Wednesday, December 31, 2003


My New Year's Prayer for You

I don't want to leave you this year with my snarky comments about one of the greatest rock songwriters and performers ever (see below), so I'd like to wish you a happy new year.

But a universal "Happy New Year" sounds so impersonal. You are a special person. Why should I just lump you in with all those faceless masses? (And I do mean masses; yesterday's Gawker.com mention of the true-life contretemps between Mom and Paris Hilton brought 1,000 hits in five hours.)

So I have something special I'd like to do for you tonight, something that will take me away from my busy laundry-doing, takeout-eating, and Chesterton-reading New Year's Eve schedule. Drop me a line at dawn -at- dawneden.com (replacing the spam-foiling -at- with a you-know-what). You don't have to write anything in the e-mail if you don't want to; I just need your name and "Dawn Patrol" in the header. Here's what I'll do:

I will pray for God to bless you in the new year.

If you'd like me to pray for anything specific for you or your friends and family, I'll pray for that too, according to God's will. And if you want, I'll even pray for someone you don't know, like Paris Hilton or Howard Dean—we are, after all, supposed to pray for our enemies.

If you're reading this after New Year's Eve and want a prayer, my offer still stands. But I'd most like to receive requests tonight, as I have some time, and it would be a blessing for me to be able to welcome the New Year with prayers for others whom I know want them.

Someone who's never met me recently made a post to a message board containing a link to this blog and a 12-word review: "Isn't this the most whacked-out [expletive] you've ever seen in your life?" I'm sure she'll think that even more when she reads this. I think my Dawn Patrol slogan in the new year is going to be "Whacked-Out [Expletive] for Jesus."

OK, maybe not. But it's cool.

There Goes the Neighborhood

Between reading about Ray Davies' becoming a Commander of the Order of the British Empire, and running into TimesWatch editor Clay Waters on the PATH train—who wrote a review of Muswell Hillbillies that I like far better than the album itself—I have the Kinks leader on the brain tonight.

Despite my lack of fondness for the well-loved Muswell Hillbillies—easily explained when you know that my musical sensibilities lie squarely in the Sixties—I adore the Kinks. (Village Green Preservation Society's my favorite of their albums, though I had the honor of penning liner notes for the reissue of what's arguably their last significant album, 1984's Word of Mouth.) So I was thrilled back in July 1998 when I had the opportunity to attend a Ray Davies press conference—especially since it promised to include a showing of his home movies.

The press conference was to promote a spate of Kinks reissues that included of Muswell Hillbillies. Davies' home movies included footage of Muswell Hill, the working-class London neighborhood where he grew up and to which he's maintained ties—the Kinks' studio, Konk, is based there. After he showed the films, he took questions from the audience.

I asked—nervously, but with every attempt at politeness—"How did the people of Muswell Hill appreciate your depiction of the neighborhood on Muswell Hillbillies? Would you say they believed your depiction reflected the neighborhood accurately?"

Perhaps it's unfair to ask an artist what his audience thinks of him. Even so, I was not prepared for Davies' reaction.

I don't remember his exact words, but I've checked my memories against those of New York Press writer J.R. Taylor, who was also there, and he agrees that Davies dismissed the question—and I recall that it was with utter disgust. How dare I presume that the reaction of the residents of the neighborhood he depicted could have any bearing upon his work of art! At any rate, he implied, the residents clearly adored him, so their opinion of the manner in which he immortalized them was immaterial.

Good old Ray. From now on, you can call him Commander Davies.

Tuesday, December 30, 2003

Tongues Shall Cease

Part of being human is going through every day striving to see one's glass as half full when it really seems half empty.

In general, I'm blessed in that I experience relatively little persecution for my faith. But there are days when I'm strongly reminded that I live and work in a secular world. Yesterday was one of those days.

It started early in my workday when I was having a conversation with my boss and he asked me to explain a religious reference I'd made. He's never objected to such conversation, so when I answered him by quoting from a psalm, I was jarred to hear a freelancer pipe up, "Please, no religion in the workplace!"

I apologized and lowered my tone so the freelancer couldn't hear, but it put me off balance.

Then it seemed like practically every story given me to copyedit and headline-write was anti-religion or anti-morality. Now, I'm used to getting stories on lurid things like murders and corruption, as well as the tales of "pervs" and "sex sickos" that are the bread and butter of the world's more exciting newspapers. What's hard is going from the story on a federal judge's striking down New Hampshire's law requiring parental notice (not even consent) for abortions, to the one on how Californians are rushing to meet the year-end deadline for filing abuse lawsuits against Roman Catholic dioceses.

After all that, to add insult to injury, I was given a "chit"—the piece of paper that tells me which story to copyedit—labeled, "Kiss."

At first, I thought it was going to be an upbeat story, so I trilled in my Melody-from-Josie-and-the-Pussycats voice, "Oh, that's nice, I get a 'Kiss.'"

"That's actually a very sad story," my boss said solemnly. "It's about all the singles who are afraid they won't get a kiss on New Year's Eve."

Now, the issue of datelessness on New Year's Eve is already a bugbear of mine, as I wrote earlier in these pages (in the "Captive Audience" entry). In fact, although my family has invited me to attend a "First Night" celebration with them, I'm currently leaning towards staying home from darkness onward (you don't want to be out in Hoboken or New York City after dark on New Year's Eve), eating takeout, drinking soda, and reading Volume Two of Chesterton's Illustrated London News essays. But I can assure you that is not what disturbed me about the article.

My boss's assessment of the story turned out to be something of an exaggeration. Based around the results of a Match.com poll asking singles' their New Year's kissing plans, it didn't mention their fearing loneliness, but did lament that "only 42%" of them believed they would get a kiss at midnight.

But the story then proceeded to give singles advice on how to get a total stranger to lock lips with them on New Year's Eve. Not how to get a person to talk with them. Just how to snag that all-important kiss—and what to do with one's mouth while that kiss is in progress.

The mouth advice was quite graphic—enough to put me off my food. Not that I hadn't done all or most of it in my life—and, barring disaster, will do again—but that the it was being given to people on the idea that they should practice it on a total stranger.

I suppose the audience this article is aiming for includes the women whom amfAR believes should have condoms at the ready at all times. What kind of a culture is this, that tells people they're being irresponsible when they don't attempt to block a virus—and then gives them detailed instructions on how to exchange body fluids with strangers?

I copyedited the piece, complete with witty headline ("MISSING THE BUSS") and caption for the "how-to" graphic ("Eve of Seduction")—we are required, after all, to do everything to the Lord, including serving our employer—and then walked to the washroom, feeling dirty. On the way, I noticed someone had dropped a fortune-cookie fortune. Despite my faith, I'm very superstitious [yes, I know how ridiculous that comment sounds to an atheist; that's why I wrote it], so I picked it up.


I've got to tell you, that pagan piece of paper gave me a big smile. I hope it's true. In fact, I'm going to start praying for it to be true. It reminded me that I have a vocation, and an avocation. I want to practice that avocation in every area of life.

Monday, December 29, 2003

Libertine Men and Scarlet Women

At the PATH station today, I noticed for the first time a billboard from amfAR, the American Foundation for AIDS Research. It read: "92% of women carry lip protection. 10% carry HIV protection."

AIDS is a serious and terrible disease whose complications have claimed the life of someone I loved and also felled many people I admire. To imply that women who do not carry condoms are failing to protect themselves from AIDS—which is what amfAR's Web site explicitly states as it refers to the ad's "shocking statistics"—is an insult to me personally and to every responsible, non-condom-toting woman I know.

First of all, according to the U.S. Census Bureau, 55% of American women are married, so including them among the women who should stuff condoms in their purses along with their lip gloss is ludicrous—unless the organization is implying they should always be prepared to cheat on their husbands.

Second, the labeling of condoms as "HIV protection" is misguided, based on the Centers for Disease Control's data—with which Amfar agrees—that condoms are an effective protection only 85% of the time, and then only if used every time and used properly. If I was told that only 85% of the times I ordered soup at my favorite restaurant could I be certain there wasn't any rat in it, I'd find another favorite restaurant.

The true message of the amfAR ad is that everybody's doing it, and those who don't "protect" themselves are just plain irresponsible. This is a valid message if one's target audience consists of B-girls, bags, bawds, bimbos, blowers, broads, call girls, camp followers, cats, chickens, chippies, concubines, courtesans, fallen womans, floozies, harlots, hookers, hostesses, hustlers, loose women, molls, nymphomaniacs, painted women, party girls, pickups, pink pants, pros, scarlet women, sluts, streetwalkers, strumpets, tarts, tomatoes, tramps, trollops, white slaves, whores, and working girls.

It is not a valid message if one is targeting ordinary single women.

If amfAR truly wished its ads to be "arresting," it would go against the pop-culture stream and take a stand in favor of sexual restraint. But scientists will find a cure for AIDS long before that organization dares to profess that people should be "responsible" for anything other than "protecting" themselves from the effects of their own irresponsibility.

I can speak in favor of abstinence because when it comes to having sex on a whim, there but for the grace of God go I. Although at bottom I always wanted to be a loving wife to a loving husband, I was to all appearances a slut for most of my 20s. Thank you for not asking for details.

I still have urges to do things that would require what amfAR so delicately calls "protection." But I know that even if such protection were 100% effective against HIV, it would still be 0% effective against a much more certain disease arising from sex without love: heartsickness. Loveless sex is a very poor Band-Aid against loneliness, and it ultimately keeps the wound from healing.

The difference between my past and present behavior is that I've asked God for the strength to help me restrain myself until I'm in a committed relationship leading to marriage, and I really mean it. Asking Him for strength doesn't absolve me of any personal responsibility, nor is it a fail-safe move if part of me is determined to satisfy an immediate desire. But the strength He gives is real, and it has enabled me to live with a degree of victory over temptation that I would never have thought possible before. And it's available to all who ask for it.

AmfAR, of course, is a secular organization, which is necessary because its mission is to unite people from different cultures and creeds to fight a common enemy. But abstinence, despite what those who oppose it will tell you, is not a religious issue. It's an issue of self-respect and, when it comes to avoiding disease, common sense.

So it's rather telling that, of the 15 articles on the amfAR Web site that mention abstinence, only one mentions it in a positive context. All the other mentions refer to abstinence-only sex-education initiatives, which amfAR vocally opposes.

On the site, you'll find many proclamations that "there is no substantive evidence that abstinence-only education is successful in encouraging young people to delay sexual activity until marriage." But there's no mention of successful abstinence-only programs in the U.S. and also in places like Uganda, the only country in the world to have decreased its HIV infection rate.

Yes, amfAR, I am one of the 90 percent of women who do not carry a condom in their purse. I have a weapon against AIDS of which you do not know.

Thursday, December 25, 2003

"Uh, What's a Kukelchoo?"

Donna of Donnaville, who recently linked to The Dawn Patrol after discovering it via Dustbury.com (everything's wonderfully related in blogland), appears to be the kind of beautiful, creative, funny, prayerful, not-sitting-on-her-duff-waiting -for-Prince-Charming gal many of us aspire to be. At least, I know I do. Take, for example, the following lines from her entry on the second anniversary of a major breakup—titled, "Prince Charming my a--" (deletion mine):

The last 2 years were spent trying to replace him with a slightly different model. One who wasn't so frightened of commitment and Republicans. Only recently did I decide that instead of replacing him, I would take control of my life, make a home for myself and if a man happens to intersect with me, so be it. I am finished with waiting.
As if Donna weren't already cool enough, she has earned a special place in my heart for the beautiful Web site she created to honor the "Zoom" birthday records beloved by hundreds of thousands of kids of my generation and beyond. ("My name is Zoom and I live on the moon/But I came down to earth just to sing you this tune/'Cause Dawn, you're the big star today!") I was so thrilled by this that I sent Donna scans of my own Zoom birthday record, sent me by my Grandma Jessie in 1976 (three months before the above photo was taken), which she's added to a page on the site.

Personally, I'd love to know who's the nameless session singer on that tune. It sounds quite a bit like the later Nilsson collaborator Andy Cahan, but it really could be anyone. I can imagine what his sessions must have been like: entering a booth and singing a hundred different names, each of them done three different ways: "Da-awn"; "Da-awn"; and then, for the big finish, "[deep breath] "Da-awn!"

Wednesday, December 24, 2003

UPDATED 12/27/03—Great 'Flakes'!

I received the wonderful news today that National Review's Jay Nordlinger praised one of my headlines in his online column "Impromptus":

Another headline—sub-headline, actually—I noticed, this one...when the weather was frightful: "Wave Slams Us: Serial serving of frosty flakes." Groan if you must, but I was tickled by it.
In other headline news: Yesterday wit triumphed over faith as, despite the fact that I'm vehemently anti-cloning, I couldn't resist writing this for a story about how a cloned white-tailed deer might lead to clonings of a dying deer species: "Cloned deer could save bucks."

Today's paper has a headline I wrote for a story about a specially designed wedding dress that boasts the Yankees logo: "Gown for the spouse that Ruth built."

Well, I hope I've given you a smile for your holiday. Merry Christmas and happy Chanukah, everyone!

One of the many things for which I'm thankful this holiday season are friends old and new. I've gathered a few photos that were taken this past month of me with pals (including Robert George, left)—plus one completely unrelated photo of a giant phony toilet—and put them on a separate page for your enjoyment.

Monday, December 22, 2003

Girls' Night Out

Here's a shot of me at Saturday night's party, surrounded by my fab friends Janet Rosen (left) and Betsy Gibson (right).

Betsy is a writer, political journalist, and former editor at WorldNetDaily, where she made a name for herself for her fiery op-eds on the Clinton scandals. Janet wears many hats besides that chic Fifties felt number, including those of stand-up comedian and trivia-game host (the latter every Wednesday at Dempsey's Pub). You can tell Janet's a true comic talent because she is the only woman I know with the guts to proudly put her Doritos on display. Even cooler, they match both our outfits.

Sunday, December 21, 2003

Dwight Christmas

Home-recording guru R. Stevie Moore just forwarded me a delightful e-mail from Lane Steinberg of the Brian Wilson-loving band Tan Sleeve. I am printing it here with Lane's permission. If you'd like to give him the witness he requests, he may be reached through the Tan Sleeve Web site:

I casually took note several weeks ago as I was scanning the FM dial in the car and zeroed in on an obscure Elton John number, "Step Into Christmas". It's about thirty years old. It was never on any album, just a single (45's - remember?). The song is Elton at his most Spector/Beach Boys, a sonic homage to "I Can Hear Music", with a lush, distant wall of sound replete with sleigh bells and tambourine. There's a neat, uneven meter on the "A" part of the verse as one beat is cut at the end of each line. The "B" part of the verse features a nice major/minor move that further underscores the Brian Wilson influence. The chorus is in Elton's typical hammer-it-home-sell-that-song style, with many repititions of the title. But the whole thing grooves with a righteous spirit of good fun. The late Dee Murray's bass playing is especially tasty & funky in a very neo-James Jamerson way.

Before this year, I maybe heard the song three times in my entire life. But in the past two weeks I've heard this song more than "Jingle Bells". My audio signals are totally crossed and I seem to be tapping into some alternative Christmas Top Ten. Wherever I go, be it Super Cuts, Key Food, Starbucks, Time Warner Cable, Sam Ash, my dentist's office, the song is positively stalking me. I'm talking several times a day. This morning, temporarily forgetting about this strange phenomenon, I walked into Radio Shack and was greeted by ten TV screens playing an old video of Elton's classic line-up, circa "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" (Elton still had some of his own hair) doing, yes, "Step Into Christmas". I kept my cool and actually enjoyed the near-ancient piece of footage without thinking about the randomness of the universe, master plans, etc.

But I left Radio Shack, wondering, "Why now? Why this year?" Had the song always been this prevalent and I just barely dodged it all these other years, only to have it finally find me like the flu? Or maybe I just happened to have been listening at precisely all the forty times it's been played in the tri-state area this entire Christmas season. Maybe it's some sort of signal from the cosmos. But what can it mean? Do I have to personally "Step Into Christmas This Year" as Elton advises throughout the song? How does one do this? The song, in it's frivolity, doesn't give specific instructions. Is it a metaphor for something in my life? I'm beginning to feel like a cross between George Bailey and Kevin Costner's character in "Field Of Dreams".

I suppose I could be more charitable. Yesterday, before the jolt of seeing Elton sing this on the screen, I (uncharacteristically, I must admit) offered a particularly pathetic bag lady with two small dogs a five dollar bill. She wouldn't take it and I, perhaps too quickly, withdrew the money. Should I have been more insistent? I thought about all this as I left Radio Shack, my mind a jumble of guilt, Christmas thoughts, and visions of huge glasses & silver sequined platform shoes. I had to get a hold of myself and release this self-inflicted grip of paranoia. I walked up the block to Le Croissant for a cup of coffee. As I got in line, the radio was offering up the waning strains of Sammy Davis Jr's. version of "The Christmas Song". And as Sammy faded out, the now-familiar opening bars of "Step Into Christmas" started up again.

Am I alone in witnessing this Christmas miracle? Please help me... —Lane Steinberg

Blue Dawn

Memo to men I have dated, however long it's been since I've dated you, and however little our having dated may have impacted your psyche: Do not invite me to a party at your place without telling your current, live-in girlfriend who I am—causing me to wind up having her sit next to me with a smile and say, "So, how do you know [my boyfriend]?"

It's actually a position I've been in before, but not one I'd ever wanted to be in again. This time around, experience and common sense insured I handled the situation diplomatically, but I felt drained and angry. Angry at the guy who thought he'd pepper his party with one or more old flames unbeknownst to his current one, and angry at myself for risking discomfort by going to the party.

At least the party itself wasn't a waste by any means. Two of my best female friends were there, plus a prayer was answered when another friend, one I didn't know so well, said she'd be willing to go to church with me.

Still, I came home feeling sad and mad, so I decided to do something before bed to get as much of it out of my system as possible. Since my groovy black eyeliner was still intact, I opted to take a sufficiently moody photo of myself with my new camera. And even feeling blue couldn't stop me from brightening things up with lipstick and a Sandie Shaw-style hat and wig.

So you see the result above: Blue Dawn. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think? I mean, how can I be sad when I'm a dishwashing detergent?

Saturday, December 20, 2003

There Are Many Things I Would Like to Last Forever.
Great Sex Is Not One of Them.

You see some weird things walking down Sixth Avenue at 10:30 p.m. Last night, I was nearing 34th Street when I heard a man shout something unintelligible behind me, followed by sudden silence. I turned to make sure the shouting hadn't been directed at me, and saw a man walking purposefully and completely silent, his jaw clenched and a cell phone jammed against his ear. Probably a lovers' quarrel, I thought, as I passed a bus-stop ad for the last five episodes of "Sex and the City" which read, "Sex this great can't last forever."

Just then, he passed me and walked to the entrance of the 34th Street subway station, where he started shouting into the phone again. He had to linger outside the station to shout, cell phones being what they are. As I kept walking, I apprehended, in a flash, that there was also a woman standing outside that same entrance, shouting into her phone, and it also looked like a lovers' quarrel. She too had to linger outside the entrance so that she could get the last word in before the reception broke. The two angry 30-somethings stood a few feet apart, shouting into their phones like dueling banjos.

Now, putting aside the possibility that the pair could have in fact been shouting at each other—preferring the medium of the cell phone to face-to-face contact—it occurred to me that this could be the premise for a modern-day screwball comedy. Two people break up with their lovers just before getting into a subway station. Then they "meet cute" on the subway stairs and so on.

The only problem is, how would these two hotheads get along with one another? I mean, when you think about it, you have to be a real hothead to have a lovers' quarrel on your cell phone at 10:30 on a Friday night. First of all, unless you have to work like me, you should be with your boyfriend or girlfriend at 10:30 on a Friday. Second, why even attempt to discuss something so imperative to a relationship over the phone? Unless there's some horrible misunderstanding—which they tell me does happen in relationships, though it's been a while—trying to work out important relationship issues from a distance shows a lack of respect.

So I left the phone pair standing outside the station entrance, their dark figures outlined against the Victoria's Secret display-window images of angels as smut goddesses. It was sadly appropriate, in a last-five-episodes-of-"Sex and the City" kind of way.

'Foul' Fare

I had a headline today that I was happy to see earned the praise of a fellow copy editor who used to be a UPI sports writer. It was for a story about how a Cubs-loving restaurant owner bought the famous National League series foul ball so that it could be publicly destroyed: "Buyer of Cubs foul plans wrecking ball."

Friday, December 19, 2003

Familiar "Ring"

Saw the stunning "Return of the King" yesterday and was struck by how much Gondor resembled Jerusalem's Old City in terms of its exterior building style and Jerusalem-like stone, and especially its streets. There must be some "Rings"-trilogy fans reading this who know something about the films' making, or who, like me, have seen Jerusalem—can I get a witness?

I asked Todd, my resident "Rings" expert, about the cities' similarity, and he gave me an answer that I thought was impressive considering he doesn't applaud the trilogy's religious significance: "[Gondor's city, Minas Tirith,] is like Zion in 'The Matrix': It's the only city that really matters." Amen to that.

Captive Audience

I've been feeling lonely lately—it's aggravated by the holidays, plus missing having a date for that pagan event known as New Year's Eve—and so was going to write a garden-variety "poor me" entry. However, I don't really want to do that because I'm trying hard not to define myself by loneliness anymore—especially when it's really the "loneliness of the long-distance runner." After all, much more so than in the past, the object of my life is not a person, but a prize, and my desire for a person comes from the desire for companionship as I endure the long race for that prize.

So, as I sat down not really wanting to write "poor me," a verse came to mind from Psalm 68, as Paul quoted it in Ephesians 4:

But unto every one of us is given grace according to the measure of the gift of Christ.
Wherefore he saith, When he ascended up on high, he led captivity captive, and gave gifts unto men.
(Now that he ascended, what is it but that he also descended first into the lower parts of the earth?
He that descended is the same also that ascended up far above all heavens, that he might fill all things.)

It was, "he led captivity captive," that came to me first, and then I looked up the rest of the quote. For me, that reminds me that Jesus has already freed me from the captivity of my depression, and gave me the gift of His grace. It is His grace, working in me, that also will free me of my loneliness, without my having to do anything. I need only to prayerfully understand that He has already done this.

The loneliness, as I've said, is something that's part of the nature of being a pilgrim, and I may always have it in some measure. What Jesus has freed me from is the captivity of the loneliness, the tape-loop that goes around in my head telling me that I'm forever stunted and stymied in life because I don't have the right relationship or the right fellowship.

The verse about Christ's having descended and ascending reinforces the message. It reminds me that He has already lifted me up from the worst depths, and He can do and is doing it again, through the grace that He has already given me.

I say He's already freed me. I don't feel free this second. But I know that the truth of His having freed me is a greater truth than the truth of my loneliness. It's more real, somehow. I need to hold onto that truth, and pray on it, with the certainty that my prayer has already been answered.

On a related note, I need to make a real effort to find one person, whose company I enjoy, who will go to church with me—or at least try churches with me. Right now, while I am blessed with Christian blog pals in distant places, I do not have any friends in the New York City area who would gladly set foot in a church with me.

Regardless of what you may feel about churches—and I know that everyone from Family Radio's "the world will end in 1987" guy to people whose opinions I otherwise respect have been coming down on churches lately—you can't beat them for Christian fellowship. Trying to achieve fellowship without a church is like trying to make your own double-skim mochachino lattes instead of going to Starbucks. Theoretically, you can do it. But it takes a lot more trouble and time, and when it comes down to it, you're better off leaving your house for where you're most likely to find your kind of (human) beans—even if you wish they were better filtered.

Wednesday, December 17, 2003

"Ring" of Truth

I'm not a "Lord of the Rings" fan (give me Narnia any day) but I'm happy to see the more positive aspects of its message getting play in the major media—and, surprisingly, on the New York Post's Page Six, which is usually where one goes to read the latest commandment-breaking celebrity antics.

Today's Page Six includes an item headed "Moral 'Ring,'" about how parents from New York City's notoriously liberal Upper West Side may be dismayed at the "clear-cut delineation between right and wrong" in "The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King." It quotes a fan after Monday night's New York premiere of the film: "There is no moral relativism in Middle Earth. It's Good vs. Evil."

This is not news to anyone who's read the book or seen the first two films, but I'm surprised and pleased that New York's most notorious gossip column would make the film's moral stance a point of discussion. If they were that desperate for a "Rings" item, I'm sure they could have found some salacious tidbit about Liv Tyler's mother or something.

The item also projects that the Upper West Side's Howard Dean fans won't appreciate the film's depiction of a just war. "Appeasement does not work with orcs," the writer notes.

Tuesday, December 16, 2003

My Next 'Storz' Neighbor

Lately I've been discovering a lot of excellent touchy-feely kinds of blogs, based around whatever the writer's feeling that day. They encourage me with the knowledge that I should never feel alone, because I have kindred spirits around the globe.

Then there are deliciously concrete blogs like Charles J. Hill's Dustbury.com, which tell me things I didn't know.

I discovered Dustbury.com after finding that it linked to my recent "'Left' Behind" post. It's a very well-written, witty blog that mixes right-of-center political commentary with items on all manner of popular culture, particularly the vintage kind that I adore.

The post that most impressed me recently was the one about radio-programming legend Todd Storz. It's a strange feeling to come across information on the Web that actually, measurably enhances one's knowledge. The entry's not condescending in the least, but it succeeded in making me feel that I really should have known about the guy.

Seed-y Character

IreneQ wrote to me that she was encouraged by my writing in my "Nerd Vs. Word" post that a book I received as a child helped Jesus gain a foothold in my psyche. It reaffirmed for her the importance of "planting seeds."

As I think back on my life before I accepted Jesus in October 1999, I realize that there were many people who planted or watered* seeds of faith in me. The one who stands out in my mind right now is someone who really, really ticked me off. In fact, if I saw him right now, I'd probably still find him annoying. But I'd also have to thank him.

A little background: When I was in college, in the late 1980s, I was already suffering from the worst kind of cyclical suicidal depression, which plagued me from age 16 all the way up until I was saved. It was cyclical not in the sense of manic highs (which would have made it at least entertaining), but in the sense that I would be OK for a while, then slip into darkness, and eventually edge back up—only to slip into darkness again.

So even when I felt fine, I knew it would be only temporary. There seemed to be no purpose to life: It was just, "Life [stinks], and then you die." Lacking faith that God existed or cared about me, I had no hope of ever getting out of the vicious cycle.

To keep going, I created obsessions for myself. In late 1987, when I was 19, I decided that I was going to write a biography of the late record producer Curt Boettcher. Never heard of him, you say? Well, practically nobody else had either at that point. His death the previous June didn't even merit a mention in Billboard magazine. I had never met him, but since I adored his music, that made me all the more eager to track down people who had worked with him and be the first person to chronicle his story.

While I never wrote that biography, my liner notes to the first several of the many Boettcher-related CDs and my magazine articles about him eventually gained him some of the recognition he deserved. But at the time I began my research, I was the only person on his trail. It gave me a sense of mission. Many times, when I felt suicidal, I reluctantly told myself that I couldn't kill myself because I would be letting Boettcher's family down. I guess you could say that my love for a dead man kept me alive—something I now realize came from God.

My mother had by then accepted Jesus and was going to a Messianic Jewish congregation, Beth Israel. By the fall of 1988, when I was a senior in college, I had gone with her to services once or twice, but I didn't like it.

First of all, there were the people. My mother has worked as a psychologist and social worker, and she is naturally drawn to people who need help, such as the developmentally disabled. Beth Israel particularly reached out to that population, and they in turn reached out to my mother whenever she came through the temple doors. These were people who drooled and had personal-hygiene problems and were generally in-your-face. And they all wanted hugs.

My mother tried to explain to me that they were so eager for hugs from her because nobody else would hug them. I could appreciate that, but I didn't appreciate the fact that, since I was her daughter, they all wanted hugs from me as well.

The other aspect of the Beth Israel service that I particularly disliked was the music style, which was "contemporary." Some things never change: I still can't stand "contemporary worship," which is another reason I've had difficulty finding a church.

In case you're wondering if contemporary music at a Messianic synagogue is any different from that at a church, the only difference is that the only two chords the guitarist knows are not C and G, but A minor and E minor. Other than that, it's the same deal: Fifteen minutes of standing up and clapping to the most droningly pathetic excuses for melodies, while singing along with a projected lyric sheet that says, "HOLY HOLY HOLY (3X)/HOLY HOLY HOLY (3X)/(REPEAT 3X)." It's like a Grateful Dead concert, except that the T-shirts are more expensive.

When my mother realized there was no way I was going back to Beth Israel, she asked me if she could please give Gary Selman my phone number. She asked me this many times.

Selman, along with Beth Israel pastor Jonathan Cahn, is one of the 2 Nice Jewish Boys, who for many years have had an evangelical radio show on a local station. They are extremely zealous for Yeshua (Jesus' Hebrew name) and have brought many Jews and Gentiles to the faith.

Naturally, I was not particularly excited about having Selman, the bad-cop of the duo, call me at my NYU dorm. But I agreed to it because I was suicidally depressed and was willing to try anything that might give me a reason to live. Actually, I really did want the Lord in my life. I just didn't feel anything for Him in my gut, and I didn't know how to get from wanting to believe, to actually believing.

Also, I knew that my taking the call from Gary would make my mom very happy.

So he called that night, about 15 years ago, and kept me on the phone quite a while. He interrogated me about my depression (if you've ever heard his attack-dog persona on the radio, you'll know that's no exaggeration), found my weak spots, and went for them.

I found myself arguing with him, which I think was just what he wanted. It was real classic, Jews for Jesus-style confrontational evangelism.

Finally, he said something that was so offensive that I had to get off the phone. He was asserting that only faith in Jesus could get one into Heaven, and he made the logical leap that everyone who dies without faith in Him goes to Hell.

"Wait a minute," I said. "My Grandma Jessie was the most saintly person I have ever known. She had a pure heart and her only thoughts were to do good. Are you telling me that she is now burning in hell?"

"If she didn't believe in Jesus..." he said.

Now, to this day, even as a Christian, I believe that Selman was wrong. There are Scriptural references that Jesus' sheep know his voice. Whether or not my grandmother accepted Him before her death, I have no doubt that at the final judgement, she will recognize Him for who He is.

Don't get me wrong; I do believe it's essential that people hear the good news of Jesus Christ while they're on this earth. But I don't believe in making judgements about whether specific dead-persons' souls are going upstairs or downstairs. I'm still mad at Selman now, just thinking of what he said, and you can imagine how furious I was at the time.

Before I hung up, Selman said, "Please, just promise me one thing. Think of something you really want, more than anything else, and promise me that you'll ask God to give it to you. Because God really wants you to believe in Him, and He'll answer your prayer so that you'll believe."

I told him I'd do it, just to get him off the phone.

As I lay in bed that night, still seething with anger, I considered what I should pray for. My consuming passion at that time was my Curt Boettcher research. I was regularly going to libraries around town—and even the Library of Congress—looking up phone-book and copyright records in hope of tracking down Boettcher associates to interview for my book.

The associate I wanted most to find was a wonderfully talented singer and songwriter named Sandy Salisbury. I knew he was from Hawaii and had lived in California, so I had cold-called every Salisbury in those states in hope of finding him, with no luck. Since this was before the Internet, I had to find phone books from across the nation in order to track him down, and there were many Salisburys. And for all I knew, he might not even be alive anymore, or he might be out of the country.

So as I lay there in my dorm room, I prayed, "Dear God, please let me find Sandy Salisbury. I want that more than anything else. Please do that for me, and if you do—"

I thought for a moment. "I can't promise I'll believe in you, because I've tried to do that before and it didn't work. But I promise I'll at least go to services with my mom." That was enough of a sacrifice, I thought.

The next morning, as I woke up, before I even opened my eyes, my mind was overcome with one overriding thought: He's in Portland.

When I remember the certainty with which I felt that Salisbury was in Portland—and that I knew it was Oregon, and not Maine—I realize that it was identical to the feeling I had after I became a believer, when I first learned to discern the voice of the Holy Spirit. But at the time, all I knew was that I had to get straight out of bed, make a beeline for my telephone and call Portland Information.

I asked for "last name Salisbury, first name Sandy," and the operator immediately gave me a number. It seemed too simple. Probably it would turn out to be Sally Salisbury.

But no. I called the number, heard the answering-machine voice, and there was no mistaking it. He called me back. My mind was officially blown. (And not just because he'd become a best-selling children's author.)

That day, I made two plans. The first was to interview Salisbury by phone later that week, which I did. The second was to go to services with Mom, which I also did—once,anyway.

It would still be another 11 years before God would give the increase that would transform my life and heal me of my depression. But Gary Selman planted a seed. And I thank him for planting it—even if his fertilizer stank a bit.

*It's interesting to see that, in both the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament, anytime the act of watering is mentioned, it always refers to living water. I discovered that just now, looking up "watereth" in the King James Bible on BibleGateway.com. Every occurrence of that word in the Bible is metaphorical, referring to God's watering the earth—and our watering one another—with His sustaining love.

Monday, December 15, 2003

My Lamé Witness

I'm about to finally get a full night's rest after a marathon weekend in which I not only worked Saturday and Sunday as usual, but also put in a six-hour shift as DJ/co-host of the monthly Sixties-pop multimedia dance night POP GEAR! In the photo at left, taken by TimesWatch.org editor Clay Waters, you see me taking a break between DJ shifts, preparing to hand out chocolate to the wonderfully large crowd (the event's biggest yet). (More photos to come.)

Among the dance-floor denizens was Larry Smith of the excellent reunited Sixties garage band Richard & The Young Lions, who brought a celebrity date: Pamela Vandenberg, a former Miss Holland who is best known as Sindy Cinnamon, the Altoids girl. She was lovely and had the grace to smile when my friend Jonathan Funke said to her, "Nice Altoids—oops, wrong campaign."

Pamela gave me a tin of Altoids bearing her picture—which I only later realized, when I saw it in the light, showed her in a devil suit, complete with horns. I guess into every Eden a little Sindy must fall.

The only real dark spot I recall from the night came from the guy who's standing behind me in the photo. I blacked out his eyes in the image because the red-eye effect made him look demonic, but he actually did succeed in creeping me out—not frightening me, really (my friends surrounding me would have looked out for me), but reminding me that God is a charged word for some.

I was handing around chocolate, and when I got to him, he said, "Do you have gelt? Give me the gelt!" He was using the Yiddish word for coins: the chocolate coins that I'd bought specifically to have some Chanukah candy in the mix.

Noticing he was wearing what looked like a cross, I said, "Oh, do you work both sides of the street too? Are you Jewish and Christian?"

He responded with disgust that he was neither.

I backed away a bit. "I just thought...you're wearing a cross..."

"It's not a cross," he snarled—as I realized he was clearly three sheets to the wind. He held the pendant up to my face. "It's a sword."

He wasn't really menacing, just drunk and contrary. He went on to claim that he was born Muslim, but currently had no religion. I tried to think of the most graceful way of excusing myself while still giving the gospel.

"I just want you to know," I said, "that whether or not you believe in God, God exists. And he cares about you, and he loves you."

"I know that," he said, strangely enough.

Phew. I smiled and exited the dance floor, candy in hand, to bring the good word of Christmas candy and Chanukah gelt to the bar.

Sunday, December 14, 2003

Putting Life Into the News

Last night at work, the Sunday-paper editor came to the copy desk to ask our opinion of what to put on the front page. It was a slow news day, as Saturdays usually are. (Ever since September 11 and its aftermath, I have been thankful for every slow news day.)

The editor said that there were two possible front-page stories. One was the story about the funeral that a Catholic church in Brooklyn held for a newborn that had been left dead in a shopping bag on the church's doorstep. The church had given the baby a name, acquired a grave for it, and organized a funeral complete with the NYPD honor guard.

The other story, she said, was about the problem of "speeding cabs."

All the others on the copy desk, including the copy chief, strongly favored the speeding cab story. I was about to cast my vote for that as well (not that my opinion carries much weight, especially as someone who only recently started there full-time). It wasn't that I cared so much about speeding cabs as that a dead baby sounded too depressing.

Suddenly I found myself saying, "The dead baby. Definitely." The editor turned to me. As the only woman on my desk, it occurred to me that I could pretend to speak for women, and that the editor, being one herself, might find me credible. "Everybody likes babies," I said, "especially women. And you get more women reading on Sunday."

More women reading on Sunday? Huh? Even as those words came out of my mouth, I thought, Either this is the Holy Spirit talking...or else I am totally full of cow patties. (I don't actually think in those words, but this is a family blog.)

The real reason I spoke up for the dead-baby story was because it was about a church's wanting to show the world the sanctity of life. After all, the not-so-hidden message in the church's action is that there is no fundamental difference between a baby that dies or is murdered in the womb and one that had just breathed its first breaths when it died or was killed. I'm not a Catholic, for a number of reasons, but I greatly admire the fact that the Roman Catholic church is leading the world on this vitally important issue.

Even after I blurted out my reasons why the story should be on the front page, someone near me still said, "Speeding cab. Definitely." So my expectations of winning my point were not high, but I was glad for the opportunity to get it across, even if I didn't explain my reasoning as I did now.

I just got in from the monthly DJ dance night that I cohost, POP GEAR!, and checked my paper's Web site, thinking I might find a funny headline of mine to show you, since I'm too tired to blog. Instead I found that the dead-baby story is on the front page.

I still would have probably enjoyed the speeding-cab story more. But that's in the paper too.

Saturday, December 13, 2003

It Bagels the Mind

The above was the title of a very funny poem by my great-aunt Alma Denny (right) that was published in Reader's Digest, endearing her to bagel manufacturers everywhere. Alma, who died last year at the age of 95 (or 96, according to the New York Sun's obituary of her, which I think is wrong) was a freelance writer and full-time bohemian who was and remains a great inspiration to me in my career.

In 1994, I interviewed Alma for New York Press, my regular outlet at the time. The article, which never appeared (it didn't have enough sex and drugs for that paper, I think—despite Alma's having written for Penthouse Forum), is now available on this site. If you're a freelance writer who would like to receive some wisdom on the trade from a woman who then had 70 years of experience under her belt, I think you'll find something to enjoy in the piece. If you're not, read it anyway for the bagel poem, which is classic.

Alma has a quote in Simpson's Contemporary Quotations, from a New York Times op-ed she wrote about the modern-day de-feminization of girls' names, called "An Ashley By Any Other Name": "The feminist surge will crest when a lady named Arabella, flounces and ruffles and all, can rise to the top of a Fortune 500 corporation." She was truly a great aunt, and I miss her very much.

Thursday, December 11, 2003

Shifting Into Third 'Gear'

Here's a rare unpublished image of me frugging away between DJ shifts at last month's POP GEAR! OK, it's really Millie the Model (edited by Stan Lee), but it's a good approximation of the grooviness that goes on at Rififi @ Cinema Classics on the second Saturday of every month, when I put on a DJ night with my friends Kittyveat Michael Lynch. We spin nonstop '60s pop to a big-screen backdrop of Mod-era films, from 10:30 p.m. to 4 a.m.

Below is a press release Michael wrote for this month's POP GEAR!, our third, which will be a special Mod Christmas Ball (and Chanukah too—I'll be giving out chocolate gelt). The event is free, drinks are cheap, and couches are cozy if you're too pooped to shake it out with me on the dance floor. As always, when I'm not spinning boss tunes by the likes of the Kinks, the Small Faces, Richard & The Young Lions, and Mary Wells, I'll be giving free Pony lessons. (No ponies are harmed in the making of this event.) For more info, drop me a line (e-mail address at left). Hope to see you there!

POP GEAR!/MOD CHRISTMAS BALL

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2003

However you start your evening this Saturday ... whether seeing a band, doing some shopping, watching 'A Charlie Brown Christmas,' etc., .... top it off by stopping by Rififi/Cinema Classics for a Mod Christmas Ball with...

POP GEAR!

From 10:30 PM until 4:00 AM, DJs Kittybeat, Michael Lynch and Dawn Eden will spin their usual fab mix of the finest 1960s garage, psych, beat, Mod, surf and everything 'n between...

But on this particular night, they're turning POP GEAR! into a MOD CHRISTMAS BALL by sprinkling in some psychedelic seasonal sounds. 'Tis The Season To Be Groovy, and there'll be plenty of rare 1960s holiday recordings (some of which you'll hear NOWHERE else) mixed into the night's usual soundtrack. A blend of Jingle AND Jangle.

And when you take a break from your shakin' and stompin,' sit back, enjoy some of Rififi's inexpensive drinks, admire the gallery of vintage 1960s music-mag features, or simply feast your eyes on the large video screen for the non-stop montage of rare 1960s video clips.

So come celebrate the holidays in 1960s style at the...

POP GEAR!/MOD CHRISTMAS BALL!
Saturday December 13th
RIFIFI/CINEMA CLASSICS
332 East 11th Street (between 1st and 2nd Avenue)

Thanks. We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy Pop Gear!

(And remember...POP GEAR! is always the second Saturday of the month.)

Wednesday, December 10, 2003

Candles' Messiah

Listening to the end of a Christian talk-radio show yesterday, I heard the host tell his listeners, "...and I'm not going to wish you a happy Chanukah, or happy Muslim holiday, or Kwanzaa, or Boxing Day—whatever that is. I wish you a merry Christmas."

Since I celebrate Chanukah and Christmas, my dander went up straightaway. Why shouldn't the host wish people a happy Chanukah, and why should he lump it in with the other holidays that fall below his radar?

But when my dander had returned to its normal level, I felt a little more charitable. Probably the host was overwhelmed by the extent to which our politically correct culture insists on taking religious expressions out of public Christmas celebrations—a subject covered yesterday in an excellent Opinion Journal article by Brendan Miniter. The piece describes how "the Port Authority, which controls [Ground Zero], announced recently that instead of the 40-foot tree erected on the eastern edge of the site last year, this Christmas would be marked with a 10-foot tree tucked away on a viewing platform for families of September 11 victims. Next to the tree will be a menorah and a Kwanzaa symbol."

Even if one admits that a Christmas tree is not a genuine religious symbol in the way that a menorah is, it is still offensive that Christians in this instance and in myriad others around the country are being made to place imagery of their holiday next to ones of other religions' festivals (not that Kwanzaa's even religious). It's a calculated effort to render all faiths equivalent, but the real message it gives is that all are equally meaningless.

In that light, I can understand the talk-radio host's frustration. But the ease with which he made his comment made me think about what Chanukah must look like to people who are unfamiliar with it, particularly Christians. Some probably see it as a Judaized version of Christmas, with gift-giving, a row of candles instead of tree lights, and funny-looking tops. If they see it as a religious festival, they probably dismiss it as just another thing that Jews celebrate in their ignorance of Jesus' lordship. After all, this line of thinking goes, if Jews knew Jesus, they would know that His arrival made all religious holidays obsolete save for the ones that commemorate His birth, death, resurrection, and Spirit-giving presence.

Now, I realize Chanukah has more meaning for me personally than it does for other Christians, since I grew up Jewish and still identify with that faith even while accepting Jesus as Lord and Messiah. And I don't believe that celebration of Chanukah is something that is in any way required of Christians—despite the fact that Jesus himself celebrated it. (It's the Feast of Dedication mentioned in John 10:22-23, for which Jesus visited the Temple. "Chanukah" is Hebrew for "dedication.") Even so, I see Jesus at the center of the holiday—not in the general way that the Old Testament points to the New, but in a literal way, as though He were the center candle in the menorah. Here are some reasons why Chanukah should be important to Christians:

  • Abercrombie & Fitch have nothing on the ancient Greeks. Two hundred years before the birth of Christ, the Syrians took control of Israel, which had previously been held by the Greeks. Greek culture had a strong hold on the Mideast, and the Syrians used it to unite the area's different cultures and keep them in line. But the Jewish priestly class, which were then led by the Hasmonean family, saw that this cultural hegemony was more than merely a way to keep the peace. Left unchecked, it would annihilate the Jewish faith—not by violence, but by assimilation.

    Here's how an Orthodox Jewish Web site describes the threat—see if this sounds familiar (italics are mine):

    The war waged by the Hasmoneans against Greek rule was not similar to a typical revolt of the enslaved against their oppressors. Had it been Israel's aim only to seek freedom, they were able to achieve full national freedom even under Greek dominion. The Greeks made no designs upon their bodily freedom. They desired only to enslave the Jews spiritually. More than this: The Greeks held that they were benefiting the Jews, in imposing upon them, Greek culture and wisdom. It was their aim to 'liberate' Israel from 'superstition and backwardness.'

    The other peoples living under Greek domination willingly accepted Greek culture, and saw a great light in it. Among Israel too, there were many whose spirits were captivated by the enchantments of Greece. The Greeks wanted only to shed the spirit of their culture upon Israel, till the people of Israel would place their faith in Man's strength, in his aesthetic sense, and the ultimate reliability of human reason.
    So the Maccabean war whose victory is celebrated on Chanukah began as a culture war, an attempt by a society that thought itself more enlightened, to impose its own values on God's people.

  • Jesus lights our darkness—and our menorah. You may be aware that the menorah is lit in memory of the Chanukah miracle. The Maccabees, restoring the sacked Temple, found only one flask of consecrated oil with which to light the menorah, the holy candelabra which was supposed to bear an eternal flame. God enabled that one-day supply of oil to last eight days, until a new supply of oil could be brought. It was a beautiful example of God's reaching out to man, displaying His power to take the temporal gift that man had to offer Him and transform it into a bridge to eternity.

    Any Jewish schoolchild can tell you that when the household menorah is lit today, the middle candle is lit first, and then lights the others, and it has a special name. It is called the shamash, which is Hebrew for "servant"—and which, in the Hebrew Bible, is one of the names for the Messiah.

    The depiction of the Messiah in Isaiah 53 is known as "The Suffering Servant." Paul reinforces this in Phillippians 2:6, writing of Jesus, "who, although He existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied Himself, taking the form of a bondservant, and being made in the likeness of men."

    How much more symbolic does the menorah become, when one thinks about how, just as God sustained the flame of the original menorah, His love, through His son Jesus, keeps faith with us, reaching out, passing His light on to us, and keeping our candles burning today...

  • ...and all the way to the end of the world. In the vision of John that begins in Revelations 1, Jesus is walking among seven golden lampstands. The lampstands are a clear reference to the lamps of the Temple, only in Revelations they represent the seven churches. Jesus' presence in the midst of them is as the shamash in the menorah—taller than the rest, but servant of all.

Tuesday, December 9, 2003

Soul Train

Although I try to read the Bible before bed each night, there is one place where, five days a week, you'd be almost certain to catch me getting into the Word.

It's between the 14th and 33rd Streets stops on the train each workday.

I have a 14-minute train ride to 33rd Street, and I've developed this obsessive-compulsive kind of habit—back in the old days, we used to call it "discipline"—where, as soon as the train's doors close at 14th Street, I whip out my little Gideons mini-Bible and devour a few verses for the final two minutes of the journey.

I know that sounds like a terribly tiny portion of the day to devote to the Word—as I said, I do try to read at night too, from a full-size Bible to boot. But on the upside, anything I read during those two minutes has an impact on me, because I'm arming myself with spiritual armor for the workday ahead. Also, I'm a fast-enough reader that I can usually manage an entire psalm during that time—unless it's one of those acrostic mega-numbers.

Yesterday I found a psalm so short that it didn't even require my Evelyn Wood-like skills: Psalm 131:

Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty: neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too high for me.
Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child.
Let Israel hope in the LORD from henceforth and for ever.
I've read that psalm several times, but yesterday was the first time the idea of the "weaned child" stuck in my brain.

It first brought to mind Jesus' saying, "Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven," and then Peter's writing, "As newborn babes, desire the sincere milk of the word." But it was the concept of being a child weaned from milk that interested me, as well as a line from another psalm about remembering God's works. It might have been Psalm 111:4: "He hath made his wonderful works to be remembered: the LORD is gracious and full of compassion."

In October 1999, when God broke through into my consciousness, it was through a dramatic faith experience topped off by a five-day period where I felt like the Holy Spirit was literally pulling me around by the forehead. Wherever I went and whatever I did or said during that time, it was where the Holy Spirit bid me go and what it bid me do and say.

At first it felt a little embarrassing to be led around like that. But I knew that I had willingly put my own will in God's hands so He might teach me how to discern the guidance of the Spirit from that of my own mind. And I didn't have the gifts of prophecy, tongues, or anything like that. God simply put a lamp unto my feet, so that I could see how he wanted me to make my next step, think my next thought, or say my next word.

But the feeling of being led by the Spirit eventually evaporated, and I was left simply with the feeling of being a believer—which alone made me a completely different person than I was before, renewed and dramatically healed. At that point, I truly felt like a weaned child. God had shown me how to quiet myself, as the psalm says, so that I could listen for the still small voice of His guidance—even when that guidance no longer came as the flow of mother's milk, but instead as the bread of His Word.

Even so, it was hard coming down from feeling the Lord's presence in such an immediate way. It's easy to get addicted to miracles, and to be disappointed when they're not repeated. But, as C.S. Lewis noted in his book Miracles, the very nature of a miracle is that it's not a normal part of everyday life. Miracles, faith experiences, and all the blessings God gives us are meant to be stored up in our hearts and treasured as proof that He loves and cares for us. Like the rainbow after the Flood, they remind us of God's covenant with us: that, regardless of whether we ever experience His presence the same way again, He is with us always, even to the end of the world.

* * *

On a personal note, I'd like to thank all my friends who have been writing in lately, and particularly my new Christian blogger pals who have discovered The Dawn Patrol since Kevin McCullough mentioned it on his blog. Having not yet found a church where I feel I belong (but still looking), and not having Christian friends whom I see and pray with on a regular basis, there are times when I feel like Elijah, when he rashly claimed to God that he was all alone in the world (I Kings 19:14). God responded that He had retained to Himself people who had not reverenced the god of this world—people of whom Elijah had been unaware. That's how I feel when I hear from anyone who is uplifted by what I write here.
________________________________
NOTE: That last paragraph is an expression of thanks and is not meant to be one of my "you never call, you never write" guilt trips—especially since I've lately been guilty of putting far more energy into this blog than into keeping up correspondences. People reading this must think I'm a Hemingway—then they write to me and get, "Running off to work, more soon, thanks!"

Monday, December 8, 2003

My brother has written an intense and touching article about his experience volunteering at a health clinic in Ethiopia.

UPDATED'Left' Behind


"And when I see the sign that points 'One Way'..."

Roy Currlin, my nemesis in all things Abercrombie & Fitch, has done an immeasurably good deed for mankind—or at least those readers of this blog who love the Left Banke.

He has made a pilgrimage to Falmouth Street and Hampton Avenue in Brooklyn, New York, to photograph the corner immortalized by 16-year-old genius Michael Brown in the Left Banke's 1966 classic "Walk Away Renee." As Brown revealed for the first time in a 1986 interview with me, that was the corner he had in mind when he wrote his poptastic depiction of unrequited love. The "lot [he] used to pass by every day" was there, a place where he had childhood memories of playing with praying mantises that would land right in his hand. When you think about it, the song was preternaturally mature for a writer who was, at 16, barely out of childhood himself.

(Co-writer Bob Calilli, who was a little older than Brown, also claims credit for the "One Way" symbol. He told me for Mojo's "100 Greatest Songs" issue that he was trying to encapsulate a feeling of unregainable innocence; how the one-way streets of his childhood had gone two-way, and the flagstone streets changed to cement.)




So here, then—across the street at the same intersection—is Roy in the place of Brown, letting Renee walk away, without following her back home. (At least, she won't see him do so.) As you can see, the empty sidewalk on his block is not the same. Blame Canada.




UPDATE: It turns out the photo above has more "Renee" significance than I'd realized. Roy writes: "'The lot we used to pass by' was on the southeast corner of Falmouth and Hampton, a corner I didnt photograph because there's no street sign there. You can see it in the background of the photo of me and the street sign. Several houses now sit on the lot."

And if You Believe That, I've Got a 'Bridge' to Sell You...

It's a double dose of pop on The Dawn Patrol today, as my search for my "Walk Away Renee" writings led me to an interview I did with Art Garfunkel by telephone for Mojo's "100 Greatest Singles" issue, about Simon & Garfunkel's "Bridge Over Troubled Water." I have done so many interviews that sometimes I forget how mindblowing some of them were for me, having the experience of asking my most treasured artists how they created records that are indelibly imprinted on my psyche. Here's how Garfunkel described the making of the single:

"Paul showed me this two-verse song. He accommodated some high notes by using his falsetto, which I always thought was flutey and nice. So I said, 'Brilliant song, Paul, a great chance to show off your falsetto. He said, 'No, Artie, I wrote it for you.' I said, 'Cool!'

"Spector's production of the Righteous Brothers' 'Ol' Man River' was actually our model. Bill Medley sings the first 98 percent with just a piano; only on the last line do the other instruments come in. We were crazy about that notion. That's why, when we were recording 'Bridge,' it suddenly occurred to me, this is not a two-verse song. This is a Phil Spector thing that opens up in the third verse.

"So first came low strings, then a bass, then Hal Blaine's drums. Then Paul and me, going into two-part harmony, we double our voices—'Sail on, silver girl'—and everything's like a rocket taking off.

"We thought it an album cut. But Columbia president Clive Davis said, 'No, it's bigger than that. It's the title of your album, it's your first single.'"

Sunday, December 7, 2003

My landlord fixed my heat again. God is good.

Friday, December 5, 2003

Mall Change

WMCA nouveau Good Guy* Kevin McCullough has a new commentary on Abercrombie & Fitch's pulling its Christmas catalogue that explains why the Stop Abercrombie & Fitch campaign isn't over. The retailer insists its catalogue will be back in its usual form—e.g. 120 pages of teenagers, many naked or nearly naked, simulating group sex—in the spring.

While I applaud Kevin and the Stop Abercrombie & Fitch campaign for saying that corporations should take moral responsibility for their advertising, I hope that someone will now find a way to extend the campaign beyond just the one retailer. By that, I don't mean a widespread boycott, but rather a consciousness-raising campaign aimed at showing that both businesses and individuals should be more aware of the messages they give children and teens about sex.

With a company as intransigent as Abercrombie & Fitch, a boycott may be the only thing they understand. However, I believe that if more people were unafraid to take a stand and register simple disapproval with businesses and individuals who purvey sexual messages to children and teens, at least a few of those purveyors would find a way of expressing themselves in a less prurient manner.

For a Christian like myself, it can be difficult to imagine how, without faith, large numbers of people could be moved to vocally resist the popular culture's morally destructive messages. But I believe it is possible to appeal to the higher sensibilities of those who have different faiths or no faith, without diluting the objective.

I also believe, from my own conversion experience, that God prepares hearts. Who would have known in 1995, when I was interviewing the singer of a secular rock band called the Sugarplastic, that I would ask him what he was reading, and he would respond, "The Man Who Was Thursday, by G.K. Chesterton"? And that I, who was then living a suicidally depressed and lonely life, would go out and buy that 1907 book, and be captivated by its encapsulation of the modern-day struggle between relativism and objective truth? That the resistance of relativism would suddenly seem wonderfully rebellious and contrarian to me, to the point where I focused my mind on finding the side of truth, wherever it lay? And that God would show me, four years later, that the truth was in His Word, that I should love Him, and not be conformed to or brought down by this world?

"The preparations of the heart...are from the Lord," and so I believe that before God made me cognizant of His great love, He prepared my heart so that I would recognize Him. And if God could do this for me, He can certainly do it for others, helped by the efforts of people like you and me working to show them that the most exciting and rewarding act of rebellion is to counter the fallen elements of our own contemporary culture.
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*Kevin, I know you read this, so please don't be offended by the "nouveau" prefix. I include it because I know other friends of mine like Rich Appel (who puts out the free radio newsletter Hz So Good: audiot.savant@verizon.net) and Roy would be scandalized if I used the term Good Guy for anyone other than Harry Harrison, Scott Muni, and the others listed on this page.

If you've already read my Simon & Garfunkel post, please read the last paragraph again, as I've corrected my observation on the theremin and "The Boxer."

UPDATE:Thanks to Roy for giving me information about the original instrumentation on "The Boxer," which I've incorporated into the piece.

Tuesday Evening 8 p.m.

Several friends have written asking if I would give my promised commentary on Simon & Garfunkel's sold-out concert Tuesday night at Madison Square Garden. I find it hard to write about these things without it turning into a review, and if I write a review, it'll feel like work. So here are some disconnected thoughts that I hope will give you a feel for what it was like. Many, many thanks to my friend Bill for inviting me to be his guest—the first time I've ever been on the floor at a Garden show:

Seeing the pair together, Simon with his acoustic 12-string guitar, performing "Old Friends" without any backing band, their figures are iconic. Garfunkel still has his afro, and Simon has lost no more hair than he had lost by 1968. Their vocal blend is instantly recognizable as well, with Simon sounding startlingly like his younger self. Garfunkel sounds a little worn around the edges, but still has that angelic tone.

The band kicks in for the second number, "Hazy Shade of Winter," a perfect song for the chilly New York evening. I'd expected Graceland-style arrangements—lots of synthesizers and exotic percussion—but it's mostly a straight rock and roll setup, including a Steinway and what I'm pretty sure is a genuine Hammond organ. The synth is used with surprising moderation—though it's not so surprising afterwards, when I learn that the guitarist and the keyboardist collectively make up one of my friend Pierre's favorite downtown bands, Polygraph Lounge.

There's a certain pleasure that's hard to describe, which comes from seeing a concert at which so many things could be done badly, but instead are done well. That's how it feels, song after song, at this show. The voices, the arrangements, the repertoire—almost everything is done with good judgment, aiming for an intimate nightclub feel instead of arena bombast.

The weak spot, predictably, is the artists' lack of camaraderie. They hate each other. Well, maybe not hate—Garfunkel says many things like, "I'd like to say how thankful I am that Paul has allowed his songs to be expressed through me." But Simon never says anything complimentary in return, and they make testy cracks—in a somewhat forced spirit of playfulness—about how often they argue.

About a third of the way through the set, they talk about how they started out as Tom & Jerry, and they go into an acoustic version of the first verse and chorus of their doo-wop hit "Hey Schoolgirl." It's a real piece of pop-music history, a joy for the 55-odd seconds that it lasts, and serves as a prelude to the introduction of their special guest: the Everly Brothers.

Within about seven seconds of Simon & Garfunkel's introducing them, Don and Phil are at their tiny setup off to the side of the stage, going straight into "Wake Up Little Susie." I get goose bumps thinking about it right now. It's a strange and wonderful feeling: first, to be at a concert where already every single song performed is a hit or an album cut that's indelibly imprinted in one's brain, and second, to go from hearing those well-known hits, to hits that are even more legendary.

Phil sounds great. Don has his familiar weatherbeaten air, but there's something appealing about it nonetheless. It's lost nearly all its sweetness, but it conveys more pain and vulnerability than ever. If his young voice was a Coca-Cola, his mature voice is a double-malt scotch.

The Everlys go from "Susie" to "All I Have to Do Is Dream," and from that to "Let It Be Me." I tear up during that last one. It's one of the greatest songs of all time. To hear it done by the original artist—there's nothing like that feeling.

Simon & Garfunkel come back and do a group "Bye Bye Love" with the Everlys. It's not my favorite Everlys song, but it's interesting to hear Simon & Garfunkel switch off vocals with Don & Phil. I never realized until now just how much Simon's vocal style was influenced by Don.

Simon & Garfunkel keep the hits coming, including a whopping eight songs from their best-selling album, Bridge Over Troubled Water. The title track comes at the end, with Simon taking lead on the second verse. He does little Motown-like hand motions to express each lyric—the whole "I'm a little teapot" thing.

But "Bridge Over Troubled Water" has always been Garfunkel's showstopper, and it certainly is here. When he hits the high notes at the end, the crowd goes erupts into a spasm of delight.

New York really loves Simon & Garfunkel. They're called back for two encores: First, "Cecilia" and "The Boxer," then "Leaves That Are Green" and "59th Street Bridge Song (Feeling Groovy)." "The Boxer" is the performance that really blows my mind—and, as I learn later, does the same for my friend Roy Currlin. Roy writes: "One word...theremin!"

Yes, they have a theremin onstage, just for that one number. The original record's solo used a combination of instruments, including a pedal steel guitar and two trumpets, plus the engineering genius of Roy Halee. Having those sounds duplicated by the mysterious theremin is an inspired move. The crowd gasps in delight as Rob Schwimmer of Polygraph Lounge creates majestic sounds out of the air. It's a marvelous fillip of ear-candy, reminding me that Simon & Garfunkel, for all their aspirations to make meaningful and lasting music, have never lost their affection for the ephemera of pop.

Thursday, December 4, 2003

'Tales' of the Unexpected

When I used Astonishing Tales' Web Screenplay Generator last night to create a Dawn Patrol screenplay, I didn't imagine that the webmaster of that deliciously witty site would read both the screenplay and my blog.

So I was truly astonished to receive an e-mail from Dan Liebke, who writes: "Just a quick note to say that a) I really like your site and b) the phrase 'so there, Mr Omnipotent' may well became my personal mantra for at least the next 7-9 hours. Why such a fine phrase did not make the collaborative Web screenplay between my site and yours remains an unfathomable mystery. (Well, not so much, actually—I know exactly why it didn't make the final cut...I did, after all, code the silly thing, but that still doesn't assuage my disappointment—'so there, Mr Omnipotent' is comic gold and any computer program that fails to recognise that is a fundamentally flawed computer program indeed.)"

It is one of the wonders of the Web how a total stranger can make me feel on top of the world. To paraphrase Lorenzo St. DuBois, I lieb ya, Mr. Liebke.

Wednesday, December 3, 2003

Someday My Prints Will Come

Here's today's advice to values-driven single women: If you want a man to take you on a chaste date that he will enjoy immensely, ask him to take you shopping for a digital camera. In the past week and a half, I have had the rare pleasure of being taken camera-shopping by two delightful men (one at a time). And the reason I recommend it as a good chaste date is because I've discovered that just going into a place like J&R Camera World or B&H is so exciting for men that anything afterwards seems anticlimactic.

Of course, such an excursion also has a fringe benefit: You might find a good camera. I found mine, my first-ever digital camera, at B&H today with help from Bill, my wonderfully knowledgeable pal visiting from the West Coast. (My other outing was with another camera-savvy friend, John, who was very good at explaining the cameras at J&R but not as good at persuading me to shed my reluctance to spend money on myself.)

I bought a Canon A60, which is a beautiful little contraption that is fun to play with. I've begun teaching myself how to use it. As you can tell, I will probably need to consult again with my friends so that I can master a few little things—like focus. But I'm enjoying my new toy for now—so much so that, as you can see, I've yet to scrub off all of Tuesday night's Simon & Garfunkel-concert eye makeup (more on that later—the concert, not the makeup). So last night I decided to take a few photos to show you, dear Dawn Patrol reader whom I love (even though you never call, you never write*), How I Live.

You can tell a lot about a person by what they read in the bathroom. Here is an artfully arranged tableau of the books that are normally piled on top of my toilet tank. I'm actually not such a huge Shakespeare fan—I like his work, but his books are really there to elevate me. The ones I delve into the most are the Andersen, followed by Christopher Booker's amazing Neophiliacs (showing how the optimism of Sixties British pop culture turned to nihilism) and Robert A. Cook's beautiful book for the new Christian, Now That I Believe. If you count the Jewish rock and roll managers in Johnny Rogan's Starmakers and Svengalis, I think you have practically my whole life here.



An important factor in staying slim is not to keep a lot of food around the house. That broccoli in the freezer is an anomaly. (As you can see, there's not much room to keep anything in my freezer. I really should defrost it one of these days.)





In case you're wondering, there is a reason for the strategically placed paper towel around the Colavita balsamic vinegar, but I have a feeling that even if I explained it, it wouldn't satisfy the Martha Stewarts out there.


We end our mini-tour of Chez Eden with my Liner Note Shelf. Yes, I keep all the CDs to which I've done liner notes—close to 80—in one place. Sometimes I lay them all out on the floor and roll in them gently, like Scrooge McDuck.

Other times I play "Store" with myself. You know—Customer: "I'm looking for a CD that has "Itchycoo Park" by the Small Faces." Clerk: "Let me look that up...We've only got it used. We have the Sony Music Special Products domestic reissue of There Are But Four Small Faces...It's also on a couple of compilations: Songs of Peacemakers, Protesters, and Potheads and The Immediate Singles Collection, Volume 1." Customer: "I'm looking for the one that has liner notes by Dawn Eden." Clerk: "Can't help you there. They all have liner notes by Dawn Eden."

*That guilt trip does not apply to those readers who brighten my day with responses, including Caren, Michael Lynch, Valerie, Jamie Foehl, ireneQ, Clarence, Eric, Kevin, David Chelsea, Steve Harvey, and Mark.

For Your Own Projection

Thanks to Astonishing Tales' truly astonishing Web Screenplay Generator, The Dawn Patrol now stars in its very own screenplay, which must be read to be believed. I'm grateful to Valerie for the tip.

UPDATE: Kevin Walsh, whose must-see Forgotten NY site includes his own "Forgottenblog," writes, "Ah, well, this is what happens when you Forgottenblog Astonishing Tales. Y'know, I always figured Winona and I would just talk past each other."

Simon & Garfunkel were wonderful! I'm back home now and will blog about the evening as soon as my fingers warm up. As Caren notes, it's cold outside. In the meantime, ireneQ has a thought-provoking post on the subject of godly men.

Tuesday, December 2, 2003

On a Roll

This is a special bonus Dawn Patrol entry because I am going to be out later than usual tonight and don't know if I'll have the energy to blog at the usual time.

I just looked in the mirror at myself in most of my going-out outfit and marveled at how much I resembled a thin person.

Then I remembered: "I am thin."

I have to remind myself all the time, otherwise I turn into one of those annoying thin people who go on about how fat they are.

I am going out to the Simon & Garfunkel concert tonight with a good friend of mine, and before that, we are going to an "Atkins restaurant" with his boss, who is trying to lose weight.

Because this invitation puts me in the "corporate wife" position, I should avoid saying things to the boss that would embarrass my friend. Things like, "I've lost 37 lbs.—and I eat bread every day."

Although I lost my weight through simple calorie-counting and not through any organized program, I'd say Weight Watchers has the right idea. It's not about carbohydrates. It's about calories and fiber. If you're going to eat an unbuttered bagel or sourdough roll—which I do every day—then you also eat a salad with nonfat dressing, other veggies without oil, or fruit—something with roughage that'll keep your digestive system running as it should.

I gave up a lot of foods to get to my current weight, but bread was not one of them. Bread rules! Bread is nonfat, and it's filling. It converts into sugar for energy. Jesus ate bread. Go bread.

Phew. It's out of my system. Now I can go to that carnivore restaurant—stopping on the way to raid the Panera free-sample table, of course. See you tomorrow.

But What's My Motivation?

As important as one's actions are when on a date, one's motivations when choosing whom to date are important as well. I often think that if I knew in the past what I know now, I would have done things differently. Here are some of what I now realize, with 20/20 hindsight, were bad reasons to go on dates:

  • He recognized me from a TV show.


  • He was a self-styled member of the "Unitarian Defense League."


  • He was a drummer.


  • He owned a promo 45 of Chad & Jeremy's "Paxton Quigley's Had the Course."


  • He had the right haircut.


  • He was free for the evening because Peggy Noonan released him from a commitment.

UPDATE: I knew someone was going to remind me of my foolhardiness with regard to Reason #3. The honor of being first goes to Linus, who did so in an e-mail. Go ahead, rub it in, why dontcha: "You didn't know about drummers? I thought everyone knew about drummers."

Monday, December 1, 2003

Send Me an Angle

Fellow blogger ireneQ's frank posts about sexual temptation made me think about how far I've come in learning restraint—and how far I have to go. As I wrote earlier, thinking about temptation in any form causes my windshield to fog up, so it's a difficult subject for me to discuss comfortably.

There is one mental angle I've taken during the past year that's helped me regain self-control in a situation where I risked being carried away in the moment. I can't say that the perspective in question is an infallible desire-killer—overconfidence in one's ability to resist temptation is certain to backfire—but it at least gets my mind off of the subject at hand.

It hit me when I was in a classic temptation situation. I was on a date with a man who was warm and charming, and who let me know then and there that he was in love—with a woman in Singapore*. Somehow, the feelings he had for his far-off flame did not preclude his gallivanting in Gotham.

I knew it was wrong to think about doing anything with him—not just because of his girlfriend, but because he wasn't seriously interested in me. In fact, I felt foolish even being tempted, but these situations happen when one's vulnerable, which at that moment, for a number of reasons, I was.

What went through my head that helped me resist was this strange feeling that by doing anything with this man, I was disrespecting God. It wasn't from a viewpoint that extramarital sexual activity is sinful, though I wouldn't argue with you there. It was from my belief that God has already chosen a man for me to marry and I haven't met him yet. To fool around with someone who was so clearly not the one whom God had chosen for me was to say to God, in effect, "You've been taking Your precious time. Well, I don't have to wait for You. In fact, I don't even think You're playing with a full deck. Since You're not giving me what I want, I'm going to take when I can get. So there, Mr. Omnipotent."

The truth is, if I were completely secure in my faith that God has chosen a husband for me, whom I will meet in due time, chastity would be a cinch. I wouldn't want to sully myself with dark dalliances, because I would want to stay pure for my husband. In that context, every act of physical intimacy that I engage in—not just sex—with a man who's not on the marriage track, betrays a lack of faith. It's an act of defiance against my Maker, rejecting the existence of a blessing He has for me, simply because I haven't yet received it.

The warm and charming guy is now visiting his love on the other side of the world. I'm blogging away in a cold apartment on the other side of the Hudson. But the more I think about it, the more I believe that God truly does have something better for me.


*Location has been changed.

We Do Own Everything...And We Know Where You Are! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...

To the Comcast.net subscriber who found this page by searching Yahoo for "jew+own*+abercrombie+and+fitch":

I'm not sure why you would want to know the religion of the Abercrombie & Fitch owners, but your request may imply that you believe the company's proclivity for teen pornography stems from a desire to inflict Judaism upon the country's unsuspecting youth. And here I thought the problem was plain old moral relativism.

Since your search for knowledge led you to this page—and since, as regular Dawn Patrol readers know, We Play Your Requests—I did some searching of my own and found some links that may be helpful:



*The asterisk is in the actual Yahoo request. It's a "wild card" command, so that the search will turn up anything beginning with the word "own"—owner, ownership, etc.