Ocular Fusion

If you’ve spent any time at all reading Ocular Fusion, you’re no doubt aware of my enduring love for basketball. If you were to go further and scan the pages of my elementary school scrapbook, you would find that I listed basketball as my “favorite activity” from second grade through seventh (there was that little “tag” business in first grade, but that hardly counts). I lived for ACC basketball and the Boston Celtics, and whenever I played in a schoolyard pickup game, I took on the persona, if not the skill, of my favorite player, John “Hondo” Havlicek.

However, there was one problem. I was short. In today’s politically correct climate, I would be more thoughtfully and humanely labeled “vertically challenged.” Even though I found myself on the losing end of a game of genetic roulette, I compensated to a large degree by developing a reliable outside jump shot. Still, I knew that Laurie Partridge was probably never going to give me the time of day and that I would rarely have the opportunity to venture into the paint where the big boys, who could pack one of my layups as easily as they could pick their own teeth, loomed like vultures scanning the menu for the roadkill du jour.

By September 1974, I had heard just about every “shorty” joke in the book and was well-versed in how to run the typical elementary school insult gauntlet—cover your head and run as fast as your stubby legs will carry you. However, as is evident in the following passage from my long-lost but recently rediscovered 7th grade journal, I appear to have had some “unresolved issues:”

September 5, 1974

Well here I go again talking about something that bugs me. Well it used to at least. And that’s people calling me “shorty.” It really doesn’t bother me that much now, but it used to JUST KILL ME! Even though I feel out of place when I’ve got to look up to everybody, I really don’t mind it too much. I may be little, but I believe that I’m just as strong as some guys. Like just yesterday I did 172 situps, more than anyone else in our room. I know I’m not going to be a super athlete, but I hope there are some jobs for short people!

(ed: Ms. Fine, my 7^th grade teacher at Burnt Chimney Elementary School, was no doubt pleased that her little psych experiment was eliciting such unbridled honesty and raw emotions. She wrote in the margins: “Good job, Mike!”)

Ok, I have to ask: do you find this journal entry believable? Do you really think that I had made peace with my “stumpiness?” I count three instances in which I assert that I was “ok” with being short. I don’t know about you, but I doth protest too much, methinks.

No, I’m thinking that back in ’74, it still bothered me quite a bit, so to speak, that I was short. And you know what? IT STILL DOES! In fact, IT JUST KILLS ME! There for a while after I sired three sons with Eyegal, life was good. I was the towering king, hovering benevolently over my diminutive domain. But now, two of them little suckers are taller than I am (it really makes me feel out of place when I have to look up to them) and the third is closing faster than a fully-charged Klingon cruiser chasing a dilithium crystal-depleted starship. And you know what? I CANT STAND IT!

Whew, it’s good to that off my tiny little chest. Oh well, as surely as the apple falls from the tree, it’s inevitable that sons increase while fathers decrease. All my years of studying physics, though, never prepared me for the myriad of surprising and deleterious ways that gravity can ruin my day, especially first thing in the morning when I look in the mirror.

The short of the story (sorry) is that I never compensated well enough to play varsity basketball in high school, but I did develop into a decent enough athlete to letter in cross country and tennis. And, gravity notwithstanding, I’m still pretty consistent from beyond the college arc and on a good day can even can an NBA-regulation trey or two. If you don’t believe me, just ask Number Three Son who always makes the mistake of guarding me too loosely.

Oh, and those 172 sit-ups? Little did I know then how much I would need those later in life. In fact, these days I don’t know what I would do without all that muscle tone I built up in those early years. It comes in quite handy each morning as I suck in my gut prior to buttoning my pants and is an absolute necessity for maintaining that uncomfortably tonic posture for the remainder of the day. I bet a lot of guys my age aren’t strong enough to do that. To (ahem) top it off, I found a job in which being “vertically challenged” can actually be an advantage, and, last time I checked anyway, Eyegal didn’t seem to care how tall I am.

Hey Randy, I know you meant the song to be ironic and you were well intended, but it still deserves to be said: short people do too got plenty of reasons to live.

If my last post wasn't fully convincing, let me offer up another good reason why publishing the Great American Novel might not be all it's cracked up to be.

Kaavya Viswanathan.

Kaavya is a 19-year-old sophomore at Harvard and author of the latest entry into the skyrocketing literary genre know as "chic-lit." Her book, entitled "How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life," focuses on a high school senior named Opal Mehta and her frantic attempts to get accepted into the school of her dreams and destiny--Harvard, naturally. It was properly feted in the New York Times when it debuted earlier this month, and all seemed well for the Harvard coed who was celebrating a six figure, two book deal and a DreamWorks movie contract.

Since that time, however, allegations by the Harvard Crimson that Ms. Viswanathan "borrowed" key ideas and phrases from two other previously published books, "Second Helpings" and "Sloppy Firsts" by Megan McCafferty, have shown up and crashed the party. Although she at first dodged the question, Ms. Viswanathan has since acknowledged that she inadvertantly "internalized" passages from the the books in question and used them in her latest work. She has issued an apology to Ms. McCafferty and her publisher, but apparently the apology was not accepted. Some of the disputed passages can be seen here.

It does not appear at first glance that Ms. Viswanathan's alleged indiscretions are of the same magnitude as James Frey's. She did, after all, produce a more or less original story and properly marketed her work as fiction rather than passing it off as a memoir.

However, this latest literary brouhaha does bring to light how difficult it may be to craft a truely "original" story and how easy it has become, given the rapid expansion of information via the internet and almighty Google, to spot potential plagiarism.

I'm wondering how many pleasing phrases I may have "inadvertantly" lifted from other sources over the years and used in my own writings. I'm also curious as to what you think about Ms. Viswanathan's explanation. Is it possible to "internalize" and unwittingly use that many seemingly parallel passages, or is it more likely that Ms. Viswanathan is a "Cambridge Copycat" and had the works in question sitting in front of her as she wrote her own book?

Oh well, like I said, it all seems like another cautionary tale writ large across the American cultural landscape. The moral of the story? Stick to the blog--nobody ever reads it anyway.

Tomorrow: The much anticipated (heh) Part III of my series, "Blogging--The Wonder Years." You don't want to get miss it and get "caught short."

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Update 4/28/06

Little, Brown and Company, the publisher of Ms. Viswanathan's book, has pulled the disputed novel from store shelves and retailers until the plagiarized passages can be excised and revised. Megan McCafferty states that she is "not seeking restitution in any form" and hopes that both she and Ms. Viswanathan can put the incident behind them and move on in their careers.

Not a bad resolution--no nasty lawsuit, Ms. McCafferty's work and name remain intact (and her compassion to a young emerging writer will not doubt help her reputation), and Ms. Viswanathan learns the kind of lesson that they don't teach at Harvard these days. Doris Kearns Goodwin seems to have recovered quite nicely, so chances are she will too.

Coming soon, the memoir: "How Kaavya Viswanathan Got Caught, Got Wise and Got a Lesson."

Continuing my theme of the potential pitfalls of blogging, I wanted to point out this interesting article by Sarah Hepola which recently appeared in Slate. Like many, she envisioned blogging as a means of ramping up to "The Great American Novel," an avenue down which she could stroll as book and movie agents stopped and turned their heads, marveling at the passing of her literary glory. In her reverie, she would soon be besieged with admirers, most of them toting contracts for six figure, two book deals, and of course, the inevitable DreamWorks movie.

To hear Ms. Hepola tell it (in fact, you can hear her here. Notice the alluring alliteration, all you lurking literary lions?), blogging actually got in the way of her novelistic aspirations. Yeah, I'll admit the thought has crossed my mind too. Sometimes the "which is better one or two" line and all the blepharitis gets old and I catch myself dreaming of book deals, signing parties at Barnes and Noble, movie premieres and a house in the Bahamas. But in all likelihood, I'll simply continue to churn out (ahem) my mundane musings to the delight, horror and apathy of those who stroll the blogosphere and trip over Ocular Fusion on their way to more worthwhile information and entertainment.

But that's cool. The Great American Novel is probably overrated anyway. Give me Mom, baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and my Great American Blog and I'm a happy man...at least for now.

Before the Matrix, there were the Borg. The Borg were those half-humaniod, half-machine cyborgs on Star Trek: The Next Generation who went marauding around the universe "assimilating" everything and everyone in their path. Dare to buck a Borg, and you would end up "enhanced" with cybernetic implants and connected together with other Borg drones to function as part of a collective mind controlled by the Borg Queen and a central hub, Unimatrix One. But really, it's ok because it was all in the name of "improving the quality of life for all species."

Keep this charming little scenario in mind as you watch this (a hat tip to blogger extraordinaire Bill Gnade over at Contratimes for bringing this to light). I agree with Bill's suggestion to wear headphones while viewing, and I would add that you might want to turn down the room lights as well for the full effect. Bottom line, this short film suggests that with each blog entry we write and every Google search that we perform, we come one step closer to full "assimilation."

Overwrought Orwellian fear mongering or a much-needed warning shot across our bow? Whatever you decide, it should at least give you pause and food for thought as you prepare to regale the blogosphere with your next political rant, religious epiphany or much-too-descriptive account of that nagging case of gout in your big toe.

I don't know, maybe we've already reached the point where "resistance is futile." If so, I hope I get a headset that's at least half as cool as the one old Locutus is wearing.

In September, 1974, it was near midnight in the Age of Aquarius and all was not well in the United States of America. Signs of upheaval were everywhere--the Vietnam war was drawing to an inglorious close, Patricia Hearst had been kidnapped (or had she?), President Nixon had just resigned in disgrace, and the Watergate Scandal had left everyone cynical and distrustful of the bedrock institutions on which our country had stood for so many years. As Barbara Streisand sang "The Way We Were," the year's number one song, we looked back with misty eyes at simpler "Seasons in the Sun." But as Terry Jacks crooned, "the wine and song, like the seasons," were, alas, "all gone."

Young men of that time may not have felt in control over world events, but they did assert their authority over their own bodies--especially the length of their hair. "Snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty" hair was flowing everywhere, and as you can see from the picture, I was no exception. But despite many a prayer offered to the follicle gods, I was unable to grow the kind of hair that flopped up and down like Pistol Pete's did as he streaked down the court or a long, flowing mane that Marcia Brady would have loved to run her fingers through. Instead, all I got was a bouffant which was the envy of every girl in Ms. Fine's 7th grade class at Burnt Chimney Elementary School.

But I did have a few thoughts on long hair that I wrote down. So, gentle readers, I give you my first recorded rant taken from my long-lost but recently unearthed 7th grade journal:

September 3, 1974

I'd like to say something about a thing which really bugs me, and that's the issue of long hair. It seems like people I've been around have the bad habit of judging other people by the length of their hair. I think this is totally UNFAIR! I don't judge people by their hair. I judge them on whether or not they are a good person (if I should judge anybody at all).

It seems like some people just think the clean cut and clean shaven young men are just superior. I think the length of hair or a beard or a moustache ought to be left up to the person himself.

It really does hurt me when I see somebody being judged by their hair. Oh it JUST KILLS ME! I think this world would be a lot better off (ed: at this point the journal entry switches from pen to pencil) if people would just take a look at their own selves instead of shooting other people down. Oh, if you're wondering why I changed writing tools, my Bic Banana just got rotten!

So there you have it, a young man of his times, a crusader for all "long haired freaky people" everywhere you had been discriminated against simply because of their long, tangled locks and bearded faces. My only real regret is that I didn't save a little of my own hair in a baggy for "use at a later date." But lest you think that I was a hippy in the making, you'll discover in future installments of this series that my politics were conservative to the core.

Next time: my innermost thoughts on walking through life as one "vertically challenged."

In a brilliant display of investigative reporting, the paper of record, The New York Times, discovered recently that the CEO of Morgan Stanley, John Mack, is maneuvering to place certain golfing buddies on the board of directors.

Coming soon: the NYT's blockbuster report on the late Pope John Paul II's suspected dabbling in (gasp!) Catholicism!

Obviously, the Gray Lady's reporting of a story which is, well, so obvious, is deserving of a send-up of the highest magnitude. For that task, there's no better person for the job than my favorite sports commentator and writer, Frank Deford. Mr. Deford is rightly concerned over this development and it's impact on our country's future. You can read his comments here, or listen to them here.

I recommend listening--his voice fairly drips with sarcasm, like a Hardee's biscuit slathered in country gravy.

Although I started Ocular Fusion in October, 2005, it turns out that my blogging roots go back quite a ways--the fall of 1974 to be precise. That was when Ms. Fine, my 7th grade teacher at Burnt Chimney Elementary School in Wirtz, Virginia, gave us the assignment of keeping a journal. I suppose like all good teachers she wanted us to learn to write well by writing often. Also, I'm sure that she had learned in teacher school that it was good for young people to "explore and express their feelings." Of course, maybe she was just plain nosey too.

Recently, an amazing archeological discovery was made right here in humble little Huntsville, Alabama. While rummaging through my closet, I unearthed a small blue tablet which, although quite ancient and barely readable, turned out to be the long-lost, secret writings of that Gnostic nerd of Ms. Fines's 7th grade class, Mike the Eyeguy. No doubt, these writings will soon take their rightful place alongside other significant and earth shattering Gnostic texts such as the Gospel of Judas in your local Barnes and Noble. But for my dozen or so loyal and faithful readers, in the coming days and weeks I will offer you some sneak previews via my ongoing series, Blogging--The Wonder Years. So, without further adieu, here is the first excerpt:

September 2, 1974
It's hard to believe it's been 6 years since I stumbled onto the bus wide-eyed and excited, but it sure has. I'm really looking forward to next year, because in my opinion when you start junior high and high school, that's when you REALLY find yourself and what you're going to be after you get out. I really have no special plans, so I'm just dying to know!

I think I've grown up a lot in the past 6 years. I used to get upset every time I got a question or two wrong, but now I realize that school is not the most important thing in the world. I can recall some experiences that I'm really ashamed of, but now that's all in the past and I hope I can cope with the new challenges that come up in my last 6 years of public school.

Yeah, 7th grade is such a critical passage of life--good thing I was wide awake for that one. Little did I know that the "shame" was just getting started. All in all, though, this is a fairly boring and nonscandalous passage, not unlike the navel-gazing ponderings seen on many blogs today. But it gets better. Stay tuned for the next installment when I write my first known rant and take on a critical issue of the 1970s--guys with long hair.

Oh, and by the way, I still get upset when I get a question or two wrong.

While visions of PAAS colored eggs are not exactly dancing in my head, several random Easter echoes are bouncing around in that vast empty space between my ears. Rhyme or reason will not make an appearance today, just random reactions, observations, musings and, yes, even a small rant.

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The resurrection is incredible (as in hard to believe). Sometimes we say the word resurrection so often and so fast that the fact that dead men rising is not an everyday occurrence is sometimes lost in the shuffle. If we have never felt the tension, that nagging tug, resulting from the improbability of it all, then I'm not sure we have thought deeply and reflected intensely enough on what we are claiming to believe. Apparently, even the people who were closest to Jesus in time and space, who knew him the best, and who had even laid eyes on the empty tomb had trouble digesting that bit of news (and believing it).

When I look around these days, I don't see any resurrecting going on. I do see a lot of dying (both with and without a pulse). So the fact that resurrection faith is alive and well today, that it persists despite the philosophical materialism and naturalism which seep like a deadly, odorless and tastless gas into every crack and crevice of modern society, seems to me nothing short of astonishing. Moreover, the fact that I believe it (and persist in doing so) given my own rationalistic mental wiring seems like nothing short of a miracle. If it is just a fictional story, a mere rumor manufactured by wishful-thinking, love-sick, mourning believers, then it is one that indeed has very long legs.

I have come to the conclusion that there are a lot of very smart people who can give compelling reasons for not believing the resurrection (and be comfortable in their faith of unbelief). Conversely, there are a lot of very smart people who can give some very compelling reasons for believing in the resurrection and, like their skeptical counterparts, wear their faith like a comfortable old suit of clothes. When you boil everything else away, it comes down to what you choose to do. What incredible freedom, to accept or reject this incredible story!

I am firmly convinced (and if I ever waver, all I have to do is scan the morning headlines) that without resurrection, there is no hope. Through the eyes of faith, I believe that Jesus rose from the dead (a real body, not a ghost) in historical time and space. I can't prove it like I can the results of a chemistry titration experiment, but I believe it--however improbable. I accept God's gift of resurrection faith. I choose hope.

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On the homefront, I've learned that teenage boys still like (and expect) Easter baskets. Number Three Son (who will turn 13 in July) was especially jittery on Saturday night, thinking that perhaps the Easter Bunny had dropped him in favor of some cute, toothless urchin with tossled hair and footy pajamas. Not to worry, the Easter Bunny made her appearance (did you know that she is about 5'4" tall and wicked cute, looks great in a pair of jeans and has beautiful, silver-streaked hair?).

Just for your information, these days a typical teenager's Easter basket contains historical fiction novels, a dry-erase calendar board, t-shirts, jelly beans, a variety pack of Orbit sugarless gum and a little "walking around" cash. Number Three and his brothers were so happy and pleased that they tolerated, with relatively little snide commentary, the obligatory Easter family portrait session.

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Gnosticism (i.e., one of the various forms of Extreme Christianity) is alive and well today, and if you're a TV producer, it can be packaged to sell. Did you read this? These reality shows are really starting to go a little too far. Excuse me, but wasn't the whole point (or at least a main point) of Jesus going to the cross that we wouldn't have to go through the same thing? Crucify Me? How about Cancel Me?

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Eyegal and I had an "Easter Date" Saturday night. First, we dined at the Bonefish Grille, where the Mahi-mahi with Mango Salsa and the Atlantic Salmon slathered in Lime Tomato Garlic sauce were to die for, and the Corona with lime was just the libation to wash away the throatful of dust and pollen that I breathed in while mowing my lawn on an unseasonably warm April afternoon.

Next, we wandered over to Holy Spirit Catholic Church where our friends Dottie and Larry (former Evangelical Protestants) were among 25 candidates and catechumens who were being either confirmed or baptized during Easter Vigil Services. There's nothing like a traditional (as in centuries old) service in a litugical church to get you into the Easter spirit. I loved the darkened sanctuary and silence at the start of the service (not a single PowerPoint slide in sight and no idle chatter about Alabama and Auburn football was heard). We were moved deeply by the melodious tenor of the cantor as he sang during the the Blessing of the Fire and the Preparation of the Paschal Candle. Soon the darkness of the sanctuary (meant to symbolize the darkness of the tomb) gave away to a soft, ethereal glow as fire from the Paschal Candle was passed from one baptized believer to another.

At over two hours, it is the longest Mass of the year, and the celebrant mentioned this several times, once joking to the congregation that they should simply consider this their last "last penance of the Lenten season." The baptismal and confirmation ceremonies were quiet and dignified, and there was nothing pretentious or ostentatious on display--the service was designed to accomplish the ancient rite of Christian initiation and was not intended to be finely-tuned, choreographed entertainment.

Although it seemed to drag at times, as the moment of the Eucharist approached, the pace picked up considerably and there was a palpable excitement in the air as the parishoners moved into the aisles and made the short pilgrimage toward the altar to receive what they hold in faith to be the Body and Blood of Christ, the Bread of Life washed down with Spiritual Drink.

As we dismissed, I felt privileged to have been a part of something so ancient, so tried and true. I remember thinking that while there are some significant differences, for the most part the various tribes of God's people have more in common than they they might think. When you get right down to it, we had felt pretty much at home.

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Attending the Easter Vigil Service renewed my appreciation for sacred time. In a world that is fragmented and harried to the point of the absurd, it is comforting to have the natural rhythm of the church year helping to guide us through all the noise and confusion. Thank God (literally) for gifting the Jews with this tradition of sacred time and thank God that they passed it on to us.

Many Evangelicals (especially some in my tribe) simply dismiss the notion of sacred time, pointing out that one day is no more special than another, and that we have the "freedom" to not join in with the rest of the "religious world" (will we ever recognize each other as fellow Christians?) in celebrations such as Easter. Try making the case that "no one day is more special than another" to your spouse on your wedding anniversary. Well, I suppose we do have such freedom, but at what cost do we exercise it?

There are signs of positive change, though. At my own church yesterday morning, the words "Easter" and "resurrection" were flying fast and often, and while we didn't have a cross out front draped in white raiment, inside the spirit of Jesus' rising and conquering power seemed to be alive and well. It was good to see and experience. It was progress.

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But then again, some still don't get it. At the same time that the majority of Christians worldwide are keeping a reverent vigil in remembrance of Jesus death, burial and resurrection, the good Christians at my alma mater, Harding University, are cutting loose and cutting a rug on the stage of the Benson Auditorium in Searcy, Arkansas.

Each year on Easter weekend, the fraternities and sororities at Harding get together and perform in the annual musical revue "Spring Sing." There's certainly nothing wrong with college students blowing off some pent-up steam with a little singing and dancing, especially on a campus whose administrators at all other times outlaw any motion of the hips beyond that naturally produced by the simple act of walking.

Now I love a good musical revue as much as the next guy. But does it have to be scheduled during Holy Week? Does this give you no pause, like that feeling you have as you walk through a cemetery and meticulously avoid stepping on a grave?

But, you protest, we don't recognize "Holy Week," therefore we have the freedom to do what we want. Maybe so, but how about exercising a little responsibility and consideration with your freedom and take into account the beliefs of others who do. To do otherwise is to play the inconsiderate rube. Besides, it appears tawdry and, well, a tad unChristian (dare I say "pagan?" Well, I guess I just did!). Come on dear ol' alma mater, I know you can do better.

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'Twas the day after Easter, and I have prattled on entirely too long. Let's cut to the chase: He is Risen! (He is Risen Indeed!)

The Lectionary readings for Easter Sunday 2006

The Lectionary readings for Holy Saturday 2006

The Lectionary readings for Good Friday 2006

The Lectionary readings for Maundy Thursday 2006

The Lectionary readings for Wednesday of Holy Week 2006

The Lectionary readings for Tuesday of Holy Week 2006

The Lectionary readings for Monday of Holy Week, 2006

Readings from the Revised Common Lectionary for Palm Sunday 2006

"Sometimes God calms the storm. Sometimes he lets the storm rage and calms the child."

--from a memorial plaque at Goshen United Methodist Church, Piedmont, Alabama

She emerged from the church ruins--split beams and shattered bricks, bits and pieces of altar and broken pew, palm leaves and dust-covered hymnals--all strewn about like Lincoln logs carelessly dumped by a child. Her left eye was nearly swollen shut, and she moved clumsily through the rubble, still dazed and unbelieving. In her right hand she clutched a palm frond like the one she had waved the day before in commemoration of Jesus' arrival. But Jesus had not come--only a strong, swirling wind, a falling sky and the bewildering fog and acrid aroma of senseless death. On Palm Sunday 1994, neither saint nor sinner had found sanctuary within the walls of Goshen United Methodist Church.

Two handsome, white-haired men in Sunday suits accompanied her. Their eyes gazed to and fro across the crowd, and each gently held one of her elbows, paying special attention to bear her safely across the uneven debri. They seemed to walk in perfect synchrony, pausing and stopping as she would now and then reach down to retrieve another piece of palm leaf or some other shattered remnant. Several photographers and reporters were also on the scene, sending the images of a grieving mother and pastor across the globe, live, via satellite.

Another reporter was rushing to meet a deadline and had almost finished loading the last of his equipment into his Ford Explorer when he spotted her moving among the ruins, palm frond in hand. It had been a long and difficult day, but he was emotionally hardened from years spent sifting through the aftermath of natural disasters and crawling on his belly amid the hot fury of battles in far-flung places. He had interviewed scores of survivors, officials and friends, and his camerman had shot enough footage to satisfy even the most insatiable connoisseur of tragedy. When he saw her, a voice inside him pleaded to simply leave well enough alone, but there was just something about that palm leaf. The image of a minister and mother-in-mourning standing amid the rubble of God's crumbled house was simply too tempting to resist.

He motioned for his camerman to retrieve the Sony and to follow him up the hill toward the church. As he walked, he carefully crafted the question in his mind, a missile designed for maximum impact. She saw her inquisitor and his accomplice approaching and steeled herself for yet another painful probing. Her companions saw them too, and they moved closer and tightened their grip, standing like two sentries at the ready.

"So," the reporter rudely quizzed, "has your faith been shattered?"

She ignored the annoying way he held the microphone an inch from her face and smiled at him, her compassion beaming through her grief.

"No," she gently laughed,"my faith is not shattered." She leaned closer to impart to him the secret of her strength. He leaned foward too, no doubt expecting her next words to break off into a trail of sobs and tears.

"My faith is what sustains me."

Now this was not the answer he had expected. Stunned silence and a long, awkward pause would have made for better footage. Gasping sobs and mournful wails, live, via satellite, could have tugged at the heartstrings of a watching world. But there were no fulminating denials or prolonged pathos on this day--only a minister and mother-in-mourning cutting against the grain and delivering the sermon of her life.

The encounter ended quickly, and the reporter turned toward his truck, stunned and somewhat disappointed, but hopeful that the interview would placate his handlers and satisfy the masses. The thought had already occurred to him that this would probably require some editing.

She turned again to the fallen church, and the floodgates opened once more. As her one good eye clouded with tears, the contours and colors of the surrounding scene merged into shapless splotches of grey, white, and black. For a moment, the walls of the church seemed to stand erect and there was that jolting sense of relief that one feels when waking from a very bad dream. But soon the prickly pain returned and her face flushed warm and red once again with a fresh wave of grief. She remembered that this was no dream, that in fact, her dream had been shattered the day before, as surely as the pieces of brick, pew and altar which lay scattered at her feet.

And then through the fog, she first sensed movement, then the outlines of people, and finally she saw clearly the painful faces of those who had come to take their place beside her on the mourner's bench. All the while, the two white-haired men in Sunday suits stood beside her, their eyes scanning to and fro over the gathered crowd.
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On March 27, 1994, a series of "supercells" containing numerous tornadoes moved through North Alabama, Georgia and the Carolinas. Forty-two people died that day, including 20 parishoners at the Goshen United Methodist Church in Piedmont, Alabama where Palm Sunday services were in progress. Among the dead was Hannah Clem, the 4-year-old daughter of one of the pastors, the Rev. Kelly Clem.

The evening after the tragedy, I was watching the news when a reporter asked Rev. Clem if her faith "had been shattered." I wrote "Calling All Angels" the next day, and the following Sunday the story appeared in the bulletin of my church. In those pre-internet days, it soon made the rounds among several churches in North Alabama via "snail mail" and fax. For the record, "Calling All Angels" was a title I chose on March 29, 1994, two years before the music group Alabama recorded "Calling All Angels" in 1996 and long before Lenny Kravitz recorded yet another song with the same title in 2004.

On this Palm Sunday 2006, there are many who have lost loved ones in the wake of similar killer tornadoes in the South and Midwest over the past couple of weeks. Our prayers go with the survivors who have lost both homes and family. May this story of Pastor Clem's faith in the face of similar tragedy remind us all that God "calms his children" who are caught in the swirling storms of life.

"Fish, I love you and respect you very much. But I will kill you dead before this day ends."

“Then the fish came alive, with his death in him, and rose high out of the water showing all his great length and width and all his power and his beauty.”

--from Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea

Unlike Santiago, Number Two Son had no intention of killing the Great Goldfish. But he was, by gosh, determined to snag him in his net and put him in his place. It would be his personal rite of passage, a test of his budding manhood pitting his own power against the greatest of beasts, an attempt to discern his rank in Nature’s cold and cruel hierarchy. Besides, if he managed to catch “Goldie,” he would be the coolest kid on the block. Like the Great Gold One, he would be the stuff of legend, an Arthurian king among the legions of young men who had trekked to the banks of Aldridge Creek hoping to make the catch of their lives.

As to how Goldie ended up in Aldridge Creek, one can only guess what strange odyssey led him to his new home in the deep water beneath the golf-cart bridge of the Valley Hill Country Club. Perhaps someone grew tired of feeding him and dumped him there, thinking that Nature would take her course and he would adapt and survive or else perish in her impartial and uncaring clutch. Maybe he had simply been taking a nap, mistaken for dead, and subsequently and unceremoniously “buried at sea,” only to be revived in the terrifying subterranean world of the Huntsville sewer system. Some have said that Goldie is an “orange carp” or perhaps a Japanese goldfish who took a seriously wrong turn near Nagasaki. But such mundane explanations have never deterred the young men by the creek who insist that over the past 7 years they have watched Goldie grow from a thumb-sized youngster to his present “biggy-sized” self.

Whatever strange path he traveled, it was apparent from the neighborhood buzz that Goldie had indeed adapted to life in the creek and that bottom feeding had suited him well. Goldie, so I was told, was a house pet gone very bad-- a mutant Cyclops with piranha-like incisors and a cool arrogance that mocked the young men who lined the creek bank and peered in trepidation at the land-locked leviathan. For some time, they had tried in vain to snatch the golden prize with their nets, always missing their mark by inches. Had they known a little law of optics--that Goldie, due to the light’s deceitful bend from beneath the water, was, unlike the objects in the side-view mirror, always a little “further away than he actually appeared”—he might have been captured long ago.

But like some kind of wispy phantom, Goldie always eluded their grasp. Last Sunday, on a balmy and promising spring day, Number Two Son, along with two companions, journeyed to his favorite spot, seeking to do what no young man in our neck-of-the-burbs had ever done before. Wearing a brand new pair of khaki shorts, an old t-shirt and his Tennessee Vols cap, he took up his usual post atop the golf-cart bridge.

Fishing from the bridge is technically trespassing, the punishment for which is usually a series of sharp rebukes by the cartloads of aging, argyle-clad linksters who zoom past on their way to the 12th tee. But for Number Two Son and crew, the chance to match wits with the oversized, 7-year-old, 7- pound monster fish is always worth the risk of getting busted.

As if on cue, Goldie made his appearance, circling lazily and glaring at the young fools-in-the making with his one good eye. Number Two cast his net into the water and at first Goldie was startled and kept his distance from the unwelcome intruder. Number Two kept the net very still, and as Goldie slowly became more accustomed to its presence, he swam ever more closely to the waiting trap.

Suddenly, with the quickness and ferocity of seafaring ancestors coursing through his powerful hands, Number Two drew the rope tightly, snaring the surprised animal in the net’s grasp. Caught up in the titan struggle of man versus beast, Number Two let loose with a primordial yell which echoed throughout the 18 hole course, drawing the unwelcome attention of a peeved patron whose 6-foot putt on the 11th green had been rudely interrupted by the ruckus. As he stormed toward the bridge, intending no doubt to show the young trespassers the business end of his Big Bertha Driver, the angry golfer stopped short, and realizing the magnitude of the moment, uttered softly, “Nice catch.”

As Number Two started to draw the struggling fish out of the water, he realized that its great weight might tear a hole in his net if he attempted to lift Goldie to the bridge. As one of his companions stayed behind and held the rope, Number Two waded into the creek and grabbed his flailing quarry, lifted him from the water, and started to make his way toward the bank.

Goldie's length, width and power were great indeed. It was a fierce Darwinian dance of death, a veritable festival of blood, sweat and tears that could have lasted for days, but in fact, lasted mere minutes. For soon Goldie, feeling the strain of oxygen debt, resigned himself to his fate and gave up the fight.

Exhausted from battle, Number Two collapsed on the creek bank, his new khaki shorts caked with mud and a broad smile slowly forming on his grizzled and weathered face. He carefully removed Goldie from the net and proudly displayed his prize as one of his companions recorded the scene with his cell phone camera. Here is the end result, and as you can see, Goldie turned out to be much more than just another Big Fish Story:









The victory celebration completed, the young man by the creek released his catch into the wild. Now Number Two swears this is true (and since I wasn’t there, who am I to say it’s not?): As Goldie started to swim away, he turned, and with a trace of a wry smile forming on his puckered lips and a mirthful glint in his bulbous eye, bowed knowingly to his captor, no doubt some sort of primeval salute passing from the conquered to the conqueror. He then turned again and abruptly swam away, this time diving a little deeper into the murky waters of Aldridge Creek, out of sight, but not out of the minds of the young men, who, with mouths agape, had witnessed this epic struggle between man and creature of the deep.

I cannot say for sure what sort of intimate knowledge passed between the two of them in that moment. Perhaps it was an old language that was spoken (as old as life itself), the freshly-discovered lyrics of some ancient song beating out the archaic rhythm of winter to spring and death to life and heralding the hope of more golden moments to be lived beneath the summer’s long, simmering sun.

It pains me to write it (and probably for you to read it), but the Maryland Terrapins 78-75 overtime defeat of the Duke Blue Devils in the women's NCAA basketball final was--a "shell of a game."

Down by 13 points in the second half, the Lady Terrapins fought their way back and tied the game with six seconds left in regulation on freshman Kristi Toliver's tough-as-nails three pointer over the out-stretched finger tips of 6'7" Duke center Alison Bales. They then went on to hit several crucial free throws in the overtime session to give Coach Brenda Frese her first national title as a Terrapin.

For Coach Gail Goestenkors and her she-Devils, this was their second time to come up dry in a title game and a disappointing end to the career of Monique Curry, who graduated last year and could have pursued a WNBA career, but chose instead to work on a masters degree in humanities while seeking the Holy Grail of NCAA Champion. For those who were disappointed by the anticlimatic men's title game, this one contained all the drama and heartache that a final is supposed to deliver.

If you looked hard enough, you could even find a little romance as well. Eyegal watched the semifinals and finals with me and was fascinated with Duke's 6'7" Alison Bales--"that is the largest woman I've ever seen in my life." After I seconded that observation, she went on to muse, "I think she's pretty. Do you think she has a boyfriend?" After I confessed my ignorance of and complete disinterest in Ms. Bales' love life, Eyegal concluded, "Well, I hope she meets a nice 6'11" guy so they can get together and make 7'5" babies!"

Why is it that women can't watch a sporting event without turning it into another remake of "When Harry Met Sally?"

Congrats to the Twerps, er, I mean Terps on their championship run. I was hoping that Duke could salvage at least one national title, but short of that, I was glad to see another ACC team (besides the Tar Heels of course) win it all.
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In my blue funk over the outcome of the men's tournament, I failed to give credit where credit was due and I must make amends. Joakin Noah's performance for the Gators in their run to a national title was nothing short of extraordinary. His scoring, shot-blocking, passing and playmaking are a rare combination, the likes of which was reminiscent of a young Magic Johnson in his romp to a title for Michigan State in 1979.

Last year the Final Four MVP was a discouraged freshman biding his time riding the pine, but in a turnaround which should serve as an inspiration to overlooked bench players everywhere, this year he's King of the Prom. Although he will always be associated with his famous tennis player father Yannick, he is well along in carving out his own path to a professional sports career which will most likely begin next year in the NBA.

Noah was also an unpretentious breath of fresh air, reminding us all to "chill out" lest we take this whole thing too seriously. He was the source of numerous Final Four soundbites and here are a few of my favorites:

When asked to describe how it feels to win a title: "You're like on a cloud. Not only does it feel good, it smells good, it tastes good."

When asked to compare himself to his father: "We have a saying in France, 'A dog doesn't make a cat.'"

On his father's involvement in his basketball:"He's always telling me, 'Calm down. Take a deep breath. You're not breathing enough.'"

Speaking as if to his Dad: "Dude, just chill out, man. Just drink a couple beers, watch the game and let me play. He stresses me out."

As he stood on a table leading the Gator pep band in the school fight song:"The NBA can't do this!"

On the NBA versus the college game: "You can buy a lot of hamburgers when you go to the NBA. But it's not about that right now. It's about enjoying the moment."

Amen, Joakin, thanks for reminding us. May you enjoy your "one shining moment" in the sun.
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It'll be a long summer for college basketball addicts like me. But if I ever need a fix, I'll throw on my Duke shirt and head down to the Y to shoot a few buckets and maybe go back and read this nice tournament summary and tribute, The NCAA Tournament from A to Z, written by a real basketball pundit, Todd Holzman of NPR.
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Is this really it...no more college basketball? (sigh) Here's one hoops junkie for whom October 15th (aka "Midnight Madness") cannot come soon enough.

The Florida Gators are the 2006 NCAA mens college basketball champions after a convincing 73-57 thrashing of the UCLA Bruins. With four starters in double figures and another reserve with nine points, the Gators feasted on a little bear and demonstrated definitively that it takes a full team to run the gauntlet to an NCAA title, not one or two consensus All Americans. Congrats to Donovan and crew (I guess). I know I should be more excited about an SEC team taking home the title, but we're talking Florida here folks. I just can't seem to get the bad taste of Steve Spurrier out of my mouth even after all these years. I was so bummed that I didn't even stay up to watch "One Shining Moment."
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All right, let's get the rest of the unpleasantness over with. Here are the final Ocular Fusion Gang pool standings. Congrats to itakeupspace (care to ID yourself?) for being the best of the worst and Jason Bybee for a nice comeback (should have stuck with those Gators all the way--just think of what could have been):

1. itakeupspace 76 pts. 37 correct
2. Number One Son 70 pts. 38 correct
3. jasonbybee 64.5 pts 35 correct
4. House of Orange 62 pts 36 correct
5. Number Three Son 57.5 34 correct
6. Mike the Eyeguy 50.5 32 correct
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They seem to have a lot of Player of the Year Awards nowadays. J.J. Redick had already won the AP award and even split one with Adam Morrison, but he took home perhaps the biggest of all recently in receiving the Naismith Player of the Year Award. Shelden Williams also won a Defensive Player of the Year Award. I'm quite sure that both would trade their entire collection of hardware for one tiny national championship ring.

For the first time in memory, I will actually be paying attention to the NBA draft this year and planning a pilgrimage to either Atlanta or Memphis.
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Duke takes on Maryland for the women's title tonight. I expect a closer game than the men's final, and now that Ivory "Throw Her Down" Latta has limped back to Chapel Hill, one that is characterized by fine basketball rather than cheap wrestling moves.
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Go Cardinals--please, make this the year.

The weekend has come and gone, and things are, well, different, than they were just a few days ago. For one thing, we are back on daylight savings time and although I awoke at my usual "rise and shine" 5:30AM the clock says it is actually 6:30AM, and therefore I don't have my usual amount of time to write and post. So, in the interest of time and our short 21st century attention spans, I'll go about this in bulleted fashion. If you sat through an Hour of PowerPoint at church yesterday, please accept my apologies beforehand.

• Nancy Grace has given up on her Church of Christ cult hunt (not enough "traction" apparently) and has turned her keen journalistic eye and prosecutorial Death Ray from the Winkler case to the Duke Lacrosse Team
• Anderson Cooper of CNN, the day after Ms. Grace "interviewed" Rubel Shelley, showed considerably more decency and journalistic integrity to his Church of Christ guest, Dr. Billy Smith, Dean of the School of Biblical Studies at Freed-Hardeman University
  
• Unlike Ms. Grace, Mr. Cooper asked intelligent questions, allowed Dr. Smith to complete his sentences and graciously thanked Dr. Smith at the end of the interview
  
• Way to go Anderson--your responsible handling of the story and your attempt to repair the damage incurred by Ms. Grace have been noted and appreciated
• The above bullets are further evidence that Ocular Fusion is a "fair and balanced" blog
• The Florida Gators stole Cinderella's slippers, kissed her on the cheek and sent her packin' in her pumpkin
  
• The UCLA men have a chance to win their 12th National Championship tonight (as if they needed another one)
• Question: Will anybody actually watch this game?
• I am the world's worse college basketball pundit and prognosticator
  
• There is hope for disappointed Duke fans: the women's basketball team exacted a measure of revenge from LSU and has made it to the national title game against Maryland to be played on Tuesday night
• Another question: Which do you think will win the ratings war, the women's title game or this?
  
• Duke could really use a national title in a women's sport to deflect attention from the men's lacrosse team
• Later this week on Ocular Fusion: a Very Large Fish Story
• Speaking of fish stories, I bought someone's April Fool's joke hook, line and sinker
  
• The dog is starting to whine to be let out, so I have to go now
• Man, I'm really tired this morning--how about you?