Ocular Fusion

My recent post on the new Nike Air Max 360 was fresh on the mind of my friend Sonya when she took a recent trip to Rome. If you look closely at the background, or better yet, click on the picture, you'll see a large billboard hawking Nike's latest and greatest with the invitation, "Run on Air." One might expect to see such a scene in Times Square, but et tu, Roma?

The intersection of the ancient with the modern can be found in the most unexpected places. When I saw this, I immediately pictured Pope Benedict XVI wearing a pair of the Air Max 360s beneath his vestments as he was issuing his first encyclical, Deus Caritas Est ("God is Love"). Now that would make one cool commercial. Nike, are you listening? Apparently not, because I have yet to receive a phone call regarding my first suggestion.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Last week I suffered a "major system failure" on my 6-year-old Dell desktop. I do most of my blogging from my laptop so no problems there, but the desktop did have a number of "critical files" including many pictures that I've taken over the past few years.

Now I know what some of you are thinking--did you backup your files? Let me answer that by asking you a question--did you floss your teeth last night? You get the picture, so to speak.

The good news is I was able to get the computer running enough that I could access the files. The bad news was that I couldn't get the computer to recognize a flash drive or burn a CD. So off I went foraging through every drawer and beneath the cushions of every chair and couch in the house looking for any old-fashioned floppy disks that I could use to transfer the old files to the laptop.

I managed to scare up a few and then spent most of Saturday in the painstaking process of loading the disks, dumping the files on my laptop, clearing the floppies and then going back for more. I first focused on Word files but eventually turned my attention to the pictures. Many of the best ones had long since been printed and placed in albums, but there were still quite a few that hadn't that I still wanted to keep.

But a funny thing happened on the way to aggravation. As I sorted through and gazed at the pictures of birthdays, soccer trips, family vacations, holidays and just average days filled with serendipities and small moments of pleasure, the irritation that I initially felt at the slowness of the task soon gave way to a feeling that could best be described as joy.

Why the sudden shift in emotions? As I sat and gazed at the montage of moments both great and small, I realized that, simply put, I had "been there." You see, as I watch my sons turning into young men in the blink of an eye and heading increasingly through the front door away from my grasp and control, I find myself asking, "Was I there?"

Was I actually there when they were born, took their first steps and spoke their first words? Was I there when they hit their home runs and when they struck out? Was I there when they asked the Large Questions? Was I there when disappointment and heartache reached out and slapped them in the face? Was I there to help pick up the pieces, dust them off, and give them the little push foward as they faced the fears and insecurities of growing up in a sometimes upside down, inhospitable world?

You see sometimes in the middle of a busy life you can lose track of the answers to questions like that. But the pictures were proof positive that the answer was, "Yes, I was there." I'm not usually visible in the pictures because I was standing behind the camera, but yes, praise be to God, I was there!

Because I was there, I suddenly realized that if my life ended today, that I would have no significant regrets. Now that's a feeling of "life insurance" that no premium can buy. If it's true that before you die that your life flashes before your eyes, then let it be these pictures--that would be one heckuva slide show.

So, I invite you today to pull out your own pictures and experience the bliss of a colorful and joyous parade of memories marching past your eyes. While you're at it, fetch your camera and capture a few more moments that will be balm for your aging and aching soul in the years to come.

A piece of advice though--if you store your images on a computer, take the time to back them up on a flash drive. Oh, and while you're at it, floss those pearly whites too.

You don't tug on Superman's cape,
you don't spit into the wind.
You don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger,
and you don't mess around with...Oprah, da do da do...

Ok, I admit that's not how the song really goes. But if you happened to catch the Oprah Winfrey show on Thursday (I did not, mind you) and saw "A Million Little Pieces"author James Frey face an angry Oprah and a studio audience consisting of mostly p.o.'ed post-menopausal women, you may have caught yourself singing it this way.

It turns out that Oprah has had second thoughts since calling in on the Larry King Live Show and defending Mr. Frey's million little lies as "essential truth" which "resonated" with her and stating for the record that the flap over Mr. Frey's fabrications was "much ado about nothing." I'm sure Oprah has searched her soul over those comments, and the 5-1 contra Frey emails and phone calls probably helped that process along a little.

After confessing her lack of judgement in making that phone call and in being "duped" by Mr. Frey's phony confessions, Oprah, bolstered by her booing, catcalling fans, proceeded to publicly excoriate (some would say emasculate) Frey for his sins. Frey, for the most part, sat there and took it like a man. He eventually admitted that he had lied to Winfrey and her legions of fans and promised not to do it again.

Oprah also took a few shots at Frey's publisher and was helped along by a few sanctimonious, pontificating guests from the publishing world who curried a little favor by congratulating Oprah for coming clean then proceeded to weigh in heavily on "why such things as this should never happen."

The New York Times has a good piece on what happened on yesterday's show if, like me, you happened to miss it.

So, with the entire country "teetering on the edge of falsehood," Oprah has once again saved the day. As for Frey, he's learning a hard lesson about living life in the eye of the American public--lie to them (or to a power-broker billionaress) and get caught and there'll be a million pieces of hell to pay.

But if he hangs in there, he may also discover another interesting fact about public life in America--say you're sorry (and say it over and over and over) and eventually there may be redemption--the proverbial second chance--at the end of the guantlet.

With everybody now piling one, look for signs of public sympathy shifting his way. If Mr. Frey is a sharp cookie (and fibs notwithstanding, I'd bet he probably is), then there may be another book deal in here somewhere. He probably doesn't need my help, but, what the heck, here goes:

• "A Million Little, Medium and Large Lies--My Life as a Chronic Fabricator and How I Overcame"

or

• "How I Faced A Mob of a Million Angry Women and Survived"

Look for one of these in the best-seller section of a bookstore near you soon. But don't count on it being featured in Oprah's Book Club.

You laugh, but it could happen. As Yakov Smirnoff says, "America: What a country!"

"...take a deep breath, relax and vote with your remote rather than play the protest game. Do that, and "The Book of Daniel" and its desperate priest will be dead on the vine within the month."

I wrote those words on January 7th. Not that I'm a prophet or anything (who, after all, didn't see this coming?), but just remember, I told ya so!

If you haven't heard, NBC has pulled the plug on the desperately lacking and controversial show "The Book of Daniel" after only four episodes. The folks at Focus on the Family and the American Family Association are already taking credit for forcing the network's hand on this, and others are whining and complaining about all those drunk-on-religion Red State right-wing nut cases who have struck once again and spoiled everyone's fun.

I suspect both groups have overestimated the influence of the "Christian Right" in this instance. The show was cancelled because no one watched it (the American free enterprise system at work). The reason no one watched it was because it was poorly written and acted and an insult to the average person's intelligence and morality. In short, it was bad art. Add to that the fact that NBC placed it in a loser Friday night time slot and essentially the show was doomed from the start.

I still believe the show would have disappeared without all the phone calls, emails and boycott threats, but I guess I'll never be able to prove it since Donald Wildmon and James Dobson don't take their marching orders from me. Call me crazy, but I still have faith enough in the "collective wisdom of the American people" to believe that they don't need Wildmon and Dobson whipping them into a frenzy in order to do the right thing.

As we say in postmodern, partially-post-Christian America, "Whatever..." So, now we move on to other more enlightening and culturally rich fare such as "American Idol."

What was that I was saying about the collective wisdom of the American people?

As someone who bleeds Blue Devil Blue, it should come as no surpise that I'm a J.J. Redick watcher. I enjoy watching J.J. pull up just past the center court circle and rain down outrageously long distance rainbows while a bewildered bevy of slack-jawed defenders looks on in wide-eyed awe and disbelief. I like to watch exhausted opponents chase him from sideline to sideline only to have him slip away and knock down yet another twisting, fall-away jumper.

I like watching the newest addition to his repertoire--slashing, cutting drives in the paint resulting in unexpected, acrobatic buckets amid flailing giants who are no match for his feline reflexes and instincts. I like watching J.J. on those frequent occasions when he's double and triple teamed, because these days, more often than not, he's able to dish the rock to an open teammate with laser-like accuracy, resulting in wide open treys, rim rattling dunks and layups as soft as a baby's bottom. I even enjoyed watching "the dunk" against Clemson (although I will admit that I cringed and held my breath).

They would never admit it, but the legions of Duke Haters who hang out at places like this, and this, are also J.J. watchers. Grant it, they watch for reasons other than admiration. Mostly, they furtively rubberneck, hoping, longing, pleading for an air ball or missed free throw, the slightest scowl, mouthed obscenity or erupting pimple. In dimly lit sports bars and living rooms across the land, they stare into their glowing screens for any sign of weakness or corruption that would sully the reputation of a player, who, by the end of his Duke career, will be king among the many princes who have graced the hardwood at Cameron Indoor Stadium.

There is also another group of people who, unfortunately, have been doing their own J.J. watching--his teammates. In a weekend that saw the last of the unbeatens fall in rapid succession, Coach K called out the boys in blue in the post-game press conference following their 87-84 loss to Georgetown. In a remarkably candid critique, he cited their lack of intensity and their tendency to gaze in admiration at their All-American teammate who, despite a steady seranade of profanity from the Georgetown student section, managed to tie his career high of 41 points:

"All of a sudden we do J.J. watching, where we're watching J.J. play. We might as well get tickets and sit behind the bench. And no one is doing anything out there. "

"We were not worthy of our jerseys, our Duke jerseys, in the first half."

Phew, that's gotta sting. But that's probably nothing compared to the burn that the Dukies will feel in their thighs and calves as this point is emphasized repeatedly at this week's practice sessions.

One thing is for sure--to beat a fired up and well-coached team like Georgetown that shoots over 60% from the field, Duke needs more points and better defense in the paint (both NC State and Georgetown used superb spacing and spread offenses to open numerous back doors and drove the lane at will).

To date, Shelden Williams has struggled in big games against formidable competition, and freshman Josh McRoberts, while showing flashes of brilliance, has yet to mature to the point where he can consistently handle the beefy, upperclass giants who loom large on the horizon. The two of them (and the rest of the blue crew) must step up and help J.J. carry the load, and Duke desperately needs a healthy Demarcus Nelson to return and provide a much-needed dose of instant offense and smothering "D."

Duke made a game of it with a stormy comeback, and even though they came up short, playing from behind was a useful exercise that will serve them well on the Road to the Final Four. Now that the hype and pressure of staying unbeaten has been lifted from their shoulders, don't be surprised if the Dukies return to the court with a lighter step and a little more pop and sizzle to their game.

When the Blue Devils are hitting on all cylinders, they are tough to beat. But it will take more than the smooth-stroking senior from Roanoke, Virginia for them to run the gauntlet to their fourth NCAA title. Come April in Indy, I hope to be watching J.J. when he snips the nets and dons his locker room National Championship cap and tee. But in order for that to happen, the Blue Devils need to do a lot less J.J. watching and a lot more minding of basic, basketball "Ps and Qs."

While we're on the subject of "teetering on the edge of falsehood," I thought I would point out George Will's latest column in which he critiques the recently released film "Glory Road." The film relates the story of Coach Don Haskins and his five black starters on the Texas Western basketball team and their victory over the all-white, Adolph Rupp-coached Kentucky Wildcats in the 1966 NCAA Final. Will takes issue with the impression left by the movie that the Texas Western team was the first to feature black players and that the game with Kentucky was a classic "David and Goliath" confrontation (Texas Western was 27-1 and ranked third in the nation going into the final game).

It's true that Haskins was the first to start five black players and that black players were a rarity in the South at the time. But as Will points out, black players had been making an impact on the game at both the collegiate and professional levels for some time prior to the 1966 NCAA championship:

"A decade before the game that supposedly changed basketball, the undefeated 1955-56 University of San Francisco team won the NCAA championship with a team that played four blacks--Bill Russell, K.C. Jones, Hal Perry and Gene Brown.

In 1958 the coaches' All American team was all black--Wilt Chamberlain of Kansas, Oscar Robertson of Cincinnati, Bob Boozer of Kansas State, Guy Rodgers of Temple and Elgin Baylor of Seattle.

In 1962, the University of Cincinnati started four black players when it won the NCAA championship, and Loyola University of Chicago started four when it won in 1963.

Frank Deford, a distinguished writer, covered the Texas Western-Kentucky game for Sports Illustrated and did not mention the fact of five black starters. Neither did the New York Times nor the Washington Post.

Already the ascendancy of blacks in basketball was such that the four best players in the NBA were Chamberlain, Russell, Baylor and Robertson."

Wills goes on to point out that Haskins stated goal at the time was to win, so he started his five best players who happened to be black. This is in contrast to the movie's contention that Haskins started the five blacks "in order to make a social statement."

I love sports movies like "Remember the Titans" and "Miracle," and I'm sure I'll enjoy "Glory Road" as well when I get around to seeing it. However, Will's commentary does serve as a sobering reminder that historical events portrayed through a 21st century camera lens often appear different than they did at the time they actually occurred, and that a little extra salt with that $7 Godzilla-sized tub of popcorn might be in order.

Probably by now most of you have heard about the controversy surrounding James Frey's number one bestseller, "A Million Little Pieces." It turns out that Mr. Frey's book, purported to be a memoir detailing his colorful drug and alcohol-addicted past, has been exposed by The Smoking Gun as being more fiction than fact.

Oprah Winfrey, who featured the book in her Book Club and conducted an emotional interview with Frey on her show, has come to his defense. Calling in while Frey was being interviewed by Larry King, Oprah said fabrications notwithstanding that the story still "resonates" with her and her legions of fans.

Needless to say, this controversy has set off a firestorm of commentary in the blogosphere and MSM. Both Steve Johnson of the Chicago Tribune and Daniel Henninger of the Wall Street Journal have written excellent pieces. Here is a sample from Henninger's article:

"What's a fraud now--and what's something else--has become a question worth considering. We live in a world of reality TV shows, of newspaper photographs and fashion photos routinely "improved" by the computer program Photoshop, of nightly news that pumps more emotion than fact into its version of public events such as Hurricane Katrina, hyper-real TV commercials manipulated with computers, the rise of "interpretive" news, fake singers, fake breasts, fake memoirs. Morris Dickstein of the Graduate Center of the City University of New York described this world as "always at the edge of falsehood" and so people come to tolerate it "as part of the overall media buzz of their lives."

With this latest example, it does appear to me that we are indeed increasingly teetering on "the edge of falsehood."

My guru, Professor Ed, is holding forth again over at Albedo 0.39 with Part 2 of "Practicing Safe Surfing." In Part 1, Ed focused on routers and hardware. This time around he's dishing up some practical information on how your choice of web browsers affects your chances of contracting one of those nasty malware and spyware infections that are going around these days.

Like Ed, I'm using Firefox as my browser of choice since Microsoft IE has more holes than a third-world airport security gate. Now if I can just convince other family members who shall remain nameless (although he is often referred to in this blog as NUMBER TWO SON) to make the switch as well, maybe I could totally avoid the kind of nasty infection that I had a couple of weeks ago.

Anyway, check out Professor Ed's fine article. Believe me, if you're unlucky and sitting on your can like I've been this winter with a bad case of bronchitis, you'll be glad that at least your computer is up and running smoothly.

You may not walk on water with the latest and greatest Nike running shoe, but you will be running on a cushion of pure, 100% air. But if you want a pair of the new Nike Air Max 360s set to debut this week, be prepared for some sticker shock--at $160 per pair, pure air doesn't come cheap.

According to a Nike researcher who developed the shoe, "This is about trying to get people to run faster, better and longer and about minimizing the risk of injuries." That sounds good to me, because as I have pointed out before, fast is good. I used to be fast ("Back in '82"), so I know what that feels like and I would like to experience that thrill again.

Minimizing injury risk is also appealing, because at my age I can barely go out to the driveway to fetch the morning paper without pulling something. It might be a little embarrassing to wear these with my bathrobe, but if it means avoiding a pulled groin muscle or another slipped disc, then I'll gladly endure the sneers and jeers of my neighbors and take out the necessary second mortgage to pick up a pair.

What puzzles me is this statement from another Nike official: "This isn't just about core runners. This is about all athletes of all levels of competition and shapes and sizes. Running is the most diplomatic of all activities."

The reason this baffles me is that once again Nike is resorting to its usual tactic of using famous athletes to endorse and promote its product. Now we all know that young and fit folks such as Tom Brady, Alex Rodriguez and Maria Sharapova are going to run fast and perform well regardless of what shoe they're wearing. In fact, they're so good they could get it done with barefeet on hot asphalt if necessary. Admittedly, Maria would look good in the shoes, but then again, she looks good in anything.

No, if Nike really wants to know what their new shoe can do, they should get out in the trenches of middle-age geezerhood and test it on balding, waddling, formerly-fast athletes who have a modicum of disposable income and who are starting to think that pants with elastic waistlines are not such a bad idea after all. This would naturally mean offering endorsement contracts to common athletes such as yours truly. A multi-million dollar endorsement contract (heck, I would settle for a multi-thousand) could improve my life in at least 360 different ways, not the least of which would be the necessary cash to pay for three college educations over the next decade.

If the ad execs at Nike are having a hard time envisioning such a campaign, here is one possible vignette:

I'm nearing the end of a typical Saturday morning run when suddenly I'm passed by a runner wearing the colors of the old Soviet Union. Using some of that fancy computer graphics technology, I'm quickly morphed into my formerly lean and mean self, only now I'm wearing a USA jersey, and of course, a pair of the new Nike Air Max 360s. Friends and neighbors start to appear along the sidewalks of Huntsville chanting "U.S.A., U.S.A.!" I attempt to pass the Russkie and naturally he fouls me with a hard elbow to the ribcage. I stumble, but I don't fall, thanks to the sure footing provided by my Nike Air Max 360s. With the strain of supreme effort and the pride of representing my country clearly evident on my contorted, sweating face, I lean and nip my communist foe at the mailbox in front of my driveway, sending my friends and neighbors into a patriotic frenzy. Suddenly, the reverie evaporates. I glance at my watch, clearly pleased at having broken the 10 minute mile barrier. I pick up the morning paper (without injury) and retreat to my house, humming the "Star Spangled Banner" as I go.

Now, that's the way to market to runners of "all shapes and sizes." If Nike wants any credibility, then they need to pick up a few weekend warriors who would stand to benefit the most from this latest technological breakthrough. I'm not holding my breath waiting for Nike to take my advice, but if there is anyone out there reading this who works for the winged, goddess of victory, I would appreciate it if you would pass this message along to the folks upstairs: Hey Nike, if you ever do decide to ditch multi-million dollar athletes like Tom Brady and go with an Average Joe who suffers from a multi-million aches and pains, then I'm your man!

"A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver." Proverbs 25:11

Huntsville resident and author Homer Hickam, Jr. (Rocket Boys, The Coalwood Way) spoke yesterday at the public memorial for the West Virginia coal miners killed in the recent explosion at the Sago Mine. His words "fitly spoken" will no doubt be cherished in the years to come by the family and friends of the fallen miners. The following is an excerpt:

"There are no better men than coal miners. The American economy rests on the back of our coal miners. We could not prosper without them."

"The people endure here as they always have, for they understand that God has determined that there is no joy greater than hard work. And that there is no water holier than the sweat off a man's brow."

His words. His voice.

The fallout over The Book of Daniel continues over at NBC. After a week of tepid reviews and further protests, the show appears destined for that place where bad TV shows go to die--the trashbin. As I pointed out last week, I can handle a little "edge" if it's for a good cause. But in my opinion (and that of some secular critics as well), the show is a flop both artistically and morally and I felt that even without the firestorm of protest ignited by the American Family Association that it would probably die on the vine anyway.

Despite the fact even more affiliates are choosing not to air the controversial show, NBC recently issued the following statement:

"The Book of Daniel is a quality fictional drama about an Episcopalian priest's family and the contemporary issues with which they must grapple. We're confident that our viewers can appreciate this creative depiction of one American family and will understand it to be an entertaining work of fiction."

Yes, and that buck-naked emperor over there has some mighty fine new threads too. It would appear that NBC may have overestimated the American appetite for "entertaining" portrayals of "contemporary issues."

Additionally, the New York Times has an interesting piece on the behind-the-scenes maneuvers of the show's advertisors and sponsors, and there is this thought-provoking op-ed by James L. Evans, pastor of the First Baptist Church in Auburn, Alabama.

Pastor Evans has some good points. The diminishment of a robust faith perspective in today's media doesn't pose the kind of threats to life and limb that real persecutions in Sudan and China do. Christians shouldn't necessarily expect a sympathetic reception from Hollywood or network television. However, I would also point out to the good reverend that conservative Christians have just as much right to "preen" and "whine" (his words) in front of a camera as do homosexual rights and pro-choice advocates. No one has a corner on free speech.

My larger concern is that Christians be known for something besides loudly protesting every cultural monstrosity which comes down the pike. Everyone knows what we are against, but does anyone know what we are for? It's not enough to constantly critique the culture around us--we must seek instead to engage it and add our own contributions. Where are our best creative minds? Why aren't there more poets, novelists, playwrights, screenwriters, sculptors and artists who work and create from a Christian world view? Why aren't Christians making more impact in the arts?

Unfortunately, American envangelicals have spent so much time emphasizing "propositional truth" they have effectively discouraged youngs minds from careers in such "right-brain" creative pursuits--better to be a lawyer, doctor or accountant and hunker down while we wait for the "by and by." In contrast, Christians from liturgical traditions such as the Episcopal, Roman Catholic and Orthodox communions are far more represented in the arts. If evangelicals desire a credible voice in the "culture wars," they must learn to think beyond the "bunker mentality" and seek ways to use contemporary arts and media to cast the truths of God in positive and culturally relevant ways.

The world is in desperate need for "salt and light" and a viable alternative to the moral morass of today's postmodern primetime lineup. "Desperate" priests and housewives are not the answer--neither is a reputation for constantly crying foul without anteing up and contributing to the pot.

For those who need to update their scorecards, Pat Robertson officially apologized to Ariel Sharon's son Omri recently after Robertson's strong suggestion that the Israeli Prime Minister's recent stroke was divine retribution for giving up the Gaza Strip. Both video of the apology and copies of the letter are available at the CBN website. Also, Israel has officially accepted Robertson's apology. However, Robertson's involvment in the development of the Christian Heritage Center, a multi-million-dollar Sea of Galilee tourism project, remains endangered.

Robertson deserves some credit for searching his soul and coming clean on this one. Whether or not this latest incident will have any effect on the quantity and quality of future "prophecies" remains to be seen.

For the past few days, I've been battling a virus and bronchitis which has caused me to miss a few days of work and slowed my usual frenetic pace to a near crawl. Last week this time, I was battling a different kind of virus---W32.Spybot.Worm to be specific. That little bugger, along with a few other strains of various and sundry spyware, malware, adware and trojans which infected my laptop January 2nd had slowed it to a near crawl as well. Frankly, I'm not sure which is worse, bronchitis or computer viruses.

Now I do the best that my feeble non-technoweenie mind can manage when it comes to practicing "safe-surfing" on the web. But frankly there are lots of nerdy bad guys out there and they are tanked up on Coke and Cheetos and working overtime to make you and me miserable. So despite my best efforts at protecting myself, I still end up fighting an occasional battle against those pesky "computer snatchers" who manage to slip through the latest and greatest defenses and hijack my system.

But rest assured, there are also a lot of good guys as well, and I'd like to introduce you to one of them--my guru Ed. Since the purchase of my first Gateway system in 1995, Ed has rescued my keister out of the computer frying pan so many times I've lost count. Whenever I've called or emailed him in a panic, he always seems to have the wits and know-how to guide me through my latest computer crisis du jour.

With a little prodding from yours truly, Ed is starting a series on "Practicing Safe Surfing" over at his blog, Albedo 0.39 that I know is going to be worth checking out. There's a lot going on right now in the world of computer "microbiology" and Professor Ed will be lecturing on all the latest information you need to guard your system against infection. You don't want to miss it.

By the way, Ed had just the right suggestion for finishing off W32.Spybot.Worm last week and I'm back up and running at full speed. Now if he can just help me kick that bronchitis, I'll be good to go!

Probably by now, most of you have your minds made up about Pat Robertson--you're either "fer him or agin' him!" Is there any other alternative?

Maybe. If you dare to have your minds stretched and your notions challenged, then check out this post written by Bill Gnade at Contratimes. Bill is certainly no 700 Club shill, but in his trademark methodical and lucid fashion, he stakes out some sober and reasonable middle ground from which to view the current uproar over Robertson's remarks regarding "God's judgement" of Ariel Sharon and his recent stroke.

Bill is one of my favorite commentators in the blogosphere and once again he slams one home off the fast break (we are in the middle of college hoops after all, not baseball season!).

What do you get when you cross a decent TV show like Joan of Arcadia with Desperate Housewives? Well, you get a train wreck of a show called The Book of Daniel featuring a desperate, mealy-mouthed, pill-popping Episcopal priest named Daniel Webster and a cast of characters who are no doubt one of the most despicable assemblages of sad sacks to ever disgrace the airwaves. I know that life is hard, that Christians are far from perfect and I like a little "edge" as much as the next guy, but this one went tumbling over the cliff like a pack of demon-possessed swine.

Note to all: I watched the show. That is my policy prior to commenting on a controversial show, movie or book. I've learned the hard way that if you fire off a barrage of criticism based on other's opinions and prior to reading or viewing a work in question, you can get burned. I knew going into Friday night that the American Family Association (AFA) had already condemned the show (I got all the email forwards everbody!) and had called for Christians to protest and ask network affiliates to block its airing. However, I haven't always agreed with the AFA's assessments and I feel that loud protests and boycotts often only create sympathy and curiosity and have the opposite effect of actually increasing viewership.

But I must say this: in this instance, the American Family Association was spot on. The show has enough stupid subplots to make your head spin and is so over-the-edge in its attempts at dark parody as to be unbelievable. But surely it is only conservative Christians who think so, right? Au contraire! Washington Post reviewer Tom Shales (who last time I checked was no conservative evangelical) has weighed in with a scathing critique that is worth the read.

I feel sorry for my conservative Episcopal friends who I know are languishing right now--they needed this latest fiasco like they needed a hole in the head. To all my other Christian friends who feel the need to respond loudly to every cultural monstrosity which comes trudging down the pike, may I offer this suggestion--take a deep breath, relax and vote with your remote rather than playing the protest game. Do that, and the Book of Daniel and its desperate priest will be dead on the vine within a month.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Update: I forgot to mention that there was one bright spot last night. The Foundation for a Better Life bought advertising time and aired several excellent public service announcements throughout the show. They earnestly plucked away with numerous positive messages apparently in an attempt to counter the moral morass portrayed on the Book of Daniel. Now that's the way to beat back a cultural monstrosity--celebrate a viable alternative.

Dr. Ernie Bowling is a fine optometrist and one of my best friends in the world. He is also a coal miner's son. Like his father and grandfather before him, Ernie headed to the coal mines after high school probably convinced that he would spend the rest of his life breathing lungfuls of black dust and wandering the dimly-lit, coal-filled catacombs carved deep into the hills of West Virginia and Alabama. He labored in the mines for several years, and once he even spent time serving under the stern and watchful eye of a famous foreman, Homer Hickam, Sr.--father of Homer, Jr. of Rocket Boys and October Sky fame.

In time, he saw an opportunity to escape that life and went on to graduate from the University of Alabama and then attended the University of Alabama at Birmingham School of Optometry where I met him in 1986. Ernie may be an eye doctor now, but he is still a miner at heart and a member of that "band of brothers" who have dived deeply into the earth and faced innumerable dangers for the sake of family, friends, and ultimately, all of us. He understands the lives of the men in the picture above, and he grieves for those who were lost in this week's tragedy at the Sago Mine near Tallmansville, West Virginia.

With his permission, I'm reproducing below portions of an email that he sent to several of his colleagues this past Wednesday after awakening to discover the full impact of the tragedy. His words are piercingly descriptive and vividly bring to mind the hellish fury that these men must faced as they fought for their lives. They also serve as a fitting tribute to the thirteen who perished, some of whom, even in their greatest hour of travail, demonstrated their selfless love by penning notes to family members reassuring them that they had not suffered, but had merely "gone to sleep:"

I'm a little bummed today. Only one man survived. This in itself is a miracle.

What most folks, especially the idiots on the network news, don't understand is how bad a mine explosion really is. I had an optometrist once ask me what it was like. The best way I can describe it: imagine yourself inside the barrel of a gun. The concussion knocks you to the ground, the fire sucks all the oxygen out of the area, the coal dust is so thick you can't see your hand in front of your face, the smoke is so heavy you can't breathe, your throat is on fire from the heat and the smoke. In the midst of this instant hell, you've got to keep your head and quickly don your breathing apparatus before the carbon monoxide (CO) kills you. Then you have to find your way to fresh air, as you've only got an hour before the breathing apparatus expires. If you can't make it out, then you must find building materials (e.g., cloth, block, wood, whatever is available) to "barricade" yourself in the mine.

Think of a mine barricade as the equivalent of an Egyptian tomb: sealed airtight, with you inside. I'm telling you, it takes a lot of guts to do that. It is a final desperate act, the absolute last action you take in an effort to seal off the rising CO. And it must be absolutely airtight, else your actions are for nothing, as the CO, which you know is there, rises slowly, until you fall asleep and die. Evidently these men tried to barricade themselves, but is was insufficient. The CO filtered in, and the men died.

I've thought a lot about these men the last 48 hours--like I thought a lot about my friends who died in a similar manner in Brookwood, Alabama in 2001 (in the same mine I used to work). My father was a coal miner, as was his father before him. Mining truly is "in the blood" and there is a bond we all share, even these so many years out. No one should have to risk their lives to feed their family, yet these people do every day. So, when I get a little upset about my own state of affairs, as we all do from time to time, I remind myself of how very different my life is now from what it used to be. Then things like this happen and remind me with stark reality of the contrast of my life. I'm blessed to have escaped, and blessed to have friends like you.

Pray for these fallen...
Ernie

Indeed, we shall, my friend. We pray for the gentle repose of those souls who have perished. For the families and friends of the miners who have lost so much and whose hopes and joy were raised and then cruelly dashed to pieces by an inadvertant but macabre miscommunication--we pray for courage, grace and endurance through these troubled waters. For the owners and operators of the mines, we pray that they will endeavor to discover new and improved methods for miner safety and that they will always put the souls of men and women above the lifeless, dry bones of some corporate bottom line. For all of us--may God illumine our eyes to the First Things of life, just as he has for this one coal miner's son.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Update: For another vivid description of coal miner life, listen to Robin Webb's commentary Working in a Coal Mine as heard on NPR's All Things Considered.

So which do you think Alabama Crimson Tide place kicker Jamie Christensen would have preferred--a picturesque, high-arching, 60 plus yarder which sailed just inches outside the left upright, or a twisted, ugly-as-sin, 45 yard knuckleball job which squeaked through the left lower 90 by the hair of it's "chinny chin chin?" Well, duh! For Christensen, his teammates and the longsuffering Bama Nation, the answer is a no-brainer--"ugly is as ugly does!"

Christensen's winning field goal with 5 seconds left in the 4th quarter gave the Crimson Tide a 13-10 win over the hard-fighting Red Raiders from Texas Tech in Monday's Cotton Bowl. His kick will surely go down as one of the most asthetically agonizing of all time, but it seemed a fitting conclusion for a team which relied on stellar defense to compensate for an anemic offense crippled by the loss of sparkplug receiver Tyrone Prothro earlier in the season. Nothing glamorous or sexy here, just effective.

Bama's triumph is also proof postive that nice guys don't always finish last. Head Coach Mike Shula is a class act (just like famous father Don) who inherited a nearly impossible situation three seasons ago following the near implosion of the Crimson Tide program. He has increased Bama's win total from 4 to 6 to this year's 10 wins over his first three seasons (can anyone say "contract extension?"). He still must figure out the secret to taming the Auburn Tigers consistently to earn his place in Bama's pantheon of greats, but he seems well on his way. A victory in a major Bowl game will draw even more top recruits Shula's way and increase the prospects of that first Iron Bowl win and more New Year's Day delights in the future. Surely "Bear" Bryant is adjusting his houndstooth hat and grinning somewhere up in that great gridiron in the sky.

With Virginia and Virginia Tech both posting impressive come-from-behind wins in their respective bowls and Duke's thrashing of supposed "giant slayer" Bucknell in college basketball, it was a very good sports New Year for yours truly. Now if I can just eat better, encourage my sons more rather than criticizing them, pray more deeply, romance my wife more regularly, run another marathon and read the Bible through in 365 days, I'll be good to go.

Chances are my attempts to reach that level of resoluteness will fall short and at times appear downright "ugly." But just when I feel ready to give up, I'll recall Jamie Christensen's dying quail of a field goal and remember that even an "ugly" attempt is sometimes good enough.

Even if you're like me and your New Year's Eve revelry consisted merely of watching TV as the ball dropped in Times Square and then promptly hitting the sack, chances are you at least heard "the song that nobody knows." If you rang in the New Year at a party then perhaps you even sang it--or tried to. You see, most people don't know the lyrics to Auld Lang Syne , or if they do, they typically have no idea what they're singing. Often people, in the fashion of a mondegreen, sing something like "old lang's sign," or else resort to the "nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah," that we all fall back on when we forget (or never knew) the lyrics to a song.

Auld Lang Syne was first published in the Scots language by 18th century Scottish poet Robert Burns. However, he was quick to point out that the lyrics were based on earlier Scottish ballads from "olden times." In his words, he "took it down from an old man's singing." The phrase literally translates to old long since but is best translated as times gone by. The word syne is pronounced like the English word sign, not zine like most people do. Originally, the song was sung on the Scottish New Year's Eve known as Hogmanay. Later it became popular elsewhere, including the United States, largely due to the influence of bandleader Guy Lombardo who began playing it during his famous New Year's Eve radio broadcasts beginning in 1929.

Since then it has become a popular tune for funerals, graduations, military ceremonies, national anthems and even college fight songs (The University of Virginia's The Good Old Song). But why should lyrics such as these be considered apropos as we stand on the cusp of a New Year with its promise of a "fresh start" and new beginnings?


To me, this is one of those paradoxes that are really catching my eye these days. Yes, 2006 with all its personal resolutions does hold the promise of a fresh start, but at the same time let's not forget where we've come from and those on whose shoulders we stand. We arrived at this moment thanks to people, places and events--some good and some bad--that have shaped us and enabled us to make it this far. It is to such "olden" influences that we raise a cup in honor and remembrance prior to stepping forth into the New Year.

If you've read my blog lately, you already know about some of those people, places and events in my life. I would bet that you have a few of your own. So go ahead and have your own personal auld lang syne moment before getting to work on those New Year's resolutions. Now that you know "the song that nobody knows," you can even belt out the lyrics without resorting to mondegreens and "nah, nah, nahs."