Category Archives: Night Writer

A praying nation

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I wrote this essay for another publication, back in September, 2001.

Ultimately, America’s secular façade crumbled even before its material symbols collapsed. I first turned on my radio — and heard the first words regarding Tuesday’s disaster — moments before the second tower was struck. The voices of the national news team were already urging Americans to pray for the safety of those involved. It sounded almost glib at first, but as the unreal became real and the horror increased by the minute, the references became more heart-felt, even desperate.

As our true helplessness and vulnerability became apparent, the call to pray was in every report and every story. And pray we did: alone, with our families, and in special services and vigils that themselves became news. All of this flying in the face of a culture and media that has said for years that faith and divine intervention are, at best, inappropriate if not impossible. It must have been like discovering that the kooky old aunt you’ve been keeping in the attic is the only one who knows where the family silver is buried.

But which is the true picture of America? Are we a secular society that merely pays lip service to faith when a crisis looms, or are we a nation of quiet faithful who allow ourselves to be cowed by society until circumstances give us a chance to break out? I know how our attackers would describe us.

Make no mistake, this is a spiritual and religious war. Those who attacked us chose as their main target what they perceived to be the symbolic spiritual center of our nation. Perhaps we need to ask why the most recognizable symbol — and target — of a country founded on Christian principles should turn out to be the World Trade Center.

My opinion, however, is that we are primarily a nation of faith even if the cultural spin obscures this. There are just too many blessings in our lives and too few fruitful external assaults on our freedom and security for it to be otherwise. Our country could not have developed the abundance we experience (or manage our enormous debt) without God’s favor and the generally well-intentioned (if unfocused) spiritual character of our people. The vicious and ungodly in-fighting of our leaders and factions in an attempt to garner power and divvy up the fruit from our foundational blessings is both sad and laughable in comparison to the desperation that much of the rest of the world lives in: we’re fleas fighting over the dog, but our biting and scratching just may drive the dog crazy (to which the dyslexic, atheistic flea shouts “there is no dog!”)

But if we’re stronger spiritually than we realize, what is the meaning of the September 11 attacks?

But don’t you dare question their patriotism…

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MoveOn.org takes out full page ad in the New York Times: General Petraeus or General Betray Us?

True North has this, via Captain Ed and Colonel Joe Repya.

But, but, but … oh boy, now I’m in trouble

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It was an honor for me to be invited to be a contributing writer to the new Minnesota group blog True North. I don’t write frequently or deeply about politics but I get a good post off every now and then about the Minnesota scene or cultural anomalies and/or artifacts. To be told I had “chops” and ought to be a part of this new venture made me blush, avert my eyes and shyly shuffle my mouse. I knew I was going to have to live up to being part of a talented and volatile company of bloggers, and I didn’t know if I would fit in.

Just as nominees to a new political administration are flipped and grilled and have their pasts treated as merely so many prophetic entrails, I fear that in the wake of “Butt-Cheekgate” my past indiscretions will be my undoing. Therefore, in an effort to be upfront and to forestall the endless rounds of “gotcha” journalism, I want to forthrightly confess that I, too, have used similar wording on my blog. Not only that, but in a headline as well.

Please understand, I was much younger then and it all seemed like a bit of a harmless lark. Never in a million years would I have suspected that it would come back to haunt me like this and cause such embarrassment to my friends and family. To them, and anyone who I may have offended, I sincerely apologize. Not that I’m really like Learned Foot, of course. I mean, the idea that he’d not just push the nascent envelope but rip through it like a bottle rocket was as safe a bet as taking the “under” on how many games Rondell White would play before getting hurt this year. Still, I think I’m going to shelve the post I was working on comparing Nick Coleman to a dingleberry.

If that’s not repentance, I don’t know what is.

She is missed

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“No person was ever honored for what he received. Honor has been the reward for what he gave.”
— Calvin Coolidge

Ten years ago a great woman died. Her life was an example of selfless service to others, especially the poor and ill-used. Her fame was merely a tool she was given to advance her cause, and like many a tool it chafed and left it’s share of calluses, all of which she bore without complaint or retaliation, considering it unworthy of her mission.

A week-end long tribute where so many of those touched by her life could speak of her gifts and her sacrifice, of the ongoing effect and inspiration of her life, and express an awestruck admiration for the deprivations she endured and embraced would have been fitting.

I saw no such tribute last weekend.

No more stalling for Senator Craig

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Now that Larry Craig has belatedly done the honorable thing and resigned from the Senate we are spared the torturous explanations to the effect that he is not gay but was merely tapping his foot in time to the Pat Boone tunes he was listening to on his iPod. Nor will we have to hear that in reality he has silently suffered from Restless Leg Syndrome (as a result of childhood trauma) and has now realized the need to place himself under a doctor’s care and hopes other sufferers will be inspired by his example to get the help they need before it’s too late and their own actions are horribly and publicly misconstrued.

My objection to Craig’s behavior isn’t so much because he was allegedly cruising for gay sex (not that there’s anything wrong with that. of course) in a public restroom, but that he was doing so in violation of his wedding vows. Whether it happens in the men’s room of the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport or in a windowless hallway outside the Oval Office study, infidelity is sleazy and despicable. How can you trust anyone who has sworn to protect the Constitution against “all enemies foreign and domestic” on behalf of millions of people he’ll never meet when he’s already disregarded the “love, honor and cherish” promise to someone he’ll have to face the rest of his life?

The most disappointing thing about the whole Craig episode and its coverage is that it is the gay-sex angle is what is sensationalized and not the faithlessness. Strangely, in today’s supposedly metrosexual, Will & Grace, Queer As (just plain) Folk, just-another-form-of-normal culture it’s the gay angle that gets the Man-bites-dog treatment while the marital infidelity aspect is apparently so common as to be unremarkable.

And really, aren’t all of these scandals becoming so common that they barely justify the shock treatment in the media? It’s looking as if the page-abusing, hooker-visiting, perv-inducing legislators in D.C. are the norm and the front-page, 24-hour-news-cycle treatment should be reserved for the men and women who don’t lower themselves. It’s to the point where saying, “A pox on both your houses” isn’t a curse of disgust but a prophetic statement.

Bring the pain(t)

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“If you haven’t hunted man, you haven’t hunted.”
— Jesse Ventura

I breathed in deeply, imagining I could catch the invigorating smell of napalm in the morning. All I got was dank musk of the forest floor, the scent of plastic and the stench of someone else’s sweat from the borrowed helmet. And besides, it was late afternoon. My very own sweat was running into my eyes while swatches of sunlight and shadow cut across my vision as I scanned slowly through the leaves and branches that masked my position. Moving only my head, the light glared off of the pits and scratches in my visor and made the shadows seem even deeper as my eyes probed, alert for any sign of danger or opportunity, for any movement of branch or leaf not consistent with the slight breeze tickling through the oppressive valley. I cradled the gun in my arms and flexed my firing hand to keep it from cramping. I knew someone was out there. Someone who wanted to hurt me.

“But not if I see you first,” I thought.

Earlier in the day I had set out on a recon mission, moving along the trail in unfamiliar territory as my footfalls competed with my heart beat to see which could pound louder in my ears. The trail was clear. The trail was easy. “The trail is death,” I thought to myself. “The trail is the way the fat, stupid animals go and the strong, clever animals wait out of sight beside it and take the easy pickings.”

Picking your way through the branches and brambles, with the cockleburs clotting on your clothing, is hard. Life is hard. Learn to move through the forest and you might live. It’s a game really, like a snipe hunt. Except it’s not snipe, it’s snipers, and they really are out there. Is that sweat trickling along my spine or is it the prickly sensation of an unseen gun barrel drawing down on my back?

The first time I was shot wasn’t so bad, really. Everything was fine until the moment of sudden impact. “What? Me? Now? So soon?” flashed across my mind, but there was no denying the thick, viscous liquid that came dripping down my visor. I had reached up with my hand, brought it away wet and slick, the goo the consistency of a bird dropping. And it was yellow. Dammit, it must have been Ben who got me, and I was dead — at least until that round of Paintball was finished, anyway. Then I could seek my revenge. That opportunity had come about an hour later when I had Ben pinned down behind a curved metal barrier. I was to his left at an extreme angle that barely allowed me to see him, but enough so I could pump round after round past the edge of the barricade, so close to him that a deep breath on his part would have ended it, yet he held his breath and his unlikely position, unable to return fire. I fired three more quick shots to keep him still and then rose slightly to move to my right to get a finishing angle. Then came the all too familiar whack on my skull as the ball exploded on my scalp, a jet of orange paint shooting through my hair, dispensed by a shooter from across the field. Another important lesson learned: use your head, or someone else will…for target practice!


The Orange Badge of Courage. The paintball struck just above the curve of the hairline.

This time, however, I can make no mistakes. I am the left flank of the line, the end. I am Joshua Chamberlain and the 20th Maine at Little Round Top. If I fall, if they get by me, the bad guys roll into our rear, capture the flag and it’s over. My eyes continue to scan the area in front of me. About 30 yards away is a wooden barricade, set between some trees, surrounded by brush. I have already swept it several times. This time a black paint hopper and barrel are sticking up above the edge of the barrier. That wasn’t there before! I bring up my gun, let out my breath slightly and wait. As the head inevitably comes up over the wall I pour about half a gallon of paint into the area; had I the time and the inclination I could have tattooed my initials into the wood. Instead I focus on keeping the unknown head down so he can’t get an aimed shot off at me. More paintballs are coming at me from my right now, but the angle isn’t good and the brush around me too thick to permit a serious threat. I fire some suppressing rounds in that general direction while keeping my eye on the original target, hoping he will take the opportunity to show himself. He does; I add another coat to the primer already laid down. I’m aware of activity to my right, but from my side of the lines, then some shooting moving away from me and then the cry — “The game is over!”

While things had heated up by me, Kevin had grabbed the flag and gone forward, sweeping up the right flank and planting it in the enemy base while my two shooters focused on me. One of these was the Mall Diva. A third sniper, Tiger Lilly, meanwhile, had been waiting on the edge of the action, also focusing on me. “Ooh, Dad, if you had only come forward three more feet I would have had you,” she said. “Yeah,” I thought to myself, “and if fish had feet they’d be mice.”

Maybe next time, kid.

People who don’t live in green houses shouldn’t throw stones

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From EckerNet:

Look over the descriptions of the following two houses and see if you can tell which belongs to an environmentalist:

HOUSE # 1:
A 20-room mansion (not including 8 bathrooms) heated by natural gas. Add on a pool (and a pool house) and a separate guest house all heated by gas. In ONE MONTH ALONE this mansion consumes more energy than the average American household in an ENTIRE YEAR. The average bill for electricity and natural gas runs over $2,400.00 per month. In natural gas alone (which last time we checked was a fossil fuel), this property consumes more than 20 times the national average for an American home. This house is not in a northern or Midwestern “snow belt,” either. It’s in the South.

HOUSE # 2:
Designed by an architecture professor at a leading national university, this house incorporates every “green” feature current home construction can provide. The house contains only 4,000 square feet (4 bedrooms) and is nestled on arid high prairie in the American southwest. A central closet in the house holds geothermal heat pumps drawing ground water through pipes sunk 300 feet into the ground. The water (usually 67 degrees F.) heats the house in winter and cools it in summer. The system uses no fossil fuels such as oil or natural gas, and it consumes 25% of the electricity required for a conventional heating/cooling system. Rainwater from the roof is collected and funneled into a 25,000 gallon underground cistern. Wastewater from showers, sinks and toilets goes into underground purifying tanks and then into the cistern. The collected water then irrigates the land surrounding the house. Flowers and shrubs native to the area blend the property into the surrounding rural landscape.

…

HOUSE # 1 (20 room energy guzzling mansion) is outside of Nashville, Tennessee. It is the abode of that renowned environmentalist (and filmmaker) Al Gore.

HOUSE # 2 (model eco-friendly house) is on a ranch near Crawford, Texas. Also known as “the Texas White House,” it is the private residence of the President of the United States, George W. Bush.

So whose house is gentler on the environment? Indeed, for Mr. Gore, it’s truly “an inconvenient truth.”

This comparison is confirmed by Snopes.

Of course, George Bush can get by with a smaller house since he’s got that roomy second residence in Washington, D.C. — which was what Al really wanted all along.

Just say (ack!) “Yes” to (argh!) crack

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Friday night after the MOB golf event I was re-hydrating with fellow competitors and sports fans at the post-round cookout and fireworks over at Casa Foot. I didn’t figure prominently in the awards portion of the evening, though Learned Foot did create a previously unknown commemoration for me: the Iron Maiden “Number of the Beast” Award because I had finished the last three holes 6,6,6. “The devil made me do it,” I said modestly, in response to the crowd’s applause.

I thought the Valleywood TPC golf course to be a pain in the neck, but there might have been another source, as I discovered later in the evening when Chief started offering “adjustments” to folks. Derek’s a martial arts and fitness buff with some chiropractic background. I noticed him mauling people around but originally figured he was just trying to get them to write for True North (more on that another time). When he asked me if I had any problems with my back I initially said “no.” Then I thought about the pain between my shoulder blades that emanates as a dull ache up into my neck and that has been plaguing me for the last couple of months, due no doubt to too much time hunching over my laptop trying to keep up with projects at work. It would be nice if that could go away ….

“It only looks kind of gay,” Chief assured me, sensing I was wavering. I told him what my pain was and he said he could help. First he had me lie face down on the floor with my arms swept back like jet wings, and palms up. “You know, even this hurts,” I said. Chief stood over me and put his hands on my back. “Man, you should feel the meat on this guy,” he said to some observers. “Okay, now that sounds gay,” I said.

The next thing I knew he’d put his fists together and applied a series of four rolls up my spine; the crackling could be heard even over my sudden, and involuntary, exclamations. I began to feel as if there was too much blood in my brain. Next Chief had me lie on my back with my arms crossed and wrapped around myself so that my elbow lined up with my sternum. He then put most of his weight across my chest, which delivered a sharp, piercing jolt between my shoulder blades and into the floor. I got a picture in my mind of on insect mounted on art board for a Science Fair project.

Finally we stood back-to-back with our elbows linked, then he scrunched down a little so his hips were below mine and he leaned forward, stretching me out in a rack-like fashion. This induced a loud cracking sound like a roof beam giving way and an exclamation from me that sounded something like “Awa-ahahahah-Ha!”

Redeposited on my feet I stood there mentally sending scouts out to the ends of my extremities. “Does that feel better, or does that feel worse?” Chief asked. “What was the question again?” I said. Actually, I certainly didn’t feel any worse, and it seemed as if there was a greater range of motion. I figured the next morning would tell the tale, and I found everything working when I got out of bed. I then went downstairs and while the coffee was brewing I stood by the kitchen peninsula and turned my head down to read the newspaper. In a few moments I realized that I didn’t have that cramping sensation and discomfort in my neck that I’d become used to lately. I went around and sat in various chairs and found myself to be quite comfortable. I mimiced my laptop pose and still felt some strain, but maybe only 10% of what it was before.

I felt so good I even decided to participate in the Paintball Wars on Sunday afternoon, but more on that later.

Cinderella stories

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I’m playing in a certain golf tournament tomorrow with fellow MOB bloggers and some Comment Trolls. The summer-long hype and trash talk leading up to this event has been intense and it might seem fitting for me at this point to regale you with tales of my greatest rounds and most spectacular shots. I don’t want to put myself in the running for the Spotty, however, and I’m afraid that if I did it also might induce King to move the betting line in the wrong direction.

Instead of telling you of the Bunyanesque drives that split the fairway like lightning bolts, or pin-rattling five-irons, or those wedge shots that landed on the green like a butterfly with sore feet I thought I’d regale those of you still reading with some of my less than stellar (but no less memorable) moments and galactic blunders that have caused me to adopt the nickname “O.B. Juan”.

And no, I’m not counting the time my clubs were stolen before I even got to the first tee.

Here’s a story that might explain a lot: my wife and I were playing with another couple that are friends of ours and on one hole my approach shot to the green was long and to the left, going behind a stand of small spruce that bordered a road. The other guy was maybe 40 yards in front of the green and while he figured out his approach shot I made my way behind the trees to see if my shot had stayed in play or gone into the road. After a few minutes I found my ball and stepped out from behind a six-foot evergreen to see if I had a line to the flag. Unfortunately that was right at the time my friend literally “skulled” a wedge, sending his ball on cruise missile trajectory that neatly bisected my eyebrows. Fortunately I was wearing a new, crushable straw hat that absorbed much of the impact, though I was left with 14 dimple-shaped blood drops in a round formation on my forehead. I had my revenge, though: the rest of the day every time my friend lined up a putt I’d say something like, “Why is it suddenly getting so dark?” or “Grandpa, is that you?”

My commentary around the greens has been a problem other times, too. Once I was playing in a 4-man scramble where my team was trailing the leaders by one stroke with two holes to play. We had a 25-foot putt for birdie that we all looked over carefully before our first guy stepped up to try the putt. He eyed the line carefully, and in a dead serious tone said, “I am aiming six inches left of the hole.” There was something about the tension and the way his voice sounded that reminded me of one of those movies where someone has to defuse a bomb. I suddenly heard myself saying, in the same tone of voice as my friend, “I am cutting the blue wire.” The putter froze, and it was deathly silent for about two seconds. Then his forearms started to shake, and then his whole body and then we all started laughing so hard we had tears coming out of our eyes. The worst part was that none of us could stand over the putt without starting to laugh all over again. It was the kind of laughter like you try to suppress when you hear a fart in church, and we were just about as successful. We barely made par that hole and we still couldn’t compose ourselves on the final hole and we ended up losing the tournament by one stroke. I thought the guys were going to kill me.

I guess the all-time worst episode was when I was playing on a course near San Diego with my dad, my brother and my uncle. One hole featured an unusual bunker that was actually a hill on the side facing the fairway, with sand on the back side. Naturally I had to push my tee-shot left and into this bunker, finding myself in the sand with an uphill lie, trying to get over a wall higher than myself with no view to the fairway. I tried to hit out and over the wall, but the ball caught the lip and rolled back down behind where I started. This actually gave me more room and a better angle to try to get a wedge to the fairway, so I tried it again. No luck. In fact, worse luck, as the ball came back and rested in one of my footprints. This time I turned and aimed back toward the tee, punching the ball back to the fairway, quite disgusted with the whole affair. I grabbed the rake and smoothed my numerous footprints, then climbed out of the bunker and tossed the rake out ahead of me in disgust. It landed perfectly on the curvature of the tines and bounced back directly at me, airborne as if launched from springs … and heading right for a delicate part of my anatomy. I twisted away, and the handle of the rake caught the hem of my khaki shorts. The combination of the tines then re-establishing contact with the ground while I turned my body resulted in the right leg of my shorts being torn from hem to belt loop. Keep in mind, all of this time I was out of sight from the rest of my four-some who were up ahead and could only see the occasional bursts of sand as I tried to extricate myself. When I finally came staggering around the side of the hill, the now-exposed inner pocket of my shorts flapping in the California sun they thought I must have been attacked by a wild animal. “Breezy” described the rest of my round, if not my attitude.

Man, I can’t wait for tomorrow.

Bridging the gap between perception and reality

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Chad the Elder at Fraters Libertas beat me to posting about an editorial in the Wall Street Journal the absurdity and hypocrisy of those using the cantilevered ruins of the 35W bridge as a springboard to call for higher gas taxes.

Minnesota’s transportation auditors warned as long ago as 1990 that there was a “backlog of bridges that are classified as having structural deficiencies.” In 1999 engineers declared that cracks found in the bridge that collapsed were “a major concern.” Bike paths were deemed a higher priority by Congress, however, including its powerful Minnesota Representatives.

As recently as July 25, Mr. Oberstar sent out a press release boasting that he had “secured more than $12 million in funding” for his state in a recent federal transportation and housing bill. But $10 million of that was dedicated to a commuter rail line, $250,000 for the “Isanti Bike/Walk Trail,” $200,000 to bus services in Duluth, and $150,000 for the Mesabi Academy of Kidspeace in Buhl. None of it went for bridge repair.

Minnesota’s state budget is also hardly short of tax revenue. The state spends $25 billion a year, twice what it did 10 years ago. The Tax Foundation reports that Minnesota has the seventh highest personal income tax rates among all states, the third highest corporate tax rates, and the 10th highest taxes on workers.

The Legislature started the year with a record $2 billion budget surplus, and the economy threw off another $149 million of unexpected revenue. Where did all that money go? Not to roads and bridges. The Taxpayers League of Minnesota says the politicians chose to pour those tax dollars into more spending for health care, art centers, sports stadiums and welfare benefits.

Even transportation dollars aren’t scarce. Minnesota spends $1.6 billion a year on transportation — enough to build a new bridge over the Mississippi River every four months. But nearly $1 billion of that has been diverted from road and bridge repair to the state’s light rail network that has a negligible impact on traffic congestion. Last year part of a sales tax revenue stream that is supposed to be dedicated for road and bridge construction was re-routed to mass transit. The Minnesota Department of Economic Development reports that only 2.8% of the state’s commuters ride buses or rail to get to work, but these projects get up to 25% of the funding.

Americans aren’t selfish or stingy, and they can see for themselves that many of our roads need repair. Minnesota in particular is a state that has long prided itself on its “progressive” politics and a willingness to pay higher taxes for good government. Minnesotans already pay twice as much in taxes per capita than residents in New Hampshire and Texas — states that haven’t had a major bridge collapse.

We don’t lack the money in Minnesota to do what needs to be done, and should have been done. What we lack are the political leaders on both sides with the vision and guts to serve the public and not their pet interest groups. The money problem isn’t that there’s not enough to do the job but that it’s misused and abused to buy votes — whether it’s state money diverted to boondoggles or the money the special interests pour in to fit lovely gold rings into the noses of the politicians.