A praying nation

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?

The Queen

…is my cousin!!!!

Yes, that’s right. Tonight, for the first time in 25 years, Inver Grove Heights has crowned a queen for itself. I went to the coronation, the audience of which was largely made up of Lindsay Irish supporters. Who’s that you say? Oh, why that is just my cousin THE QUEEN.

You know, coronations are actually pretty boring except for about the last eight minutes. Then it’s nail-biting suspense, and then either a sharp sense of disappointment and loss or one of overwhelming and exceeding joy and excitement; and all just for a (very, incredibly) sparkly crown. It almost makes me want to run. Almost.

Here we are, the two/thirds royalties:

She also won the community award. Every candidate had a box that their constituents filled with non-perishable food items, and the candidate with the most non-perishable food items won. Yay for the constituents!! I think she should also get the award for the loudest cheerers (read: screamers). The MC told her “Wow, it sounds like you brought your whole neighborhood tonight”. Heck yeah. And I can say I knew her way back when:

*Sniff, sniff* Now I probably won’t see her for a whole year, til the next coronation when she does the crowning.

But don’t you dare question their patriotism…

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.

Not only is there no such thing as a free lunch, you’re going to pay a premium

For the last couple of months I’ve been seeing certain TV commercials showing throngs of consumers moving through coffee shops, delis, newspaper stands in choreographed efficiency as the ultimate receivers of our just-in-time economy until … until some troglodyte tries to pay cash for his bearclaw. Everything comes to a screeching halt and everyone looks at him as if he had just tried to pay with a handful of shells, or asked if anyone had change for a goat. The patrons now jammed up behind him in line scowl, and the cashier sneers at him as she makes a big show of counting out his change. You almost expect her to spit in the poor guy’s palm as she finishes, then bite her thumb at him.

The time-honored tradition of “cash-on-the-barrelhead,” of “in God we trust, all others pay cash,” and “show me the money!” is now the latest target of the commercial and advertising interests that made us feel insecure about our body-odor, bad breath and ring-around-the-collar. You see, the new, cool way to buy is to forget the petty cash and whip out the pretty plastic. It’s fast, it’s easy, and if it’s less than $25 you don’t even have to sign your name!

You owe it to yourself! You owe it to the people in line behind you! And, let’s not forget, you owe it, literally, to the bank that issued you the card! Booya!

The credit card companies and banks want you to use that credit card, not because it makes life simpler for you, but because it makes it simpler for their executives to get their bonuses at the end of the year from all the interest you pay.

“But it’s only a $5 purchase,” you say. That, my friend, is the same kind of thinking that lets you believe you really can get a $500,000 mortgage for just $483 a month (and never mind the small print). No, it’s a really a $6 purchase, if you’re paying a 20% rate on your credit card.

Is that a big deal? Well, up until the first of this year my company had a great, long-standing employee benefit that most of us took for granted: a 25% discount off of our lunch tab at the corporate cafeteria if we showed our company ID. Then they decided to discontinue this benefit. Oh, you should have heard the complaining, and the outrage! (I know, I was one of them). Some people complained that it was an additional burden on their already stretched finances. Personally, I could afford the increase, but found the company’s explanation for the change to be specious. I made up the difference by buying my bottled water at Walmart for .40 and bringing it to work instead of paying $1.35 for it at the cafeteria. (I save money and wreck the environment, so it’s a win-win).

Yet today I see some of those who complained now swiping their credit cards through the reader at the cash (or should I say “credit”) register, now paying 45% more for their lunch than they did this time last year. Now, maybe they’re using their credit card because they don’t have the cash to otherwise afford the bag of chips to accessorize their meal. If so, though, that’s the kind of thinking and behavior that ultimately turns them from consumers into the consumed.

It’s not that I don’t admire efficiency and a fast pass through the lunch line so I can get on with my break. I know who the fast cashiers are in our cafeteria and, admittedly, there have been times I’ve stewed in line as my soup cooled while some lady painstakingly wrote out a check, recorded it in her register and balanced her checkbook before moving on. I also know that we often trade off money for convenience, and even have “convenience stores” dedicated to that. It’s just that now whenever I see those credit card commercials, or see someone using their card for an incidental purchase, I think of the extra charges they are bringing on themselves and it reminds me of an alternate meaning to the phrase, “swipe your card”: the one that means steal, as opposed to a quick pass.

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

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.

I love Hairspray

Need I say more?

Last Saturday the Princess took me to see “Hairspray”. It was absolutely adorable. And hilarious. I almost peed my pants from laughing so hard. It’s probably on of the best musicals ever.

Nikki Blonsky does a great job as Tracy Turnblad, who knows she was born to dance, even if she doesn’t fit in with all the skinny girls. She is a funny, out-going force to be reckoned with; and she teaches us that dreams really can come true! (Okay, that was a little sappy- *gag, gag*) Anyway, while she fights for her chance to prove herself, she also fights for the equality of her new negro friends, even to the extent of her “assaulting” a police officer! Yup, a great family film.

Zac Efron plays Tracy’s love interest, Link Larkin, who is a lot cuter than- and not nearly as annoying as- he was in “High School Musical” (another movie the Princess made me watch).

Oh, and John Travolta makes a pretty good mom.

Watching this movie will most likely make you want to dance and sing- it’s so infectious! I can’t wait to buy it.

She is missed

“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

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.

Minnesota’s newest natural resource

True North? Because in Minnesota it’s not just the mosquitos that get under your skin. Because all the loons don’t stay at the lake — many run for office or write editorials. Because it’s the land of 10,000 lakes and even more taxes, where “conservative” legislators are as elusive as walleye, and put up about as much fight. Because “Minnesota Nice” really isn’t so if you don’t get along with Nanny.

And because ice fishing isn’t as much fun as you might think.

True North. Coming September 1. You betcha.

Bring the pain(t)

“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.