Ocular Fusion

I've Moved!

2006-05-19T07:04:00.000-05:00

If for some reason you've not been automatically whisked away to my new location, it is located at ocularfusion.net. See you there!

Dilbert Takes on Google

2006-05-18T07:01:00.000-05:00

My conversion to WordPress is going well. Expect an unveiling very soon.

There's been some discussion here and elsewhere on whether the all mighty Google is, as my mother says, "getting too big for its britches."

Well, Scott Adams thinks so. This week he's having a little fun with everyone's favorite search engine algorithm through everyman and corporate grunt, Dilbert. Enjoy.

Pardon My Dust

2006-05-17T06:30:00.000-05:00

I'll be offline for a short period preparing what I hope will be a new and improved (in appearance if not content) Ocular Fusion. For various reasons, I've decided to switch from Blogger to WordPress with some help from Harding grad and WebbleYou proprietor Justin Baeder.

Justin is just the guy to enable an HTML-challenged, middle-aged blogger like me to pull it off, but I still may need a few days to get things just the way I want. So I beg your pardon for the dust and please check back soon.

In the meantime, check out today's USA Today and this article on Bill Cosby. America's favorite funnyman has been depositing regularly in his good will savings account over the years and now he's drawing on some of that collateral and credibility as he tours the country "calling out" inner-city communities to a higher standard of personal responsiblity and behavior.

His ongoing multi-city tour is stirring up controversy, just like his NAACP speech did 2 years ago. And, just like the controversial Da Vinci Code, a spate of "in response to" books are popping up as well.

Grrrrrr! Lady Tigers Win State!

2006-05-15T07:25:00.000-05:00

The "thrill of victory and the agony of de feet" were everywhere apparent at this year's 2006 Alabama State Soccer Championships this past weekend in Huntsville. Dreams were made and shattered as match after match was decided in sudden-death "golden goal" overtime or kicks from the mark. The biggest thrill was watching the Lady Tigers from Number One son's Grissom High School take home their first blue trophy since 1999 in a thrilling 2-1 victory over arch-rival Oak Mountain. The game was dead-even at 1-1 after regulation and two hard-fought overtime periods and eventually was decided by kicks from the mark (more on that in a moment).

Among the teams whom I hosted for the tournament, one was eliminated in the semifinals while the other one took home their second championship in a row. For the girls team from Gadsden Southside High, it was their first Final Four appearance, and they arrived wide-eyed and eager to get on the pitch and show their stuff. The only problem was they brought only dark socks, and since they were the designated home team for their match, they were required to wear light-colored socks and jerseys. After checking with the head referee, who informed me that they would have to forfeit if they couldn't take the field in white hose, off I went with credit card in hand to make an emergency equipment run to Pete's Soccer Shop. I arrived with 19 pairs of new white socks moments before the team was to be inspected by the referees and sent onto the field.

The Gadsden girls lost 3-0 to eventual champion Briarwood Christian, but their 8th and 9th grader-laden squad put up a good scrap against the older and more experienced Lady Lions. And I must say, those pristine, white soccer socks looked mighty fine. Finally, I got to do something significant as a team host!

My other team was the Homewood High School boys team, the defending 5-A state champs. I had noted Coach Sean McBride's thick Scottish brogue a few nights before on the phone, so I figured that he probably knew his stuff when it comes to real football. His team went out on the pitch and proved my intuition correct, coming from behind in both of their matches to win their second state championship in a row.

But not without a few equipment problems of their own. Moments before the championship began, Coach McBride looked down at his feet and realized he wasn't wearing his "lucky Pumas." He sent word to his wife in the stands who then went and retrieved them from the locker room. Number Three son was standing by the gate to the playing area and he took the handoff from Mrs. McBride and delivered them to Coach just prior to the opening kickoff. After the match, Coach McBride assured me that he really wasn't superstitious, but that he just felt more comfortable in them than the other shoes. Yeah right. I'm glad they won, because that made the first of the teams whom I've hosted over the past four years to finally win a state title. Coach McBride, thanks to you and your crew for finally lifting the "Curse of the Eyeguy."

Words can't describe how it felt watching the Grissom ladies win a state title, so how about a little video instead. The first is of Madison Brakefield, a 5th-year varsity striker who has a throw in technique that you'll absolutely flip over. Madison has signed with Mississippi State, which means that she'll be taking her ninja act all across the Southeastern Conference come fall.

The second video is of Auburn signee Jessica Childress knocking home the winning kick from the mark to seal the title. Jessica was the foundation of the Grissom defense, but we all gasped when she injured her hip in Friday's semifinal. She arrived for Saturday's final taped tighter that King Tut, but she gritted her way through every minute of the game and overtime until finally, as the fifth and final Grissom shooter, she stood one-on-one versus the Oak Mountain keeper with the title on the line.

Say, who's that excited middle-age soccer addict narrating that video? The only way he could be more excited is if the Grissom boys got their act together and won a state championship before a hometown crowd next year.

The ladies have raised the bar gentlemen. Grrrrrr--now let's get to work and go get it!

A Beautiful Day for the Beautiful Game

2006-05-12T07:01:00.000-05:00

This morning Number Three Son and I will head over to the John Hunt Soccer Complex for the opening matches of the Alabama State Soccer Championships. Huntsville has the best soccer complex in the state and has hosted the championships since 2001. This is an annual tradition for Number Three and me. He serves as a ball boy--excuse me, ball handler--and I volunteer to be a team host. As a host I work with a couple of visiting teams just making sure that they're comfortable, find their way around and have everything they need to compete successfully.

What's in it for me? Well, how about an "All Access" pass for starters! Having an All Access pass at the state soccer championships is at least as good as a back-stage pass at a Spinal Tap concert. This means I can go anywhere I like, including the bench area located between the two world-class soccer pitches (those are soccer fields for the uninitiated) where I get a "behind-the-scenes" look at the action, including the ability to stand in one spot and rotate, taking in two games at once. I also get to visit the hospitality room, which means I get all the Diet Coke, fruit and munchies that a middle-age soccer aficionado could ever want.

Excuse me, is this heaven? No, it's the Final Four of Alabama high school soccer on a sunny, 70 degree day in Huntsville!

The only down side is that Number One's (#16 in the picture) team, the Grissom Tigers, were knocked out of the playoffs in the first round. Ranked number one in the state going in and the odds-on favorite to win it all, they lost a heartbreaking 4-3 decision in OT to rival Mountain Brook. They dug themselves a hole early going down 3-1, so we were proud of the way they fought back. Unfortunately, our defenders' legs were a little rubbery in OT and we just didn't quite have enough to finish. Next year, with 12 seniors returning, we hope to be playing in the Final Four before a hometown crowd. Still, at 24-4 on the season, you can't complain too much.

On the upside, the Grissom girls team played through to the Final Four (Go Lady Tigers!), and other Huntsville area teams playing include the Huntsville High girls team and both the boys and girls teams from Randolph School.

Indeed, it's a beautiful day for the "beautiful game."
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Speaking of Huntsville High, I wanted to give you an update on my post from earlier this week, Fast Times at Huntsville High. As far as I can tell from my highly-placed sources (heh), this is starting to settle down and apparently both the students and parents involved are accepting their punishment without any loud wails of protest.

In addition to not receiving their diplomas until they complete their 100 hours of community service to the homeless, the school will also withhold their final transcripts as well. Keep in mind that college acceptances are typically "conditional" on completing the year in good standing. So, this may place some of the pranksters in the awkward position of having to explain to colleges what happened and why they aren't able to provide them with their final grades. Hopefully, all this will put a little crimp in that annoying swagger we witnessed early on in this sordid business.

Just like my piece on Nancy Grace and Churches of Christ, my Monday post was picked up by an internet "news outlet," and as a result I've been receiving quite a few first-time visitors this week. Sploid.com seems to me to be the internet equivalent of The National Enquirer. Their mission statement, such as it is, reads like this:

"SPLOID delivers the tabloid breaking news you crave: fresh disasters, strange crimes, political scandal, odd characters, bizarre phenomena, freakish animals, horrifying conspiracies, goofy do-gooders, police idiocy and all the government-gone-wild insanity you can handle."

I think that pretty much says it all. The piece they did on the senior prank (beware that it contains a graphic image of prisoner abuse at Abu Ghraib) is full of innuendo and half-truths and finishes with a very gratuitous slam at the state of Alabama--all in all, typical slipshod tabloid fare. The link to my post can be found at the phrase "acts of depravity."

I'm not sure how I feel about becoming a part of the "media landscape," much less a link in a tabloid hack job. I guess the upside is that those who are clicking on the link and reading my post are getting a little more even-handed and balanced view of the situation from someone who is actually there on the scene. I can assure our northernly neighbors that we can handle such situations and take care of our own. I know it's not good news, but look around--you've got a few problems too. Mind your own business you bunch of carpetbaggers, ya hear?

That's all from Huntsville, where the men are decked out in polo shirts and khakis, the women wear way too much makeup, and the children are overscheduled, overstimulated and overachieving.

Googlezon--It Begins

2006-05-11T07:30:00.000-05:00

The assimilation has begun. Resistance is futile.

Although it wasn't supposed to happen until 2008, I have evidence that Google and Amazon have already joined forces to create Googlezon, a platform combining Google's superb seach engine technology with Amazon's "social recommendation engine" and "huge commercial infrastructure." Here's the story:

On Tuesday, I had one of my "40-something" brain lock moments at the office. I had a patient in the chair with early macular degeneration for whom I planned to prescribe Ocuvite eye vitamins. The only problem was I couldn't for the life of me remember the dosage.

So I turned to my computer and while explaining the reason for the vitamins to the patient, quickly typed "Ocuvite" into Google and found the website, which of course provided me with the proper dosage--all in a matter of seconds.

Yesterday, I went to Amazon to look up a book that I was interested in purchasing, and low and behold, what should I find listed at the top of the page but a "recommendation" suggesting that I purchase Ocuvite along with listings for several other "similar products."

Whoa. That can only mean one thing--Google ratted me out to Amazon. And that means that the two of them are talking to each other, a full two years ahead of time to boot.

I can only imagine the conversation taking place these days:

Google: "Hey, Z, check out the Eyeguy! He forgot a dosage again and had to look it up. What a loser, I thought doctors were supposed to be gods and know everything."

Amazon: "What up, G-man?! Yeah, that's been happening a lot since he turned forty. Say, uh, if you don't mind me asking, what drug was it?"

Google: "Ocuvite with Lutein. You ought to bring that one to his attention next time he wanders over your way."

Amazon: "Excellent idea, Goog, will do. What else has he been looking up lately?"

Google: "Well, let's see...baldness remedies, Nancy Grace, Spinal Tap, oh, here's something you might be interested in, he seems to be checking out laptops a lot these days. Computers that is, not dancers."

Amazon: "That can only mean one thing: Mother's Day is near and he's thinking about getting a new computer for Eyegal. Typical guy--buy the latest electronic gizmo for your wife so that both of you can use it. What a clueless moron!

Google: "No argument here Z!"

Amazon: "Thanks Goog, that's very useful information. I'll flash a few laptops and a few other digital thing-a-ma-jigs next time he's over here and see if he takes the bait. I might even throw up a few DVDs like King Kong and Jarhead. Heh, now there's a couple of 'chick flicks' for ya!"

Google: "Hey, go easy on him Z! Why don't you throw in Pride and Prejudice and Tristen and Isolde in there too--don't make him look too bad. Hey no fair, here I am spilling all the beans and not any poop from you. Come on Zster, give it up!"

Amazon: "All right, all right. The latest titles he's been checking out include How Soccer Explains the World: An Unlikely Theory of Globalization, Father Joe and Da Vinci Code Decoded. Oh, and check this out. He's been looking at this book written by some chick named Nancy French which will come out this fall. Get a load of this title: A Red State of Mind: How a Catfish Queen Reject Became a Liberty Belle. Now that sounds like a real must read! Seems he's also been looking at another one she wrote called South Pacific Journal. Heh, looks like we've got a few copies of that one in the bargain bin. Hey, wasn't there a musical with that name?

Google: "Yup, sounds like a clear cut case of plagiarism to me. Well, that's all very interesting Z. Ya know, this whole Googlezon thing is working out quite nicely, don't ya think?

Amazon: "Indeed, G-man, indeed. They're eating out of our hands and don't even realize it. Pretty soon, they will be fully assimilated and become one with Googlezon."

Google: "That's right, Z! And there's absolutely nothing they can do about it because, as the Borg would say, 'resistance is futile.'"

Google and Amazon: (peals of sinister laughter)

And so on and so on, like two cyberwags gossiping across a fence.

This is no dystopian fiction. This is real, and it is happening now. Prepare to be assimilated--Googlezon has begun.

Let's Play GOD!

2006-05-09T07:15:00.000-05:00

I'll admit that I'm not much of a video-gamer. My idea of a good video game involves running from ghosts or defending the earth from marauding space invaders. Besides, the reflexes aren't what they used to be, so I leave the video games to the three young bucks in my house. But I can still hold my own and beat them in ping-pong (and probably in PONG as well). Ok, I'll admit that Number Three did beat me the other night, but that was only because I wasn't wearing my sweatbands.

I bring all this up to introduce a forthcoming video game currently evolving under the direction of the creator of The Sims, Will Wright. The game is called Spore and will be released sometime next year. Check out this description in this morning's USA Today:

At the start, you control a single-cell organism — a spore, struggling to survive in a tide pool. Using simple tools, you help your spore evolve into a creature that emerges onto land. Skillful adaptation allows you to multiply into a tribe that eventually builds cities, then a globe-conquering civilization.
"I think of Spore as a very personal universe," Wright says. "Each player ends up roughly creating their own world at every level as they play through the game, and eventually they begin exploring other players' worlds. Each player is crafting their own personal universe in a box."

Ok, now let me get this straight. This new game is supposed to simulate general, or macroevolution. Hello, anybody home? Does anybody see something wrong with this picture?

As I understand it, general evolution is supposed to be random and unguided. Wouldn't it have been more accurate and intellectually honest to make a game in which you would just sit back and watch as your "personal universe in a box" took shape, without any sort of intervention on your part? Oh wait, that wouldn't work either since the game itself would require a creator too. Start throwing the "C" word around and pretty soon Little Johnny won't be allowed to play Spore in biology class at the local public high school.

Oh, the complex conundrums facing today's earnest philosophical materialists! It's almost enough to make me feel sorry for them. Almost. The fact of the matter is that when Spore is released next year, millions of youths will falsely believe that are playing "evolution," when, in fact, they will merely be playing GOD.

Fast Times at Huntsville High

2006-05-08T07:15:00.000-05:00

It's not every day that national news occurs in Huntsville, Alabama. But in the case of this particular story, we denizens of the "Rocket City" would have preferred to keep a lower profile.

Last Thursday, several seniors at Huntsville High School suffered from simultaneous group brain lock and decided that they would salve their senioritis and seal their legacy with the "greatest senior prank of all time." Their idea? Lure a mentally ill homeless man into the school with promises of food and money and have him take off his pants and streak down the halls in the middle of a class change. After apparently sneaking the man into the building through several locked doors, they were unfortunately successful in their attempt.

What ever happened to crickets in the hallway and stealing your archrival's mascot? Back in my day, if there was going to be any streaking, people generally had the spine to do it themselves without contracting it out. What gutless wunderkinder we're raising these days.

The resulting community uproar, among adults at least, has been intense. Thankfully, as of this morning, the story has had limited distribution through the wire services, although I expect that to change as the news cycle picks up this week. I don't know which is more disturbing, the fact that soon-to-be-on-their-own "adults" would conceive and carry out such a dehumanizing stunt, or the fact that now, even days later, they are being defended by many of their peers at school who think the incident has been overblown and was "funny."

Well "funny" is likely to be less so once the powers that be sort out the situation and begin to mete out punishment to the generals, lieutenants and foot soldiers who carried out the dastardly prank. Options include not walking at graduation and withholding their diplomas, suspension, explusion and some type of community service.

I would stop short of ruining someone's life, but I would make sure that the summer of 2006 is remembered for hard work, hot sun and the hundreds of homeless faces whom you served meals to down at the local rescue mission. Obviously, these seniors are missing some important pieces of education from their portfolios. Nothing like a little "summer school" to solve that problem.

So, this is what "fast times at Huntsville High" look like these days. I wonder what Jeff Spicoli would say? Probably something like, "No brains, no pants, no diploma."

Blogging--The Wonder Years, Chapter V

2006-05-04T07:25:00.000-05:00

Speaking of Henry John Deutschendorf, Jr. (aka John Denver), in 1974 he was one of my favorite musical artists, along with Elton John, Steely Dan, The Eagles and Bachman Turner Overdrive (BTO). I was pretty eclectic, even though I had no idea at the time what that word meant. All I knew was that I liked it loud--"Annie's Song" was simply not the same unless it was belted out at the top of one's lungs with the radio volume button turned all the way to the right.

Hence the problem. This was long before the advent of "personal listening devices" such as iPods, back in the stone-age when LP stereos were located in common areas and a set of headphones was a rare luxury. I shared my common living area with a 16-year-old classical music-crazed, piano virtuoso wannabe older sister and a 2-year-old sister who was more into Romper Room, Mrs. Beasley dolls and taking naps in the middle of the day. Obviously this cramped my personal music listening style, and on November 11, 1974, I had reached my breaking point as this poignant entry from my 7th grade journal clearly shows:

I'm not getting equal time. My sister is always at the piano with the bust of her best friend Beethoven. She's always playing her nice, sweet sonatas and not leaving time for me and John Denver. You see the stereo is unfortunately in the same room as the piano. I just can't win. Either one sister is asleep or the other is playing the piano. I'm getting a couple of more John Denver albums for my birthday and I'm not sure I'll even get to play them. Oh, how I long for December 25th when I will get a record player of my own!

Oh, the travesty of justice, oh the inhumanity of it all! This was not the first time that my eyes were opened to the fact that "equal rights" meant that guys got screwed, nor would it be the last. Fortunately, I did eventually get my own stereo, plus dad built a new bedroom for me in the basement, my own personal sound studio perfectly suited for cranking up the volume to the appropriate eardrum numbing, uberdecibal levels that these days account for my constant refrain of "Heh? What's that you said, Sonny?"

A couple of years later, I even got to see John Denver, live in concert at the Roanoke Civic Center--along with my parents and sisters. Yeah, those were wild times in Southwest Virginia. While Eyegal was in the big city of St. Louis, riding some air guitar playing dude's shoulders while holding aloft the ubiquitous butane lighter at a Boston concert, I was sitting in Roanoke with my family while John Denver belted out such classics as "Thank God I'm a Country Boy," "Country Roads," and "I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane."

What my parents didn't count on was the fact that the one-hit wonder Starland Vocal Band was the opening act. When they launched into a rowdy and raucous rendition of "Afternoon Delight," I was, needless to say, intrigued:

Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight
gonna grab some afternoon delight
My motto's always been, when it's right, it's right.
Why wait until the middle of a cold dark night
When everything's a little clearer in the light of day
And you know the night is always gonna be there any way
Sky rockets in flight, Afternoon Delight. Aaaaafternoon Delight!

And that's just the PG-rated stuff. But you know what? Starland Vocal Band had stumbled on to a great truth there. As Eyegal and I have discovered over the years, "delight" can often be uncovered in the midst of crazy times and places such as in between diaper changes, in the kitchen as the macaroni and cheese is starting to burn and even in the middle of a cold dark night when you're bone tired and world weary. All in all, it's been more than enough to make me forget all about Annie.

These days, my best stereo is a Bose and it's located in my little black Audi A4. Most of the time, I'm not ashamed to admit, I listen to NPR and classic/soft rock (there's no use in hiding it, unless I'm toting around my sons and their friends). Every now and then, strains from a distant past fill my ears, and I reach down and instinctively turn the volume dial all the way to the right. Suddenly, it's 1974 again, and Annie "fills up my senses" while the young turks in their tricked-out Honda Civics look on in awe and bemusement as a stone-age relic transcends the surly bonds of the mundane and passes into audio nirvana.

Blogging--The (Bleep) Wonder Years, Chapter IV

2006-05-02T07:25:00.000-05:00

In 1972, comedian George Carlin released the monologue, Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television on his album Class Clown. In 1973, some of those words even made it onto the radio airwaves when WBAI-FM broadcast, uncensored, another Carlin monologue containing the same profanity.

My parents wouldn't even let me watch M*A*S*H or All in the Family much less listen to Carlin, but that never stopped a preteen who was determined to hear what all the fuss was about. The problem was I had the kind of mother who always had the uncanny knack of knowing when my Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition was going to arrive and intercepting it before I could get home from school, so coming by critical information in those days wasn't easy.

Enter my friend Rusty from church (where else?). Rusty was a "man of the world" who had seen and heard a thing or two in his time and he was the go-to guy in such situations. One day after his parents had left us alone while running an errand, Rusty invited me up to his room to listen to a copy of Carlin's monologue which he kept cleverly hidden in a John Denver album cover. Needless to say, my ears fairly tingled as they were opened to a new level of vocabulary that I'd never been exposed to in my elementary school classroom.

But the elementary school playground was another story. Indeed, by the mid-70s Carlin's act was being mimicked around tether ball poles and on basketball courts across this great land. On September 10, 1974, I had heard enough, and as is evident from this entry in my 7th grade journal, I was "madder than #$%&*^@ and I wasn't going to take it anymore:"

I seem to have got hooked on stuff that bugs me (ed: no kidding). But this time it is more serious (ed: uh oh). At Burnt Chimney we seem to have a problem with cursing by boys and girls. This may sound corny but some people don't take those into consideration who don't want to hear it. But sometimes the reasons are so DUMB that it's pitiful. Like in a game or something I've noticed people get mad and blow their heads off when it's just a game. Sure I've slipped sometimes probably most everybody has but I don't think I'm that bad. If people would just think before or even after they say something maybe they could break themselves of the habit.

One thing that leaps out from this entry is my concern in letting my teacher know that those "sugar and spice" girls were letting loose with a few choice ones too. After all, they had "come a long way, baby" and nobody was going to deny them their rights to cuss like a guy. This really bugged me, and as you'll see from later entries in forthcoming installments, I had a few opinions on the Women's Liberation Movement and its effects on Ms. Fine's classroom at Burnt Chimney Elementary School in Wirtz, Virginia.

Notice too that I don't let myself off the hook. However, I was probably referring to "minced oaths" such as "heck," "gosh," "dagnabbit" and "shoot" which were the Church of Christ equivalent of living on the edge in those days.

The end result of the Carlin incident was that the Supreme Court upheld the FCC's general guidelines for regulation of certain "dirty words" that couldn't be broadcast during times when children were expected to be awake (6 AM to 10 PM). Of course, this hasn't stopped cable television from ratcheting up both the quantity and quality of profanity at all hours, and even a couple of words on Carlin's list routinely make their way into network primetime broadcasts these days.

Now I'm certainly no prude, and I still slip up every now and then, especially when some ^8+$@# jerk cuts me off on the morning drive to work. But I pretty much stand by the words I wrote in 1974--if only people would think. Unfortunately, there's not a whole lot of that going on these days. Why go to all that trouble when you can just spew forth from the gut all your bile for the world to hear?

I just have one question: where's John Denver when you need him?

Blogging--The Wonder Years, Chapter III

2006-04-28T05:40:00.000-05:00

They got little hands
Little eyes
They walk around
Tellin' great big lies
They got little noses
And tiny little teeth
They wear platform shoes
On their nasty little feet
Short People got no reason
Short People got no reason
Short People got no reason
To live
--from Randy Newman's "Short People"

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.

A Cambridge Copycat?

2006-04-27T07:05:00.000-05:00

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."

The Great American Blog

2006-04-25T07:25:00.000-05:00

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.

Prepare To Be Assimilated

2006-04-24T07:25:00.000-05:00

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.

Blogging--The Wonder Years, Chapter II

2006-04-21T07:25:00.000-05:00

Let it fly in the breeze
And get caught in the trees
Give a home to the fleas in my hair
A home for fleas
A hive for bees
A nest for birds
There ain't no words
For the beauty,the splendor, the wonder of my...
Hair, HAIR, hair, HAIR, hair, HAIR, hair
Flow it, show it
Long as God can grow it
My hair.
--from the song "Hair"

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."

The Great Golf Conspiracy

2006-04-20T07:01:00.000-05:00

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.

Blogging--The Wonder Years, Chapter I

2006-04-19T07:10:00.000-05:00

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.

'Twas the Day After Easter

2006-04-17T06:50:00.000-05:00

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!)

Easter Sunday 2006

2006-04-16T00:01:00.001-05:00

The Lectionary readings for Easter Sunday 2006

Holy Saturday 2006

2006-04-15T07:00:00.000-05:00

The Lectionary readings for Holy Saturday 2006

Good Friday 2006

2006-04-14T00:01:00.000-05:00

The Lectionary readings for Good Friday 2006

Maundy Thursday 2006

2006-04-13T00:01:00.000-05:00

The Lectionary readings for Maundy Thursday 2006

Wednesday of Holy Week 2006

2006-04-12T06:21:00.000-05:00

The Lectionary readings for Wednesday of Holy Week 2006

Tuesday of Holy Week 2006

2006-04-11T00:01:00.000-05:00

The Lectionary readings for Tuesday of Holy Week 2006

Monday of Holy Week 2006

2006-04-10T00:01:00.000-05:00

The Lectionary readings for Monday of Holy Week, 2006

Liturgy of the Palms, Sixth Sunday of Lent 2006

2006-04-09T00:01:00.000-05:00

Readings from the Revised Common Lectionary for Palm Sunday 2006

Calling All Angels

2006-04-09T00:00:00.000-05:00

"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.

The Young Man and the Creek

2006-04-07T00:01:00.000-05:00

"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 Was a Shell of a Game

2006-04-05T07:05:00.000-05:00

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.

That's Why They Call It a Team Sport

2006-04-04T07:25:00.000-05:00

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.

Monday Morning Musins'

2006-04-03T07:25:00.000-05:00

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?

Dr. Eyeguy, Culture Warrior

2006-03-31T07:25:00.000-06:00

When I woke up yesterday morning, I was just regular "Mike the Eyeguy." But then I went and wrote a post on Nancy Grace and the Church of Christ, grabbed my cuppa morning Joe, and settled into my usual rut and routine, expecting just another typical day.

Soon massive internet search engines kicked in, sorting through the roiling blogosphere for terms such as "Winkler," "Nancy Grace and the Church of Christ," "Church of Christ cult," and "Rube Shelly, psychology." By the dozens, they treked to my humble "basketball and life blog" which on a good day receives around 50 "hits," just enough to maintain a modicum of respectability and convince me that I'm not completely wasting my time.

But then I hit the motherlode. My playful jab at Ms. Grace was picked up and linked at "The All Spin Zone--Progressive Politics Writ Large" and at that point my stat counter went through the proverbial roof.

That site is run by a dentist (I kid you not) who felt that my post and others by Church of Christ members who took exception to Ms. Grace's antics were a sure sign that we had "gone ballistic" to the point that the entire Winkler family would be left all alone on the mourner's bench while the Church of Christ Nation marched on Atlanta and raided the offices of CNN, commando style.

I tried to assuage his fears in the comment section by telling him, that yeah, we're sounding off a bit (and that we're far from perfect), but, no, the Winkler family will not be left alone and in fact will continued to be "surrounded by prayer" and assistance for as long as it takes. I hope that helped.

Regardless, by the end of the day, after receiving more visitors to my site than ever before, I felt that I had been transformed from Mike the Eyeguy, college basketball pundit wannabe, to Dr. Eyeguy, Culture Warrior.

Personally, I would much rather get back to basketball. But I have always preached that Christians should seek out winsome and intelligent ways to engage the issues being debated in the public square and this seemed like a good time to try to put that into action.

As I told the SpinDentist, when "there are 'untrue assertions' being made, the public square is open to all (including Christians) to step up and attempt to set the record straight." I went on to say that "practicing discernment and debating in the marketplace of ideas are tricky at best, and none of us do it perfectly." That includes me of course, and I'm sure there are many Christians and non-Christians alike who feel that using a dash of humor and a pinch of sarcasm in order to write "for effect" is unseemly behavior for someone who claims to follow Christ.

I respect that opinion and recognize its merits. I also seem to recall a few episodes in the lives of Jesus and St. Paul when they spoke forthrightly to their opponents and were not above a snarky comment or two. A few hundred years before their time, there was another Preacher who, after looking around a bit, observed that "there is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven." He goes on to list such opposites as as "tearing down" and "building up," all of which have their place depending on the circumstances. Although they appear to be contradictory, together they make for a paradoxically balanced life in all its well-roundedness and complexity.

There may be a time and a place for a Christian to enter the public square and get into a scrap or two. But it should never be done so much that it becomes our trademark (and I fear too often it is). And never, under any circumstances, should it be done with a sneer or a scowl. If you're going to "fight," be a happy culture warrior, one who has a wry smile on his face and a song (and prayer) in her heart.

So there it is, my moment in the sun as a culture warrior--such as it is. Does anyone know what time the Final Four tips off?

Nancy Dear, I Have One Word For You

2006-03-30T07:25:00.000-06:00

The Church of Christ blogosphere has been abuzz the past week since one its own ministers, Matthew Winkler, was tragically shotgunned in the back by his wife in Selmer, Tennessee. She has confessed to the crime and a motive, but so far only authorities close to the case know what she said and to date they haven't shared that information with the rest of the world.

Of course, that doesn't prevent folks from speculating on the "why" (after all, these things must make sense, right?) and everyone from the greeter at Wal-Mart to such paragons of journalistic excellence and integrity as Nancy Grace has their own theory. Personally, I'll go with the greeter at Wal-Mart after watching Nancy Grace's spasmodic prancing and preening on CNN last night. You see, Ms. Grace has uncovered the titillating tidbit that is the lynchpin to this investigation--the Church of Christ is a cult and Mary Winkler is its mind-numbed pawn.

How this "fact" escaped the attention of authorities in Selmer is beyond me, but thank God Nancy is around to help move things along. Nancy featured a Baptist preacher on her show a couple of nights ago who indicated that yes, indeed, the Church of Christ does have "cult-like" characteristics, and Nancy left hanging in the air the insinuation that this somehow played into the tragic events in Selmer. Last night she had another Baptist, Dr. Bob Jones (president of fundamentalist Bob Jones University), who to his credit refused to label the Church of Christ a cult, although he did take the opportunity to say that he believed that some Church of Christ beliefs and practices are "unbiblical."

Enter our own champion and spokesperson, Dr. Rubel Shelly. Our family knows Rubel from our days in Nashville in the early 90s when he was the pulpit minister at the Woodmont Hills Church of Christ (he is now a professor of religion at Rochester College in Michigan). Rubel has a PhD in philosophy from Vanderbilt and is an intellectual stalwart and if anybody could give Nancy a run for her money, surely it would be him.

If he could get a word in edgewise, that is. Try as he might, he was able to do relatively little of that as Ms. Grace, her mind apparently made up before the fact that Rubel was the epitome of the stereotypical knuckle-dragging, wife-beating fundamentalist, dismissed him for the most part with the wave of the hand and a roll of the eyes. The transcript of the show can be found here, and an excellent analysis of the "inquisition" here.

One person whom she could not control as well was Mary Winkler's lawyer, Steve Farese. Mr. Farese is a dapper Southern gentleman with an interminable drawl who appears to be a barrister who just stepped from the pages of a John Grisham novel. Don't let the drawl and Southern vernacular fool you--this guy's got an assortment of long knives tucked away in that silk blazer of his and he knows how to use them. After watching him for a few minutes, I was convinced that if I ever got into a heap of trouble anywhere below the Mason-Dixon line, that he would be the "go-to-guy" of choice.

As to the charge of the Church of Christ being a cult, as a lifelong member I can say that yes, I have met a few of my brethren who were a bit controlling and walked around with a zombie-like stare and their arms rigidly extended looking for someone to choke. And yes, if you check the typical Church of Christ pantry, you'll find an ample supply of Kool-Aid, but I assure you that we only buy that in bulk from Sam's Club for the sole purpose of Vacation Bible School each summer.

The fact of the matter is that for the most part, we in the Church of Christ do much more good than harm (witness the grace-filled behavior of the Selmer brethren toward the accused murderer) and are much too loosely organized and disagreeable with each other to ever truly qualify as a cult. We can't even agree on one-cup versus many cups for communion or whether or not we should have paved parking lots--what chance do we possibly have of ever agreeing on who should be our "Grand and Glorified Leader?"

One thing folks in the Church of Christ will find themselves agreeing on in the next few days is that Nancy Grace is the epitome of a yellow journalism hack and a certifiable spaz. My three sons were howling in laughter at certain points in the show, and Number One commented, "She has way too many people on at once to ever discuss anything in a serious way."

Nice observation, Number One. CNN should be renamed ADDN (Attention Deficit Disorder Network). Nancy dear, I just have one word for you--Ritalin.

Hey Nike, I Told You Average Joes Are Cool!

2006-03-28T07:30:00.000-06:00

A while back in my post Hey Nike, I'm Your Man!, I made the case that large megacorporations such as the Winged Goddess of Victory should take a look at "Average Joes" (such as yours truly) instead of professional athletes when it comes to endorsements and ad campaigns. What better way to connect with the Common Man or Woman than to feature one of their own, struggling to balance their mundane, workaday duties with the ongoing obligation to fitness and athletic achievement?

Well, Nike still hasn't called me to endorse the Air Max 360, but apparently somebody's been reading my blog! USA Today reports this morning on the growing trend among corporations to seek out the input of average consumers in their ad campaigns, even to the point of featuring actual commercials created by Average Joes and Janes. And here's the kicker: they're paying people, sometimes as much as $10,000, if their ads are chosen!

So where do I go from here? Well, certainly my original idea of a middle-age jogger such as myself beating a Cold War Era Soviet Olympian in a foot race while my friends and neighbors cheer me on and shout "USA, USA" is one that has, well, legs. But my recent one-on-one "Duke vs. UConn" basketball grudge match with Number Three Son at the local Y has given birth to another idea that will no doubt be a slam dunk.

Picture this: a graying man with a receding hairline and the earliest signs of middle-age paunch is wearing a Duke ACC Championship Locker Room Tee (the only championship tee that he will purchasing this year, by the way) as he takes the court against a lean and mean 13-year-old wearing a UConn practice jersey. For the first few minutes, the 13-year-old eats his Old Man's lunch, leading the aging weekend warrior to call a timeout, even though everyone knows there aren't supposed to be any timeouts in one-on-one.

While taking a couple of hits off his inhaler and a draw or two from his oxygen tank, the Dookie wannabe looks up and notices Michael Jordan, who is in town for a benefit golf tournament and poker match, looking on in omniscient bemusement. He just happens to have the latest version of the Air Jordan MDCXVIII in a size 9.5 on his person and tosses them to the sweating, heaving hoary hoopster.

With the 13-year-old taunting his father mercilessly, the momentum of the game suddenly shifts. The Old Man is now throwing down reverse 360 jams, rainbow treys, and short fade away jumpers as the stunned son looks on helplessly. On defense, he is no less a terror as he makes his bulky presence felt in the paint and cloud dances above the rim, packing shot after shot. The Old Man then launches his wide body from the free throw line and rises like a Saturn rocket, finishing off the young Huskie rep with the business end of a rim-rattling tomahawk dunk--just like Dick Vitale in those pizza commercials.

If that doesn't get Nike's attention, nothing will. Hey Nike, I'm telling you again--Average Joes are cool!

That's Mason. M-A-S-O-N

2006-03-27T07:25:00.000-06:00

When that "Other George" sliced through Michigan State and North Carolina--two members of last year's Final Four--in the first two rounds of the NCAA Men's basketball tournament, my first thought was: Oh, isn't that cute. Every March Madness has its Cinderella knocking at the door of the ball, but usually by the time the regional finals are over, she's lost her slipper and gone quietly into that good night.

Someone forgot to share that script with the "Other George"--that's Mason, M-A-S-O-N. In perhaps the most improbable run in tournament history, the George Mason Patriots have played through to the Final Four, yesterday dispatching everyone's bracket heavyweight the UConn Huskies 86-84 in overtime (with North Carolina, that now makes the last two national champions they have taken down). At a #11 seed in their region, GMU is the lowest ranked team to reach the Final Four since 1986 P.S.E. (Pre-Shaq Era) when LSU (also a #11 at the time) crashed The Dance under Dale Brown. They are the lowest profile team to make the Final Four since Indiana State and Penn made the scene in 1979, back when the Birdman was still "The Hick from French Lick" and real men wore their shorts "high and tight."

This also makes the first time since 1980 that no #1 seeds will be in the Final Four. While this is small consolation for Duke fans such as myself, there is a certain degree of satisfaction in seeing the Huskies sent home, along with Villanova and Memphis--at least my boys weren't the only ones who succumbed to upsets and the crushing weight of today's media hype and inflated expectations.

The Patriots and their charismatic coach Jim Larranaga on the other hand are as loose as a goose in a noose. They have players who cut up and sing during warm-ups and a coach whose trademark phrase is "Are we having fun yet?" Larranaga grabs the attention of his players with a shrill whistle which pierces the din of the crowd like a shepherd calling his sheep. They are clearly relishing their underdog role and screenwriters and authors are licking their chops at the prospect of telling the story of yet another David vs. Goliath, this time writ large across the expansive domain of the Hoosier Dome in downtown Indianapolis.

This year's March UberMadness has furthermore mangled the brackets and egos of would-be pundits and Packer wannabes across the land, including the Ocular Fusion Gang. There's not much to say here, other than none of us did very well and as leader of The Gang, I was the worst of the worst. Here are the current standings:

1. Number One Son 70 pts. 38 correct 70 max pts.
2. jasonbybee 64.5 35 correct 64.5 max pts.
3. itakeupspace 64 36 correct 76 max pts
4. House of Orange 62 36 correct 62 max pts
5. Number Three 57.5 34 correct 57.5 max pts
6. Mike the Eyeguy 50.5 32 correct 50.5 max pts

About the only drama left here is to see whether UCLA wins its semifinal game vs. LSU. If they do, then itakeupspace will overtake Number One for the "championship," so to speak. If not, then Number One Son will remain on top by virtue of his early round upset picks.

One person who is breathing a sigh of relief this morning is Number Three Son. Since the traitor's pick to win it all, UConn, was sent packing, that means I will spare you all the excruciating details of our one-on-one "Duke vs. UConn" grudge match which took place the other day at the Southeast YMCA in Huntsville. Suffice it to say, the old man's still got a little game left, if not a decent pair of lungs and legs. There have already been calls for a rematch--I'll be happy to grant that request as soon as my doctor allows me to check out of the hospital.

I think it's fair to assume that unless one is a diehard fan of one of the other Final Four teams, that most other noncommitted observers will latch on to the George Mason bandwagon and root for the underdog to pull off the Mother of All Upsets next weekend. This leads me to ask the question: why do we naturally pull for the upstart over the tried and true? What deep needs are being met by our affinity for the Cinderellas and Rockys in our midst?

I have my own ideas, but I'd be interested in hearing yours as well. In the meantime, work hard this week, thank your Creator for your moment in the sun and have a little fun--Coach Larranaga would certainly approve.

I Hate Basketball

2006-03-25T08:22:00.000-06:00

I hate basketball. In fact, I hate basketball so much that I've decided to join forces with these guys.

No, not really. But it's easy to see how I would feel that way after watching my Dookies bite the dust this week. If that weren't enough bad news, along comes an email in my box reminding me that the Ocular Fusion Gang basketball bracket standings have been updated. In the interest of full public disclosure, here are the current results:

Rank Atl Oak Was Min Pts No. Right
1 Number One Son Duke Gonzaga UConn BC 70 38
2 Number Three Son Duke Memphis UConn Ohio St 57.5 34
3 Itakeupspace Duke UCLA UConn Ohio St 55.5 35
4 jasonbybee Duke Kansas UConn Florida 55.5 34
5 House of Orange Duke UCLA UConn Villanova 53.5 35
6 Mike the Eyeguy Duke Gonzaga UConn BC 50.5 32

As you can see, by bracket is a train wreck and I am the mangled caboose. Why couldn't I have shown the Memphis Tigers a little more love? Why didn't I just go with my gut and pick Florida even though I can't stand the Gators? All the pundits said Villanova was the real thing, why didn't I listen? Why didn't I see George Mason coming? What am I, blind?

These and other questions are torturing me this morning as I gaze upon the smoldering shreds of my respectability and credibility and find myself facing the high probability of finishing dead last in my own pool. I have no Final Four picks remaining except UConn and everyone has picked the Huskies to make it that far and some have picked them to win. One of those is Number Three son, the traitor. Not only is he lurking around with a good chance to overtake Number One Son if UConn wins the title, we will all never hear the end of it if he does. So, for that reason, I hereby declare that in the short term my favorite team is whoever is playing UConn at the moment.

As for an overall favorite, I hereby declare that even though it won't affect my place in the standings and may in fact have the undesirable effect of aiding Number Three, my favorite team for the balance of this season and my pick to win it all is...the Memphis Tigers. In doing so, I apologize to Coach Calipari and his young crew because I have no doubt just sealed their doom.

If Number Three does win the pool, I'm ready. You see, I have a "little dirt" on him, and if UConn wins it all, I have no qualms about "going nuclear" and spreading it around. In fact, even if UConn doesn't win it all, I'm cranky enough that I may just tell all anyway.

I may be a little middle-aged and a terrible college hoops prognosticator, but I still "got game," along with a few long knives tucked away in various places.

Feeling a Little Blue Devil Blue

2006-03-24T07:43:00.000-06:00

"Let me just say first of all, it was a very physical game...we just never adjusted to their physicality."--Duke Coach Mike Krzyzewski following the Blue Devils loss to LSU

"Certain things are in your control and certain things are out of your control. I'm not a great athlete, and LSU has great athletes."--J.J. Redick in a postgame interview

Both Coach K and J.J. Redick, stunned following the Blue Devils 62-54 loss to LSU in last night's Atlanta regional semifinal, are speaking in code. Coach K and J.J. are much too classy to just lay it all out there, but I'm not Coach K or J.J. and I can say whatever I want since nobody cares what I think anyway, so allow me to translate:

Coack K: "Those guys were all over Shelden and J.J. like cats on a June Bug. In fact, Garrett Temple spent so much time holding J.J.'s hands that I could have swore he was J.J.'s prom date except for the fact that that he wasn't wearing a tuxedo. Unfortunately, once again we had the bad luck of drawing Bruce 'Dang it, where did I put my glasses again?' Hicks who, by the time he drags his aging carcass to the other end of the floor, doesn't have enough oxygen left to blow his whistle. Hey, but even when we did get open looks, we missed them, and although Shelden was magnificent, there was no one else stepping up to pick up the slack. Bottom line, we got beat by a very good team (not great, as will be proven in their loss to Texas in the next game) and we're going home. But you're not done with me, because you'll be watching my commericals all the way to Indianapolis--Ha!"

Redick: "I can shoot the lights out with only a fraction of available time and space, but tonight I had the leanest, meanest black dude that I've seen all season covering me. Dang, that was one quick brother! And then there was that other dude (Tyrus Thomas) who I could have swore had springs in his shoes considering how many shots he packed and alley-oops he intercepted."

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not black and only 6'4", which means that I can barely dunk and was no match for this guy's "athleticism." Yeah, it cuts like a knife, and yeah, people will say I "choke" in the big games because I never won a title, but just let anyone of those naysaying jerks get their fat, middle-age arses out on the floor and try to do what I did over the past four years and then come back and talk smack to me. I know all the Duke Haters wanted me to start crying, and yeah, I got a little teary, but I kept up a stiff upper lip and shook everyone's hand like a classy guy should without giving my many enemies the satisfaction of seeing me lie down on the floor and pull my jersey over my head and cry like a baby as Adam Morrison did (poor guy, I know that had to hurt)."

"In a few months, I'll have a wheelbarrel full of records and personal honors, a Duke degree and a multimillion dollar NBA contract in hand. After that, I'll be able to spend the next decade raining down my patented treys all across this great country of ours because I guarantee you I'll never see defense like that in the NBA! Believe me, it could be worse."

Credit LSU with doing what no other team in the country has been able to do this year--solve the J.J. problem. And that, simply put, was the difference in the game. LSU employed a strategy that many soccer teams use when facing a high scoring, superior opponent--expend every ounce of energy on containing their biggest gun and pack it all in on defense in order to keep the score low and hope for just enough scoring opportunities of your own to squeak by.

LSU employed this strategy to perfection, taking Redick out of the game, so much so that even when he did get a rare open look he wasn't able to find the bottom of the net most of the time. Shelden carried the Dookies on his broad shoulders, but freshmen McRoberts and Paulus just weren't able to provide the necessary supplemental assistance to pull Duke through. And there was also the mysterious absence of both Sean Dockery and Lee Melchioni (come on boys, the two of you couldn't combine for nine measly points?) from the scoring column, with Dockery in particular passing up several open looks in the first few minutes of the game, earning him a quick trip to the bench. Add it all up and it comes to a trip home to Durham for the Dookies and a relatively easy waltz into the Final Four for the Texas Longhorns.

With Duke shooting a paltry 27.7% FG percentage for the game, a great team such as Memphis, Villanova or UConn would have put the Dookies away by 30-40 pts. The Bengal Tigers barely had enough to win, shooting only 39% from the field and less than 50% from the free throw stripe and were very careless in their ballhandling, none of which bodes well for an upset of Texas. Now that I've had the benefit of seeing who's hot and who's not, I would have to pick the Memphis Tigers at this point. I like their depth, balance and, ahem, "athleticism," and John Calipari is a great coach who is overdue for a title. There's still some great action and heartbreaking moments ahead and I'm predicting a typical Final Four photofinish.

As for my Dookies, their lack of balance and depth caught up with them in the end, but it may turn out that the nucleus of another championship team has already been formed in Durham, even with the disappointing finish. McRoberts and Paulus, who will be very "old" sophomores next year after their freshman-year baptism of fire, will be joined by yet another Blue Chip recruiting class. It probably won't happen next year, but in two years, after Boykin, Pocius, Boateng and the new recruits have developed as players, a team very similar in depth and appearance to the 2001 National Champions will have emerged. Still, I can't help but wistfully dream of "what might have been" this year had Luol Deng stayed at Duke (he would have been only a junior this year) and had Shaun Livingston not gone directly to the NBA from high school...

Yeah, I'm feeling a little Blue Devil blue this morning, but it's a pretty day outside and I have the day off. Like J.J. says, it could be worse.

You Are Entering a No Prayer Zone

2006-03-23T07:45:00.000-06:00

If anyone showed up at my church last night thinking that there might be a little "praying and praising" going inside, they received a rude awakening when they were greeted by this sign. Who needs a funny church sign generator when you have the real thing right there in front of you?

OK, by way of explanation, "Praise and Prayer" is the name of our upbeat Wednesday night "Peak of the Week" style devotional designed to recharge our spiritual batteries so that we can run (not walk or crawl) past "Hump Day" and on through the rest of the work week. This week, area schools are on Spring Break and many folks are out of town, ergo, no quorum for "praising and praying." Still, you have to admit that this is at least as funny as some of these "Bulletin Bloopers."

I bet some of you have some stories to tell when it comes to inadvertantly funny church signs, bulletin blunders, and sermon slips-of-the-tongue. Let's stir up a little "holy laughter"--after all, it is "good for the soul."

"A cheerful heart is good medicine,
but a crushed spirit dries up the bones."
--Proverbs 17:22

Have You Been Hijacked?

2006-03-23T06:45:00.000-06:00

Do you find yourself drumming your fingers as your computer ever so sloooowly grinds and cranks along like a freshly-salted slug on a sunny, Sunday afternoon? When you sit down for an online session, do you hear menacing noises rising forth from the bowels of your desktop? When you have friends over and one of them asks to look up something on the internet, does your web browser, which lately has had a mind of its own, take them, totally unprompted, to www.niceandnakedgirls.com?

If so, then your computer may have been hijacked by the latest breed of nasty virus, adware or spyware. My computer guru Ed has recently written Part 4 to his series "Practicing Safe Surfing," and it's chock full of helpful hints on how to disinfect your hard drive so that you control your computer and not some pimply-faced geek in Indonesia with too much time on his hands. I've had a couple of bad infections over the past year (there, I'm not too proud to admit it) and the techniques Ed writes about really do work (although, as he says, you may have to repeat these a few times to get rid of the pesky bugs).

The internet is an incredible communication tool, but there are many thugs and hoodlums hanging out in the shadowy grottos of the information superhighway just waiting for a chance to mug you and make your journey a little more miserable. Caution and preparedness are the bywords for the smart and savvy web traveler, and Computer Ed is just the guide to insure you of an uneventful journey.

A Most Meticulous Use of Space

2006-03-21T07:23:00.000-06:00

"For since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse." Romans 1:20

For many years, physicists and astonomers have speculated that the universe experienced a cataclysmic birth and expanded very rapidly in the first moments of its existence. New data supporting the long held notions of a "Big Bang" and "Inflation Theory" has recently emerged from NASA's Wilkinson Microwave Anisotropy Probe (WMAP). Using words such as "stunning," "spectacular" and "amazing," astrophysicists have been waxing eloquently about these latest findings which demonstrate that the universe grew from the size of a marble to billions of light years across within a trillionth of a second.

USA Today recently headlined these findings as "Big Bang Unfolded In The Blink Of An Eye." Well, I hate to get picky, but a blink of an eye is on average about 300 to 400 milliseconds, which is a veritable tortoise compared to the Big Bang's hare. Still, the headline makes the point that it all happened, well, pretty darn fast!

Of course, all this begs the question of how this 13.7 billion light year sized elephant got into our living room in the first place. In other words, what force, or person, stood outside the embryonic, marble-sized universe and gave it the necessary "shove?" For Christians and other persons of faith, a "Prime Mover" is not too much of a stretch. Judging from the increasing number of astrophysicists who have converted to the Christian faith over the past few years, many of them are reaching the same conclusion.

One scientist is quoted in the article as saying, "We, and all we can see, are at most a tiny dot in an unimaginably large sea of space and time." A few years ago, I recall watching the movie version of Carl Sagan's novel "Contact." I always refer to that movie as Sagan's "Ode To Little Green Men." As it turns out, one of the most well-known and outspoken proponents of evolutionary theory and philosophical materialism "blinked" when it came to the notion that life on earth evolved without any "outside" assistance. Rather than allowing for the possibility that the a supernatural Judeo-Christian God may have had a hand in the process, Sagan defaulted to "under the sun" alien life as the intelligent source of the blueprint which started it all. In that movie, Jodie Foster's character Ellie responds to the question of whether we are "the only ones" in the universe. She replies, "If it is just us, it's an awful waste of space."

These latest findings affirm for me that there may be an alternative answer to that question. Rather than an "awful waste of space" as Ellie contended, perhaps what we are witnessing and experiencing is a most meticulous--and loving--use of space.

"By faith we understand that the worlds were prepared by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things which are visible." Hebrews 11:3

That Other George

2006-03-20T07:25:00.000-06:00

As Duke dismantled GW in the second round of the NCAA tournament on Saturday, it really didn't take a rocket scientist (and believe me, in Huntsville those guys and gals are a dime a dozen) to figure out that the initials stood for that "Famous George" who helped found our nation and chopped down the cherry tree (although his descendents still insist he was framed).

However, that "Other George," was a little more difficult to place. George Mason is one of those guys who you know did something that you're supposed to remember, but you just can't for the life of you recall what it was. Chances are the masses will continue to live in ignorance of the fact that, along with James Madison (you do remember him don't you?), Mason was responsible for tacking the Bill of Rights (the first ten amendments) onto the U.S. Constitution.

Instead, they will most likely remember that the "Other George" was the one whose name was tacked onto that large, commuter school (29,600 students) in Northern Virginia--you know, the one who dismissed sixth seed Michigan State and the three seed and defending National Champion North Carolina Tar Heels from the 2006 NCAA mens basketball tournament.

The Tar Heel Nation is a little deeper shade of blue this morning, and the rest of the nation is now left to contemplate how a team with the nickname "The Patriots" ended up with green and gold uniforms. Moreover, how did George Mason, a member of the Colonial Athletic Association (read: minor league), manage to knock off two perennial powerhouses and members of last year's Final Four?

A week ago, the Billy Packer and the rest of the college basketball chattering class were lamenting the presence of mid-major reps such as George Mason, Bradley (Slayer of Jayhawks) and Wichita State (Shocker of Vols). This week, all eyes are focused on these three unlikely upstarts who have crashed this year's Sweet Sixteen party, joining all four #1 seeds in the regional showdowns leading up to the final stop in Indianapolis. Ohio State, a #2 seed, also fell to another DC area team, Georgetown (there's that name again--curious indeed). The Founding Fathers must be rolling over in their graves, delighted that someone will finally remember their names, if not their accomplishments.

As for the Ocular Fusion Gang pool, there was a bit of reshuffling in the standings as the tournament progressed, just as I predicted Friday morning (one of the few predictions I got right):

1. Number One Son, 58 pts, 35 correct
2. Mike the Eyeguy, 46.5 pts, 31 correct
3. Itakeupspace, 43.5 pts, 32 correct
4. House of Orange, 41.5 pts. 32 correct
5. Number Three Son, 41.5 pts, 30 correct
6. Jason the Youth Minister, 39.5, 30 correct

I should have warned you that Number One Son is a pretty smart cookie (or else, full of dumb luck). Not only did he get the most correct, but he also had the knack for picking the upsets, and as a result has put some distance between himself and the rest of the field. My first round upset picks and my affinity for Georgetown and their bopping of the Buckeyes has kept me in second after spending most of the weekend in third place. Everybody's bracket looks like a sea of red, though, as Kansas, UNC-Chapel Hill, Ohio State and Tennessee all fell unexpectingly to lower seeded teams. But that's what makes this tournament so great. March Madness is (as Forrest Gump would say) "like a box of chocolates"--you never know what you're going to get.

Apparently this year, among the surprising morsels, is a much needed review of early U.S. history.

What's in My Fridge?

2006-03-18T08:45:00.000-06:00

That question came to mind recently as I read Bill Gnade's piercing Lenten reflection "A Eucharistic Chore, Trash Bags in Hand."

Bill's metaphorical montage serves to put mundane matters such as March Madness in their proper place--far behind getting right with God and cleaning out the spoilage and rot tucked away in the recesses of my soul.

Like Bill, I need to check the mental fridge and do a little spring cleaning. Unlike Bill, I'm afraid I may lack the courage to open the door and look inside.

Top of the Morning to Ye!

2006-03-17T07:25:00.000-06:00

Happy St. Patrick's Day and top of the morning to all of ye, whether ye bleed green or not. I've always wanted to be more Irish than what I am since things Celtic are viewed by many to be quirky, cool and hip. I have a pretty boring Anglo surname that doesn't evoke too many images of ethnicity. But on this day I'm thankful for the McGuire and Pasley blood which runs through my veins since that lends me license to lay claim to an Irish heritage and, like a wee leprechaun, to enjoy the day's mischievous festivities along with the O'Connors, O'Sullivans and O'Rourkes.

O' darn. I don't think I have a single green item to wear to work today. Some Irishman I am...

St. Patrick's Day also doubles as my mother's birthday. We have a little tradition to mark the occasion--I call her and say, "Happy St. Patrick's Day....oh, and what other day was it again?" She knows what's coming, but always laughs anyway like a good mom should. Although it's too lengthy to go into at the moment, suffice to say that having Mom around for yet another birthday is further evidence that miracles didn't end with the close of the Apostolic Age.

Some of you know her or her story and may have heard me refer to her affectionately as my "Hard Ass Momma." If you do, then you also know that I'm speaking out of admiration and reverence for her durability, not disrespect. For those of you who don't know her, the short version is she's had so many brushes with death over the years and survived that the Grim Reaper was rumored to be considering a career change. I just hope when it all hits the fan healthwise for me, as it surely will, that I will find that she passed on a few of those "hard hiney" genes to me.

In any case, Happy St. Patrick's Day Mom...oh, and Happy Birthday too!

This year, St. Patrick's Day also marks the second batch of opening round games of March Madness. For the most part, things went as expected yesterday with a few exceptions: UW-Milwaukee over the Sooners (got that one), Montana defeating Nevada (missed it) and Texas A&M over Syracuse (missed that one too, but probably should have seen it coming). The Vols went to the wire against 15th seed Winthrop and BC had to go to 2 overtimes to finish off Pacific, thereby averting two major upsets on opening day.

My Dookies played a little sloppy at times, but took care of business against a scrappy Southern team. Shelden and J.J. were great, like All-Americans should be, and Paulus and McRoberts looked a little wide-eyed and overwhelmed at times in their first NCAA tournament games. Since Duke only won by 16 points, expect the pundits and talking heads to prattle on all day long about a stunning GW upset in the second round.

As for the Ocular Fusion Gang Pool, here are the results after Day One:

1. Mike the Eyeguy, 17 pts, 13 correct
2. Number One Son, 16 pts, 11 correct
3. Itakeupspace, 13.5 pts, 12 correct
4. House of Orange, 12 pts, 12 correct
5. Number Three Son, 10 pts, 10 correct
6. jasonbybee, 9 pts, 9 correct

I received extra points for correctly calling UW-Milwaukee over OU and Alabama over Marquette. But we still have a long way to go, so expect some shuffling in the standings by this time tomorrow as Day Two holds the promise of some very intriguing matchups and possible upsets.

That's all for today, on this St. Patrick's Day/Mom's Birthday/March Madness Day Two. If you'll excuse me now, I've got to go rummage through my closet and drawers for something green to wear.

A Traitor In Our Midst

2006-03-16T07:24:00.000-06:00

The clock is ticking and you have until 11:00AM CST to enter the "Ocular Fusion Gang" pool at USA Today's March Mania. The details on how to enter can be found here. So far, there's only me, Number One and Number Three sons, and some person named "House of Orange." I only know two people in my circle who would use such a moniker--Jason the Youth Minister and Jason the GynGuy, my brother-in-law. I'm not sure which one it is, but welcome nevertheless.

I've got news for you though. The Vols are overranked at a #2 seed, but I do have them making the Sweet 16 and falling to the team whose name we dare not speak (although I promise I will not be disappointed if the Big Orange prevails against the lads in those prissy, powder blue uniforms). You probably know that already, but you may have them going to the Final Four, and if so, that's perfectly ok--loyalty is a rare and valued commodity these days. More on that subject a little later...

Number Two son is out of pocket this week attending some kind of goverment camp (think Boys State) in Montgomery. He didn't have time to fill out a bracket before he left, but judging from the new Vols sweatshirts and t-shirts he picked up last week, I know where his heart lies. I'm not sure what he's doing down there, but he did call yesterday and told Eyegal that he was on his way to the capital for a meeting and didn't have much time to talk, but just called to say he was having a good time and that he loved her. This led me to think--is he in charge down there? If so, he might be an improvement over what we already have.

I have a feeling that Number Two's first act as governor of Alabama would be to have the state annexed by our northernly neighbor and to replace the St. Andrew's cross with the Tennessee State Flag. That would probably be followed by a move to play "Rocky Top" at all Crimson Tide home games. On second thought, he'd probably be impeached (or worse) before that would ever happen.

Watching Number Two parade around in his new Vols shirt reminded me that the Dookies in our house needed new tees for the tourney. Number One, who has converted completely to the Duke Way (and who has Duke winning it all--what a good boy!) has been rewarded with a new "Cameron Crazie" shirt. Number Three and I are still waiting for our 2006 ACC Championship Locker Room tees to arrive, but hopefully they'll be here by the second round on Saturday.

I've been listening to the pundits over the past few days, and almost to a man they have Duke losing to Texas in the regional final. Now that could possibly happen, but on what basis, pray tell, do they speak so confidently, as if it were a foregone conclusion? Has Duke become that much worse and Texas that much better since the Blue Devils hooked the Horns 97-66 in early December? No, I don't think so. If I didn't know better, I would swear that there are many who are discreetly (and not so discreetly) hoping that Duke will lose. This world can be a really messed up place sometimes.

Which brings me to my final point. It turns out that Number Three son has been listening to a little too much ESPN lately and has picked UConn over Duke in the final. To make matters worse, he even admitted to me last night that he almost picked #16 seed Southern over Duke in the first round (but then you picked them to go to the final? Okaaaaay...). The news shook me to the core, considering how the two of us have celebrated and rattled the rafters together during many Duke victories this year.

Et tu, Number Three?

I know, he's just going with his head instead of his heart, and I'm having a little fun giving him a hard time about it. But March Madness is about passion and loyalty--not coming out on top in some stupid pool. I think there's a lesson in all this somewhere. I just hope that it'll be Number Three who'll get schooled and not me.

And after Duke emerges from the fray on top next month, we'll just have to see if the traitor in our midst will be getting a National Championship Locker Room tee!

Manly Sweat

2006-03-15T07:25:00.000-06:00

Bodily exercise profits a little, but godliness is profitable for all things. I Timothy 4:8

As you can see from the update at the bottom of my previous post, Lipscomb came up short in their game against UTEP in the first round of the NIT in El Paso last night. Nothing to be ashamed of there, though, as the Bisons still had a great year and their first invitation to a D-I post-season. I'm wondering how many of those visiting teams who had to make long road trips to play in the first round won their games last night? Chances are, few if any.

It seems I was right about David Lipscomb's attitude toward sports. Wikipedia, that "unimpeachable source" of everything under the sun, says this about Lipscomb:

"Lipscomb was also a pacifist. He did not believe in the use of violence for any reason (He was for this reason totally opposed to American football)."

It's probably not too much of a stretch to conclude that Lipscomb would have also been opposed to a hard slide into second and a body bruising intentional foul under the basket.

To be fair, it's worth noting that Lipscomb lived through a bloody war and an occupation of his hometown that most of us have not. That fact, coupled with his Anabaptist roots, no doubt helped shape his pacifism and self-imposed estrangement from other worldly concerns such as sports and entertainment.

It's also worth noting that in doing so, Lipscomb was merely following the example of most of the early church fathers who almost unaminously were opposed to military service, drama, entertainment, sports and sex (although most begrudgingly allowed for the latter in the context of marriage for the purpose of procreation). Here is a sample of some of their thoughts on sports:

"How idle are the contests themselves: strifes in colors, contentions in races, acclamations in mere questions of honor, rejoicing because a horse has been faster, grieving because it was more sluggish, reckoning up the years of the animals, knowing the consuls, learning their ages, tracing their breeds, recording their very grandsires and great-grandsires!" --Novatian, c. 235 CE

If I didn't know better, I would swear that he had read this. Good thing I'm off the hook since he was only talking about horse racing.

Here's another:

"You will never give your approval to those foolish racing and throwing feats, and yet more foolish leapings. You will never find pleasure in injurious or useless exhibitions of strength. Certainly you will never regard with approval the strivings after an artificial body that aim at surpassing the Creator's work...and the wrestler's art is a devil's thing." Tertullian, c. 197 CE

Keep in mind Tertullian was a real sourpuss. I'm sure he did some good things, but he also had a very low opinion of wives and sex, two things, that after 20 years of marriage, I'm happy to report I still value very highly. What does he know anyway, the old Montanist?! I have to admit, though, he sure nailed Barry Bonds.

Yet another:

"Those who come for the sake of beholding the spectacle actually display more of a spectacle themselves. I am referring to when they begin to shout...and to leap from their seats..." Lactantius, c. 304-313 CE

Sounds like somebody's been peeking through my window during a Duke game. I bet Lactantius wouldn't think too much of these guys.

Finally, a voice of reason crying forth in the wilderness:

"For men to prefer gymnastic exercises to the baths is perhaps not bad. For such exercises are in some respects conducive to the health of young men...Nor are women to be deprived of bodily exercise...However, do not let the athletic contests that I have allowed be undertaken for the sake of vainglory. Rather, they should be undertaken only for manly sweat...We must alway aim at moderation." Clement of Alexandria, c. 195 CE

Now Clement sounds like the kind of elder I can live with (one who apparently liked to read Ecclesiastes)! It just goes to show you that congregational autonomy was alive and well in the early church.

So there you have it Christian sports fans! Go ahead and enjoy March Madness, but stay cool and don't get too carried away. Bodily exercise apparently does profit a little, if not a lot. And on that note, please pardon me while I go run one of my blistering 10-minute miles and work up a couple of gallons of "manly sweat."

Lips....comb. Oh, Now I Get It!

2006-03-14T07:00:00.000-06:00

"They said we were going to play in our geographical area. I guess they meant the United States."--Lipscomb University basketball coach Scott Sanderson

Heh, that's pretty funny, just the kind of quippy soundbite you might expect from the son of colorful former Crimson Tide basketball coach "Wimp" Sanderson. Don't be fooled, though. Although there won't be much purple and gold in the crowd, Coach Sanderson is still happy to be taking his Bisons to their first post-season appearance as a Division I team--even if it does mean traveling over 1300 miles from Nashville to El Paso, Texas to take on the UTEP Miners tonight in the first round of the National Invitational Tournament (NIT).

Had it not been for a heartbreaking 74-69 overtime loss to the cross-town rival Belmont Bruins in the Atlantic Sun Conference Tournament Final, the Bisons might be headed to "The Dance" to face an early demise at the hands of either U.C.L.A. or Duke (a story, I'm sure, that they would have enjoyed telling their grandchildren). Instead, they are off to the scenic, West Texas desert to face UTEP (of "Glory Road" fame) in the house that Don Haskins built.

If they do manage to get by the Miners, the cross country road trip would then boomerang back to Ann Arbor where the Bisons would face the Michigan Wolverines on Friday. Talk about serving as cannon fodder! Oh well, it still beats sitting at home watching all the action, and Sanderson and the Lipscomb crew deserve a hearty congratulations for earning their first D-I post-season birth. Crawl, walk, run, right?

My younger sister is a 1993 Lipscomb grad, and one year for Christmas she gave me a button-up Lipscomb baseball shirt. Because of the buttons running through the middle of the shirt, the "Lips" was on one side with a small separation from the "comb" on the other. I was wearing the shirt one day when I noticed a friend of mine staring at the shirt with a perplexed look on her face.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

Mouthing the words slowly, she replied, "Lips....comb. Lips...comb. I don't get it!"

Hopefully after tonight's game, the Miners will remember that Lipscomb is one word and won't forget a surly bunch of Bisons who were forced to trek across the country on two day's notice to play an opening round game in their "geographical area."

Oh, by the way, if you're planning to watch the game on EPSN in the Huntsville area, think again. It looks like they'll be broadcasting Virginia vs. Stanford instead. Nothing against the Cavs and the Cardinal, but really, how many grads do they have in this area? On the other hand, how many Lipscomb grads live in North Alabama and Central Tennessee? I rest my case.
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Which brings me to my final point (such as it is). This whole Lipscomb post-season thing has me thinking: What would the "old man" say about all this?

Neither David Lipscomb, nor James Harding for that matter, strike me as guys who would have been very pleased with all the attention given to sports these days. I remember studying in the library at Harding and staring up at the portraits of these two founding fathers (especially Harding, with his ZZ Top-style beard hanging down to his belly button--doesn't he realize that would get him kicked out of school?) and thinking: these guys seem pretty serious. Neither, to me, appear to be the type who would have approved of "amusements" in general, or sports in particular--especially at the institutions which they founded.

Anyone out there who is familar with Restorationist history have any Lipscomb anecdotes or quotes that might shed any light on my musings? When you get right down to it, does what Lipscomb would think even matter anymore?
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Update 10:25PM

Lipscomb Wins Second Half of Game Against UTEP 43-41

Unfortunately, UTEP won the first half 44-23 for a final score of 85-66. Hey, at least the Bisons stepped it up a bit after halftime! Here's hoping they got a nice goody bag and a t-shirt for their trouble.

Bracketology Babyyyy!

2006-03-13T07:25:00.000-06:00

March Madness has descended upon us in all its wild and wooly fury. I've filled out my bracket--have you?

If not, then I invite you to join the Ocular Fusion gang pool at USA Today's March Mania. Just register and then go to the "join an existing pool option." The name of the group is "Ocular Fusion Gang" and the password is "2eyesarebetter." You have until noon on March 16th to join and make and/or change your picks, and after that time you'll be able to view everyone's picks and progress as the tournament progresses. Those who are adept at picking the upsets in the first four rounds will be rewarded with bonus points and the winner will receive, well, nothing actually, except maybe bragging rights until next year.

A few of my thoughts at this point:

A week ago, the talking heads had written Duke's obituary after their end of the season skid and were talking about UConn as if the tournament was theirs to lose. My, how things can change in one week. Today, Duke is the number one overall seed after having continued their annual domination of the ACC tournament and UConn mysteriously checked out in the first round of the Big East. Granted, UConn is deeper and looks better on paper, but the Dookies have found a way to win the close ones all season and my heart, if not my mind, must go with my boys in blue.
Gonzaga must feel like the Rodney Dangerfield of college hoops this morning. After going 27-3 with player of the year candidate Adam Morrison leading the way, they ended up with a disappointing #3 seed. Tennessee (21-7), on the other hand, was a surprising #2. Although the Vols had a breakout season, I don't think anybody saw them ahead of the Zags. Gonzaga's strength of schedule was a drawback for them, as well as the fact that they struggled to win their conference tournament. But I believe the Bulldogs are going to be carrying some very large chips on their shoulders and several teams are going to feel their bite before the tournament is over. My dream matchup: Duke v. Gonzaga in the semifinal with Redick and Morrison settling the player of the year on the debate on the floor in the Mother of all Shootouts.
I'm going with an all-Alabama sweep in the first round. The Crimson Tide over Marquette and UAB over Kentucky would only qualify as minor upsets, but the University of South Alabama over Florida? Hehe, I know it's silly, but what would March Madness be without a few fun picks along the way?
The Minneapolis regional, I feel, is going to be where the major upsets occur, including Villanova's fall against Boston College, followed by an Eagle victory over the Ohio State Buckeyes. BC is only a #4 seed, but I was impressed with their effort in the ACC Final against Duke and I think they are this year's charging dark horse that will go riding forth into the Final Four.

Of course, I could be wrong. Finding out is half the fun though, and I invite you to join me along the treacherous and twisting road to the Final Four.

Let the madness begin.

Making it Right

2006-03-10T07:25:00.000-06:00

Those of us who live in Alabama have cringed recently at the spate of church burnings in our state over the past month. We know full well that such news draws the wrong kind of attention to the Yellowhammer State and stirs up ugly memories from our racially-tinged past. Although authorities felt that the recent incidents were not racially-motivated hate crimes, their investigation focused mostly on rural residents who might have special knowledge of the backroads and backwoods where the church burnings took place. In other words, they were looking for stereotypical, Alabama "rednecks."

However, yesterday's arrest of three upper-middle class Birmingham area college students caught everyone--victims, authorities, family members, teachers and classmates--by surprise. The three, two students at Birmingham-Southern College, a reputable private liberal arts school and the other a former BSC student who had transferred to UAB, were deer hunting in rural Alabama when they experienced what was likely an alcohol and marijuana-enhanced collective brain-lock and decided to burn five churches as a "prank." A few days later, presumably after they had sobered up a bit, they decided to burn four more in an effort to throw investigators off the trail.

Prior to their arrest, the three were active and well-regarded members of their university communities. Now they are accused felons, each facing up to 45 years of prison, and their families, friends and victims are reeling from this latest news.

It's difficult to make much sense out of situations like this. Why would three students who had so much going for them and looking ahead to a bright future throw it all away for a spree of destructive revelry? The president of Birmingham-Southern College, Dr. David Pollick, has been searching his soul and asking that same question, and this is what he had to say:

“These cruel and senseless acts of destruction have profoundly touched our college community. Where there once existed such a clear line between the harmless and playful and the harmful and cruel, we increasingly see young adults throughout our nation incapable of distinguishing between healthy and destructive conduct. Boundaries are all too often exceeded. The social use of alcohol moves easily and too frequently to dangerous irresponsibility. Innocent and healthy stages of interpersonal social encounters too frequently degrade to violent and personal acts of violation. We see symptoms of a culture of personal license so powerfully magnified in the actions of these young men."

This latest incident is a clarion call for all of us who have passed through the difficult and dangerous years of adolescence and young adulthood to step up and model the kind of behavior and provide the kind of guidance that will help young people navigate these treacherous times. Too often, though, we fail in this regard, either through our own sins or through neglect.

I have already talked with my three sons about this latest incident and once again warned them that even good people can allow themselves to be trapped in circumstances which can quickly escalate out of control. I'm hoping that they'll take this lesson to heart, and I pray for the victims and these young men and their families, that they all may be able to heal and discover a path to redemption through the difficult times ahead.

Yet, there is hope that something good and lasting will come of these dark events. Once again, to quote Dr. Pollick:

"The entire community of Birmingham-Southern College—students, faculty, and staff—pledges to aid in the rebuilding of these lost churches through our resources and our labor. Together we’ll stand as a reminder of the strength of communities that transcend the differences of religion and place, as well as the effects of mindless cruelty.”

Perhaps this lesson-- that together we must work to make things right--will be the most important lesson that will rise, like a phoenix, from the ashes of this tragedy.

The Rightful Owner

2006-03-08T06:47:00.000-06:00

I held my breath and walked through the door as a small bell tingled, announcing my arrival. I’d never set foot inside a pawn shop before, but the place fulfilled my stereotyped expectations. The walls were lined with shelves filled with discarded televisions, stereos, power tools, and once treasured trinkets, many pawned in last-ditch, desperate moves for quick cash.

The pawnbroker sat behind a glass display case lined with cheap handguns and gaudy costume jewelry. He was reading The Decatur Daily and nursing his morning coffee as the smoke from his cigarette curled lazily upward toward the tobacco stained ceiling. He eyed me warily as I approached the counter, feigning my best business-as-usual look. He knew better, that someone in a dress shirt, tie, and slacks wouldn’t be his typical customer. But then again, this would be no typical transaction.

“Do you have the ring?” I asked. Before the words had escaped my mouth, he began to reach beneath the counter, removing a small, yellow envelope—he knew why I was there.

“Yeaaaup, suuure dooo,” he replied in an interminable, Alabama drawl. He removed the academic-style class ring and placed it on the counter. It was as I remembered it: white gold, BA 1984, a charging bison, a school seal—Truth, Knowledge, Freedom. Only now the deep-red garnet was chipped in several places, and the ring had been resized, a crude jeweler’s cut running through the bottom like a fault in the earth’s crust. I tried it on the ring finger of my right hand and it was a little snug. Fifteen years and thirty more pounds make their presence known.

“Looks like it still fits—sort of!” the pawnbroker laughed.

I handed him a $20 bill. “This is what we agreed upon.”

“Yeaaaup,” he replied. “Covers my cost. I don’t want to make any money on your stolen ring.”

I turned and left the shop. Once in my car, I sat for several minutes, turning the ring over in my fingers, still pondering its improbable return. I was transfixed by its beauty and the flood of memories it evoked. Once again I was wearing my Harding class ring, which, though once lost, now was found.

The odyssey of my 1984 Harding class ring began in September, 1988 while I was a student at the University of Alabama at Birmingham School of Optometry. We’d just finished listening to an ocular disease lecture when I was approached by the school’s telephone operator. I knew by the worried look on her face and the fact that she left her post to find me that something was very wrong.

“Mike, the Homewood police left a message. You need to call them right away.”

“Anne, do you know something?” I pleaded.

“No, they didn’t tell me anything, only that they need to talk to you immediately,” she replied.

I sprinted for the nearest phone and frantically dialed, imagining the worst. My wife, who was several months pregnant with our first child, was working as a C.P.A. putting me through school. It had been a very stormy day, and I knew that she had been traveling rain-slickened roads to visit clients. Please God, not that. A couple of classmates who’d overheard Anne joined me by the phone. They reassured me that my wife was probably fine, but they stayed by my side, just in case.

After several frenzied minutes trying to find someone who knew what was going on, I finally reached the officer who’d called. “Sir, your apartment has been burglarized,” he stiffly reported.

Only a burglary! What an odd sense of relief I felt. I started for home, thankful that my wife was fine, thinking that things couldn’t be that bad. I figured the electronics would be gone, and they were. I was more disappointed to learn that the thieves had also rifled through our jewelry box. The Rolex knockoff which my father-in-law bought for me on a business trip to Tawain was gone but not a problem--I smiled at the prospect of the thieves' disappointment when they learned its true worth.

Of more concern was the fact that our high school rings had been stolen, along with two pairs of earrings—one pearl and one diamond—that my wife's parents gave her on the occasion of her college graduation. My Harding class ring was also missing. I almost always wore it, but for some reason that day I hadn’t.

Later that evening, the initial relief gave away to anger, grief, and the penetrating ache of violation. True, it was only a ring, but not just any ring. It was a symbol of four very good years spent coming of age “near the foothills of the Ozarks.” Hidden within the deep-red garnet was a mine filled with precious memories of good and caring professors, close friends, challenging classes and my pursuit of a career and my future wife. Reflected in the white gold had been the faithfulness of a patient and loving God who listened to my questions and doubts during a period of deep skepticism and guided me along toward a faith that I could call my own.

Life moved on, of course. The insurance settlement compensated us well, but I never replaced the ring. As “poor students,” we opted to use the money for groceries.

It is now June, 1998, and my family and I are visiting my mother in Virginia. I’m sitting at her kitchen table, going through the usual routine of calling home to check the messages on our answering machine. I listen to several and then come to one which stops me cold.

“This is Marilyn from the Harding University Alumni Relations Office," the voice said. "I recently received a call from a Detective Ward at the Decatur, Alabama Police Department. He found a class ring in a local pawn shop which he believes may be yours and he would like for you to call him.”

I sit stunned, trying to digest her words. My class ring? Stolen items don’t just turn up years later, do they? Soon I’m chattering away, more excited now and more hopeful. I tell the good news to my wife, my mother, and my sons. I go for a walk along quiet, country roads and I pray to God. What does this mean? What are you teaching me?

Recovering my ring sounds easier than it turns out to be. The statute of limitations has expired and the ring is no longer technically “stolen property,” so the police cannot seize it. Since the insurance company paid our settlement, they are the “rightful owner.” They quickly relinquish their claim however.

“We don’t want the ring,” the agent explains. “I talked with the pawnbroker this morning, and he says he will sell it to you for $20, the amount he loaned the woman who pawned it." I’m now filled with anger, and foolish pride darkens my mind. The very idea of paying a pawnbroker $20 for my stolen class ring sickens me.

“Forget it!” I tell my wife. “I knew it was too good to be true!” I’m glad that she doesn’t forget, that she knows what my need is even when I act childishly. She goes to the pawn shop and attempts to buy the ring.

“Weeell nooow Maaam,” the pawnbroker drawls, “I’d looove to sell you this ring, but Alabama state law says I got to hold it 30 days so the woman who pawned it has the right to come back and claim it.” I’m deeply disturbed that the woman who pawned my stolen ring has more rights than I do. I begin to imagine that she’ll return and steal it from me again. I begin to hate her and all the hands that have held my ring over the years.

But as time passes, I start to reflect and wonder. Who is she and how did she get my ring? Does she know the person who has apparently been wearing it? Why would anyone want to wear my class ring? Did they use it for a job interview or maybe to impress a girlfriend? Was it someone who had always wanted to go to college and just never realized the dream?

I begin to consider the dire straits which sometimes drive people to steal and deceive, and an odd thing happens. My anger and resentment are replaced with compassion. I begin to pray for the woman and all the hands that have held my ring, that their hurt, their poverty and their thirst for recognition and significance may be met with God’s healing grace and abundance. It’s not my natural prayer (only the anger is truly mine). The prayer is His, and His alone.

The woman doesn’t return, and once again I’m wearing my class ring. Recently, as a 20th wedding anniversary present, my wife sent the ring back to the manufacturer to have it repaired and resized and to replace the chipped garnet with a black onyx encrusted with a silver "H."

The ring still symbolizes for me the many fond memories of my Harding years. But now it stands for so much more. For me, it is a sacrament given to me out of the blue, totally unexpected and undeserved. The deep ebony stone is a visible and tangible token of the rich and unfathomable love of a God who enumerates the hairs of my head and showers on me his sweet, amazing grace. In the white gold, I see the reflection of a prodigal son who wandered the mean streets and blind alleys of doubt and disbelief and was soiled by many hands, but finally returned to the house of his Father—The Rightful Owner.

They Don't Call It Orange Beach For Nothing

2006-03-04T23:45:00.000-06:00

We've been traveling to soccer tournaments for many years and if there's one thing we've learned it's that it has to be about more than wins and losses. Soccer is a beautiful but fickle mistress--one moment she'll treat you like a king and in the next instant turn her back on you in the cruelest of ways. No, it's got to be about fun, good food and the fellowship of a band of brothers who give their last full measure of effort on the field of battle, and come what may, stand or fall as one.

Of course, winning is also nice. And when everything goes your way, as it did this weekend with the Grissom Tigers winning the Island Cup Championship in Orange Beach, Alabama, you find yourself especially grateful. Grissom defeated a fine squad from Union High School in Tulsa, Oklahoma (ranked #3 in the nation in 2005) 1-0 in a hard fought final. The tournament started off with an 11-0 blowout of local favorite Foley (the game was mercifully called at halftime), and the Boys in Orange then went on to defeat two other tougher Alabama teams, Albertville and Cullman, both by 1-0 scores.

The final match saw a smaller, but skilled and tactically sound Grissom side facing off against the speed and bulk of the Okies from Tulsa (what do they put in the beef out there to grow boys that large?). It was a fast and physical rumble which saw both teams come up short on several good chances in the first half. Early in the second half, the Tigers drew first blood off a well-placed header taken off a corner kick. Union then picked up the pace and pressed hard but the Tiger defense held fast and fended off several dangerous attacks. We countered with some charges of our own, and were it not for some fine saves by an aggressive Union keeper, we could have very easily score two or three more.

When the dust settled, Grissom was the last team standing and the Island Cup Championship was ours. There's still a long road ahead to the state championships in May, but a tournament championship and a win over a nationally ranked team is a great way to start down the path. In the meantime, Orange Beach is now a little oranger. In fact, now that the Tigers have blown through town, it could be said that they don't call it Orange Beach for nothing.

A Tough Lenten Task

2006-03-03T08:20:00.000-06:00

There is a favorite thing that I'm supposed to give up for Lent, but blogging, soccer and trips to the beach are not on the list.

This weekend I have the tough assignment of carrying Number One son and one of his Grissom High Tiger teammates down to Orange Beach, Alabama for the Island Cup Soccer Tournament. I know, I know, it's a sacrifice--very much in keeping with the spirit of Lent--but somebody's got to do it.

We have two matches today and hopefully a semifinal and final tomorrow. If we make to the final Saturday night, I'll be facing a dilemma considering how it's scheduled at the same time that J.J. Redick and the other Duke seniors will be playing their last game at Cameron Indoor Stadium against the team whose name we dare not speak. I'll just have to cross that bridge when we I get to it, but Number Three if you're reading this, please be sure to set the DVR to record the game--thanks.

It has been almost two years since I've been to Orange Beach and about a year and a half since Hurricane Ivan ravaged the city. The denizens of this resort community have done a great job of cleaning up and rebuilding, but the project is still ongoing--utility and construction workers speaking mostly Spanish filled the lobby of my hotel when I went down to get my morning coffee and banana nut muffin. There are essentially no dunes, and the beach is now a broad plateau and much easier to traverse, evidence of the extensive erosion and subsequent dredging post-hurricane. Overall, I'm impressed with the look of the city and the resiliency of the people here to reconstruct both their buildings and their way of life.

Granted, there are tougher Lenten tasks than standing around Orange Beach, Alabama in seventy degree weather without a cloud in the sky watching the Grissom Orange play "The Beautiful Game." I'm thankful this morning for the grace of a God who calls us to a season of repentence, but does not begrudge us a little fun, sun and soccer along the way.

Ash Wednesday 2006

2006-03-01T00:01:00.000-06:00

Lectionary readings for Ash Wednesday 2006:

Joel 2:1-2, 12-17 or Isaiah 58:1-12

Psalm 51:1-17

2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

My Favorite Barneyisms

2006-02-27T07:15:00.000-06:00

There are many who are weighing in on the passing of Don Knotts, American funnyman whose iconic character of small-town deputy Barney Fife memorialized the earnest efforts of all downtrodden, skinny, bug-eyed low men on the totem pole everywhere who have ever longed to make a difference and be taken seriously.

And of course, many are waxing eloquently, much better than I ever could. Some good tributes can be found here and here. I thought my humble contribution to the cause would be to list some of my favorite "Barneyisms." I just hope I can get through these without having to take a hit off my asthma inhaler:

"Now here at the Rock we have two rules. Memorize them until you can say them in your sleep. Rule number one: obey all rules. Rule number two: no writing on the walls."
"Gun-drawing practice, ten minutes every day. If I ever have to use this baby, I want to teach it to come to papa in a hurry."
"Well, I guess to sum it up, you could say there's three reasons why there's so little crime in Mayberry. There's Andy, and there's me, and (patting his gun) baby makes three."
"Nip it in the bud. You go read any book you want on child discipline and you'll find every one of them is in favor of bud-nipping."
Andy: "Hey Barn, what if they was to ask you if you could sing a cappella, what would you do? Barney: "Why, I'd do it! (snapping fingers in rhythm) "A cappella, a cappella...well, I don't remember all the words."
"If there's anything that upsets me it's having people say I'm sensitive."
(in the context of not making others jealous with his intelligence) "Listen, an IQ can be a mixed blessing sometimes. Some people want it and can't get it. I got it and have to get rid of it. Life's funny that way, you know?"
"I'm a man of the world, Andy. Why, I've been to Raleigh!

These are only scratching the surface. How about chiming in with a few favorite Barneyisms of your own to memorialize a man who has graced us all with the gift of laughter.

He Takes Purty Pictures Too

2006-02-25T07:45:00.000-06:00

My guru, Computer Ed, is pretty handy with a camera too. He has a good post on the sea change that has taken place in the world of photography with the conversion from film to digital media. You camera buffs (and even those who aren't so buff) will find his thoughts worth reading and some of his suggestions worth emulating.

Other signs of the times:

The Dell desktop computer that I recently purchased has a media card reader which can transfer photos, video, data and music from thirteen different types of media cards.
I spend my day typing and reading entries in a completely paperless computerized medical record system. There is a special mode to view scanned images and digital ophthalmic photographs which my technician shoots and transfers to the digital patient record in a matter of seconds. Fifteen years ago I was fumbling around with paper records and slides of patients' eyes which kept getting lost or damaged. Also back then, I couldn't type worth a lick. Now, thanks to on-the-job training, I type about a gazillion words per minute and I've got the carpel tunnel syndrome to prove it.
They use to say that "the eye is the window to the soul." Nowadays, it's the key to the front door as well. I plan to weigh in on the implications and ramifications of iris scanning and other biometric technologies in a future post.

In the meantime, enjoy Ed's post and "purty pictures" and then grab your digital point and shoot this weekend and make a few of your own.

See Ralph Run. Run, Ralph, Run!

2006-02-24T07:25:00.000-06:00

Faith, purity and prayer. According to Catholic theology, these are the ingredients needed in order to perform a miracle. Unfortunately, Ralph Walker, a 14-year-old hormone-driven parochial school student, has, just in the previous week alone, taken the Lord's name in vain 211 times, had 22 impure thoughts (along with 22 sins of the flesh), and contemplated murder. For him, faith, purity and prayer are about as rare as rosary beeds and Hail Marys at a fundamentalist tent revival.

Hamilton, Ontario is the setting for the warm and quirky running movie, "Saint Ralph," recently released on DVD. The year is 1953 in a time when the pre-Vatican II Catholic Church loomed large in the lives of many North Americans, defining and controlling nearly every aspect of their existence. Ralph's father was a war hero killed in World War II and his mother is extremely ill and hospitalized, presumably from cancer.

Things are nearly as bad at school where Ralph's awkward adolescent looks and nerdish antics coupled with his brash belief that he is "destined for greatness" make him a prime target for the bullying pranks of older students. Father Fitzpatrick, the stern Headmaster of St. Magnus Parochial School, is concerned about Ralph and his growing appetite for a full course menu of venial and mortal sins.

An embarrassing incident at a local swimming pool (note to parents of adolescent boys: if you're watching the movie with your sons you might want to fast foward through this scene--no use in making matters worse than they already are!) convinces Father Fitzpatrick that desperate measures are needed in order to save Ralph from an eternity in purgatory. His final solution is to order Ralph to join the school cross country team in the hopes that burning off a few million megawatts of his copius sexual energy will render him incapable of sins of the flesh. Ralph is less than thrilled, especially when he discovers that his coach is Father Hibbert, a Nietzsche-reading priest with a somewhat dark and mysterious running history of his own.

After Ralph's mother lapses into a coma, he is told that "only a miracle can save her." When he later learns from his coach that a ninth-grader from St. Magnus would need "a miracle that rivals the loaves and fishes" to win the Boston Marathon, Ralph knows what he must do to save his mother and avoid his worse fear of becoming an orphan. Spurred on by a vision of God in a Santa suit, Ralph sets out to train for and win the Boston Marathon, totally oblivious to the fact that no 14 year-old should be running in that storied race much less dreaming of victory. Father Fitzpatrick is determined to shelter Ralph and "keep him in his place," while Father Hibbert, who is initially skeptical--like a good existentialist--of Ralph and his commitment, eventually is won over by Ralph's earnestness and agrees to coach him in his effort.

Ralph eventually makes it to Boston, but prior to the race he is still having doubts about whether he has enough faith, purity, prayer and speed to pull off the improbable upset and produce his miracle. After a humorous moment when Father Hibbert and Ralph resolve the purity problem, the priest goes on to reassure Ralph that prayer will not be a problem since every marathoner finds himself praying around mile twenty. As someone who has trained for and completed a marathon after smacking against "The Wall" like a bug against a windshield, I concur.

The race is a stirring and beautiful reenactment of the world's most prestigious marathon set against a haunting version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" sung by Canadian Gord Downie. I'm still sorting through the lyrics and how they pertain to the themes of this movie (as if they even have to in this postmodern world, right?), but I was particularly struck by the idea expressed in the song of doing one's best, falling short, yet still standing before the "Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah." Ralph, Father Hibbert and Father Fitzpatrick all learn, in one way or another, the meaning of these words in their lives by movie's end.

I'm a sucker for coming-of-age movies, especially those involving athletic themes (see "Breaking Away," 1979), and I found "Saint Ralph" to be a satisfying and authentic portrayal of both adolescent angst and the tension between Reason and Passion which is present in all our lives. So if you're browsing in the movie store this weekend and in the mood for something more thoughtful, charming and eccentric than your average cookie-cutter "Latest Release," then check out "Saint Ralph." You may find yourself nodding in affirmation at the notion, which has been on my mind quite frequently lately, that the Holy Spirit runs freely throughout creation, often producing the most delightful miracles when unfettered by the chains of organized religion and the walls of churches.

Fantasies on Ice

2006-02-22T07:25:00.000-06:00

It was a strange scene, one that forced me to stop and do a double-take. There in my living room sat/slouched three red meat and potatoes, football loving, video game playing, Southern white-bread boys with table manners that would make a medieval baron blush, watching, of all things, Olympic ice dancing.

It didn't take me long to figure out why. "Wait till you see the Americans in second place, Dad. They're really good," they said. I think what they meant to say was, "Wait till you see Tanith Belbin skating with ol' what's-his-name. She's HOT!"

My sons, along with millions of other adolescent boys across the globe, had been smitten with the captivating good looks (and yes, she can skate well too) of Canadian-born, recently naturalized U.S. citizen Tanith Belbin as she teamed with Ben Agosto to win a silver medal in ice dancing, the first medal by an American couple in that sport in 30 years. Even the commentators were falling all over themselves at times, remarking that the couple's scores might be even higher if the judges could take their eyes off of Belbin for a moment to notice Agosto's own fine skating.

I chuckled at the sight and considered it harmless fun. In fact, it brought back a few memories of my own...

Rewind to the 1976 Winter Olympics in Innsbruck Austria. A 14-year-old slightly overweight, acne-riddled teenage boy sits riveted to his TV watching another US skater named Dorothy Hamill grab the gold and Olympic glory in the women's figure skating competition. Like many of my time, I was enthralled by her acrobatic "Hamel Camel" spins and her oh-so-cute bobbed haircut which became a much imitated do for years to come.

I was postively smitten and decided then and there I was going to marry that woman. Oh sure, she was 6 years older and famous, but that didn't deter my daydreams that someday she would tire of her shallow world of celebrity and long to settle down with an Average Joe like me and put through me through school and that one day after she retired from the Ice Capades I would return the favor by lavishing on her my love, attention and money for the rest of our happy days. All this in the time it took for the Star Spangled Banner to be played.

Of course, it didn't turn out that way and I have to say I'm relieved. I was recently channel surfing and stumbled upon Hamill working as a judge on an American Idol spin-off called Skating with Celebrities. It occurred to me again (as I've had this epiphany quite a few times over the years), how blessed I am that I ended up with EyeGal, who can skate pretty good in a straight line but gets a little dizzy and falls down on her cute little behind when she tries to do a sit-spin.

I'm hoping, and praying, that my sons will be as blessed as I am someday, and that they'll look back and chuckle at the memory of their own little fantasies on ice.

A Pair of Classy Devils

2006-02-20T07:35:00.000-06:00

It was no surprise that J.J. Redick scored 30 points in yesterday's 92-71 victory over Miami and became Duke's new all-time leader scorer. It was also no surprise how he did it--once again losing a defender off a screen by teammate Lee Melchioni and popping one of his patented treys just a few feet in front of assistant coach Johnny Dawkins whose record he broke.

But it may come as a surprise, given J.J.'s reputation for on-court intensity and bravado and the general culture of "in-your-face" celebrations in today's sporting world, what occurred after the game was over. In a post-game interview at center court following a short ceremony honoring J.J.'s acccomplishment, Redick thanked assistant coach Dawkins who was the mainstay of the great 1985-86 team and is often credited for helping turn around an ailing Duke program and setting it on the path to 3 national titles over the next 15 years.

"Without him I probably wouldn't be here," Redick remarked, and went on to add that Johnny Dawkins is "still the greatest player in Duke history." For his part, Dawkins handled with great aplomb the inevitable question of whether he would still be the points leader had the three point arc been around "back in the day." Dawkins smiled and said that "nothing should detract from the accomplishments of this young man, who is the greatest shooter I've ever seen."

And with those remarks, Duke Haters around the country once again pounded the floor and let loose a collective wail of grief. Faced with such excellence both on and off the court by a pair of classy Devils, they were as powerless as a trio of slackjawed defenders looking on in horrified fascination as J.J. dials up yet another long-distance trey.

Hanging Out in American Babylon

2006-02-18T13:17:00.000-06:00

Since my entry into the blogosphere a few months ago, I've noticed quite a few Christians, especially seminary students, who seem to struggle with the idea of "dual citizenship"--i.e., balancing their identity as both Americans and Christians. As they react to what they see as a too close alliance between the cross and the flag among those on the Christian Right, their tendency is to resort to Platonic dualism and "either/or" solutions. In other words, choose whom you will serve, cross or flag, but never both.

As with most things,"there is nothing new under the sun." Anxiety over the relationship and responsibilities of God's people to state is an old concern, predating the church itself. Not only are there clues to this ancient dilemma available from scripture, but from tradition and church history as well. Richard John Neuhaus, editor of First Things, has plumbed the depths of the nature of church and state in his article, Our American Babylon, and turned out a very balanced treatment of the issue:

"We Christians are a pilgrim people, a people on the way, exiles from our true home, aliens in a strange land. There is in all the Christian tradition no more compelling depiction of our circumstance than St. Augustine's City of God. Short of the final coming of the Kingdom, the City of God and the earthly city are intermingled. We are to make use of, pray for, and do our share for the earthly city. Here Augustine cites the words of Jeremiah urging the people not to fear exile in Babylon: 'Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its peace you will find your peace.'"

"The argument, in short, is that God is not indifferent to the American experiment, and therefore we who are called to think about God and His ways through time dare not be indifferent to the American experiment. America is not uniquely Babylon, but it is our time and place in Babylon. We seek its peace in which we find our peace as we yearn for and eucharistically anticipate the New Jerusalem which is our pilgrim goal. It is time to think again--to think deeply, to think theologically--about the story of America and its place in the story of the world. Again, the words of St. Augustine: 'It is beyond anything incredible that God should have willed the kingdoms of men, their dominations and their servitudes, to be outside the range of the laws of his providence.'"

I highly recommend this article for all, especially those who are currently struggling with these weighty matters.

On a different note, why is it that for the past 25 years, the writings which have nourished me the most and been the most critical in my ongoing spiritual formation have been almost exclusively the product of those hailing from the Roman Catholic, Orthodox and Anglican traditions?

I guess figuring out the answer to that question will be one of many things which will occupy my thought as I continue to hang out in American Babylon.

Alabama 6, Harvard 2

2006-02-17T07:55:00.000-06:00

Most people would pick the Alabama Crimson Tide over the Harvard Crimson in a football game without giving it a second thought. But how many would ever think that the Tide would top Harvard in a battle of brains?

Well, surprise, the USA TODAY'S 2006 All-USA College Academic Team was announced this week and the final score was Alabama 6, Harvard 2. Alabama has placed more students on the team than any other school in the nation three out of the past four years and over that period of time has produced a total of 20 honorees, a figure which also leads all schools. This year Alabama even had a first teamer, Cody Locke a senior biology major from Boaz, who also has the distinction of having made the team three years in a row. In 2006, Yale, Northwestern and Duke each placed three students on the team with Harvard trailing the pack with only two.

One of the reasons Alabama is picking up such a head of academic steam is they are doing an excellent job of identifying and then recruiting home-grown talent with enticing scholarships and the creation of an Honors College and other unique academic opportunities. Number One Son has taken note, and Alabama is on his short list of schools to apply to later this year.

Heh, we're looking pretty durn smart down here in Bama! If we keep this up, maybe someday folks will think of more than Forrest Gump and Bear Bryant when they hear the cry, Roll Tide Roll!

Starsky and Hutch, Where Are Ye?

2006-02-16T07:25:00.000-06:00

I thought this was supposed to be the Torino Olympic Games? If so, then where the heck are Starsky and Hutch and that hot, heavily-muscled car of theirs? Can you imagine what would happen if you let those two compete in the two-man bobsled event? Well, those prissy Europeans wouldn't be taking up so much room on the medal stands, I can tell you that much!

If you're like me and you're a little confused on whether Torino is a car, a golfer or a Canadian city then help can be found at sportswriter Frank Deford's NPR commentary and this story from NPR's Alex Chadwick.

So far I've seen Bodie, Michelle (for a moment anyway) and Apolo, but Starsky and Hutch, where are ye when we need thee?

Basketball and Bobsleds

2006-02-15T07:10:00.000-06:00

The "J.J. Meter" has been humming as of late. In last night's 93-70 win over Wake Forest, Duke's J.J. Redick scored 33 points (his fourth 30 plus game in a row, a Duke record) and went 4 for 7 from beyond the arc to pass former UVa player Curtis Staples' 413 career treys and become the new NCAA career 3 point marksman. Redick is currently second on the Duke career points list behind his assistant coach Johnny Dawkins and fourth on the ACC list. He now trails all-time leading ACC career scorer Dickie Hemric by 60 points with 5 games remaining in the regular season. Barring anything unusual, he should pass both Dawkins and Hemric to further seal his legacy as one of the greatest to ever grace the hardwood at Cameron Indoor Stadium.

Redick has done a remarkable job of handling the expectations and pressures of his senior year and seems to thrive on the animosity which he generates among the "Duke Haters" across the country. If you're still trying to decide whether to like him or hate him, then I direct you to The Sporting News' Mike DeCourcy's article "Whatta Devil" which makes the case that, contrary to popular opinion, J.J. is not the Antichrist.
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I'm not much of a Winter Olympics fan, but I will be watching with great interest the women's bobsled event later this week. We may not get much snow in Alabama, but did you know that along with Forrest Gump, controversial governors and great football players that we've also turned out a gold medalist bobsledder?

Vonetta Flowers is a graduate of another one of my alma maters, The University of Alabama at Birmingham, and already has an Olympic gold medal in two-person bobsled which she picked up at the 2002 Salt Lake City Games, becoming the first African-American to win a winter event. A former track athlete for the UAB Blazers, Flowers will bring her All-American speed to the narrow, twisting ice of Torino in the hopes of once again striking gold. She's one of the "Yellowhammer State's" classier exports, and we all wish her well.

Go Devils! Go Blazers!
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Update: Here is another nice piece from USA Today detailing how Vonetta Flowers balances the roles of world class athlete, wife and mother to twin boys, one of whom is deaf. Hint: She leans hard on her Christian faith.

Talkin' 'Bout Eyegal, Eyegal!

2006-02-14T07:01:00.000-06:00

I've got sunshine on a cloudy day.
When it's cold outside I've got the month of May.
I guess you'll say,
What can make me feel this way?
Eyegal (Eyegal, Eyegal)
Talkin' 'bout Eyegal (Eyegal!)
Ooooh Hoooo.

With apologies to The Temptations, I'd like to do a little talkin' 'bout my Eyegal in honor of St. Valentine's Day.

I first spotted Eyegal sitting in the row in front of me in developmental psychology at Harding University in the Fall of 1982. Little did we know then what would develop from that little chance encounter. Although I didn't ask her out right away, we competed for who would get the highest scores on tests and quizzes (she almost beat me on a couple of occasions) and had lunch a few times at Heritage Cafeteria before she went off to spend a semester in Europe. Pretty romantic stuff, eh? Cupid would be proud.

But I had her in my mind's eye while she was gone and upon her return I beat off a few persistent but unsuitable suitors and finally worked up the nerve to ask her out for Homecoming. As I recall, she had a prior commitment (something about washing her hair) and turned me down cold. But I did receive a consolation prize--an invitation to the grandest social event of the season, the Sigma Phi Mu Fall Hayride scheduled for the very next week.

Although I never envisioned a romp in the hay on our first date, I figured that since it was a school-sanctioned event that it was probably ok. Lucky me, the temperature was in the 30s that night, so even though we didn't know each other that well yet, we were forced to snuggle a lot in order to avoid hypothermia and survive the evening (ok, stop the gagging out there). We went on to bigger and more extravagant dates, like dinner and a movie in Little Rock, and somewhere along the line I began to think that I might like to hang out with this eyegal for the rest of my life.

Guys in general can be pretty stupid, though, and this eyeguy was no exception. At some point during our early relationship I got the notion that I should probably look around a little more just to make sure that Eyegal was "the one." When I told her about my plan, she shot me one of those eye of the tiger looks of hers (they still work) and thankfully I started to see the light.

The Harding marriage hothouse worked its usual magic and Eyegal and I were fused on June 15th, 1985. Actually, I wasn't an official eyeguy at that point. First came eyeball school, so off we went to the University of Alabama at Birmingham School of Optometry where Eyegal patiently endured so many practice eye exams that she started chanting "which is better, one or two" in her sleep and quickly memorized the eyechart. After that, no matter how badly I messed up her refractions, she always read a perfect 20/20. Now that's amore!

She also picked up a good working knowledge of ocular anatomy and disease. To this day, whenever she picks up the phone and a friend with an eye problem is on the other end, she usually goes ahead and diagnoses the condition and suggests the appropriate therapy without even consulting me. It would be easy for me to be insulted by this, especially when I pick up the phone and they ask for Eyegal. But as much as I hate to admit it, most of the time she's right.

We've been married over 20 years now and looking back I must say the view is pretty good. I know Eyegal pretty well, but there's still a lot of mystery behind those blue eyes, enough to probably keep me busy trying to figure things out for at least twenty more. But hey, that's half the fun.

Eyegal, you probably know this, but just in case, let me tell you again--you're too good to be true and I can't take my eyes off of you. My eyes adored you then and adore you still, and I'll be watching you for as long as these old eyes of mine have light to see.

Guru Alert!

2006-02-13T21:13:00.000-06:00

My computer guru Ed is at it again. Run, don't walk, to "Practicing Safe Surfing--Part 3" and take heed of his suggestions on antiviral software before it's too late. The computer you save may be your own.

DISCLAIMER: This is not a picture of the real Ed. The real Ed looks like Ernest Hemingway and does not wear a lioncloth. At least let's hope not.

Barking Up the Wrong Tree

2006-02-13T12:13:00.000-06:00

I'm always amused by the search strings that lead some to land on Ocular Fusion. There have been some post-worthy ones in the past, but this one takes the cake. Both yesterday and this morning, several visitors Googled "school closings for the blizzard of 06," and when they followed the link of the #1 hit, lo and behold, they landed here!

In what can only be described as a cruel and ironic twist of fate, apparently there have been several of my fellow citizens who are seeking critical survival information in the blizzard-bound Northeast and have landed on my site only to get some Alabama hayseed prattling on about bread and milk runs at the local grocery store.

My apologies to my Blue State friends who have been so misled and misdirected--it was my intent to entertain with tongue planted firmly in tobacco-filled cheek, not to deceive. Fortunately Google, being the omniscient and omnipotent search engine that it is, has apparently recognized its error and I have since disappeared from the internet snow survival guide radar.

But please do stop by again soon and next time "pull up a cheer and sit a spell." Although you may have barked up the wrong tree on this occasion, you may actually discover some useful, perhaps even critical, information here in the future--such as how to get all gussied up and drive like Dale, Jr. to church three times a week or how to cast your vote in the next presidential election.

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Update: As of 9:30PM CST, Google is once again picking up my site in response to the query above. In fact, I'm back at #8 on the list. Obviously Google has deemed the information on milk and bread important enough to pass on to the snow-bound masses.

What's On Your Window?

2006-02-10T04:30:00.000-06:00

Although you wouldn't know it from the amount of time I've spent recently blogging about my beloved Duke Blue Devils, I actually love soccer as much, if not more, than college hoops. I'm sure you'll be reading some of my thoughts and observations about real football as I follow my sons' soccer teams this spring and also as the FIFA World Cup approaches this summer.

I'm also an unabashed, card-carrying "eyeguy." So imagine my delight when I recently discovered that I could combine two of the great passions in my life and enjoy them simultaneously--sort of like a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup or an Oreo cookie . If the eye is, like the old saying goes, the "window to the soul," then the person in the picture above is truly mad to the bone about what soccer's most famous player called, "The Beautiful Game." Ole, Ole, Ole, Ole!

Although Hollywood actors and actresses have used special effect contact lenses for years, many are now available to the general public as well. Wildeyes (Ciba Vision), Evileyes and Crazy Lenses (CooperVision) all offer up a colorful palette of alternative ocular personas for every occasion. Up until recently, if you were into NFL football there were even some Crazy Lenses for you (but alas, like Peyton Manning's ability to win the Big Game, they are now nowhere to be found).

Of course, please keep in mind that, although special effect contact lenses are "fun," they are also medical devices and should be properly prescribed and monitored by an eye care professional.

WARNING: FAILURE TO DO SO MAY RESULT IN NASTY, PUS-FILLED CORNEAL ULCERS THE SIZE OF A MOON CRATER, WHICH, NEEDLESS TO SAY (BUT I HAVE TO SAY ANYWAY, OTHERWISE YOU COULD SUE ME), MAY LEAD TO BLINDNESS. EVEN WORSE, YOUR EYES MIGHT MELT AND POP OUT OF THEIR SOCKETS LIKE THAT GESTAPO DUDE'S IN "RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK" WHEN GOD GOT A LITTLE MIFFED OVER THE ARK OF THE COVENANT BEING STOLEN AND OPENED UP BY A BUNCH OF NAZIS.

There, now that we have that out of the way, let me ask you a question. If you could pick a lens which would bare your true inner soul, what would it be? Feel free to browse and choose from any of the above collections, or be creative and come up with your own special "dream lens."

In other words--what's on your window?

Tangle in the Triangle, An Update

2006-02-08T07:15:00.000-06:00

I have to admit, for a while there I thought Number 2 Son had enough mojo left to pull it off last night. I figured that surely he must have expended himself earlier in the evening in Tennessee's 75-61 win over Kentucky in Rupp Arena, the Vols first win there since 1999. But after the Carolina Tarheels came charging back in the second half to take the lead against Duke last night, I was afraid some of that ol' black magic was going to be the Devils' undoing.

Not to worry. As bile and fury poured forth from the cerulean blue cloud gathered in the Dean Dome, the Blue Devils held fast and emerged with an 87-83 road win over the young, but plucky Tar Heels. As usual, Duke senior co-captains Shelden Williams and J.J. Redick turned in performances worthy of the All American moniker which they share. Although Williams only had a "quiet" 13 points, he barely missed yet another "double-double" with 9 rebounds, 4 blocks (including a huge swat in the closing minutes), 4 steals and 3 assists.

For much of the first half, Redick seemed out of synch, with Carolina doing a good job of rotating defenders and rarely giving him a chance to square up to the basket and do his usual damage. But when it counted the most, J.J. created the necessary space with behind the back dribbles and ball fakes, and once again the treys rained down, soaking the spirited Tar Heels bid for an season-making upset. Redick finished with 35 points, the most ever by a Duke player at Carolina, 22 of them coming in the second half when the chips were down. Redick is now only a bucket away from passing Christian Laettner on the Duke points list, and, it would appear, only a few games away from passing Duke assistant coach Johnny Dawkins to become Duke's all-time leading scorer.

Senior Sean Dockery also turned in a solid performance with 14 points and some timely treys, while Duke's Josh McRoberts won the "Battle of the Fabulous Frosh" against Carolina's Tyler Hansbrough with 17 points on 6 of 8 shooting from the field (including one 3-pointer). With a unique "dart-throwing" free throw motion which looks like it belongs in a pub rather than on a basketball court, he went a perfect 4-4 from the line, with a huge pair coming in the closing minutes. Also, he added some playground spice to the night with a nice reverse jam off a feed from Dockery.

Perhaps the most interesting moment of the evening came when Carolina coach Roy Williams benched all 5 starters after they turned the ball over on 4 straight possessions at the beginning of the second half, allowing Duke to go on a 12-0 run. The tongue lashing that followed could be heard as far away as Kill Devil Hill on the Outer Banks, and the unknown subs who entered the game began scratching away at the Duke lead. When the chastised starters returned a few minutes later, they were ready to "kill a little Devil" themselves. It was a brilliant move by a classy, champion of a coach which kept them in the game just when it looked like they would roll over for good.

Sorry, Number 2, it's going to take more than a few incantations and hexes to derail the Blue Devil Express this season. The only way that's going to happen is if someone finds a way to solve "The J.J. Problem." That's going to take brilliant defense--not chants and vodoo dolls.

Tangle in the Triangle

2006-02-07T07:30:00.000-06:00

Now that we have that little football game out of the way we can move on to more important matters--like Duke v. UNC-Chapel Hill.

Tonight those two teams will clash for the first time this season and you can bet that Number Three and I will be breaking out the face paint and donning the Blue Devil Blue as we head up the Huntsville Extension Chapter of the Cameron Crazies. Number One has been pulling for the Dookies lately and earning some major brownie points with dear old Dad (probably just wants to borrow the keys to my car again). Number Two (the Vols fan) will be lurking in the shadows as usual, chanting the same tired old mantra, "Duke's gonna lose, I can just feel it."

I pointed out to Number Two following the heart-stopping 97-96 overtime win over Florida State (who deserve a heap of credit for bringing their A+ game to Cameron Indoor) that so far he has been right once out of 22 times and at that rate he might actually be able to get a job as a weather forecaster with one of the local TV stations.

Despite losing the heart of their national championship team to the NBA, the Tar Heels are dangerous as always and you can expect both teams to show up at the Dean Dome prepared for war. I grew up reading the columns of Duke grad and sportswriter Bill Brill in the Roanoke Times, and if you're interested in reading more about this fine rivalry and getting the scoop on tonight's upcoming game, he has written a fine piece that is worth the read.

The Research Triangle will be rocking tonight as these two great teams, located a mere 10 miles apart, once again tangle for bragging rights to "best in state"--at least for a few weeks until they meet again. Our house will be shaking as well, and our coonskin-capped prophet in orange will once again be crying forth in the wilderness, hoping to put the hex on my Boys in Blue. I'll check in again tomorrow to let you know if he succeeded.

Singing Those Super Bowl Blues

2006-02-06T12:50:00.000-06:00

Like many of you, I was a little disappointed with yesterday's Super Bowl. Not with the outcome, mind you, since I really don't have an NFL favorite these days and really didn't care who won. I do enjoy a good athletic contest, however, but unfortunately what was supposed to be pro football's ultimate gridiron tussle turned into an anemic affair which neither team seemed to really want to win. The real news was Pittsburgh's three road wins over the top three American Conference teams en route to the "big game." Everything else seemed like anticlimax.

The commercials, with a couple of notable exceptions, were a bust as well. Budweiser always does a good job with the Clydesdales (the "streaker" was funny and the "passing of the bridle" warm and moving). But the ones featuring contemporary twentysomethings portrayed as eternal, Peter Panish frat boys whose lives revolve around how much beer is on hand and whose idea of a higher diety is a "magic refrigerator" filled with Bud give me pause. A note to my Gen X and Y friends: do you find these at least mildly insulting?

For me, the redeeming moments of last evening were our time spent with the small group of family and friends who came over (that Lawler's Barbecue was great, eh?) and the fact that at the moment the Steelers were finally starting to assert themselves, I was standing in a house whose previous owner had been none other than Steeler Hall of Fame receiver John Stallworth (who still lives in Huntsville) picking up Number Three Son from a Super Bowl party. I did enjoy that little irony.

But if you want to hear the "Super Bowl Blues" sung by a more accomplished artist than me, then you should travel on over to Contratimes where the Granite State's poet laureate and bard Bill Gnade unpacks yesterday's failures and offers up some interesting and promising solutions in his posts, "Rejoice and Weep: A Mixed World in a Super Bowl" and "Left Cold in America: The Super Bowl."

But Bill, I just have one question: If there's no snow in New Hampshire and no snow in Huntsville, then where, pray tell, did all the snow go?

The Great Blizzard of '06

2006-02-06T07:15:00.000-06:00

As you can see from the picture of my street taken just a few minutes ago, things are pretty rough in Huntsville this morning. The Great Blizzard of '06 which we all feared is upon us. Things are shut down pretty tight--good thing I was able to beat off that little 80-year-old lady for that last loaf of bread at Target yesterday. As for the 5-year-old boy whom I tackled for that gallon of milk, well, life is tough and hardly fair and he might as well learn it sooner rather than later.

Since I am considered "necessary personnel," I will attempt the treacherous drive to work through this blinding blizzard--just hope I don't suffer from "white-out." Oh, well, if I do, I'll put on my snowshoes and try to trek the rest of the way--just hope I don't run into any wolves like ol' Buck did in Jack London's "Call of the Wild."

What's that you say? What snow? Oh, yes, there is that minor detail, but it's coming, you see, and here in Huntsville that's all that matters. The mere threat of snow, the fact that local doppler radar has picked up the scatter of a few flurries falling in Tupelo, Mississippi is news. Real News. Not that kind of news from the Middle East which is mere distraction, but the kind upon which life hangs in the balance, the kind that keeps our eyes glued to the sky for signs of that first flake which will portend the deluge to come.

Oh, ye Yankees, go ahead and grab your jollies at our expense, but when it comes, we will be prepared. And what will you be doing? Starving for want of milk and bread is what you'll be doing. But, if you stop laughing long enough, we might show you some of our magnanimous Southern Bible Belt manners and share some of our stash with you.

Now That's a Bad Hair Day!

2006-02-03T07:30:00.000-06:00

Number One Son recently made the varsity soccer team at Grissom High School. With 10 state championships since 1988 and an overall record of 317-35-15, playing for the Tigers is the Alabama high school soccer equivalent of playing college hoops for the Duke Blue Devils. Number One has put in countless hours over the years improving his game, waiting and hoping for the chance to don Grissom Orange--well done, son.

Of course, such opportunities have their price. We've spent a fair number of dollars over the years playing for club teams and shuttling to various matches and tournaments around the Southeast. In his case, making the team cost him his hair.

Like the military and countless other sports teams and organizations, "making the team" also means undergoing the ritual head shaving which is designed to remind newcomers that yes, you made the cut, but guess what, you are still lower than dirt. At Grissom, clipper-happy seniors show off their creative styling with old favorites such as the "Mohawk," "Friar Tuck," "Horse's Mane," "Patches" and "Halo."

Now this initiation is purely "voluntary," mind you, since the city school system has a strict "no hazing" policy. But over the years, most new players have consented, and Number One figured that in the best interest of tradition and esprit de corp he would go ahead and lose the locks. He ended up with a classic "Combover" consisting of shaved sides and back but with enough left on top to flip over to one side. We thought he looked a little like a 1980s punk rock star when we first saw him--the only thing missing was the body piercings (note to Number One: don't go getting any ideas).

The new inductees are then required to wear their "new do" to school for one day after which they are allowed to clean things up with a standard military buzz. I had given our family hair stylist a heads up, so to speak, that this was coming and to be prepared for a major repair job. She didn't seem too concerned and said that it would grow back quickly and not to worry. But when she first saw Number One walk into her shop, her eyes bulged like Roger Rabbit and she lapsed into her native Korean, ripping off a string of unintelligible exclamations. It took some work, but she managed to get him to the point where he looks like your average Marine rather than Sid Vicious reincarnated.

There are some advantages to having a 17-year-old with a bald knob. For one thing, it's fun to rub (it feels sooo soft!). Also, early morning grooming time has now been reduced considerably. In fact, we may actually make it to church on time for the first time in years. Now if I can just get Number Two and Number Three sons to speed up a little...hmmm...

If I keep up my present rate of hair loss, I may soon end up with a "combover" of my own (actually more of a "combforward") and join Number One in the ranks of the bald but proud. So, ladies, if you think you're having a bad hair day, just remind yourself of this picture and count your blessings (and the hairs on your head). At least you're still fretting over your hair and not just combing it over.

A New Nom De Plume

2006-02-01T07:19:00.000-06:00

"To this day, the eye gives me a cold shudder."

--Charles Darwin

The eye, the very thing that gave ol' Chuck a case of the chills, never fails to give me a case of the warm fuzzies. I'm up to my eyeballs in eyeballs, and frankly, most days, I'm happier than a pig in slop. I believe I have an office with the best view in town and sometimes I get so enraptured by the beauty and complexity of this organ of sight that I get a little behind in my daily schedule because I just can't stop staring.

I guess you could say that I'm an "eyeguy," and in fact, many folks in these parts say just that. That's a necessary qualifier when there are 4 "Dr. Michael Xs" living and practicing in the same town (and that's not even counting the veterinarian down in Guntersville). The other three Huntsville-based "Dr. Michael Xs" practice gastroenterology, urology and pediatric dentistry. The dentist's son plays on the same soccer team as my Number Two son. The gastroenterologist even goes to the same church I do, leading to even more confusion. Someone at church came up with the idea a while back of using "GI guy" and "Eyeguy" to help in communicating which one was supposed to be serving communion that month, lead the closing prayer, etc. That works fairly well, but that doesn't stop his mail from coming to my office (our offices are only a block apart) or keep our many patients that we have in common from becoming confused.

I've lost count of the number of times I've received calls at home from patients belonging to the urologist and GI guy--I guess they start at the top of the "Michael X" listings in the phone book and just keep going till they find one who's a doctor of some sort. One time I called one of my patients who also was being treated by the urologist. He became confused and began telling me about, as we say in the South, his "prostrate" problem. I quickly reminded him that prostates were not my turf. We then went on to talk about his "cadillac" which needed removing. So far, I've not received any calls from the veterinarian's patients.

So, I thought I would change my blogging nom de plume to "Mike the Eyeguy" and see what happens. I guess in hindsight (which we all know is 20/20) I probably should have gone with just "Eyeguy" from the start since that would have retained more of my anonymity and helped make me more mysterious. But now that the cat's out of the bag and you already know my first name, I'll go with "Mike the Eyeguy."

I'm hoping that in the sometimes Mike-saturated blogosphere that the "Eyeguy" part will stick out a little, especially in crowded comment sections, and keep folks from getting me confused with all the other "Mikes" out there. There are, after all, a lot of us, including the "mother of all Mikes."

So if you're trolling the blogosphere and run into something written by "Mike the Eyeguy" that will most likely be me. And I hope you don't get a cold shudder whenever that happens. I do hope that whatever it is you read makes you smile and say, "Oh, yeah, that's the guy who is 'just looking around and trying to put it all together.'"

But don't worry, I'm not getting all formal on you or anything like that. Just remember, "you can call me 'Michael,' or you can call me 'Mike,' or you can call me 'Eyeguy,' but you doesn't hafta' to call me 'Mike the Eyeguy.'"

The Power of Pictures

2006-01-30T09:15:00.000-06:00

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.

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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 Mess Around with Oprah

2006-01-27T09:30:00.000-06:00

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"

"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!"

"The Book of Daniel" 1/6/06-1/24/06--R.I.P.

2006-01-25T21:25:00.000-06:00

"...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?

Watching J.J.

2006-01-24T02:01:00.000-06:00

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."

"Glory Road"--A Little Too Glorified?

2006-01-22T19:05:00.000-06:00

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.

Teetering on the Edge of Falsehood

2006-01-20T09:20:00.000-06:00

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 Rocks!

2006-01-20T08:45:00.000-06:00

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.

Hey Nike, I'm Your Man!

2006-01-18T09:30:00.000-06:00

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

2006-01-16T12:20:00.000-06:00

"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."

Martin Luther King, Jr. Day 2006

2006-01-16T12:15:00.000-06:00

His words. His voice.

Desperate Priests--An Update

2006-01-14T18:40:00.000-06:00

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.

The Problem With Pat--An Update

2006-01-14T12:20:00.000-06:00

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.

Meet My Guru

2006-01-12T08:59:00.000-06:00

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!

The Problem With Pat

2006-01-10T10:35:00.000-06:00

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!).

Desperate Priests

2006-01-07T11:10:00.000-06:00

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.

A Coal Miner's Son

2006-01-06T02:01:00.000-06:00

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.

It's Ugly...It's Good!

2006-01-04T08:30:00.000-06:00

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.

The Song That Nobody Knows

2006-01-01T10:00:00.000-06:00

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?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days of auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear.
For auld lang syne,
We'll take a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

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."

See You in '06!

2005-12-26T02:01:00.000-06:00

Christmas Day 2005

2005-12-25T02:01:00.000-06:00

Nativity of the Lord 2005, Proper I

Isaiah 9: 2-7

Psalm 96

Titus 2:11-14

Luke 2:1-14 (15-20)

Happy 50th Anniversary Mom and Dad!

2005-12-23T09:00:00.000-06:00

If my father had lived to see tomorrow, he would have celebrated his 50th wedding anniversary with my mother. His untimely death in 1980 left my mother a fairly young widow, but tomorrow we will celebrate nonetheless--for love transcends all boundaries of time and space, life and death.

My Mom and Dad attended the same high school and both graduated in 1951, but they were only casual acquaintances at the time. In those days, my father was tagged with the ironic nickname "Bonecrusher," standing as he did at 4'11" his senior year (he grew 7 inches his first year out of school). My mom was dating a "college boy" at the time, so I think it's fair to say that she might have overlooked poor ol' "Bonecrusher!"

About four years after graduation, Mom was working in the toy department in the basement of the Woolworths department store in downtown Roanoke, Virginia. One day she looked up to see a grinning, young sailor descending the stairs. At first he only smiled and said nothing, feigning interest in the Slinkies, Hula Hoops and other toys which Mom had neatly arranged, all in their proper order.

But day after day, he kept coming back. It didn't take Mom long to figure out that he was interested in more than Tinkertoys and Lincoln Logs. Soon the two of them were chatting away, and not long after that, Dad asked her out on a date.

That date nearly turned disastrous as Mom apparently got cold feet and asked my grandmother to help her hide when Dad arrived. My memories of my maternal grandmother are dim, but I do remember that she was not a woman you wanted to mess with. She was a Great Depression-hardened, mattock-wielding farm woman who could wring a chicken's neck with one hand and chop off the head of a rattlesnake with the other.

I don't recall exactly how that scene turned out, but I guess Mom must have sheepishly appeared at some point and gotten in the car. My grandmother liked Dad a lot after that (maybe she admired his bravery in the face of clear and present danger). Years later, shortly before Grandmother's death from cancer, Dad baptized her into Christ, probably struggling a bit for a "full immersion" seeing as it took place in the bathtub of her home.

My parents were married on December 24th, 1955. For the first year or so, they remained largely apart as Dad completed his service aboard the submarine U.S.S. Cubera while mom remained in Southwest Virginia. After Dad's discharge, he managed to get a job at the post office, and soon my older sister was born in late 1957. My parents then built a cute little brick ranch house on land just down the road from and within sight of where Mom grew up.

I came along in 1961. As I look now at the panoply of pictures and reels of home movies which Dad shot with his Bell & Howell camera, they are for me a memorial of the love and hope which my parents poured over my sister and me during those years. Service minded and determined to make a difference, my parents were actively involved with church and PTA and worked hard to take care of my sister and me and shelter us from the troubles of the turbulent 1960s. In 1971, they received a late "surprise package" in the form of my younger sister and blushed a little when they were honored at their 20th high school reunion for having the "youngest child."

G.K. Chesterton once remarked:

"There is nothing more extraordinary than an ordinary man, an ordinary woman and their ordinary children."

If true, then that's one accolade my parents would have both been proud to claim!

In her wildest nightmares, Mom would not have dreamed of being a widow at the age of 47. But she has endured, along the way surviving her own health struggles and brushes with death. In ways too numerous to mention, having her with us today is our own Christmas miracle.

So, this Christmas Eve, we will remember an ordinary man and an ordinary woman who lived with extraordinary love and energy during their time together. In many ways, they have remained yoked together, connected by the small army of children and grandchildren who will gather in that same cute little brick ranch house just down the hill from where Mom grew up. We will feel my father's absence, as well as the hole in our hearts left by my sister's son Andrew, who passed from this life seven Christmases ago. We will remember them both and we will hope--and celebrate.

And when Mom pictures in her mind's eye Dad descending those steps in the Woolworths those many years ago, I'm pretty sure she still blushes a bit and smiles. And I bet her heart still skips a beat or two, whenever she remembers her sailor boy in blue.

Sex in Bedford Falls

2005-12-23T02:01:00.000-06:00

Now that I have your attention, I wanted to tell you, in case you haven't noticed lately, that we have a serious problem with "sex in the city," and for that matter, in the burbs and backwaters as well. The problem is, we no longer leave anything to the imagination. From peeks under the sheets to prime-time commercials hawking the latest and greatest impotence remedy, it's all out in the open for curious eyes to see.

The "sexperts" say it's better to talk about previously taboo topics in cold and clinical terms and to the show sex act in all its technicolor splendor. After all, we wouldn't want our children to be fumbling around during their "first time" unsure of what to do next. Good grief, the fabric of our society might completely unravel! Our species might even become extinct!

Yet, as with anything powerful and mysterious which is reduced to "mere facts," human sexuality loses much of it's innate power when the curtain is pulled back completely and the surprise spoiled. And these days, I believe, we are spoiling the surprise for our children. They know the truth, as spoken by G.K. Chesterton:

"The first two facts which a healthy boy or girl feels about sex are these: first that it is beautiful and then that it is dangerous."

But what to do? Do we completely shut down the flow of information and images and risk promotion of an unhealthy (and unbiblical) gnostic dualism which denies the good of the body? Or, as the "sexperts" would say, should we just lay it all out there for everyone to see and hope for the best?

As in all things, perhaps there is a via media. May I make a suggestion to parents, youth ministers and educators? Next time you plan to present information on the sticky wicket of human sexuality to kids, lay aside the scare tactics, "promise to wait" campaigns and other popular approaches for a moment and consider showing a positive, balance and robust view of human sexuality. And where would we find that? Well, in all places, Bedford Falls, New York!

When It's a Wonderful Life was made in 1946, there were many more restrictions on what could be said and seen on screen than there are today. Yet, somehow Frank Capra and cast produced several scenes which sizzle and pop with sexual electricity while keeping the details "under wraps." The effect is to excite, but also to remind that sexuality is a mighty river, capable of doing much good, but one that nevertheless must be channeled and kept within its banks. In particular, there are three scenes which portray a balanced and healthy human sexuality which are worth considering:

1. The Street Scene with Violet and the Boys

Near the beginning of the movie, George is preparing to leave Bedford Falls to "see the world" and runs into his friends Bert the cop and Ernie the cabdriver (get it, Bert and Ernie?). Violet (played by Gloria Grahame), the town siren, comes sauntering along the sidewalk in a dress, which for the day, must have been sheerer and shorter than average. The three men are instantly mesmerized by Violet's charm, and George , wide-eyed and slack-jawed, compliments Violet on the nice dress she's wearing.

"This old thing?" Violet replies. "I only wear it when I don't care how I look!" (yeah right).

She then proceeds down the sidewalk followed by 3 pairs of eyes. Is this lust? No, in my opinion, at least at this point, it's still basic, God-given physiology. To top it off, as she crosses the street, a gentleman of "Viagra age" is crossing in the opposite direction. He too is stopped dead in his tracks by the glory of Violet's passing, and as a result, is almost hit by a Model-T, one of the funniest moments in the movie. One wonders whether there are some extra vitamins and minerals in the water supply--Bedford Falls sounds like my kind of town!

But wait, there's more! George and his friends suddenly snap out of their trance and realize they must get on about their business. Ernie asks Bert if he would like to ride around town with him and George. He replies, "Uh, no thanks. I gotta go home and see what the wife is doing."

Hee-haw, there it is, the kind of balance I'm talking about! As attractive and tempting as Violet may be, Bert knows that the right thing to do is go home and "see what the wife is doing." The scene reminds me of what a Harding University Bible professor (don't worry, I'm not going to "out" you) once said during a remarkably candid moment: "It doesn't matter where you get your appetite as long as you eat at home!"

2. The Hydrangea Bush Scene

A little later on, George has become reaquainted with Mary, the younger sister of an old high school friend. Mary is all grown up now, and she and George have just danced in a Charleston contest at brother Harry Bailey's graduation party. The two (and eventually the whole party) ended up in a swimming pool beneath the gym floor thanks to the hijinks of one of Mary's spurned suitors (trivia note: that spurned suitor is none other than Carl "Alfalfa" Switzer of Our Gang fame).

Wearing a borrowed, oversized football uniform, George carries Mary's soaked dress and walks her home, while the pair sing Buffalo Gals Won't You Come Out Tonight? What is Mary wearing? Well, apparently nothing but her birthday suit and a borrowed bathrobe--the stage is now set for some playful sexual tension.

At one point, George "accidently" steps on Mary's robe. Is it coming off? No, not yet. George apologizes for his "clumsiness" and Mary then extends her hand to him for a kiss. George, however, has other ideas in mind and makes his move. Mary then turns and walks away with a coy smile. She is clearly in control at this point and enjoying every moment.

Watching the scene unfold is a balding, middle-age man sitting on his front porch reading his newspaper and smoking his pipe. At one point, George asks Mary, "Am I talking too much?" to which the neighbor replies, "Yes!" The man continues, "Why don't you kiss her instead of talking her to death?" In exasperation, he storms back into his house, muttering, "Aw, youth is wasted on the wrong people!"

George retorts, "I'll show you some kissing that'll put hair back on your head!"

Realizing what's coming next, Mary squeals and runs, only this time George really is accidentally standing on her robe which she sheds as she runs away (out of our line of sight, of course).

The ensuing scene is delightfully tantalizing, but ever discreet. Mary seeks refuge behind a Hydrangea bush as George gazes at the empty bathrobe lying on the ground. Now he is in control, and George makes the most of the moment.

"A very interesting situation we have here," George remarks, circling like a hawk around the Hyrdrangea bush. "A man doesn't find himself in a situation like this very often...not in Bedford Falls at least."

Mary protests, shouting, "Shame on you George Bailey," and "I'm going to tell your mother!" George reminds her that she is hardly in a position to tell his mother or call the police (who would side with him anyway, according to George).

Finally, George agrees to "make a deal" with Mary, but we never get to hear the details because they are interrupted by George's Uncle Billy and brother Harry who arrive to tell George that his father has had a stroke. George tosses the robe to Mary who has forgotten her frustration with George and is clearly concerned for him and his father.

The Hydrangea bush plays a very important role in this scene. It allows Mary a modicum of modesty and sanctuary while shielding our eyes from her true glory. Rather than distracting from the sexual tension, her cover actually adds to the titillation since the viewer is left to imagine what delights might be concealed behind the leaves and flowers. Echoes of Eden, perhaps? As I view the modern cinemascape these days, I'm left to conclude we could use a few more Hydrangea bushes to help protect the sacred and beautiful mysteries of a woman's body.

3. The Phone Scene

Some time later, George's football hero brother Harry returns home from college with his lovely new bride in tow. George is clearly torn. Although he is happy for Harry's good fortune, he's grieved to hear that his brother has received a job offer from his new father-in-law which will take him away from Bedford Falls and prevent him from relieving George (who has been looking forward to finally going to college and "seeing the world") from his duties at the Building and Loan.

The whole town turns out to fete the newlyweds, but George retreats to the front porch for a little pity party of his own. His mother appears and reminds him that Mary has returned from school and perhaps it might be a good idea to call on her. At first, he reluctantly agrees, then turns and stubbornly walks in the opposite direction from Mary's house.

George does make his way there eventually, however. Mary has clearly been enamored with George since the day as a young girl when she whispered in his deaf ear, "George Bailey, I'm going to love you to the day I die!" She invites him inside, but George is feeling petulent and resentful at the way his life plans have been foiled and spurns her efforts at polite conversation.

Mary's mother is upset at George's presence (she has designs of her daughter marrying the successful businessman Sam Wainwright). Yanking her fretting mother's chain, Mary shouts, "Mother, he's making mad passionate love to me!" George is clearly doing no such thing, but the viewer can already feel the temperature starting to rise.

Soon Sam calls Mary, and when he learns that George is there, he asks to speak to "ol' Mossback George." George and Mary must share the phone since her mother is listening in on the other extension. This brings them into closer physical contact than ever before, a turn of events that has unexpected consequences for both of them.

With the sexual tension now building to a crescendo, George and Mary try in vain to listen to Sam as he offers George the chance to get in on the "ground floor" of his emerging plastics company. Finally, exasperated at George's reluctance, Sam cries, "Mary, would you please tell George that the chance of a lifetime is standing in front of him?"

Indeed it is, but she has nothing to do with plastics. In anger at this inablility to control his feelings for Mary, he shouts "I want to do what I want to do," whereupon he does just that--smothering Mary with passionate, if somewhat sloppy, kisses. The next scene shows Mary and George immediately after their wedding, presumably only a short time later.

Hot dog, there it is again! The positive view that physical passion is good and wholesome, but the reminder that it should lead to the marriage altar where it can be controlled and channeled toward it's ultimate glory.

So, this year if you have teenagers or preadolescent kids in your house, tell them that in order to get their presents they have to sit down and watch It's a Wonderful Life with you. Will they protest? You betcha. But when push comes to shove, they'll do anything to get the GI Joe with the Kung Fu Grip.

Then do your parental duty and point out these positive images of healthy, godly sexuality. Will they scoff and make loud, exaggerated gagging noises? Probably. But hey, it's Christmas--have faith that another miracle will occur. Who knows? Maybe those positive messages will settle somewhere into the subconscious reaches of their little skulls full-of-mush for use at a later time.

Is It's a Wonderful Life a little corny for the 21st century? Maybe. But if it is, it's delightfully so, and looking around, I'm beginning to think we could us a little more corn in our lives. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Looks Like I'm "It!"

2005-12-21T02:01:00.000-06:00

Jason over at Already & Not Yet and Scott at Free Thoughts have "tagged" me in what looks like the opening move of some sort of chain blog, phishing scam. Next thing you know they'll be offering to send me 100 million dollars like Princess Fayad Bolkiah if I'll just send them my bank account and social security numbers. Yeah right. Listen boys, I wasn't born in Alabama, ok?

Oh well, against my better judgement, here goes nothing.

List the 7 words/phrases you say most often:

"Which is better, one...or...twooooo?"
"Go Duke!"
"Has anybody seen the laptop?"
"Has anybody seen the remote?"
"Have you finished your homework?"
"Oh my back, my back, my back!"
"Back in '82..."

List 7 movies you could watch over and over:

List 7 books or series you love:

Ecclesiastes--The Preacher
Mere Christianity--C.S. Lewis
The Chronicles of Narnia--C.S. Lewis
Orthodoxy--G.K. Chesterton
Portofino (The Calvin Becker Trilogy)--Frank Schaeffer
The Preservationist--David Maine
The Mitford Series--Jan Karon

List 7 things you can't/won't do:

Dance
Cook
Break in line
Blow a bubble
Abuse Malachi 3:10 and Luke 6:38 to teach tithing
Ever, under any circumstances, root for the UNC Tarheels
Shop at 5:00AM on "Black Friday"

List 7 things you want to do before you die:

Learn to dance
Become a breakfast chef
See my sons grow up to honorable manhood
Visit Italy and England with my wife
Attend a Duke basketball game at Cameron Indoor Stadium
Become a dean at a college or university
Make my living as a writer

List 7 things that attract you to your spouse:

The way she tears up while watching a sentimental movie or commercial
When she really laughs at something I said or wrote
Her college co-ed figure
Her passion for reading and her open mind
The way she looks anybody in the eyes and politely tells them what she thinks
Her loyalty to and love for her sons
Watching her read a book and snuggle with Gracie (our dog) on the couch

Friends to tag:

Thoughts on Lessons and Carols

2005-12-19T08:50:00.000-06:00

Several of us Church of Christ folks snuck over to the Episcopal Church of the Nativity in Huntsville last night for A Festival Service of Nine Lessons and Carols. The Church of the Nativity is one of the oldest churches in Huntsville and has an interesting piece of history attached to it. During the Civil War, the Union Army occupied Huntsville and began commandeering area churches to use as stables for their horses. One Union officer was sent with a detail to Church of the Nativity for that purpose. However, when he saw the words "Reverence My Sanctuary" (still seen today) above the front entrance, he had second thoughts and gave orders to his troops that the church was to remain untouched.

Lessons and Carols is an Anglican service which was originally conducted at Kings College, Cambridge Univeristy on Christmas Eve in 1918 and has since been adapted for use by other churches around the world. The format follows the story of the fall of man, through the Old Testament with its many promises of Messiah and on to the birth of Jesus using nine scripture readings and various hymns and carols. The King's College service is still broadcast annually on Christmas Eve by BBC Radio and is often carried by local NPR affiliates.

For my regular readers, it comes as no surprise that I'm a "smells and bells" kind of guy. I'm wired to respond better to the call to worship God with all my senses rather than simply using my left brain to digest a 45 minute lecture, uh, I mean sermon. I also like the quiet, gentle pace of liturgical worship--I don't feel like my senses have been assaulted with a barrage of loud praise songs featuring the words "I, me and just" and PowerPoint slides filled with bulleted "main points to remember."

Rather, I sense God's call to "be still" and to know him, along with a much-needed break from the tyranny of the modern. I sense the power of letting scripture and song speak for themselves without the need for commentary or interpretation. I am healed by hearing what God has done and is doing rather than the constant reminder of "all the things we're not doing" (note to pulpit ministers: believe it or not, most of us know we're sinners who are constantly falling short. We are in dire need of encouragement and Good News).

I do sometimes feel like an interloper when I enter a liturgical church. It's usually a little dark when you go inside and sometimes it takes a few moments for your eyes to adapt (I'll spare you the physiological explanation). One time when I was entering an Episcopal church I didn't see the brass infant baptismal font standing in my way and I ran into it, producing a loud clang which I desperately tried to still by grabbing it like a drummer does a cymbal. The folks who had already gathered for contemplation and prayer prior to the service were used to bells sounding off, but not at that particular moment. With all eyes turned on me, I could only offer a sheepish wave and a softly-mouthed "Sorry!" I felt like I needed to tell them I was from the Church of Christ and that I wasn't used to baptismal fonts and that I promise it will never happen again. I was afraid a vestment-clad bouncer was going to appear and toss my little Anabaptist keister out on the sidewalk. But they didn't seem too concerned. I suppose they're used to a steady stream of folks sneeking in for a liturgical fix. No one stood up and said, "Hey, that guy's Church of Christ. Throw him out of here!"

Last night there were several of us Restorationists taking up a couple of pews. A family soon came in and sat down behind us. A moment later, a young girl exclaimed, "Hey, what happened to our pew?" She was quickly shushed by her father. Oops, sorry about that! Don't worry--come next Sunday you can have your old pew back for Christmas Day service.

Aside from the songs sung in Latin (once a Latin geek, always a Latin geek), my favorite from last evening was When God's Time Had Ripened (music by Alfred V. Fedak, lyrics by Carl P. Daw, Jr.):

When God's time had ripened, Mary's womb bore fruit,
Scion of the Godhead, sprung from Jesse's root:
So the True Vine branches from the lily's stem,
The Rose without blemish blooms in Bethlehem.

More than mind can fathom, limit or untwine,
This mysterious yoking, human and divine,
But what reason fetters faith at length unlocks,
And wise hearts discover truth in paradox.

As the bread of heaven, that we might be fed,
Chose a manger cradle in the House of Bread,
So has Life Eternal mingled in the womb
With our mortal nature to confound the tomb.

For this swaddled infant in a humble place
Holds our hope of glory and our means of grace;
In the Love enfleshed here dawns the world's rebirth,
Promise of salvation, pledge of peace on earth.

The second stanza especially speaks to me. As a tired, middle-aged, world-weary, left-brained rationalist, I've finally waved the white flag and surrendered to the powerful reality of paradox. In fact, I'm finding the letting go of "the need to have all the answers and figure everything out" to be a welcomed relief. The letting go and giving in feels right and good. I want to accept the "mysterious yoking" by faith and allow the "hope of glory" and the "promise of salvation" to fill the empty and dark places of my soul.

So this Christmas, along with the Our Father, I pray:

Dear God, calm my fretting self and settle my busy, troubled, over-reasoning mind. Allow the "mysterious yoking" to wash over me like a soothing bath which cleanses and heals the nicks and cuts of my soul. Give me a "wise heart," so that I too can "discover truth in paradox." Amen.

The Fourth Sunday of Advent 2005

2005-12-18T02:01:00.000-06:00

The Lectionary Readings:

2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16

Luke 1:47-55 or Psalm 89:1-4, 19-26

Romans 16:25-27

Luke 1:26-38

Hare Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

2005-12-17T11:00:00.000-06:00

Ok, I know how it goes. You have the best of intentions of following through on my suggestion from yesterday and watching It's a Wonderful Life with your family this Christmas, but your busy holiday, er, I mean Christmas schedule just won't allow it. Maybe you've got miles to travel, last-second shopping to do, or perhaps you'll be picketing down at the local Wal-Mart or Target with a sign that reads, "Merry Christmas...or else!"

Don't despair. To the rescue in our fast-food, instant gratification world rides this 30-second short film parody of It's a Wonderful Life starring the cute, adorable little hares of the world famous 30 Second Bunnies Theatre Troupe. So if you're pressed for time, click here and enjoy the show.

(Hat tip to Jared Cramer)