to stop the inevitable destruction of ranches and businesses trapped in the government’s juggernaut. At one point, you can see a suicide coming and it breaks your heart. Kelton said every story in this novel is true.

In “The Time it Never Rained,” we see a thriving culture of free, wind-in-your-face, religious, familial, self-reliance. And, we also see the sinister forces which tried (and still try) to kill it. I almost never use a highlighter in a novel. But, I used up two highlighters on this one.

This novel got under my skin. You can smell the horses and their saddles, feel the dry dirt running through your fingers, see the bleached landscape, and hear the bleating of dying lambs.

“The Time it Never Rained” carries a rare emotional power.

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William Rusher, RIP

William Rusher, the long-time publisher of National Review, has died. Tributes are being written and spoken by many who knew or were touched by him.

I have a Bill Rusher story too.

In 1987, I worked for a small policy organization in Washington. Part of my job was to manage a high-profile fundraising dinner. Since my boss wanted to aim for the top on everything, I invited Charlton Heston to emcee the event. But, I could not get an answer from him (his office). I called, begged, left messages, but no one would give me the courtesy of a reply. Time was running out. I would soon be forced to go to my #2 choice.

I knew that Heston and Bill Rusher were friends. So, one day, I just called National Review’s office in New York and asked for Rusher. To my surprise, he answered his own phone. I explained my plight. He asked questions about the event and the organization. Then, he said, “My boy, you shall have an answer from Mr. Heston within 5 days.”

And I did. I received a sincere written apology from Charlton Heston. He went on to explain his failure to respond and why he would be unable to serve as emcee (he was wrapping up the details to star in “A Man for all Seasons” on a London stage).

Not only did Bill Rusher command great respect with Heston (and many others), but he exerted his influence to help me — someone he did not know. I could do nothing to help or hurt Mr. Rusher; he did not have to do anything for me. But, he did.

That has remained for me one measure of character…the willingness to grant a request without regard for what the supplicant can do in return.

Bill Rusher was 87.

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