I have a couple of good headlines in the first edition of tomorrow's paper.
For a gossip section that begins with a story of hotel workers searching an elevator shaft for a lost diamond earring, which they found, I got to refer to one of my favorite Gershwin songs. Stretched over the top of two pages, it reads:
Watching the special program about Orson Welles' theater work at Film Forum last night, I was struck by the degree of Welles' fascination with Shylock. The presentation included excerpts from several different performances of Welles as the iconic character from Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice, from a 1938 Mercury Theater radio recording to the many attempts the actor made to film himself doing the "Hath not a Jew" monologue in the late Sixties and early Seventies.
Although Welles experimented with different voices for the role (most notably an incongruous but remarkably well-executed Tevye accent), his basic expression and intonation remained the same over the years. The monologue begins:
"He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew."
In every performance, there were two phrases to which Welles gave the most powerful emphasis. One was, "scorned my nation," which he intoned with a bitter disgust. The other, into which he put all the breathtaking intensity that his notoriously earth-shaking voice could command, was, "I am a Jew."
Seeing Welles say, "I am a Jew," over and over, in so many different clips, I realized that I cannot imagine Mel Gibson performing that monologue.
I know that Gibson's supporters believe that there is nothing he could do at this point to convince people that he and his movie are not anti-Semitic, and perhaps they are right. But I for one would be impressed if, instead of saying, "I killed Jesus," as he has, he would instead say, "I am a Jew." Slowly. Deliberately. Over and over, in a multitude of settings and wardrobe changes, over a period of years. Just like Orson Welles.
But I'd be satisfied to hear him say it just once like he means it—which, since he's a traditionalist Catholic, he really should. After all, it fits right in with his replacement theology.
It was going through my head all yesterday evening: overlapping choral voices singing, "All we like sheep have gone astray, we have turned every one to his own way..."
The words are from Isaiah 53, and the voices are from Sir Thomas Beecham's RCA Red Seal recording of Handel's "Messiah."
If you look at all the verses in the Bible that use the words "sheep" and "astray," there is a remarkable consistency in their message, regardless of whether the references are from before, during, or after Jesus' time. They are first mentioned in Deuteronomy 22, a section that has special meaning to me because it was my bat mitzvah parasha, or Torah portion: "Thou shalt not see thy brother's ox or his sheep go astray, and hide thyself from them: thou shalt in any case bring them again unto thy brother. And if thy brother be not nigh unto thee, or if thou know him not, then thou shalt bring it unto thine own house, and it shall be with thee until thy brother seek after it, and thou shalt restore it to him again."
As Paul pointed out, God did not only give this sort of commandment because He cared for oxen and sheep. It had a spiritual meaning as well as a literal one. The spiritual meaning is that we are supposed to care for one another. We are not supposed to watch people wandering away to their own hurt and neglect stepping in to draw them to safety.
There was a beautiful story yesterday in that other paper, the New York Daily News, about a man's being reunited with the woman whose life he saved. The woman had been standing on a subway platform when a deranged man body-slammed her so that she fell onto the track. As an oncoming train rumbled in the distance, she struggled to hoist herself up onto the platform, but she couldn't. She screamed, but even though it was the beginning of rush hour and 20 people were on the platform, nobody helped. They just stared.
So this man who didn't even know the woman leaned over and pulled her up. The train pulled in only seconds later. Then the man caught his own train to work, not waiting for any kind of reward from the woman. He didn't realize that the woman had wanted to thank him until he saw the newspaper story about how she was looking for him.
I know you probably think that it's such an obvious thing to do, to save someone who's in danger. Any one of us would do it without thinking, right?
But in the Bible, the idea of the lost sheep doesn't just refer to someone who's in physical danger. Other than the Deuteronomy reference, it always refers to someone who's in spiritual danger. You can tell that from the context in Psalm 119, verses 175 and 176: "Let my soul live, and it shall praise thee; and let thy judgments help me. I have gone astray like a lost sheep; seek thy servant; for I do not forget thy commandments."
In the Isaiah quote that Handel used, the Hebrew word for "way," as in "we have turned every one to his own way," is derekh, which first appears in the Bible in Genesis 3:24: "So He drove out the man; and He placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life." Both the "way" that the sword turned, and the "way" of the tree of life are the same word.
So there are many "ways" by which we can go astray, but only one Way. And the tree of life is not as inaccessible as it seems. Proverbs 3:18-19 speaks of godly wisdom (using the traditional feminine pronoun, as the Greeks did with sophia): "She is a tree of life to them that lay hold upon her: and happy is every one that retaineth her. The Lord by wisdom hath founded the earth; by understanding hath he established the heavens."
So, if godly wisdom is a tree of life, what is the purpose of the Edenic sword that turns each way? I see it not as a means of preventing us from receiving that life, but as a means of protecting us from approaching it by illegitimate means. "For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart."—Hebrews 4:12. It is God's own word of the Bible that cuts and moves like the ultimate moving target, showing us that we have to keep our eyes on Him and not on the world if we want the ultimate prize of eternal life.
Yet, just as there are two "ways" in Genesis, the same sword that divides asunder of soul and spirit, joints and marrow, also unites them. It is the Word of the Lord. Ezekiel 37:
"Again he said unto me, Prophesy upon these bones, and say unto them, O ye dry bones, hear the word of the Lord.
"Thus saith the Lord God unto these bones; Behold, I will cause breath to enter into you, and ye shall live.
"And I will lay sinews upon you, and will bring up flesh upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and ye shall live; and ye shall know that I am the Lord."
That is one of the things that amazes me the most about God, how He can make all things work together for good, as I wrote yesterday (quoting Romans 8:28)—even things that seem contradictory. Paul's words to the Greeks in Acts 17, "For in him we live, and move, and have our being," lead into the paradox in Romans 14:
"For none of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself.
"For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: whether we live therefore, or die, we are the Lord's.
"For to this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be Lord both of the dead and living."
We like sheep have gone astray, every one to his own way. Yet there is another Way, and it is higher than anything that we will find in our worldly pasture. And, as high as it is, it is not out of our reach. As God said to Israel through Moses (Deuteronomy 30): "For this commandment which I command thee this day, it is not hidden from thee, neither is it far off.
"It is not in heaven, that thou shouldest say, Who shall go up for us to heaven, and bring it unto us, that we may hear it, and do it?
"Neither is it beyond the sea, that thou shouldest say, Who shall go over the sea for us, and bring it unto us, that we may hear it, and do it?
"But the word is very nigh unto thee, in thy mouth, and in thy heart, that thou mayest do it."
This Word has always been with us through God. I believe that Jesus is the living embodiment of this Word. To love Him is to love the Lord, understanding that Jesus' own sacrifice is what enables us to come boldly unto the throne of grace, crossing over the otherwise impassable gulf of our own sins.
God's ways are still higher than my ways, and his thoughts higher than my thoughts. I know that. I live with it every day. It is the root of my feelings of loneliness, insecurity, and stress. But knowing that God cares about me makes up for every seemingly insoluble dilemma He throws my way. As G.K. Chesterton wrote in his "Introduction to the Book of Job," "The riddles of God are more satisfying than the solutions of man."
The upcoming music-journalism anthology to which I contribute, Kill Your Idols (described alongside a photo of me and Brian Wilson on my main page, Gaits of Eden), now has its own home page, which includes its foreword and a list of contributors.
One of my dearest friends said to me over dinner last night, "People say, 'Don't worry. Things always turn out for the best.' But they don't."
The standard Christian response is to quote Romans 8:28: "And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose."
But I couldn't say that. First of all, because my friend wasn't Christian. Second, because, on one level, my friend was obviously right. Things don't always turn out the best—at least, not what looks the best to us.
If you think this is leading to a message from the Psalms of Jagger and Richards, you're right. I don't like the Stones, and I used to hate "You Can't Always Get What You Want" because I thought its message was cynical and patronizing. If what we got was pain and disappointment, then to say that we got what we needed seemed to imply that we needed such things. It reeked of the self-appointed gurus I used to meet at the New Age gatherings my mother took me to as a kid, who would gravely tell rebellious 10-year-old me that I had to work out my "karma."
Really, if I had not been healed of my own depression when I accepted Jesus four and a half years ago, I would still believe that it was tremendously presumptious of anyone to say that suffering had a purpose.
I do still hold that people shouldn't use other people's suffering as an excuse to judge them or to ascribe a purpose to it. That's the message of the Book of Job. But, based on my own healing from chronic cyclical, suicidal depression (which is detailed in Luke Ford's lengthy profile of me), I know that regardless of what one is going through at any point in time, one truly does not know what God has in store. He can turn things for good, and do so at any time.
A repeated message that I hear from my friends in their 30s and 40s—which I often consider myself—is how hard it is to have hope that one's life situation will change, when it has been the same for years and shows no sign of improving. I hear this a lot from friends with regard to their career, but most of all with regard to their hope of finding a life partner.
One male friend of mine in his 40s—a creative, kind, and witty individual who would seem to have everything going for him—put it rather starkly when describing his sadness over, of all things, the end of the television show "Sex and the City." It wasn't that he was so sad the show would no longer be on. The end of the show reminded him that six years ago, when it started, he had hope that he would find the love of his life. Today, that hope has dried up in bitterness and resignation.
When I hear friends of mine say things like that, part of me wants to separate myself, feel above them, and think, "Well, however lonely I may be, at least I know better than to compare myself to people on a television show." But in truth I know that, despite my emotional healing, I retain a "root of bitterness." No matter how hard I try to feel happy for happy couples and to rejoice with them, part of me feels that there is a kind of loving from which I have been shut out indefinitely.
If you've been keeping up with The Dawn Patrol, you know that much of my writing is on topics of sexual morality. I believe that sex can only be experienced as the God-given blessing that it is when it is experienced by a husband and wife, because only then is it imbued from start to finish with the unselfish love of two people who are one flesh.
I've never experienced that. I've never experienced anything like that. Even when I had sex with someone whom I loved on some level, it was always an essentially physical experience, with a beginning, a middle, and an end.
I believe that when a man and a woman who are truly in love have sex, nobody is drumming their fingers on the edge of the bed, waiting for the really good part to start. The peaks of excitement are there, to be sure, but they are contained within a totality of a passion that rages all the higher because it is fueled by the fusion not merely of two bodies in rhythm, but two souls in utter delight. Every moment is cherished.
And no, I don't imagine it feels that way every night for married couples. I don't know if it feels that way every month or more. But I'll tell you one thing. I would rather have that kind of sexual bond with the love of my life for one night—and have occasional faint but pleasant echoes of it with him ever after—than have what Dr. Ruth would call "good sex" with my pick of attractive men for the rest of my life.
So is God in the details? Is He motivating me to continue wanting what I want despite so far only getting what I need? Quite honestly, I don't know. I might die tomorrow and never have met Mr. Right. But if I were to die tomorrow (and personally I hope I don't, especially as that would mean poor NYU would never get to collect on my student loan), I'll tell you one thing: In my last thoughts, I would not be thinking, "If I'd known I were going to go like this, I'd have had more sex."
The Mother Superior in "The Sound of Music" says, "Whenever the Lord closes a door, He opens a window." But He also does the opposite. When He wants you to choose what's best for you, He reveals the emptiness of the alternatives. That's what God's done for me. I have never felt more repulsed by loveless sex than I do now.
The operative word is loveless, mind you, and to be repulsed by it is a great relief and a blessing. It never did anything for me emotionally. And it wasn't just with superficial people either. I've had valued friendships with men that were damaged by attempts to convert such intimacy into a physical relationship that, no matter how tender, always seemed forced.
I'll admit that, to this day, the prospect of physical affection from a man who, despite not being in love with me, treats me with caring and "respect," has a powerful pull. But I sense that door is closing, because I believe God has something better for me.
Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 9: "Do you not know that those who run in a race all run, but one receives the prize? Run in such a way that you may obtain it.
"And everyone who competes for the prize is temperate in all things. Now they do it to obtain a perishable crown, but we for an imperishable crown. Therefore I run thus: not with uncertainty. Thus I fight: not as one who beats the air.
"But I discipline my body and bring it into subjection, lest, when I have preached to others, I myself should become disqualified."
What he's describing is what I'm undergoing. You could call it a kind of loneliness. But it's the loneliness of the long-distance runner.
Luke Ford, once the Matt Drudge of the adult-film world, gave up gossipmongering a few years back, left the pornography business, and recast himself on his blog and Web site as a hip, pottymouthed Orthodox Jew. I found his Web site a few weeks back and was jarred by his unusual mixture of the sacred and the profane.
Corresponding with Luke, I found that, despite his distinctly uncensored blogging style, his interest in orthodoxy—both lower-case and upper-case—is serious and deep. He has made a great deal of changes in his life and sacrificed much in an effort to reconcile the person he is with the person he believes his religion requires him to be. As one who likewise works to reconcile my long-held pop-cultural interests with myh faith, I can identify with his experience.
Luke's Web site includes profiles of people who spark his interests, ranging from celebrities to friends. He recently did a profile of me, interviewing me and my sister (and getting an e-mail quote from Mom).
The piece is long; I recommend it if you have the time to read about everything you always wanted to know about my history but were afraid to ask. Luke did a great job, asking probing questions about my faith. As a result, you'll find more details of my acceptance of Jesus (that is, my testimony) in the piece than anywhere on The Dawn Patrol. While you can detect from his questions that he does not share my beliefs, he nonetheless allowed me a platform to speak about them in detail, and I thank him very much for that.
My cousin Julie's husband Marc Fagel, who last wrote to say that all opponents of homosexual marriage are bigots (follow that link to the second item down, "God Loves Fagels"), wrote again yesterday to reiterate his views:
To answer your question: No, I really do not believe there is any logical, rational reason to oppose civil marriage between two consenting adults, gay or straight. Does that make you a bigot? That's a matter of semantics—I don't believe your view is motivated by hatred or ignorance, but regardless of whether you are motivated by faith or a misguided sense of history, you reach the same conclusion as those who are motivated by homophobic malice.What Marc appears to be saying is that if one reaches the same conclusion as a bigot, the question of whether or not one actually is a bigot becomes a matter of "semantics." In other words, to him, the ends are all that matter—means are immaterial.
If I have the flu, I will not shake hands with a gay person—or any person, for that matter. By Marc's logic, my not shaking hands with a gay person in such a case would make me a bigot, because bigots also wouldn't do such a thing—regardless of whether I'm refraining from handshaking for the other person's protection, and not just my own. In fact, Marc could well say that I am imposing my own morality upon the other person by assuming that he or she would want to be protected from my flu.
Sounds silly? Think about what's at stake with the issue of homosexual marriage. It would cause a top-to-bottom restructuring of our society, causing ripples of change, with the potential to negatively affect gays as well as straights.
I noted in yesterday's post that the those who wish to allow gay marriage are making a value judgment that reduces the societal ideal of marriage to its lowest common denominator of bed-sharing. When the government says that all that is necessary to be married is to share a bed, that makes it a short legal step to say that people who live together without being married have a marital relationship—and are therefore required to pay one another alimony if they break up.
You think "palimony" ended with Lee Marvin? It is a growing field of oral-contract law that is bound to explode if homosexual-marriage proponents convince activist courts that the government has no right to deny marriage to homosexual couples. If the marriage contract becomes nothing more than a piece of paper legally acknowleging that one person is the other's "top," then even those couples who have sexual relations without bothering to get the piece of paper will have more power. After all, the government has no right to dictate to people that they sign a physical contract when they are in a de facto "marital" relationship.
Sounds silly again? Remember that on issues regarding sexual relationships, activist courts and mayors are openly flouting the rule of law. If a court in Massachusetts decides that couples who are shacking up have the same rights as married couples, the only thing that can stop them is a federal amendment defining exactly what marriage is and what it is not.
Think about every lover with whom you've ever cohabited owning a piece of you. The goverment regulates heterosexual marriage and protects it for a reason. Defense of marriage is a serious issue, not something to be trifled with, and certainly something well outside the range of bigotry or other sexual prejudice.
Marc goes on:
Your position forbids an entire segment of society from receiving very basic rights, from hospital visitation rights to sick leave to inheritance rights; the liberal position simply means that you have to live in a world where others have these rights. Why should your "right" to live in a Christian society where other people are forbidden from doing things YOU believe are immoral trump the rights of people to the most basic dignities one can possibly imagine that don't harm you whatsoever?Marc, I notice that you refer to my "right" to live in a Christian society. It's a common tack of homosexual-marriage proponents to characterize all who disagree with them as "Christians." You know yourself that Orthodox Jews oppose homosexual marriage, as do a significant number of Conservative Jews. No other major religion historically favors homosexual marriage. So my position is far from a fringe position—though I can see how it would appear that way to you, living in Northern California.
You're a lawyer, Marc, and to tell you the truth, I'm disappointed in how you can't come up with anything better than recycled NPR rhetoric to put forth your views. Of course I don't support denying homosexuals or anyone their rights to visit their partners in the hospital, to take leave from work in order to care for an ill partner. I never said I did. But why can't those rights be given in the form of a civil union? Why do they have to be called "marriage"?
You said bigotry was a matter of semantics, Marc. Certainly, for a lawyer, you show surprisingly little concern for the proper use of words, and even less for their power. Here's the first part of how the Merriam Webster Collegiate Dictionary, 10th Edition defines "marriage":
1 a: the state of being married b: the mutual relation of husband and wife: WEDLOCK c: the institution whereby men and women are joined in a special kind of social and legal dependence for the purpose of founding and maintaing a familyEven in the dictionary, it is clear that marriage is something greater than an arbitrarily created legal state. It is a moral concept, as strong and as easily understood as the other basic moral concepts that form the foundation of America society, like freedom, liberty, and equality. These concepts are worth protecting. Millions of Americans—your ancestors and mine—have died for them. And they are based on moral absolutes.
If all is "semantics"—if a word is only what we make it to be—then any moral judgment based on an absolute is not worth protecting. Freedom itself becomes unworthy of protection. No use fighting for mere "feelings," right? Let the government rewrite moral concepts and "marriage" is "sex." When such a relativist view is allowed to guide government, there is little to stop an Orwellian "Ministry of Truth" from declaring that "freedom is slavery."
I believe in marriage. Homosexuals can love one another, live together, and have the rights that every human being in the world deserves, and you can call it almost any word you want. But you can't call it marriage.
"Sick of Being Lied to"
For those who think I'm being a weakling on the homosexual-marriage issue, I bring you this e-mail that I received yesterday from my friend Richard J. Stuart. As always, I reserve the right to print or not print e-mail responses, bowdlerize them, mischaracterize them (though not intentionally), and go point-by-point if I disagree with them. My new Dawn Patrol slogan (see top left) is "Not the paper of record."
Rick writes:
You might ask your "friend" if everyone who disagrees with him is a madman. Chesterton saw this coming in The Ball and the Cross [He really did.—Ed.].
As to there being no legitimate reasons to keep marriage as it is, I submit that the burden of proof is not on those who wish to keep the status quo, but on people who wish to change an over 5,000-year-old institution that is the underpinning of decent society. What reason do they have for us to change this institution? It had better be a damn good one. What reason have they offered us? That homosexuals should have the same rights as everyone else? They do. They have the right to marry a member of the opposite sex same as anyone else.
No one is persecuting anyone because they are sexually attracted to people of the same sex. It is their conduct in acting out these desires we deplore. But it's a genetic predisposition you say? Too bad. I have a genetic predisposition towards alcoholism. It's one of the reasons that I don't drink.
It's time we recognize that there are serious differences between being gay and being a different race. I'm sick of being lied to about this. Can't change if you are gay? Really? No one? Talk to Anne Heche lately?
As to divorce laws, I trust your friend then advocates making divorce more difficult. We can do both and it's not a bad idea. Let's remember that even past cultures which had a favorable view of "gay" relationships, i.e. the ancient Greeks, weren't stupid enough to dismantle marriage.
J.R. Taylor writes in response to my "Twain Route" post of earlier today:
Hey, that was no friend suggesting that Christians should be trying to ban divorce. That was just another smug Leftist who couldn't imagine that you'd have an intelligent response. [Actually, it was a conservative libertarian Op-Ed columnist who claimed to be seriously considering posing the question to peers like Maggie Gallagher.—Ed.] Keep up the good work. Also, Andrew Sullivan is ignoring a lot of questions nowadays. For example, I've asked him about my lesbian friend who wants to marry both her female partner and her male slave. That's no hypothetical slippery slope. It's a real situation for a woman who's closely following the events in California. I'd like to know if Andrew will go on record as wanting to deny this loving woman her complete marital rights. I've given up on his site, but he'll likely never reply. He's too busy putting up mail from fictional lifelong Republicans who've suddenly decided that national security is secondary to Andrew's right to share his frequent-flyer miles.
Author and talk-radio host Michael Graham writes in a post on National Review's "The Corner" that he has discovered something which I unfortunately know all too well: People who support gay marriage are liable to call anyone who disagrees with them a bigot. (See the first two posts on this link, "Joshua Fit the Battle of Clericals" and "God Loves Fagels," for what happened when a friend insinuated this of me while a relative came right out and said it.)
Graham calls the "bigot" slander "the atomic bomb of the pro-same-sex marriage forces, that there are no legitimate social or biological or historic reasons to keep marriage as it is." He adds, "I get a sense from these advocates that they believe every fact and argument presented in opposition is mere euphemism for 'hatin' them homos.'
"I've asked [prominent gay, right-leaning Democrat] Andrew Sullivan several times if it is possible to oppose same-sex marriage and NOT be a bigot," Graham continues. "I've never gotten an answer and I've never seen one posted at his site—though it is certainly possible I missed one.
"But if the Left and their media allies succeed in moving a clearly governmental issue, like deciding what is and isn't a legal marriage, into an arena beyond political debate, with one side declared inherently moral and the other inherently immoral, that would be a disastrous precedent."
Indeed. As Kevin McCullough has noted, if gay-marriage proponents interpret opposition to their view as bigotry, they can then silence opposition views as "hate speech."
As Graham suggests, one thing gay-marriage proponents need to remember is that people take political views based on their own ideas of right and wrong. Every issue is a moral issue.
Gay-marriage proponents' view of what type of marriage deserves governmental sanction is based on a different type of morality than mine. Likewise, homosexual couples, by pushing to achieve the legal status of married heterosexuals, are making a moral judgment.
For thousands of years, marriage has been based upon the concept that the highest social good is for a man and woman to parent and raise children together. To achieve this end, society was willing to take the necessary risks that some married men and women would be unable or unwilling to have children, and that some would dissolve their marriage.
Therefore, regardless of the love that homosexual individuals may have for one another, the moral judgment that they make in pushing for marriage rights reduces marriage to a different type of union—one that casts away the model for a societal unit and instead centers upon bed-sharing.
Do I call those who would wish to redefine marriage in such a way "bigots" because they insult me, my parents, grandparents, and all my ancestors, who believed marriage was the only means by which a family should perpetuate its existence through the generations? Of course not. Neither should they call me or anyone a bigot because we believe marriage should remain grounded in the most ancient, basic, and time-tested ideals of human civilization.
FURTHER READING: Here is a fascinating article on how researchers have mischaracterized the results of studies of same-sex parents out of fears of offending gays.
(Hat tip to Kevin McCullough, who read Michael Graham's post on his radio show.)
Great quote from Jonathan Foreman in today's New York Post about "The Passion"—almost good enough to make me forget his reference to Judas's "13" pieces of silver (though who knows—maybe Mel Gibson did make it 13):
For a film that is so clearly intended to be true to the period (hence the dialogue in Aramaic and Latin), there are weird, wrong details, like the bread at the Last Supper, which looks like an Italian loaf, not unleavened matzoh as it would have been.
This is not a double exposure.
I took this photo yesterday with my digital camera. I was passing by the HBO headquarters on Sixth Avenue by 42nd Street when I saw the man working on the window display, a 3-D version of the latest "Sopranos" publicity photo, which depicts the cast in a Hieronymus Bosch-like vision of Hell. It was so surreal to see a real figure moving within the diorama of cardboard cutouts that I wished I could photograph the scene...and then I remembered I'd brought my camera.
I smiled at the man and motioned to ask if I could photograph him, and he said yes. And, as you can see, he even smiled for me. A perfect New York moment.
As I sorted through some of my old headlines last week, it seemed that I had an easier time being witty before I was working at the paper full-time. I could understand why: When I was only composing headlines once a week, it was easier to conserve my pun-making energy and let it loose in one intense 7 1/2-hour blast. But I still felt that I could and should try harder to regain some of my old momentum.
Well, I got it back last night, and with the most difficult headlines to write: banners. Those are the ones that require one to be funny in three words or less.
Now, the trick is to keep it up. But for today at least, I'll be thankful for having penned these three-and-half headlines for the first edition.
For a story about 11 National Guard troops who were made citizens before heading to Iraq:
This one was so subtle that it just barely made it in, for a two-page feature on the Screen Actors Guild Awards and how they influence Academy Awards voters (picture the headline spreading from the left-hand page to the right-hand one):
And my favorite, for a story on how a set of quintuplets born in Brooklyn in 2002 are thriving:
My Aunt Becky, a highly respected advocate for human rights and, in particular, women's rights (her bio is at the bottom of the linked page), sends word of a remarkable article in today's Washington Post: "Feminism in the 21st Century" (link requires registration). I am amazed that it is in the Post and not the conservative Washington Times.
The article by Phyllis Chesler and Donna M. Hughes is the first one I've read from a feminist perspective that addresses the ways in which the higher ideals of the women's-rights movement of the Sixties have been transmogrified by the radical Left. With the exception of a single aside in favor of abortion rights (which is of course referred to by its code name of "reproductive rights," as if women wanted only the right to bear children and not to kill them), there's really not a single thing in the article with which I would disagree. For example, the authors write:
Last night at work, I was asked to write captions for a two-page photo spread on "The Passion of the Christ," and was expressly instructed to highlight the controversy. It was my fantasy come true: get paid to search BibleGateway and write about whether or not images from the film are or aren't true to the Gospels. For additional context, I was able to refer to a book of photos of the film.
For a photo depicting Jesus standing in chains before the Sanhedrin (the Jewish council), I noted that the Gospels say Jesus was bound, but not that He was chained. For a photo depicting Jesus being whipped by Pilate's guards, I was able to mention that, while the film shows the Jewish priests as well as Mary and Mary Magdalene looking on, none of them witnessed it in the Gospels. (The scourging took place in the guards' headquarters, which would have been off-limits to outsiders.) And for a photo depicting Simon of Cyrene taking Jesus' cross while Jesus lay splayed out on the ground, I wrote that, although Roman Catholic tradition holds that Jesus fell, the Gospels make no mention of it.
The photographs in the spread and in the book made it clear to me what many have been saying all along. While "The Passion" may indeed be an inspired film, no one seeing this film should think they're getting the pure gospel truth. It's colored throughout with imagery which, while it may be in keeping with Roman Catholic tradition, is nonetheless distinctly extrabiblical.
Had one of those classic Most Embarrassing Moments today, but I think I escaped unscathed. I was having brunch with a very nice male friend-of-a-friend who's visiting from out of town. It wasn't a date, but I was nonetheless striving to maintain the level of grace and composure that I usually attempt around a cute guy whom I don't know too well.
It happened after I'd committed the thoroughly inadvisable act of putting a few forkfuls of scrambled eggs atop a half-slice of toast. Why did I do it? Because it tastes great, and the toast lasts longer than if you take a second slice and make a little half-sandwich. But it's still something that one really does not do if one is trying to look graceful, because...
As I brought the egg-topped half-slice of toast towards my lips, a sizable piece of egg fell off the toast...
...and onto my forearm and my black sweater...
sliding down the length of my forearm, as though my limb had suddenly become part of a bizarre Rube Goldberg contraption...
...and finally landing on the floor.
As I picked the stray bits of egg off my sweater, I looked at my dining partner. He'd been talking throughout, and he was looking down at his plate. Either he didn't see anything, or he is a true gentleman. Or both.
I recently told this story to pop-music historian Joseph Lanza and realized I'd better share it with the world before I forget it, as the person who told it to me, former EMI catalog-department honcho Bruce Harris, is sadly no longer with us. Unfortunately, my own memory's missing many of the details, but I'll tell you the best I can:
It was 1968 or slightly later and Bruce Harris was a new staffer at Record World magazine. His favorite group in the world was the Association.
One day, the Association came to his office for an interview. Harris was overwhelmed with enthusiasm. These guys were his Beatles. He couldn't believe that they were coming to him and not the other way around.
The interview with the six-man band went fine until Harris asked the obligatory Vietnam question.
What he didn't realize was that his idols were split on the issue of American involvement in Vietnam. Very split. So split, in fact that their repartee with one another became increasingly heated. Finally, before a stunned Harris, they actually came to blows. I know he told me that the fight got physical and at least one punch was thrown.
Try to imagine the poor superfan going from the height of excitement—"the Association are in my office..."—to the depth of horror—"...and they're hitting each other!" Not exactly the behavior one would expect from the "Never My Love" crew, to be sure.
Today I learned when the episode of "Style Court" featuring me and my friend Kate is set to air on the Style Network: June 3.
Don't worry, I'll remind you when it gets closer.
I try not to listen in on other people's conversations, especially on the train, because there's the chance someone will say something that makes me writhe uncontrollably in the throes of suppressed laughter. It's very embarrassing if the conductor comes by while I'm writhing—even more so if I'm laughing internally at him.
But despite my best efforts, I had just such a moment yesterday, on my way to South Orange to meet Caren, with whom I was to host a trivia night for singles at the Metrowest JCC. I could hear the conductor talking to the male rider in the seat behind me, giving him the third degree for trying to use a discount round-trip excursion ticket that was supposed to be used going the other direction.
It didn't sound to me like the rider was acting particularly difficult. He just didn't understand why, if he'd paid for the ticket and accidentally used the wrong half going one way, he couldn't use the remaining half to return. I've made the same mistake many times and the conductors have often let it go.
The conductor wound up accepting the guy's ticket, but he made a point of explaining why NJ Transit, as a rule, could not let people ride with the wrong half of a round-trip ticket. He said that if the rail line let everyone do that, people might buy tickets and split them as to avoid paying full one-way fares.
As he was speaking, it took me some brainpower to figure out how such a system of splitting tickets might work. Slowly it dawned on me that this conductor envisioned a nightmare scenario where people would buy round-trip tickets en masse, going through intricate procedures to determine which one would get the "Hoboken to South Orange" half and which one would get the "South Orange to Hoboken" half, purely for the purpose of saving $2 apiece.
Since the tickets could not be used during rush hour, those taking part in such a nefarious scheme would have to be people lacking regular 9 to 5 jobs—in other words, the underbelly of society. It all reminded me of that Jonathan Miller monologue from "Beyond the Fringe," where he describes going to the railway lost and found and finding hundreds of pairs of identical, perfectly folded blue trousers. Wondering how the trousers could all end up in the lost and found, he conjured up a fantastic mental picture of a massive act of civil disobedience: hundreds of identically clad men going to the railway station in the dead of night, taking off their trousers simultaneously, and making a mad dash for home.
At least, I think that's how the story went.
The conductor's increasingly forceful words to the rider shook me out of my reverie:
"What's ta stop ten people from buyin' roun'-trip tickets an' splittin' 'em?" he asked rhetorically.
The rider paused for a moment. "Then how do they come back?"
The conductor's voice turned wonderfully dark and foreboding: "They don't hafta come back!"
My friend Kevin Walsh of the world-class Web site Forgotten New York, was featured in The New Yorker's "Talk of the Town" last week, discussing New York City lampposts. Seeing some of Kevin's quotes out of context gave me a new appreciation of his writing style, which combines the voice of a street-smart New Yorker with the literary flourish of a Jonathan Lethem (who is a Forgotten New York fan): "The new octagonal-shafted aluminum poles, with their odd greenish-white mercury lights...the goosenecked, ungainly specimens...proliferated in New York City streets like ragweed."
Kevin also wrote a review of the truly wonderful Zombies (actually Argent & Blunstone) show he and I attended with my friend Carolyn last week at B.B. King's, which appears on his Forgottenblog. (I'm still meaning to write something about that show myself.) Once you've read the review, scroll down for Kevin's "Spam Poetry." I love his writing, "Eat your heart out, Van Dyke Parks."
"He must increase, and I must decrease."
Lately I've been praying on those words from John the Baptist, when he was explaining to his disciples why Jesus had to supersede him as a spiritual leader.
I've been praying for God to let there be less of me and more of Him in my heart, my mind, and my life.
This may sound as though I'm praying for my individual personality to be subsumed in some kind of spiritual molasses, such as might be cooked by the Stepford Wives. But in fact, I have no fear of losing my spark. On the contrary, I have noticed that the more I pray for God to lead me, the more I become truly vibrant, truly joyous, truly myself.
I've noticed that in my relationships with people—most notably the romantic ones, but in friendships as well—I have had the tendency to detach. It comes from a fear of intimacy, which itself stems from the fear of rejection.
People can boast of their ability to separate their emotions from their actions, but it's one's emotions that enable one to experience all the benefits of closeness with another person, whether that closeness takes place in physical contact or in something as simple as a conversation. The act of detachment, by its very nature, prevents full enjoyment of intimacy.
What one gains from detachment is an increased sense of isolation—a lonely, insular awareness of one's self. It's a kind of independence, to be sure, and many people prefer to live that way for fear of getting hurt.
But those who have experienced true intimacy, in the form of a healthy relationship or friendship, will tell you that they haven't lost their identity at all. Rather, the realization that they are accepted by another person as they are makes them blossom, becoming more themselves than ever before.
When God brought the walls of Jericho down, they didn't just crumble. They fell down flat and (as archaeological excavations have shown) outward. Likewise, when God enters a place, He doesn't cut it off. He opens it up.
My latest Village Voice Pazz & Jop Critics' poll entry, which I published in an earlier post, is now available on the Voice's Web site. If you'd like to explore some of the artists for whom I voted, here are links to their Web sites: the Smile (not to be confused with the Beach Boys' Smile), Mark Bacino, Andrew, the Anderson Council, the Trouble Dolls, Michael Lynch, and of course, Lou Christie.
Groove Disques, the Philadelphia-based power-pop label founded by Nixon's Head, is currently having a Pitchers and Catchers Report Sale, which is good news if you've yet to buy the compilation on which I appear, The Stiff Generation: It's discounted to $12. For that, you get me singing the Kirsty MacColl/Tracy Ullman classic "They Don't Know," as well as other Stiff-label artists' tunes performed by Matthew Sweet, Amy Rigby, the Anderson Council, and many others. A track listing and sound clips (including one from my track) are available at the Tower Records Web site, but they're charging a whopping $15.99. A photo of me performing at the Stiff Generation record-release party is on my main page, Gaits of Eden.
It's not as much fun as watching the PATH-train signals change, but the MTA's Web site allows you to watch live Webcam footage of New York City bridge and tunnel traffic. With my dialup connection, the Queens Midtown Tunnel looks quite peaceful.
(Hat tip to Howard Sherman, a blogger I met at The Week's "Love" panel.)
I need to get back into the game at work. Nobody's complained, but I know when I haven't written a good headline pun in a week or so.
Partly to get myself inspired again, I'm compiling a page of my greatest hits. The idea for scanning my headlines came from my friend Joshua, a phenomenal punster who put a gallery of his best on his site. Here's a handful of mine to start your day:
For a story about miners suing their employer after they were trapped for three days:
For a story about 'Blue' Mitchell's widow benefiting from his songwriting royalties:
For a column noting that John Kerry, despite his name and Kennedy-style pretensions, isn't really of Irish descent (hey, I don't write the news, I just make it look like it's worth reading):
For a story about a marine biologist heating up his fish tanks to encourage spawning, a headline inspired by my own love connection—I was trying to impress the Justice League fan I was dating at the time:
For a story about a woman who was ticketed for having a stoop sale (the New York City equivalent of a garage sale), I wrote this dilettantish headline:
And for a story about how bartenders were making less money in the wake of the smoking ban:
My old friend Jim DeRogatis (whom I met when I was 17 and we were both writing for Jersey Beat) has invited me to contribute to an anthology he's editing, Kill Your Idols: A New Generation of Rock Writers Reconsiders the Classics. Due in June from Barricade Books (making this values-driven single strange bedfellows with the likes of Helen Gurley Brown), it's a response to Stranded, Greil Marcus's anthology of old-school rock critics eulogizing their desert-island discs. Instead, each contributor will attack one of rock's most overhyped albums.
My critical target in the book is the Beach Boys' unreleased and much-bootlegged Smile. Now, I'll admit that the album's "Good Vibrations" and "Heroes and Villains" (which found a place on Smiley Smile, the altogether different 1967 album compiled after Smile was shelved) are gorgeous marriages of artistry and commercial accessibility. But Smile fanatics will tell you that you haven't really heard those songs unless you've heard the unreleased versions, each with extra verses. To me, that's like a Shakespeare scholar telling you that you haven’t read one of the sonnets unless you've read the unreleased couplets. The whole point of a great pop single (and a great sonnet, for that matter) is to marvel at how much beauty its creator managed to cram into its restricted form.
I first skewered Brian Wilson's "Teenage Symphony to God" when I was a columnist for New York Press and I just can't stay away. It's like shooting ducks in a barrel—or, to borrow from the Smile track "Cabinessence," crows in a cornfield.
It was a great feeling to DJ at Michael and Kittybeat's POP GEAR! dance last night at Rififi at Cinema Classics, as it gave me the opportunity to spend Valentine's Day surrounded by friends. Here's what I played, as best I can remember:
Sandie Shaw - Long Live Love
Everlasting Love - The Love Affair
The Zombies - Time of the Season (original 45)
The Searchers - When You Walk in the Room
Peanut - Thank Heaven for the Rain (a mistake—it was mismarked on the CD)
The Shillings - Children and Flowers (original 45 of a great Jackie DeShannon song also done by the Critters)
Yellow Balloon - Can't Get Enough of Your Love (original 45—different edit from the LP version)
Dana Gillespie - Pay You Back With Interest (Hollies composition)
Lou Christie - Rhapsody in the Rain (an amazing song on every level—music, lyrics, arrangement, the works. I love the image of the windshield wipers seeming to say, "Together, together, together, together...")
The Troggs - Surprise, Surprise (I Need You)
Jan Panter - Scratch My Back
The Move - I Can Hear the Grass Grow
Lulu - The Boat that I Row (Neil Diamond tune)
POP GEAR! is the second Saturday of every month. The next POP GEAR! will be March 13. E-mail me (address at left) for details.
Wes of Scary-Crayon creates wonderfully creative and very funny photographic Crayon Haikus. That link will take you to the latest one, which I adore, but you can find the whole collection (much of which features Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles characters) via his main page. For a philosophy major, he's got an amazing talent for brevity.
If you missed yesterday's Part One, scroll down or click here.
So I sat for a while at the blogger table in Michael Jordan's Steakhouse on the beautiful balcony of the Grand Central Terminal's Main Concourse, and finally the panelists took their seats on the podium: Edmund White, Erica Jong, moderator Harold Evans (actually Sir Harold, though he didn't put on airs), and, of course, Farrah Fawcett.
To look at Farrah today is to see the outlines of a beautiful woman. Her strong-yet-delicate bone structure, lovely pale eyes, and graceful carriage still exude star quality.
Yet, seeing her from a distance of about 50 to 75 feet, the sharpness of the outline was a little jarring—especially when she took her jacket off to reveal a tank top showing off her thin yet strikingly sculpted arms and shoulders.
I realized, looking at her, that she looks more like my Farrah doll now than she did back in 1978. She could be made out of plastic.
This photo is not Farrah. This is someone who frequently expresses the wish that I would come home so she and I could play with my Farrah doll together for the first time in 25 years. This is my mother, in a photograph taken last Saturday. She will be 64 in June and has never had plastic surgery or Botox.
Where was I? Oh, yes...The panel was supposed to be on "Love," but when you put together a woman who's one of the great sex symbols of the 20th century, a woman who wrote the most famous book on anonymous sex of the 20th century, and a man who writes books about having anonymous sex with men, you're not about to get a lot of conversation about love.
Edmund White was listed in the event's program as "one of the few living writers singled out for praise by Vladimir Nabokov." An odd compliment; it implies that he's going to be the next to go. Certainly he had a very 20th-century gay sensibility, saying he'd married and divorced two women whom he'd loved as friends, but his "passions" lay elsewhere. He is currently in a long-term relationship marked by what he calls a "don't ask, don't tell" policy on affairs. He is proud of this and considers it highly romantic. The only regret one senses in him is that he is deeply sorry that he is no longer physically capable of having as many or as frequent anonymous affairs as he had in his youth.
Such disregard for the importance of a monogamous loving relationship makes you wonder, as my mother would say, who's going to wipe his butt when he is too old to wipe it himself—which is going to be more sooner than later. I hope it will be his partner—assuming that their "don't ask, don't tell" policy has not resulted in one of them leaving the other due to jealousy, or dying of a sexually transmitted disease. [I did not know at the time that I wrote this that Mr. Don't-Ask-Don't-Tell already has AIDS. See the end of this entry for details.]
If I were a gay man or woman who believed in monogamy, I would be thoroughly ashamed and outraged at the thought of this utterly soulless 1960s relic being a spokesman for my morality. Come to think of it, I'm a heterosexual woman and I'm still ashamed.
To be clear, I'm saying this not because of White's homosexual behavior in and of itself, but because he actively upholds promiscuity—not even as a lifestyle choice, but as the only true option for such an intelligent, cultured, and wise person as himself. People like him are a foul reminder of something I try very hard to ignore: The 1960s may have brought forth some fantastic music, but it also brought forth a lot of stoopid, hedonistic ideas that continue to poison our culture.
Erica Jong was remarkably self-hating. She rhapsodized about the beauty of promiscuity, while apologizing for her own relatively moral sex life. Currently on her fourth marriage, she said that she is faithful to her husband—not out of anything so foolish and passé as morality, mind you. She simply finds it easier to be faithful because she has already "sown [her] wild oats." One had the feeling she wanted the audience to believe that if she could dig those now-ossified oats out of her various orifices, she would collar the nearest fresh-faced young blogger. And one was certain that such an encounter, were it possible, would be completely free of zip.
Yet, Jong was blessed—or cursed—with an awful sense of self-awareness. When film director Bernardo Bertolucci joined the panel via telephone and said that he wasn't aware what had transpired in the discussion prior to his call, Jong piped in that he hadn't missed much. "Molto...superficiale," she said.
Farrah tried to add some romance to the discussion, but her idea of love was very Hollywood—contemporary Hollywood, that is. She told this bizarre story of her young son's catching her watching a pornographic movie at home. I don't recall why she was watching the movie—perhaps I was preoccupied with wondering if her arms were posable—but she said that she used her son's interruption as an excuse to teach him about love.
"That's not love," she told the boy, pointing to the writhing bodies on the screen.
Amidst all this, I was surprised to discover that moderator Harold Evans's own views were significantly more orthodox than those of his guests. As a result, as the discussion progressed, I became tremendously impressed with his equanimous handling of it. On the one hand, he treated all the panelists with warmth and respect, taking a genuine interest in their answers. Yet he took care to incorporate his own perspective on love into his questions.
One of Evans's questions to which he kept returning was, "Is it possible to be in love with two people at the same time?" It may seem like a frivolous question—if you're like me and believe in monogamy, the answer's obviously no—but that's why it actually cuts to the heart of many of the issues of the day. If you believe that it's possible to be in love with two people at once, then you can't structure your emotional life around your love for a single person. Instead, you have to compartmentalize and superficialize your feelings, which lowers the emotional tone of not only your love relationships, but your friendships as well.
Another question that was very important to him was that of whether it was necessary for one's spouse or lover to be one's best friend. White made no secret of his disagreement, Jong discounted the question, and Farrah gave a vague affirmative. But somewhere in between their answers, in a subtle, nonjudgmental way, Evans made his own feelings clear: He said he had been happily married for 21 years. Wild applause broke out from the audience. Sort of...
In the comments section of blogger Paul Frankenstein's entry on the "Love" panel, the blogger known as Eurotrash writes:
My favourite bit was when Erica Jong started shouting: "YOUNG COLLEGE GIRLS ARE DOING PORN! PORN IS BAD! ARTISTS MUST TAKE BACK DESIRE!". Or maybe when Jackie Collins said all the French were sluts. Or maybe when that woman on our table started clapping all by herself.Guilty as charged.
UPDATE: Ron Hogan of the literary Web site Beatrice writes: "Here's an article which goes into some depth about White's HIV-positive status, from his 1985 diagnosis onward: http://www.q.co.za/news/1998/9812/981221-edmundwhite.htm.
"And back in '97, on the subject of marriage/monogamy, he told Salon:
"'A tremendous number of gays are especially vocal now, like the group that you mentioned, who would like to have gay marriage instituted so that gays could adopt children and live in the suburbs and be indistinguishable from their neighbors. And there are other people like me who feel that gays have a different way of living than straights, and more power to them, because the heterosexual institutions are inferior and don't work, anyway. In the 18th century, the idea was that you married somebody who'd be suitable to have children with, for your economic advantage and for your dynastic ambition, and that was it—there was no question of love. It was only in the 19th century that people married for companionship, so you were trying to marry your best friend, and you were trying to bring together sex, friendship and love. I think that it doesn't work. And that's why there's a more than 50 percent divorce rate. And virtually anybody who can afford to get divorced does divorce. It's only the people who can't afford it who stay married. To hold that up as an ideal for gays is absurd. Why do they want to imitate an institution that doesn't work?'"
Farrah Fawcett was on the panel at today's luncheon discussion of "Love" sponsored by The Week, and that was all publicist Matthew Caldecutt needed to gain my attendance at the "blogger" table.
It's not that I'm a fan of Fawcett's—I don't think I've seen any footage of her in over 20 years (not having owned a TV for 19). I had to go because if I didn't, my nine-year-old self would never forgive me.
When I was on the cusp of puberty, I, like many girls that age, became fascinated by pretty women. It was as though I were a caterpillar and they were butterflies. I'd look at them and wonder whether or not I'd grow up to look as pretty as them, and hope against hope that I would. (Fellow blogger Donna of Donnaville has captured something of this feeling in her illustrated essay "My Heroine Addiction.")
When I think about it, if my younger self had known that I'd one day look like I do now, she would have been over the moon—and she'd have berate the modern me mercilessly for worrying that I'm not pretty. But back in 1978, when I was nine going on 10, I wanted nothing more than to grow up to look like Farrah. Or any of Charlie's Angels, really—even a flesh-and-blood version of Betty or Veronica from Archie Comics, both of whom I wore out several No. 2 pencils drawing during class. (The photo at right, showing how I actually grew up, appears by request of Mom. It was taken last night by friend and TimesWatch editor Clay Waters at the Yale Club after a Fabiani Society meeting.)
But Farrah was my favorite. I even owned a Farrah doll just like the one at left.
It was a beautiful doll, made remarkable close to Farrah's own image. It even had her graceful, long-fingered hands (right), attached to special swiveling wrists—something Barbie didn't have. Unfortunately, it was also an inch taller than Barbie, and its clothes were few and expensive, so it took real effort to find clothing worthy of its statuesque frame. Fortunately, the clothes made for the Cher doll just about fit the bill, though they were a little big in the chest. That's how my Farrah got gowned in a dazzling, off-the-shoulder Bob Mackie number.
And so, knowing that somewhere my nine-year-old self was writhing in ecstasy, I arrived yesterday afternoon at Michael Jordan's Steakhouse in beautiful Grand Central Station, where I found myself at a table with an acerbic writer for Gothamist, a spunky blonde Englishwoman known to her blog readers as Eurotrash (to whom I would offer a link, but her latest entry is 1500 highly ironic words about trying to flush something nasty down the toilet), and slumming Gawker-cum-New York gossipmistress Elizabeth Spiers. As for what ensued...look at the time! Stay tuned for tomorrow's exciting conclusion...
Is it because I didn't review her CD?
An e-mail arrived today with no hello-how's-it-hangin'—just an interrogation, prefaced by a quote from my "Mass., Alas!":
"'That's why the same people who oppose abortion also oppose euthanasia.' And how do you explain the folks who oppose abortion and are pro-death penalty?"
The signature file at the bottom read, "Paula Carino, Body/Mind/Spirit Editor,Muze Inc."
The name rang a bell, so I did the obligatory Google search and learned that she was in a band called Regular Einstein. I have a vague memory from several years ago of a band by that name asking me to write about their CD. I declined out of courtesy—it is so hard to write anything nice about pop music that sounds like it was recorded after 1968—and forgot about them. Guess they didn't forget about me.
I must say that, when I saw the image on Ms. Carino's home page, I wondered why I should even expend the energy to respond at all. Behold the sign of a card-carrying member of the Church of the High Ironist:
However, her question is not an unreasonable one, as many people consider the death penalty a sanctity-of-life issue, including the Catholic Church, which is officially opposed to both abortion and the death penalty.
The reason many religious conservatives are against abortion and in favor of the death penalty is because the death penalty, unlike abortion, is sanctioned in the Bible. It goes back as far as the Noahide Laws, which both Jews and Christians believe apply to all of humanity—not just the faithful—as in Genesis 9:6: "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed: for in the image of God made he man."
I personally have moral reservations about the death penalty, because:
(1) Unlike abortion and euthanasia, there is no New Testament directive on whether and how it should be carried out (beyond the concept that there is to be human justice in this world and divine justice in the next),
(2) there is great potential for it to be carried out unfairly, and
(3) I am not convinced that its deterrent effect is greater than that of life without parole.
I have not chosen the death penalty as a pet issue because I'm not confident that I am in possession of enough facts to make a strong judgment against it. But there is no question that according to the Bible, killing unborn babies and sick or otherwise "imperfect" people is wrong.
Thankfully, though, there's no law against making decent music. It's hard for me to download MP3s due to my dialup Internet connection, but I managed to download the first 15 seconds of Ms. Carino's new solo tune "Venus Records" and it sounded kinda pretty.
UPDATE: Paula Carino sent me the following e-mail today, which I appreciate. I'm keeping the post up because I think her question's important, but I now see that her tone was not intentional:
I apologize for the no "how-do-you-do" and general brusqueness. I was just asking a direct question in a direct manner. I'm sorry it came across as angry or offensive to you.
Also, on a personal note, I harbor no grudge against you for not writing up my old band (hey, no one else did either). And believe it or not, I have tons of sympathy for Christians who try to live by the ideals set forth in the Bible. I was raised for part of my life in a Christian Scientist environment, and as an adult have lived on a yoga ashram, so I know what it's like to attempt to adhere to ideals that no one else has even heard of much less understands.
One of the main concepts separating Gnosticism and other New Age philosophies from Judaism and Christianity is the idea that the world, rather than being a creation, made by a known Creator, is instead a dream emerging from an unknown dreamer.
The Bible makes the identity of the Creator pretty clear from Genesis 1:1 on. But the question of the reality of the physical world doesn't require biblical proofs, as Samuel Johnson demonstrated in an episode described in Boswell's Life of Johnson:
After we came out of the church, we stood talking for some time together of Bishop Berkeley's ingenious sophistry to prove the nonexistence of matter, and that every thing in the universe is merely ideal. I observed, that though we are satisfied his doctrine is not true, it is impossible to refute it. I never shall forget the alacrity with which Johnson answered, striking his foot with mighty force against a large stone, till he rebounded from it—"I refute it thus."But it was famous skeptic Martin Gardner who pointed out that the sequence in Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass about the Red King's dream mirrored (so to speak) Johnson's refutation of Berkeley. Personally, I have this on my mind because I've always seen myself as Alice among this postmodern looking-glass world of New Agers, skeptics, relativists, High Ironists, and what have you. From Chapter 4 of Through the Looking Glass:
After a trying day in which I deleted a whopping three Dawn Patrol entries for the sake of peace [see this excellent essay for an explanation], I started to feel sick on the PATH train ride home from work after 1 this morning. I was already feeling under the weather, with a sore throat—though my doctor had assured me it wasn't anything serious—and on the train, I felt dizziness and nausea. In the wee small hours of the morning, that was all I needed to get my secret hypochondriacal fantasies going:
What if I really have SARS? Or the Ebola virus?That last one was enough at least to get me thinking about my next Dawn Patrol entry. If I were really to die tomorrow, I would not want the world's last remembrance of me to be that I ranted against some well-meaning people just because their attitude ticked me off. After all, while my speech is supposed to be seasoned with salt, that doesn't mean I have to be Ed Anger. So I envisioned writing a thoughtful, pensive blog entry about what would be the most important and godly truths I would want to share with the world on my last day on earth.
What if I got pregnant from a toilet seat?
What if today were the last day of my life?
Arriving home, I was so out of it that I dropped onto my bed and fell asleep fully clothed, with the lights on, hoping my head would stop spinning. A few hours later, I awoke to do my blog—but the godly truths had shifted somewhat in my sleep-and-mild-illness-fogged brain. They had meshed with pages from a crumbling copy of the March 1966 issue of Women's World magazine.
So, with apologies to Lileks and Mad magazine's "Ten Commandments Revisited," here are...
From Jim Friedland comes word of a wonderful Web page containing complete songs from the soundtrack of the 1967 stop-action animated flick "Mad Monster Party," in streaming audio. (That same site, filmscoremonthly.com, has songs from many other rare soundtracks as well.) I'm unfamiliar with the film, but it's said to be the inspiration for "The Nightmare Before Christmas."
After writing about Peter Noone's reported misconception that the the Beatles' "For No One" was about him, I made a startling discovery. It was a tape box by my poptastic musician pal Michael Lynch, marked "FOREDEN." I could hardly contain my excitement. After four years of friendship, Michael had finally written a song for me!
Then I heard the tape. It's a good tune, to be sure...but not what I expected. Michael has graciously allowed me to publish the lyrics:
Oh, if you've been golfing all day long
Working up a thirst,
And looking for a place to go,
The place fore-most and first, is
The Fore Den, The Fore Den
Where golfers drink and laugh
The Fore Den, The Fore Den
They have a friendly staff
The best selection of food and drink
The company is fun
The Fore Den, The Fore Den
Is like a hole-in-one
THE FORE DEN, the only bar
Where you'll always be under par
I wonder if director Tim Burton thought of using those verses, or if they were in the book. Certainly, they apply beautifully to the central character of the film, especially the idea of being not conformed, but transformed. Nice to find an ichthus in "Big Fish."
