Ocular Fusion

At the stroke of twelve on a crisp mid-October night, madness ensues--the fanatical screams of blue-blooded partisans comingle with the metronomic thump of leather on a freshly waxed hardwood floor...

College hoops is in the air and just in the nick of time, babyyyy! Having endured the most boring World Series in recent memory (told you so) and the inauspicious debut of the "new" NHL, many are restless for a more adventurous journey in sport. The road to the 2006 Final Four will be long and arduous, ending in April in Indianapolis in what will surely be (because it always is) the most closely contested and nailbiting finish to any sport in America.

For Number 3 son and me, tis the season to don our Duke Blue Devil apparel and head up the local extension chapter of the Cameron Crazies. Along with the rest of the rowdy and raucous blue-clad Dukies, we jump in unison, chant insults and hexes at opposing players and raise our hands in anticipation of yet another J.J. Redick long distance trey (whoosh!). In our best broken Shakespeare we join our voices with the Blue Devil Nation: "Cry Havoc, and let slip the Devils of Duke!"

For the rest of my family, game time is a good time to head for safer parts of the house--living room furnishings have been known to become, ahem, rearranged in the course of a close contest. Occasionally Number One and Number Two sons will wander into the room and look askance at the spectacle of a man and his twelve-year-old son dressed in matching Duke shirts, standing inches from the television, gesticulating wildly and screaming like madmen. They usually shake their heads and move on--for them it is a quintessential eye-rolling moment. My wife will usually retire to a remote corner of the house and seek the company of a good book until the final buzzer has sounded and it is safe to return.

Number Three and I are especially bullish on this year's squad; Duke is ranked number one in the USA Today/ESPN preseason poll. Once again, Coach K has corralled some of the nation's top freshmen to add to a roster which includes four returning senior starters, most notably 6-9 center All-American Shelden Williams and 6-4 All-American shooting guard J. J. Redick (who hails from my birthtown of Roanoke, Virginia).

Why the facepaint and all the commotion? Why, as many friends have asked me, do I bleed Blue Devil Blue? I mean, it's not like I actually went there, right?

Well, the story of how I almost went to Duke, and why I didn't, is a story for another day...

Finally, after four days of media feeding frenzy, at least a few columnists (Michael Wilbon, Ted Miller and Paul Campos) are speaking some sense. Good for them.

Fisher DeBerry, head football coach at the US Air Force Academy has gone and done it again. First there was that little "I Belong to Team Jesus" banner hanging in his office that got him into hot water. Now he's enduring the gauntlet of the national media after making what many judge to be the racially insensitive remark that African American athletes can "run very well."

He said this on Tuesday in the wake of his team's 48-10 loss to TCU and has been paying for it ever since with several rounds of apologies and clarifications. He has now been officially reprimanded by the Air Force Academy Superintendent, but it does appear that he will keep his job.

Now I know what all this is about. I grew up in and still live in the South and I was around when Jimmy "the Greek" Snyder committed his infamous racial faux pas. It's about racial stereotypes and assuming that a person has a certain characteristic or skill simply because of the amount of melanin in their skin. This type of thinking can of course lead to misunderstandings and misjudgments which in some cases can be dangerous. Point granted.

But still, there are several things about this incident that bother me. Can we all simply take a collective deep breath and think critically for a moment?

For example, why is it that we seem to tolerate a double standard that disallows remarks such as "African American athletes are fast," but enables everyone to yuck it up over the commonly heard refrain, "white men can't jump?" Recall that Hollywood even made a movie with that title and nobody seemed to blink an eyelash.

Now, it seems to me that, in general, there are in fact many white guys who really can't jump very well and at times this can be funny (to the national media who are no doubt pouring over my blog every day: I am not saying that there any particular nameless racial groups who can jump better than white guys, only that many white guys often can't jump well when the need arises. That's right, go ahead and laugh, it's ok).

Does an occasional caucasian turn up who can jump? You betcha. Check out Number One son as he's going up to win a header from his left midfield position. Sometimes that boy can positively sky! But even he would admit that he cannot jump high in every situation, as his feeble attempts to touch a basketball rim amply prove. And you know what? He laughs about it and it's ok.

So, we've established that there are occasional exceptions to athletic racial stereotypes. But I have to ask: If a stereotype actually works in your favor, is it necessarily a bad thing? If I was a velocity-challenged African American and someone assumed I was fast simply because of my skin color, would I rise up in righteous indignation or would I be pleased that someone was willing to give me the benefit of the doubt?

I happen to think that fast is a good thing. I would like to be faster than what I am. Did I ever tell you that I used to be fast? Just like Uncle Rico in that movie Napoleon Dynamite, "back in '82" I was a sight to behold. I could run a mile in around 5 minutes and I once ran 10 miles in under 60. That still wasn't good enough to run for my college cross country team (now those guys are really fast!) but that was still pretty darn fast!

Nowadays, I'm happy if I run one mile in under 10 minutes. The conversation that takes place between my head and my legs sounds a little like Kirk and Scottie in one of those episodes where the Dilithium crystals are just about used up but there's a fleet of Klingons bearing down on their tail (Head: "I...must...have...more...power! Legs: "We'rrrrre givin' 'er all she's got Cap'n!").

Sometimes attractive young women in their small cars slow down to take a look at me jogging down the sidewalk. This excites me, and I actually break out into a trot just to impress them. Imagine my surprise when they roll down their windows and ask, "Are you ok? Do I need to call 911?"

Now here's a sweeping generalization for you (AARP-please stop reading here): As you get older, you get slower. That's ok too. It's supposed to be that way and at times it's downright funny.

This brings me to my final point. I have had the privilege of working with lots of senior citizens who for the most part are sailing through their golden years with grace and good humor, physical and mental decline notwithstanding. The neurons don't fire quite as fast as they once did, and occasionally there's a slip of the tongue that they wish they could take back.

Fisher Deberry is 67-years-old. It seems that we all ought to be a little more lenient in this situation and cut him some slack, just like his players have. Believe me, when you get there yourself, you'll be wishing for the same consideration.

So, what's so bad about being fast? As far as I can see, not much. Unless, of course, you want to look really hard and find something.

Lestat must be spinning in his coffin right about now. His creator, author Anne Rice, has driven a stake through his heart and turned away from her trademark chronicles of angst-ridden vampires wandering the earth in search of redemption. Having rediscovered her Christian faith, she now turns her attention and writing prowess toward the Redeemer himself.

Rice's new novel, the first in a forthcoming trilogy on the life of Christ, is set for release November 1st and is entitled Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt. Her subject is the 7-year-old Jesus as he relates in his own words the struggle to balance the usual travails of childhood with a growing awareness that he's "just a little different" than the other kids on the block.

As usual, Rice has apparently done her homework. She has spent several years sifting through scripture, New Testament scholarly treatises, early church writings, films such as The Passion of the Christ and other novels such as the Left Behind series. Mix it all together and add a sprinkling of noncanonical apocrypha, and what emerges is a provocative story that will surely light the fires of both the imagination as well as many fundamentalist Christian book burning parties.

Rice returned to Christianity and her childhood Roman Catholic faith in 1998 after nearly dying from a diabetic coma. She has warned readers on her website that they "may not want what I'm doing next," and recently promised that "from now on, I would write only for the Lord." In the book's afterword, she writes, "I was ready to do violence to my career." It will be interesting to see whether her legions of fans accustomed to her lush prose and homoerotic characters will develop a new loyalty to what Rice calls "the ultimate supernatural hero...the ultimate immortal of them all."

What will be even more interesting to watch is the reaction of Christians, particularly evangelical Protestants. While many will be unable to see past her history of gothic bloodletting and soft core S&M (not to mention her Catholicism), other born agains may hitch a ride to a new work that, while not flawless, at least portrays Christ in a positive light. After all, there is precedent. As this and other biblical fiction continue to come to market, Christians will need to grapple with the question of whether or not such imaginative works add to or detract from the life of faith.

First Bono and Bush together, now the queen of the occult finding God and painting portraits of the Christ child--perhaps the "breaking in" reign of Christ is really starting to pick up some steam. One thing is for sure, though. Lestat will no doubt be watching these developments and keeping his eye on the "new kid in town." Who knows, maybe someday he will even develop a taste for a different type of blood--that of Redemption.

Since that fateful day that I began baring my innermost soul in Ocular Fusion, the reader need only refer to my rambling, incoherent posts and personal blog profile to uncover some of the more sordid details of my life.

One personal feature that is not apparent, however, is what I look like. I figured at first that keeping my face concealed would add a sort of J.D. Salinger style mystique that would be good for business. But an incident at work last week convinced me that, for better or worse, I need to uveil my mug to the world.

I look like Larry.

Or so said one of my patients last week when I sat down to begin his exam. At first I thought, 'Larry, Larry...Larry who? Is this a mutual aquaintance, the janitor perhaps, or maybe the guy who fries up all that tasty fish across the street at Captain D's?'

Noticing my confusion, my patient said, "You know...Larry!"

Oh, that Larry.

My patient was of course referring to the Larry, Larry Fine, who for years starred along with Moe and Curley in the comedy series The Three Stooges.

How apropos, I thought. Larry was usually the straight man, the sole sane stooge amid all the mayhem. Here I am, the veritable Voice of Reason, rising above the seesaw fray that is the blogosphere. Yes, Larry indeed!

My patient interrupted my hopeful reverie. "It's the receding hairline and all the bushy curls in back," he explained.

At that moment, I felt as if Moe himself had hauled off and slapped me in the face.

Now this is a variation of a scene that occurs with regularity when I examine a patient who hasn't seen me in a while. Many times there is no brake pedal between the thought that forms and the words that spew. Their greeting often goes something like this: "Hey doc, good to see ya! Ya know, it looks like you've put on a few pounds since the last time I saw you."

In those situations, there is usually a vast gulf between what I'm thinking and what I actually say.

What I'm thinking: 'Now there sits a 350 pound pot calling the kettle black. I know my mama taught me to greet people I haven't seen in a long time that way! The fact of the matter is that I weigh exactly the same as I did 5 years ago. Yes, I'm a little wider maybe, but that's from the 3 times a week at the gym. Haven't you ever heard of Cybex? No, probably not. In any case, how could you know what I possibly look like, you're blinder than a bat, you old crusty coot!'

What I actually say: "Well, hello there Mr. Smith, it's so nice to see you too."

Actually, now that I've had some time to get used to the idea, looking like Larry may not be such a bad deal. After all, if I can occasionally make some of you laugh like Larry does, then I guess I couldn't really complain.

Yet another indication that President Bush may actually care about black people, contrary to what is popularly alleged, has turned up in the news. On Wednesday, the President held a lunchtime tete-a-tete with pop's most famous human rights and AIDS crusader frontman Bono of the megagroup U2. Picking up where they left off at the G8 summit in July, the two discussed various topics including African AIDs relief, malaria control and world poverty.

Never short of chutzpah in the presence of world leaders, Bono has actually been very complimentary of Bush lately. In a Rolling Stone Magazine interview set to hit newstands today, Bono praises the POTUS for his administration's $15 billion dollar outlay for African AIDS relief, much of which is being used to purchase and distribute needed anti-retroviral drugs. This is in contrast to the Clinton administration's $300 million. As you might recall, that disparity was enough to even get Richard Gere's attention.

What an odd pair--a self described evangelical whose "iPod One" is full of George Jones and Alan Jackson, working together with a self-described "loud-mouthed Irish rock star" whose Christian faith is nothing if not unorthodox. Is this a cynical photo-op designed to prop up sagging opinion polls, or perhaps a sign of the "breaking-in" reign of Christ that so many are hoping for? You be the judge.

As for Bono, when it comes to a listening ear for his pleas, maybe he really has found what he's looking for.

I know two or three of you are waiting with bated breath to read what I'm going to say after the demise of my beloved Cardinals last night. I was hoping that if we were destined to lose that we would at least avoid going "quietly into that good night." Alas, we went not with a "bang," but a "whimper."

A hat tip to the Astros pitching staff who tamed the mighty Cardinal bats and also to the rally-squelching 2nd base umpire in last night's game who somehow saw the "phantom tag"--you guys make a great team. I really do wish Houston the best, but I just want you to know that it's hard for me to think of your team without thinking of the guy pictured to the right.

Now that I've released all my bile, let's move on to other matters. As many of you know, the bulldozers are firing up as I write, preparing to finish off the remainder of the old Busch Stadium to make room for the new Cardinals Field. This is creating a unique opportunity for Redbirds fans to add to their collections of Cardinal's memorabilia as practically everything from stadium seats to urinals are up for sale.

Along this same line, I'm already positioned to capitalize from this year's World Series should the Chisox win (which I think they will).

When Chicago tore down old Comiskey Park years ago, they also sold their used stadium seats. During my time in Nashville in the early 1990s, I worked with a guy who had one of these seats, a gift from another friend. The two of them started feuding over some matter to the point of not speaking to each other. My friend with the stadium seat decided his revenge would be to start giving away all the gifts that the other friend had given him, and that's how the old Comiskey Park stadium seat ended up in my attic.

I figure that if the Chisox win, then the renewed demand for stadium seats, circa the "Black Sox" era, will be higher than a hurricane storm surge. I'm sure there will be many available on Ebay, but I could probably cut a sweet deal for one of my half a dozen or so loyal readers.

Stadium seat anyone?

Whenever I hear the name "Wilma" usually two things pop into my mind: my mom's friend in Virginia and Fred Flintstone's longsuffering wife.

That may soon change. This morning, Hurricane Wilma, the third Category 5 storm to form this season is now churning her way toward the Gulf. She is presently the second strongest storm to have ever formed in the Atlantic Basin and by this weekend will likely pose a "significant threat" to southern Florida.
One wonders if there is not some diabolical mind out there who has created a weather machine and is bent on destroying us. If this one makes landfall as expected, it will once again test our resolve and resources to the extreme.

Everyone together now: Dear God, please tell Wilma to get lost.

My wife and I were discussing this and other weighty matters during a rare dinner out sans kids. We considered the prospects of running away together to some "safe" place where nothing much (especially hurricanes) ever happens.

It suddenly occured to me that nothing much ever happens in Montana. Think about it . When was the last time that you ever heard about anything bad happening in Big Sky Country?

Surely that's what Captain Vasily Borodin must have had in mind. He was Sam Neill's character in The Hunt for Red October who was fascinated with the prospect of defecting to a country where he could travel with "no papers" and settle in a state where he could carve out the kind of life that any man dreams of:

"I will live in Montana. And I will marry a round American woman and raise rabbits, and she will cook them for me. And I will have a pickup truck...maybe even a "recreational vehicle."

Ah, the life. I already have a good American woman (who is anything but round for the record), so I all need to pick up is, well, a pickup, and we'll be good to go.

Captain Borodin, unfortunately, never made it there, but that doesn't mean we can't.

Albert Pujols rescued the St. Louis Cardinals from the brink of elimination a few moments ago with a dramatic 9th inning, two-out, three run shot off of Brad Lidge to give the Cardinals a come from behind 5-4 win and keep alive their hopes in the NLCS. In the process, he kept alive America's hopes of not having to suffer through the most boring World Series in MLB history ('Stros v. Chisox).

It's back to the comfortable confines of Busch Stadium now (scheduled for demolition after the final out this year) and, God willing, some more Cardinal heroics.

I say "God willing" because it appears that, despite my fears expressed earlier, God has dumped the Angels and may be looking for a team to sponsor. If so, I wish to point out that the Redbirds have been without a World Series title since 1982 and have endured more than their share of heartbreak in Series appearances since (remember The Call, O' Lord?).

I can understand God turning the Cardinal's bats from sticks into spaghetti noodles last year in order to lift the Curse of the Bambino (cursing is a bad thing that needs to be stopped in it's tracks). If this is about that little Budweiser thing, I could cite a few passages from scripture about how an occasional alcoholic beverage in moderation is a gift of God, but I figure that he already knows that and that it probably wouldn't do any good to bring it up.

I'm just hoping that the Lord on high will look upon the suffering of the Redbirds and consider them favorably. I know it's not 40 years in the desert, but 23 years without a title is still a long time.

Ever since the First Council of Nicaea, Christians have been getting together to hash things out. Now that the blogosphere has taken the Christian world by storm, it was only a matter of time before the first God Blog Convention was convened.

Although I'm enjoying reading all kinds of blogs and especially connecting with other Christians and reading their thoughts, I'm a little skeptical about some of the extravagent claims I'm reading. When it comes to the blogosphere's potential for ushering in a new era in Chrisitianity, I frankly don't think ol' Johann Gutenberg needs to be watching his back.

From my time spent on Christian blogs, I've made a couple of observations:

• There's some good stuff being written out there--serious theology offered up with reflection and insight
• There's also a lot of garbage--whiny, navel-gazing ponderings and mean-spirited tripe

As far as my own efforts, I'm aiming to avoid the latter, but please don't expect any of the former either. If I occasionally write something that stimulates a little thinking, or better yet, a little laughter, then I will have accomplished my goal. I'm of the belief that Christians by and large take themselves too seriously and that a little mirth can help the Gospel go down more smoothly.

One thing's for sure when it comes to blogging and Christianity. Some entrepreneurial evangelical, bless his heart, will show up at the God Blog convention, set up his kiosk, and promptly sell out of what is bound to be the next Christian kitsch classic--WWJB anyone?

Sometimes we Church of Christ folks, bless our hearts, can be more boring than a piece of dry toast. Now for those of you who aren't from these parts, in the South we routinely use the phrase "Bless his/her/their heart" immediately prior to a critical comment in order to cushion the blow and make it more respectable. Around here forthrightness is considered to be, at worst, the 8th Deadly Sin, and at best, rude. Even my wife, a no-nonsense "Show Me" from Missouri, is now peppering her conversations with the magic words. But I digress.

Despite our penchant for plainness, one look around the news does turn up a couple of Restorationists who are making names for themselves.

Most of you are aware by now of President Bush's new nominee for Supreme Court Justice, Harriet Miers. What you many not know is that she is a Christian who was baptized as an adult (full immersion, no doubt) and for many years attended Valley View Christian Church near Dallas.

Now, I know what some of you more hard-core Church of Christ folks are thinking--an independent Christian church "doesn't count" since they have an organ and all. But just think of the situation like it was your Uncle Billy Bob the chicken thief, the scoundrel who invariably shows up in every family tree. You can ignore Uncle Billy Bob all you want, but at the end of the day, you still have to admit that you're related to him.

But trying to classify Ms. Miers as a Dobson-esque evangelical is not so easy. During her time in DC, she apparently has frequented several Episcopal churches including The Falls Church, a more evangelical parish which remains in communion with the Episcopal Church USA, openly gay bishops notwithstanding. Ms. Miers was born Catholic, so an evangelical Episcopal parish may be the perfect via media for her. Maybe she just needs a little liturgy fix now and then (I can relate).

So, what's all that got to do with her qualifications to be the next Supreme Court justice? Well, time will tell, but I'm hoping that the powers that be will scrutinize her record as a private practice lawyer, her experience (or lack thereof) in jurisprudence and her relationship with President Bush (whom she has described as the "most brilliant man" she has ever met) at least as much as her Christian beliefs--or at least they should.

Another "one of ours" that you'll be hearing about in the coming
days is Los Angeles Angels pitching ace John Lackey who is scheduled to start in tonight's 3rd game of the ALCS. His Church of Christ roots apparently run back a few generations and he is a former member at the Highland Church of Christ in Abilene, Texas.

Frankly, this makes me more nervous than the Harriet Miers brouhaha. As a Cardinals fan (I married into that--as a boy I pulled for Johnny Bench and the Big Red Machine), I'm sweating bullets over a potential Halos-Redbirds World Series match up. If God is a baseball fan (and I presume he is) and the starting pitcher for a team called the Angels is a Christian no less, who do you think is going to win? I mean, didn't you see the movie?

The messiah is coming. No, not that messiah, the one that is going to rescue USA basketball from total implosion. It looks like Duke coach Mike Krzyzewski ( Coach K) is going to get the nod and none too soon I might add. Rather than begging off and heading to the Bahamas next time the Olympics roll around, Kobe and company will be falling over each other to play for this guy. He quite simply is the best in the business and is the definition of the word class.

Here's a blast from the past. About five years ago, I published this story in Optometric Management, one of our trade rags that I contribute to now and then. "Mr. Skinner," if you're still out there driving that John Deere, keep on truckin', but watch out for that...doh!...never mind.

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It seemed he'd helped me more than I'd helped him.

Mr. Skinner kept his independence through difficult circumstances. He was legally blind but he refused to let that take away his freedom of living.

Recently, he came to my office for his annual exam. The familiar tapping sound and a glimpse of his red-tipped cane made me recognize him immediately. He smiled and moved toward the exam chair, his head moving from side to side like a beacon scanning the night sky.

Man and machine

Large scars from wet, age-related macular degeneration had left him with 2/700 vision in each eye. But an extended stay in a blind rehabilitation center had enabled him to use his limited vision well.

Several years prior, Mr. Skinner had reluctantly turned over his Buick keys to his son, but not the keys to his John Deere.

"It's not that hard to drive," he deadpanned. I just cock my head to one side and let 'er rip!"

Mr. Skinner's tractor had a unique contraption to help him avoid his fence. The early warning system he designed consisted of a sawed-off broom handle mounted horizontally to the hood. A spring attached to the broom handle's base. Whenever he got too close to his fence, the rod brushed against the cedar slats producing a "rat-a-tat" sound reminiscent of automatic weapons fire.

"There's nothing wrong with my hearing," he wryly explained.

Springtime

Mr. Skinner smiled as he boasted about his invention, with the pride that only a John Deere driver could truly understand. It was early spring, and he was pleased with how quickly his grass was growing.

"How straight are your cuts?" I asked.

"A little crooked," he smiled. "But the grandchildren come along after I'm done and straighten things up."

I dilated his eyes and moved in for a closer look. Deep, enormous macular scars filled the view of my condensing lens. Fluid was still visible beneath the sensory retina, pooling like the blackish backwater of a Louisiana swamp. I took special care during binocular indirect ophthalmoscopy--the precious slivers of vision afforded by his healthy peripheral retina demanded it.

I leaned back, offering some perfunctory words of assurance. "Everything seems the same."

Sanctuary

He paused then and gazed at me, with a wistful look of contemplation.

"Doc," he said, "I love to dream. When I dream, everything's the way it used to be."

His words stopped me cold. In twelve years of seeing patients, I'd never once considered that the blind receive temporary vacations from their sightlessness. Suddenly, I realized that there exists in the dark of the night a sanctuary of sight where blind spots fade away and the world comes alive with the colors, faces and sights of the past. How wonderful the nights must be, and how disappointing the dawn.

As he left the office, Mr. Skinner slapped me on the back and promised to "keep on truckin'." I watched him leave, reflecting on the amazing grace with which he overcame his blindness.

After he was gone, I reached into my pocket and pulled out two quarters. I brought them close to my eyes, and began to walk around the room, my head scanning side to side. I saw the world through Mr. Skinner's eyes and marveled at the view--freshly cut furrows of green springtime grass.

In a curious case of life imitating art, my old high school friend Eric Ferguson has decided to borrow a few pages from one of my favorite movies in his bid to unseat incumbent Republican Allen Dudley in the Ninth District race for the Virginia House of Delegates.

It's an interesting time to be a conservative Democrat in Southwest Virginia. The fine, salt of the earth folks there don't care much for either Blue State, tree-hugging progressives or button-down, country club Republicans. So, what's a good conservative Democrat to do? Why you fashion yourself the "Pro Guns, Pro People" candidate and conjure up the ghosts of FDR and "Giv'em Hell" Harry Truman of course!

Eric is hoping to whip the "Ol' Timey Democrats" of the Ninth District into a voting frenzy by giving them what they want--guns, Blue Grass music (including an appearance by Dr. Ralph "O Death" Stanley), lots of NASCAR, but most importantly, the memories of simpler times and "Happy Days" (and the hope that maybe it could be that way again).

It appears the strategy may be working. Inside sources (my mom and sister) tell me that the local high school auditorium was filled to overflowing for the Stanley concert and that practically every piece of yard art in Franklin County has been papered over with "Ferguson for Delegate" signs.

Eric is a fine guy who will do a great job if elected, and I wish him the best. I do have one gripe to relay to my old friend, though. I know that Ben "Cooter" Jones and the General Lee were a big hit with the folks back home, but you left out one very important individual. Where's the midget with the broom?

Many dream of a corner office with a great view. I don't exactly have a stunning view from my office window, but when I look into the eye--the "window" of the body--I behold a sight which still leaves me breathless: a reddish-orange ocean and crisscrossing canals of branching blood vessels delivering and returning their life-giving load.