Category Archives: Culture Nights

There are worse ways to promote women’s athletics

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There’s been some discussion and consternation on the radio shows today about the U.S. women’s hockey team taking on the Warroad High School boys team last night — and losing. Some callers thought it was great for the game, others thought it was an embarrassment and a no-win situation for both teams.

Frankly, I would have paid to watch the game if it had been in the Twin Cities. I’ve watched women’s hockey on several occasions – including going out with some friends a few years ago specifically to watch a little 8th grade girl named Natalie Darwitz play – and I’ve wondered how an elite team such as the Gophers or the Olympic team would fare against different levels of men’s teams. It sounds like it was a good, close game (2-1 final), and my guess is that in a five or seven game series the Olympic team could prevail.

I suppose it was a bit of a promotional stunt, but at least it was done as a legitimate competition, and it was a case of women athletes calling attention to their sport by actually playing the game and not by taking their clothes off like so many teams and athletes around the world are doing now — even curlers (not the hair-variety)!

Yes, the less inhibited say they’re doing it to raise money for their chronically underfunded sports or to show off the beauty of a classic form. I suppose it’s a few degrees better if they’re exploiting themselves instead of leaving it to others, and you could say it’s just savvy capitalism (kind of an “all the market will bare” approach) and simply another way to “go for the gold.” Whatever.

I say if the women’s hockey team wants to play the boys, let ‘em. Just so long as they keep their breezers on.

Superior, Minnesota

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I usually leave the fisking of Nick Coleman, Doug Grow and the other StarTribune columnists to others. One reason is that I usually ignore their columns as part of my own “quality of life” commitment. A second reason is that I try to use outrage in modest doses as leavening in this blog rather than as a main course. And a third big reason, of course is that, as the Night Writer, by the time I’ve sat down at my computer to blog in the evening these columns have already been fisked to within an inch of their lives by others in the MOB so I turn to other topics.

Earlier this a.m., however, I grabbed a section of yesterday’s Strib to catch the debris as I trimmed my beard. It turned out to be the Metro section – or what they now call “twin cities + region”. Avid reader that I am, I found myself reading through the section before completing my grooming, which certainly made it easier to trim my hackles.

Mr. Coleman had a follow-up on the 11-year-old girl who died mysteriously last week; Mr. Grow was offering a tribute to a strip club doorman who died young. There was also a short AP article about a woman who just finished a 154-mile walk to the state capital to deliver petitions demanding a constitutional amendment requiring affordable health care. Oh, and there was an article about bars in Minneapolis trying to figure out how to hold onto what’s left of their smoking clientele in Minneapolis after the onset of the bar-smoking bans and winter.

Individually, each article had more than enough to get Mitch, Foot, Marcus and some others salivating. Taken as a whole, however, there was a certain ironic pattern that caused me to alter my pre-breakfast routine. Can you detect it?

Filings: What can we glean from social justice?

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My wife accepted an invitation from a friend of ours and has attended a couple of Social Justice Bible Studies. The invite came out of a conversation she and this friend, a Christian, had about his Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker and his belief that conservative Christians who criticize the federal welfare program aren’t concerned about the poor. To our friend’s way of thinking, this behavior is breaking faith with a fundamental premise of Christianity (and don’t we consider ourselves fundamentalists?).

There are certainly a lot of places where you can begin in taking on that argument, but my wife decided to start by going to the Bible study to hear what they were talking about, in part because she was really curious about what the group meant by “social justice.”

The group’s focus, as I’ve said, is on helping the poor and what we need to do as a nation to rectify this injustice. After my wife’s last visit I was curious as to what scriptures the group was using to support their position that this is the government’s responsibility and not that of the church or of Christians as individuals. The leader that time had cited either Leviticus 19:10 (“And thou shalt not glean thy vineyard, neither shalt thou gather [every] grape of thy vineyard; thou shalt leave them for the poor and stranger: I [am] the LORD your God.”) or Deuteronomy 24:21 (“When thou gatherest the grapes of thy vineyard, thou shalt not glean [it] afterward: it shall be for the stranger, for the fatherless, and for the widow.”)

Well that’s pretty clear direction, but where the leader was missing it, in my opinion, was making the leap that the if people weren’t following that instruction then it became the government’s responsibility — ostensibly from a desire to do good — to pass a law requiring it. Oh, the peril of good intentions (and unintended consequences)!

It’s my take that when you’re trying to determine the nature or intent of God you should look for where the relationship is. Whether with the first Adam or the second, and through all the prophets in between and the apostles that came after, God has shown he is interested in establishing relationships, both between himself and people, and people to people. Now, in the case of the social justice bunch, it may seem like a natural step for God-fearing people to reflect this desire by delegating to their government the authority to act for this good. To me, though, that is also the first step leading to replacing a relationship between God and man with a relationship between man and the other big G – government.

Let’s play out the example of the gleaners. Man, or the church, through hardness of heart, is not leaving the gleanings for the poor. In an effort to be righteous (and concern that others aren’t being righteous enough), people get together and direct the government to pass a law requiring that gleanings be left. Then, if the poor aren’t doing a good enough job of picking up the gleanings (or if the more motivated ones are out-hustling the infirm or indolent) someone gets the bright idea that maybe they should put some of the poor to work collecting the gleanings and bringing the second harvest in where it can be distributed more equitably. If the people hired to do this were among the more ambitious ones mentioned earlier, they soon see that they get the same share no matter how much effort they put in to picking up the food.

Now, before the law was passed a poor man might pray and ask God to help him find the means to feed his family. Coming upon a field just harvested, he might thank God for bringing him to that place and giving him the strength and ability to collect the food his family needed. Maybe even a landowner passes by at that time and sees the man is diligent and offers him a job. After a time of living under the government’s rule, however, that man (or his now grown children) starts to see the law, not God, as his source and the excess harvest as something he’s entitled to; not because he’s a child of God, but simply because he’s poor. Furthermore, bitterness might start to set in and he starts to wonder why the owner of the field gets to have first pick, and why, instead of just leaving what falls during the harvest and what collects in the corners of the field, he can’t start also leaving every third row unharvested for the poor as well. Of course then the government has to hire more people to collect the additional food. The poor man’s belly might be full, but what is in his heart and his spirit? What was the result of all those good intentions?

And what benefit does the landowner get by doing it God’s way in the first place rather than being hard-hearted and subjected to government fiat? Well, certainly less interference in his life on a business level, but he also gains favor with God by following his commands and escapes judgment as well. As I’ve written before, when I stand before God and he asks if I helped the poor I’m not going to get very far saying, “Well, I paid my taxes!” Perhaps the most insidious harm from the welfare state isn’t the trap it creates for those who live from it, but that it disconnects everyone else from realizing their responsibility to get directly involved.

It’s a lesson that bears repeating even for those who are receptive, and I know that I don’t always get high marks on this test. Yet my family has at times taken people into our home, helped other people move into homes, and bought groceries or medical care for those who needed these things. Where possible we’ve also tried to disciple others so they could learn they can trust God and also avoid behaviors that might put them back in the same place. When the time comes when these people have no longer needed direct help from us or our church, we’ve been genuinely happy for their success and progress. If, however, it was my job as a government employee to distribute these things then I’d have to worry that if I was too successful I’d be out of a job myself!

Finally, I give the social justice group credit for wanting to do God’s work. I wonder, however, if they are as quick in desiring that the government enforce by law other scriptural commands such as those dealing with adultery and homosexuality. Perhaps my wife will raise this question at a future meeting. She finds the meetings pretty interesting and the conversation polite even though there are significant differences of interpretation and doctrine between her and a couple of the group leaders. She feels she is getting something out of it by hearing other perspectives, and hopes that the others are also benefiting. She plans to keep going back as long as they’ll have her.

It is, after all, all about relationships.

Update:

Similar thoughts are in this post from Stones Cry Out.

Addressing dressing

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I must be creeping up on “old coot” status given my topic yesterday and what’s on my mind today, but I’m going to go with it anyway.

There has been a bit of a flap the last couple of days about the NBA’s new dress code for players when they are on “league business” which includes road trips, traveling to and from the arena, being interviewed and sitting on the bench in street clothes. Some players and commentators have complained that this is a racist policy since some of the apparel that is expressly banned are the hats, medallions and jerseys associated with the “hip-hop” culture and more frequently sported by black and minority players.

On the face of it they would appear to have a point; if the league were to, say, ban plaid pants, Izod shirts and deck shoes there might be a group of players who felt they were being singled out. Furthermore, I’m a big fan of personal liberty and I seek out the kinds of clothes that make me comfortable when working in the office or my back yard or hanging out.

The players are making a mistake in this case, however, and it’s a mistake that is all too prevalent throughout our culture and not just the NBA, which is why I’m bothering to write about it. The mistake the players are making is thinking that it’s all about them when it’s really all about business. In the scenarios covered by the dress code the players are “on the job” and representing the league and their respective teams.

While it may be ironic to require dressy clothes in a business where the official uniform involves baggy shorts and tank tops, the league has a – shall we say, “vested” – interest in having its players look more professional in the corporate sense since most of the money that pours into the league has corporate connections. While corporations are themselves dressing more casually these days, the salespeople at my company wouldn’t dream of calling on a customer without dressing appropriately as a sign of respect for the people who we want to give us their money. What it boils down to when entering the boardroom or leaving the locker-room is wearing clothes that say “I care what other people think.” Fundamentally it is a question of respect; something that many of the players should identify with because they insist upon (as they should) when other people are dealing with them.

This is the same issue that I see with many people in our culture today. Case in point: last weekend I went to a wedding of some young friends of mine. While a wedding is a happy occasion there is also a certain solemnity to the event. That afternoon I finished working in my yard, went inside and cleaned up and put on slacks, dress shirt, sport coat and a tie. Almost all of the young people at the wedding and reception (with the notable exception of my own children) looked as if they had simply put down their rakes and come directly to the ceremony. I’m not talking humble but clean clothes here; I’m talking blue jeans, wrinkled tee-shirts, sometimes covered by rumpled, unbuttoned work shirts. Oh, there were three young ladies wearing flamboyant prom dresses, meaning they knew it was a special occasion, but were unaware that it’s bad form to be flashier than the bride.

I wasn’t that offended given that it could have been worse, but I did feel sad that a significant portion of the generations coming up are either not hearing, or not receiving, guidance on how to act respectfully when it is required. Dress isn’t the be all and end all of course as there are some people where you can dress ’em up but you still can’t take them anywhere, but the same attitude demonstrated by these young people in their attire also carried over in other behavior. Almost invariably, for example, these youths continued to talk and cavort with each other during the prayers and various toasts to the new couple.

Granted, I came from the flower-power generation that codified the blue-jeaned, bathing-optional look and style. I also had not a few disagreements with my parents on what I wore. Rather than marking me as idealistic and down-to-earth, however, my philosophy then merely indicated my callowness. I don’t write this to glorify insincerity or saying we should judge books by their cover. My point is that the essence of getting along is to get over our “me first” attitude and think about how our actions and attire convey our attitude toward others.

Yeah, yeah, I know: I’m just proving that I’m getting old. But really, I’m not that old. It’s just that I’ve learned …. excuse me for a second –

HEY, YOU KIDS! GET OUT OF MY YARD OR I’M CALLING THE COPS!

Curses!

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Heck is for people who don’t believe in Gosh.

So says a magnet on a shelf in my office at work. I use the magnet to cover the pointy tip of a screw that sticks out into the room at elbow height due to faulty installation. It has been known to snag or scratch the careless as they enter my 10′ x 10′ turf. I don’t want visitors to get “screwed” so I cover the offending tip, which also cuts down on swearing.

I was thinking about this magnet and my office scenario yesterday as I read a syndicated article about kids today replacing the heavy-duty curse words with alternate but similar-sounding versions that the article described as “Cussing Lite”. Words like “freakin'” or “friggin'” are in the lexicon, and it’s apparently – according to the article – now socially acceptable to use words like “crap” and “sucks” in church or in advertising and not just when trying to twist a rusted nut of off a bolt or when a dam breaks (snicker, snicker – I said “nut” and “dam”!)

“Cussing Lite” isn’t a new concept, of course. Heck, darn, shoot and gol’dangit have been with us for generations and, as a certain children’s book assures us, “Everyone Poops”. Back in W.C. Fields’ day he used expressions such as “Godfrey Daniels!” and “Mother of Pearl!” to get past the Hayes Commission. Go even further back and the medieval exclamation “zounds”, which sounds so quaint today, was a contraction of “God’s wounds”, which was pretty heavy duty for the time, I’m sure.

It seems we always need a group of words to express above normal dismay or frustration in order to show we truly are shocked or agitated without stepping over into the scorched earth territory of full-bodied swearing. Of course, if the phrases are all too common it’s hard to achieve the effect you might have been trying for. My own children have adopted phrases such as “barnacles!”, “tarter sauce!” and “sweet onion chutney!” to get past the home censors. When my oldest started going to beauty school she was in a group of foul-mouthed girls who’s language, sadly, wasn’t too uncommon (in fact, it was exceedingly “common” to use another quaint phrase). When my daughter would let fly with a “pickleweiner!”, however, her friends could be sure she was taking it to another level.

In a time when comedians have to work bluer than blue to achieve anything approaching shock value I suppose I should be glad there is still a sensibility that says there should be lighter weight epithets. (I remember how hard I laughed the first time Gilda Radner, as Emily Litella, first said “b***h” to Jane Curtin; now that it’s every third word out of a rapper’s mouth the effect is wearying.) Generally, however – while I have my own struggles with my tongue at times – I think we can do better.

This is especially so when we are writing and have time to think and craft our thoughts. Sometimes a bad word, judiciously placed, can be very effective for the situation; even for this to work, however, the button can only be pushed rarely. Last week my eldest wrote an emotional post for this blog which I reviewed before uploading. In one place she selected a certain word, mild by today’s standards, for a one-word sentence to emphasize her feelings. It was effective in the context, but I didn’t want to let her off easy. “Think of another word,” I said.

“But Dad, that’s the word I feel,” she said.

“Feel a little deeper,” I said. “Don’t tell me that out of all your vocabulary that is the one and only word that sums up your distress.” She pondered. She furrowed her brow. She smirked and came up with another word. I laughed and let it go in. A point I’ve tried to make with myself as I try to control my own tongue, and that I’ve tried to pass on to my kids, is that the Bible says that “out of the fullness of the heart, the mouth speaks.”

When it’s time to open our mouths, what do we tell the world we are full of?

It’s not what you think

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The issue of abortion and Roe v. Wade has been the elephant in the hearing room in every judicial hearing since President Bush came into office and is front and center in the Harriet Miers nomination. In my view, in fact, Roe v. Wade was the catalytic event that lit the slow-burning fuse that ultimately launched terms such as “strict constitutional originalist” into our awareness. The Miers brouhaha has led to several thought-provoking (well, provoking anyway) posts on abortion that I’ve read recently such as here, here and here. It has also led me to ponder the way my own thinking has changed over the years.

Some background: I was a lusty 14-year-old boy when Roe v. Wade overturned the law of the land and made abortion legal. Looking back now I can see it as an event that separated me from my innocence as I started to make my way into the adult world. Innocence was lost because this was the first time that I recall letting my head overrule my heart in determining how I was going to run my life.

Some more background: I was raised in a mainstream Christian denomination that taught salvation through grace rather than through decision. When I was seven, however, my parents let me go to a vacation bible school course with my best friend. There the teacher said that if anyone wanted to earn extra credit we should watch the Billy Graham crusade on television that night and then make a report to the class the next day. Extra credit was always encouraged at my house, so I raised my hand. That night when Reverend Graham invited anyone who wanted eternal life with Jesus to stand up and come down front, I scarcely hesitated. Sure I was in my own basement, with my mother ironing on the other side of the room, but I stood up, walked to the TV and repeated the prayer. I figured if God was God, he’d get the message, and I followed my heart.

When I was thirteen, my parents let me stay overnight with another friend and go to a Bill Glass crusade with my friend’s Webelo pack. I thought I was going because Bill Glass was a former football player, and I loved football. I’m not sure if I remembered my TV experience then or not, but I again answered the altar call and made my way backstage from the second tier of the arena. There I was surprised to see that Mr. Martindale from my church was one of the counselors. We prayed and he gave me a workbook and then came over to my house once a week for six weeks to go over the six chapters in the book. About all I remember of the book is that I usually waited until the last 15 min-utes before Mr. Martindale arrived to whip through that week’s lesson.

So there I was at 14, hearing that abortion was legal and thinking, “All right! There’s one less reason for a girl not to have sex with me!” (Ugly, callow and shallow, to be sure, but there you have it: portrait of the writer as a young man.) At the same time I was thinking that, my heart was going “Ewww! How could anyone do such a thing?” It took a lot of mental gymnastics to overcome my unsophisticated heart, but I managed. By God’s grace, I was thankfully never put in a position where I had to put my new belief into practice.

Flash forward to December, 1987. Newly restored to God, and newly married, I watched the monitor intently as the ultra-sound traced my wife’s stomach, finally revealing a three-week old head, arms and hands, right where they were supposed to be (it was supposedly medically impossible for her to become pregnant). At once my heart soared while my mind plunged to its depths and pleaded, “My God, forgive me!”

Jump forward another decade or so and I was reading a StarTribune columnist (no longer with the paper) who also happened to be a pastor from the same denomination in which I grew up, relating how she was advising a member of her flock to have an abortion. I remember the writer described herself as someone “in the trenches” where there were no “hard and fast” rules when a woman’s life is concerned. Rather than anger, I felt a piercing sadness for her and for those under her care. It occured to me then that there’s a difference between a trench and a pit, and how important it is to know which one you’re standing in.

The unpleasant truth is that there are hard and fast rules for every situation, whether we choose to follow them or not. The struggle comes in trying to figure out a reason in our heads why the rules we know in our hearts don’t apply to us. Doing so, however, leads not to peace but to other, more desperate, situations that also have hard and fast rules — and even harder choices.

More painfully, I saw my former self in that columnist and realized that I didn’t have to ask how someone could be so deceived because I already knew. And then I had to ask the logical, but oh-so-difficult question: “God, what is the lie that I’m still believing? Where is it that I still let my head decide the way things really are as opposed to what’s in my heart and in your word?” I know the answers are there waiting, if I really dare to look.

In the final sifting of heart (what we believe) and mind (what we think), it’s not what we think that is going to matter.

Update:

Psycmeistr has succinct take on the Miers situation and the sentiment that conservatives must be loyal to the Party and the decisions of the leader:

Since the beginning of the Miers nomination debacle, we have been hearing from the “the elite Republican Priesthood” that our CIC, the head of our party, has made a decision, and that we need to be good little foot soldiers and fall in line. To that, I politely say BUNK!

…Folks, we live in the United States of America, under a government “by the People, of the People, and for the People”, not “by the Party, of the Party, and for the Party.” Ours is a bottom-up government, not top-down, and the rule is by the consent of the governed.

Further, while I would like Roe v. Wade overturned – and Ms. Miers may share my personal belief – the decision in this arena must be overturned because it is bad law and outside the intent of the Constitution, not because it is perceived to be immoral. That is why a constitutional originalist interpretation is more important than an evangelical one on the Supreme Court. If it comes down to the personal beliefs of whoever is on the court at any given time, then the judges become no more than bizarrely dressed politicians themselves.

I saw a ghost in New Orleans

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Medical attention was available but couldn’t be delivered. Death by starvation and dehydration was imminent as the days dragged by without relief. Everyone knew what was going on yet no one seemed able to do anything about it. In an unprecedented, emergency session the President and Congress of the U.S. acted decisively to preserve life.

And critics loudly protested this federal intervention as a usurption of state powers and unwarranted intervention into personal rights, the local authorities refused to act on the federal mandate, and Terri Schiavo died.

Now many of the same voices are blaming the federal government for not overriding the authority, responsibilities and policies of the city or state government to protect its citizenry. Certainly some of these citizens who refused to evacuate in advance of Katrina voluntarily accepted the consequences of their decisions just, as some claim, as Terri Schiavo did. Others who were weak, vulnerable or incapacitated had no choice but to be at the mercy of the actions or inactions of others. That, too, should sound familiar.

Moonbats on the hoof

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I was out in my front yard last night, bringing in another bumper crop of dandelion greens for the guinea pig when two young ladies walked up my driveway. The one in front had unnaturally black hair and a demure ring in her right nostril. Her companion was wearing a St. Benedict’s sweatshirt. Overall their attire suggested they might be homeless, or perhaps trying to raise money for a latte. Then I noticed the clipboard. Ah, a petition!

I had a hunch I probably wouldn’t go along with whatever they were supporting, but I smiled pleasantly because that’s what I do. They were also very sweet in demeanor. The first young lady informed me that they were in my neighborhood on behalf of NARAL to show support for protecting women’s rights. “Do you support women’s rights?” she asked me.

“Indeed I do,” I said. “Just not in the way that your group goes about it.”

“Do you mean you don’t think asking people to sign petitions is a good idea?”

“No,” I said, still smiling pleasantly. “I mean I support the rights of all women, including the unborn ones.”

There was a bit of a pause as she cogitated my statement. Ding! “Oh, you’re not pro-choice then,” she said.

“Choose life,” I said, still smiling. They thanked me and went off. I went in the house where Faith was waiting.

“What did they want?” she asked. I told her.

“Did you play with her mind like it was a drunk kitten?” she asked.

Sigh. “You know me so well.”

You don’t have to win, but you do have to fight

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Do you remember your first punch in the nose?

I think most guys can. I didn’t have a particularly violent childhood but it had its share of slugs, kicks, slaps, bites, dutch rubs and indian rope burns. All these were pretty much the expected and accepted currency of rough and tumble boyhood. Still I wasn’t prepared for the discombobulation of taking the first shot to the snotlocker. It was painful, disorienting and effectively short-circuited my offensive efforts in the fight. For that matter, it didn’t do a lot for my defensive efforts either. Ultimately the pain went away before the humiliation did. What lasted, however, was an understanding that that type of blow, while shocking, isn’t fatal. I would get hit in the nose a couple of more times before I became an “adult” and was able to do better than just persevere in those episodes.

I thought back to these experiences today while reading Michelle Malkin’s “Land of the Meek” post and her related “Namby Pamby Nation” column. Here’s an excerpt from the column:

The left-wing Kumbaya crowd is quietly grooming a generation of pushovers in the public schools. At a time of war, when young Americans should be educated about this nation’s resilience and steely resolve, educators are indoctrinating students with saccharine-sticky lessons on “non-violent conflict resolution” and “promoting constructive dialogues.”

Peaceniks are covering our kids from head to toe in emotional bubble wrap. They are creating a nation of namby-pambys.

The latest example of Hand-Holding 101 comes from the New York City public schools. According to Lauren Collins of The New Yorker magazine, the school system is introducing a new curriculum called “Operation Respect: Don’t Laugh at Me” into all of its elementary and middle schools. The program is now used in at least 12,000 schools and camps across the country.

Ostensibly, the program helps kids deal with petty meanness and name-calling from insensitive classmates. Not by instructing them in self-defense, mind you, but by inflating their self-esteem.

Now, I generally support non-violence. Despite what you may assume from the way I opened this post, my mother raised me not to fight and not to hit; especially where my younger brother and sister were concerned. “You’re bigger than they are, and it’s not right.” I tried to live up to her standard, and suffered the sanctions when I couldn’t. But along with that came the sense that I shouldn’t let other big people pound on littler people either.

There was a time when my brother was in junior high when some larger classmates of his conducted an ongoing taunting campaign against him. When this escalated to ganging up on him physically, an intervention was discussed at the dinner table that night. Somewhat to our surprise, my father indicated there would be no parental involvement: if we wanted to send a message we’d have to do it ourselves. “You don’t have to win,” he said, “but you do have to fight. If you don’t let them know there’s a price to pay this will never end.” That might not be word for word, given the years that have passed, but the meaning is still clear to me today.

The next day we waded into them (a couple of the younger guys were every bit my size)…and we won. The next day, and the day after that, brought additional skirmishes as other “insurgents” sought their own revenge, but we continued to prevail and by the end of the week peace reigned in the neighborhood. I did have to endure a mother hen cursing me out from her front porch while her six-foot “chick” skulked nearby in utter mortification, but the look on his face was worth it. Not to mention what it did for my self-esteem.

Read Michelle’s post and the comment string that goes with it for examples from others of how peace at any cost approach is literally hurting kids and leaving them ill-equipped to handle their emotions and and life’s setbacks. As for me, I don’t think I was warped by my experience. I haven’t resorted to physical intimidation or violence to solve a dispute since that time, but the lessons learned from that week and from the punches in the nose I received before then have served me well.

Some say that you can’t live like that today because a fistfight might suddenly turn into a gunfight. There’s certainly evidence to support that. I wonder, though, if the youth today had been allowed to scrap more when they were younger – if they had learned that respect sometimes needs to be earned, not assumed – that the rage that leads to going for a gun might have already been tempered. For me, I learned I wasn’t always going to win, that some people just weren’t going to like me, and that I could take a hit and keep going. It gave me confidence and also taught me how to think under pressure. One last example:

When I was a sophomore in high school my gym class went through the Red Cross life-saving training program. We met in the school pool and learned and practiced techniques for grabbing and controlling drowning swimmers so they could be rescued. When it came time to pass our final exam, our gym teacher invited a couple of seniors who were varsity tackles on the football team to be our “victims”. They were told to resist us in any way they could in order to mimic the panic and unpredictability of a real drowning victim. If we couldn’t “save” them we would get an F for the final.

The tackles, naturally, looked at this as a legal way to beat up on underclassmen. I watched as three or four of my classmates were themselves dragged out of the pool, bruised and bloody. The only thing our teacher said was “Next,” and I realized he meant me. Having been grounded in evolution theory, I may have suggested that we wait and see if my assigned drowning victim would develop gills. (Of course, that would have meant evolution is observable.)

Nevertheless, into the pool I went to grapple with a guy who was big, mean and having a good time. I knew he seriously wanted to hurt my feelings…and anything else he could get his hands on. I suppose if he’d been through “Operation Respect” he might not have acted this way, but odds are you’re going to run into people who slept through the class.

Anyway, instead of swimming up to him and trying to get my arms around his barrel-sized chest in one of the holds we had been taught, I treaded water just outside his reach while he taunted me. When he finally lunged at me I instead wrapped my arms around his head in a way definitely not described in our textbook and proceeded to do everything I could to keep my body between him and the surface of the water.

The agreed upon signal if anyone found themselves in trouble during a “rescue” was to pinch your partner. I waited until I had felt two or three pinches before releasing my grip. When he popped desperately to the surface I took the opportunity to apply a more orthodox hold and swam him to the side of the pool – a direction he was now very happy to go. He was heaving, my classmates were cheering and the instructor was hiding his face behind his clipboard so we wouldn’t see him laughing. That seemed to calm things down for the rest of the assignment and we all passed, including the earlier rescuers who were given a second chance. As for the guy I “rescued”, he learned to appreciate the difference between playing at being saved and the real need to be saved. But that’s a blog for another day.

Who’s Your Daddy – Big Brother?

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My teenage daughter, Faith, loves the Expedia jingle and singing the nasal-sounding phrase at the end of their commercials. A while back we were watching something on television when an Expedia ad came on and she belted out “DOT-COMMMM” in unison with the tv. I looked over at her and said, “Your life is just filled with simple, inexpensive pleasures, isn’t it?”

To which she replied, “You wish.”

I was reminded of this vignette yesterday after reading two apparently unrelated news stories. The first was in the StarTribune’s Business section and described Senator Tom Harkin’s concern over the affect advertising has on children and his proposed legislation to control how food companies flog junk food to kids (Aiming at Kids: Pressure Builds on Foodmakers).

At first glance this seemed like some well-intentioned (isn’t it always?) nannying, especially since he’d like to limit the use of cute cartoon characters to hustle over-sweetened killer calories. (And somewhere right now Joe Camel shakes his head and says, “Dude, been there.”) Sen. Harkin loses me, however, by saying that it takes a law to keep children from being confused by conflicting messages from cartoon characters and their parents.

It’s not that I don’t recognize the influence of television, and that there aren’t a lot of even more insidious messages embedded there that undermine parents, but a little leprechaun is risking his lucky charms if he thinks he’s going to override the way my wife and I raise our kids. Are they going to obey a cartoon or their Daddy? (Yeah, I suppose our authoritarianism is crushing their little spirits, but at least they’re not choking to death on their own suet.)