Cinema Verité

I had some downtime on the job last night, and for some strange reason felt moved to do a Web search for a man with whom I went on a date when I was 17. I'd noticed his name while looking at an old journal and wondered if he'd continued in his pursuits as a writer.

What I found was a Hartford Advocate article about the recent Jim Carrey/Kate Winslet film "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind," which was scripted by the acclaimed Charlie Kaufman. In that surreal fantasy, Carrey's character discovers that his ex-girlfriend, played by Winslet, has had her memories of him medically wiped—so he decides to get his memories of her wiped too.

According to the article, Kaufman based the Carrey character on my one-time date: Paul Proch.

I actually hung out with Paul a few times, but we only had one "real date." We met in 1983 or so, when I was 15 or even younger. Back then, I was living in the North Jersey suburbs and would visit Greenwich Village on Saturday afternoons (and more often in the summer), stopping at the sci-fi store Forbidden Planet. Paul worked there, and I developed a girlish crush on him.

I was attracted to his shyness and wit. He was smart, yet modest, and he had a cool kind of non-greaser 1950s style—I remember Hawaiian shirts and gabardine this and that.

I also liked it that Paul wrote for National Lampoon. He'd done a big
"Firestarter" parody for them called "Eggboiler"—now that I think about it, I remember he told me he wrote it with his old school pal Charlie.

My mother, who remembers every thought I have ever uttered to her, likewise recalls that Paul was "very shy and quiet"—the same qualities that Kaufman told the Hartford Advocate he drew upon for the Carrey character.

Mom also says that I was attracted to Paul because I thought he looked like me. That freaks me out.

When I turned 17 in September 1985 and moved into my dorm room at NYU, just five blocks from Paul's workplace, he was one of the first
people I looked up. We went on a movie date. I'm sure I must have asked him, as he was too shy.

It turned out to be a foolish move, as there wasn't really any chemistry between us other than friendship. But I was still at an age when I would kiss a cute guy out of curiosity to see if sparks would emerge. (That age lasted longer than I care to recall.)

So I kissed him—no sparks.

I did try again, a few times, just to be sure.

After that, I was too embarrassed to go back to just being friends with Paul, so we drifted apart.

My last memory of Paul is having lunch with him at a Chinese restaurant
on 11th Street and 4th Avenue or thereabouts. I got very annoyed with him because he thought it was hilarious when I accidentally bit into a chili pepper. I remember just fuming at him—literally; my mouth was that hot—because when the waiter came and I asked desperately for water, Paul added gaily, "She bit into a pepper."

Brazenness is always much more surprising when it comes from a shy
person.

At any rate, I'm very happy to see that Paul is getting some major notice, not just for his writing, but for his art—he did the Carrey character's drawings in "Eternal Sunshine." More than that, he's a bonafide muse for an Oscar-nominated screenwriter. The meek will inherit the earth.

So does all this make me Kate Winslet's character? Probably not. But my life this morning does feel a bit like a Charlie Kaufman screenplay.

Sex and the Witty

The longest time that I was celibate in my adult life—and by celibate, I mean nothing but a kiss here and there (with both "here" and "there" located on my lips)—was two years. It was for the same reason then as it is now—a desire to remain pure for my husband, and an aversion to the objectification and compartmentalization that casual sex requires.

When I look back on those two years now, I can only remember two stages:

• The I'm-Fine-Really-I've-Got-So-Much-Going-On-In-My-Life-and-God-Is-Good-He's- Taken-Away-My-Longing-Which-Is-Something-I-Couldn't-Do-for-Myself Stage, and


• The Climbing-the-Walls Stage

As I recall, the Climbing-the-Walls stage took up the beginning and the end of the two years, while the I'm-Fine stage took up a few precious months in the middle.

Now that I'm going the celibacy route again, I find that my memory oversimplified things. In between those two stages are a myriad of subdivisions. The one that I am in right now is the This-Is-a-Joke Stage—but before you jump to conclusions, allow me to explain.

I realized last night that there is a difference between the loneliness and frustration that I feel now and the kind I felt from my teens through early-30s, before I had faith.

Back then, I believed that life was a joke, and the joke was on me.

Now, I realize that life is a joke—and I'm in on it.

So much of Christianity is about paradoxes—Jesus' saying, "Whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it," or God's telling Paul, "My strength is made perfect in weakness." There's a cosmic absurdity to being an immaterial soul in a material body, a Spirit-driven creature in a flesh-driven world.

And it seems absurd to me that I should be who I am, at age 35, and yet be single. That I always show up at parties without a date. And that my singlehood should ultimately be by choice—because I have a definite idea of the kind of man I seek and I haven't met him yet.

It's absurd, because it's not how the world works. If you're a woman, you're supposed to be married by 35. And if you're not married, you're supposed to, in the words of an online-dating site's tagline, "make your married friends jealous"—compensating for your isolation via cynical casual-sex encounters à la the pathetic hags of "Sex and the City."

In the eyes of the world, a single woman in her 30s who chooses celibacy with no end in sight over, say, a fumble with a cute, wealthy sybarite is either a masochist, crazy, or both.

But a little ichthus like myself is charged to go against the flow, because it's the only right way to use the abundant life that has been given to me. As G.K. Chesterton wrote, "A dead thing can go with the stream, but only a living thing can go against it."

There's a Monty Python sketch that depicts the World War II-era British Army using a "killer joke" against the Germans—a joke that literally destroys everyone who hears it. I think faith is like the opposite—a joke that, when you're in on it, makes you alive, while everyone who's not in on it decays. What is a joke, after all, but something that makes you smile—at least the first time you hear it—a "sweet savor":

For we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ, in them that are saved, and in them that perish: To the one we are the savour of death unto death; and to the other the savour of life unto life.

In other words, some people get it—and some don't. Faith, like humor, is all about having a sense of the absurd—and feeling deep inside that the people who puff themselves up are the very people who need to come down a notch or three. Especially if that people is oneself.

A century ago, the Times of London, after publishing a series of articles titled, "What's Wrong With the World?", received this letter:

Dear Sir: Regarding your article "What's Wrong with the World?" I am. Yours truly, G. K. Chesterton.

To some of my friends, when I talk about my faith, I'm like the boor at parties who keeps repeating the same tired and offensive joke. I wish they would understand that as sanctimonious as I may seem, the truth is, not only am I in on the joke, but I'm the butt of it as well.

The funny thing is that, now that I understand the meaning of the humor, I wouldn't have it any other way.

"Joy, which was the small publicity of the pagan, is the gigantic secret of the Christian," Chesterton writes in Orthodoxy. "...There was something that [Jesus] hid from all men when He went up a mountain to pray. There was something that He covered constantly by abrupt silence or impetuous isolation. There was some one thing that was too great for God to show us when He walked upon our earth; and I have sometimes fancied that it was His mirth."

Bellow, It's Me

Went to a lovely party last night at Slainte, a great new pub on the Bowery owned by an old friend. There I met Adam Bellow, book editor and author of In Praise of Nepotism. I'd like to share some juicy tidbit that he told me, but I'm afraid I can't. Not because we didn't talk for a while, but because I now realize that I did nearly all the talking. He has the gift of being a good, interested listener, which is one of the reasons for my megasmile.

Another reason is the person behind the camera—my friend Janet Rosen, who squeezed in some party time before rushing off to host her weekly Drinking & Thinking trivia night at Dempsey's Pub. And one of the reasons she makes me smile is also a talented comedian and comedy writer whose jokes appear in a new collection of female comics' zingers, She's So Funny.

Scarborough Fare

The transcript of Tuesday's "Scarborough Country" is up (scroll down to the bottom of that page) and I couldn't be happier or more thankful for the recognition from Joe Scarborough and the show's producers. Here's what Scarborough said about this page on that MSNBC show:

SCARBOROUGH COUNTRY‘s favorite blogs include Wonkette.com and Gawker, of course, InstaPundit, Dawn Patrol, AndrewSullivan, and the ArmedProphet. And the keepers of these blogs mix news stories with political viewpoints and personal stories, which really make blogs most interesting.

Thanks very much as well to fellow bloggers Kevin McCullough, Eric Siegmund, and King of Fools for their good wishes on this Dawn Patrol milestone.

Work on the Wild Side—Part 1

In the spirit of that mythical Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times," I've always gravitated towards interesting and unusual jobs. This is Part 1 of a series recapping the highlights of my long road to the point where I can now get paid to write "HURT IN LINE OF DOODY"."

Age 15 - July-August 1984: Selling hot dogs and pretzels at outdoor rock concerts in Caldwell, N.J.

How I got the gig: Newspaper ad

Pay: $3.35/hour

Memorable moment #1, at a Jerry Garcia Band show:

Me (walking through crowd, holding tray of pretzels): Pretzels! Pretzels!

Stoner (stumbling up to me): Did you say mushrooms?

Me (through gritted teeth): No, I said pretzels.

Stoner (crestfallen, stomping away): Aw, I thought you said mushrooms.

Memorable moment #2, same show:

Me (at a hot-dog stand): Hot dogs!

Particularly skanky stoner: Do you have a pipe?

Me: What?

Particularly skanky stoner (thrusting his cupped hand at my face): I got these buds, see, and I need a pipe to smoke 'em...

Me (loudly): No, sorry we just have hot dogs!

* * *
Age 19 - Summer 1987: Doing office work for Gold Castle/Gold Mountain Records, owned by future Nirvana manager Danny Goldberg.

How I got the gig: Friends with one of the label's artists, the Washington Squares

Pay: $0 (internship)

Memorable moments:

• Payola 101: In those days before SoundScan, one of my jobs was to phone employees of record stores that reported to Billboard, to ask how they were reporting the label's albums' sales for the next week's issue. As some of the employees seemed unduly enthusiastic, it gradually dawned on me that this was how the label (and others no doubt) assigned perks (free records, concert tickets, etc.): Those who said they reported strong sales got rewarded.



• Brushes with celebrity: (1) Answering the phone and hearing former Go-Go's singer Belinda Carlisle give a brusque, "This is Belinda." (2) Arriving at the office one day to find Steve Jones of the Sex Pistols zonked-out in an office chair. His face is almost completely covered by a mass of curly hair—like Cousin Itt. I introduce myself. He grunts and lifts up his arm to shake hands with me through his hair. It's a Spinal Tap moment.

Age 21-22 - Ca. March 1990-July 1991: Hopping from one Warner Communications temp gig to another, including spots at DC Comics, Warner Film, Warner TV, Warner Brothers Records, Elektra Records, Atlantic Records, WEA International Records, East West Records, Lorimar Television, Linda Lavin's production company, and—oh, yes—the 75 Rockefeller Plaza boiler room.

How I got the gig: Went to Warner's Human Resources Dept. and took a typing test on an IBM Selectric, where I had to copy a one-page history of the company that began with the Kinney Shoe Corporation. Waited in their office nearly every morning in hope of work, as my skills weren't great enough for them to call me.

Pay: $8-$11

Memorable moments:

• Stevie nuts: Passing through Atlantic Records' reception area and seeing an employee attempt to placate a bizarre man who insists he is Steve Nicks' husband.



• Elektra complex: Telling an Elektra publicist that I can't get her coffee because I'm not allowed to leave the reception desk. She responds by immediately having me fired.



• Valentinos Day: Answering the phone at some label—they all blurred after a while—and finding Bobby Womack on the other end. All I knew about the R&B legend was that he wrote the Rolling Stones hit "It's All Over Now"—first done by his own group, the Valentinos. That, however, was more than he expected any receptionist to know, so he happily chatted with me for a while—a real delight for this fan of classic pop.
  
  
• Marc his words: Working the reception desk at Atlantic, where an exec feels moved to inform me that his guest, one Marc Cohn, will be a big star. Marc is unassuming and gracious, unlike Marvin Hamlisch, who shows up that same day in a tux and treats me with the utmost disdain.

A big thank you to Joe Scarborough and his producers for the wonderful plug they gave this here blog on tonight's "Scarborough Country." I watched it in the newsroom while working the late shift, and reporters wondered why I was jumping for joy. I'll post the exact quote tomorrow when the transcript becomes available, but I can tell you it was the highest possible praise and I am honored.

The Blogs of War

One of the easiest, most fun, and most attention-getting ways to fill up space in a blog is to have a blog war.

I've had a few blog wars, and they're simple to do. I just find something I disagree with on a stranger's blog, comment on it—without getting personal if I can help it—and link back to it. As a courtesy, I e-mail the other blogger to let him know about my entry, though he's sure to find out anyway.

The blogger will respond swiftly with a counterpunch on his own site— usually upping the ante with personal comments about me— and link it back to my site. Then I'll write the blogger a short note saying thanks for the link, and that's it from my end. I don't feel the need or desire to have the last word.

But apparently that is not the usual way blog wars are done.

The whole idea of a war, after all, is for two sides to battle until one wins. To give up without a fight runs counter to that idea.

Yet, to me, in this instance, giving up is winning. Not only do I get a few extra readers from my adversary's blog, but my adversary, being an inherent believer in fair play—as I find nearly all bloggers are—is surprised and pleased at my allowing his bile to stand unchallenged. Within a mere couple of days, I've gone from knowing of a contrary-minded stranger, to making an enemy, to making a friend.

The whole thing's a fun exercise in the power of forgiveness—my forgiving the other blogger for making personal jabs at me, and the blogger's forgiving me for starting the whole thing in the first place.

If only real life were that easy.

I've been reading up on spiritual strongholds—idÉs fixes, or obsessions that warp one's perspective and prevent one from living out one's faith. One pastor writes that the strongest weapon against such strongholds is forgiveness—the forgiveness that we have received in Christ.

No less an authority than Fred Rogers noted that modeling Christ's forgiveness is the answer to personal resentments. Quoting his pastoral mentor, Dr. William Orr, Rogers told Christianity Today, "'Evil simply disintegrates in the presence of forgiveness. When you look with accusing eyes at your neighbor, that is what evil would want, because the more the accuser'—which, of course, is the word Satan in Hebrew—'can spread the accusing spirit, the greater evil spreads. On the other hand, if you can look with the eyes of the Advocate on your neighbor, those are the eyes of Jesus.'"

What I realized this morning is that forgiveness is not only necessary when we believe another person is actively responsible for having hurt us. It's absolutely necessary if we are pained because someone has not acted the way we hoped he or she would act. I'm talking about the pain that comes from wishing we were loved or cared about by someone who does not love or care about us—whether it be a family member, a friend, or someone who barely knows we exist. However much we know the other person is not at fault, the pain we feel is anger turned inward. And that anger can disappear only through forgiveness.

I have a friend who loves a woman very much, as much as he can possibly love someone who does not feel the same way towards him. She was his first love, and she returned the feelings for a short time. Since then, he has become convinced that she was his last love.

I used to think that my friend was simply tragic—that he was caught early on in a hopeless romantic fantasy which he has never escaped. Now I realize from my own experience (no names, no pack drill) that he may be in the grip of a spiritual stronghold that is deeper and more powerful than mere sentiment. Yet he can escape it if he is willing to forgive the woman.

Forgiveness is terribly hard because it means giving up all our expectations of another person and accepting them as they are—even when they are rejecting us.

That is what Christ did for us—what He did when He made intercession on the cross for those who were responsible for His being there.

Herein is love," writes John, "not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.

"Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another."

John is big on those little articles and pronouns. Remember the all-important "whosoever"? Here we have the "so."

"If God so loved us"—meaning God loved us so much that He sent His Son so we might have forgiveness of sins, even when we did not care about Him or respond to Him. "We ought also to love one another"—meaning that we ought also to forgive, even when the other person does not care about us, respond to us, or give us any hope of reward.

People spend years in therapy trying to forgive themselves. I know because I was one of them. I realize now that if I had only started on forgiving others, I would have discovered I had far less to forgive myself about than I could have imagined.

UPDATED—'Pope' Go the Weasels

Reuters, the "news agency" that claims "one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter," had a story the other day which the Boston Globe headlined "The Pope Speaks Out Against Gay Marriage".

The story began:

Pope John Paul yesterday repeated the Roman Catholic Church's opposition to homosexual marriage, for the first time since Massachusetts became the first US state to allow same-sex weddings.

"Family life is sanctified in the joining of man and woman in the sacramental institution of holy matrimony," he said in an address to visiting US bishops.

Now, it wouldn't surprise me or anyone if the pope came out swinging against gay marriage. But the disturbing thing is that Reuters' report is wrong. The organization used a garden-variety papal pro-marriage speech to paint an unfriendly picture of the pontiff.

Here's how the Associated Press reported the same story, under the headline "Pope Tells U.S. Bishops to Support Marriage":

Pope John Paul II said Saturday the Catholic Church needs to do more to help encourage lasting marriages.
"Many today have a clear understanding of the secular nature of marriage, which includes the rights and responsibilities modern societies hold as determining factors for a marital contract," John Paul said during an audience with U.S. bishops from Texas and Oklahoma. But, he said, some "appear to lack a proper understanding of the intrinsically religious dimension of this covenant."...

His speech on Saturday about family life contained no reference to the debate raging in the United States over decisions by some authorities to allow marriage between homosexuals.

If, as the Associated Press states, the speech contained "no reference" to the gay-marriage debate, then, in Reuters' eyes, the pope, simply by calling marriage "the joining of man and woman," made "opposition to homosexual marriage" the point of his entire speech.

I wonder if it would be possible to extend this exclusionary principle to ordinary conversation. I could say, "One black coffee, please," and Reuters could write, "Dawn Eden Denies Business to Dairy Industry." Or I could say, "Would you like to see 'Shrek 2' Thursday night?" and the headline would be, "Avoid Patronizing Cinemas on Weekend: Eden."

Of course, if I told a man, "Brunch on Saturday sounds good," Reuters would report, "Eden Refuses Nearly Every Man on Earth." And if the man were a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant? Well, you can predict that one: "Eden Refuses Nearly Every Man on Earth: Women, Minorities Hit Hardest."

UPDATE: I hipped James Taranto to the story, and he's written an excellent item about it in today's edition of his Opinion Journal column Best of the Web Today.

TRACKBACK: Dustbury.com's Charles G. Hill picks up the story, adding a couple of enlightening links, including one to the actual text of the pope's remarks, which proves the Associated Press's account was correct.

I just wrote a caption for an artist's rendering of a bridge that will be specially built over Eighth Avenue for the Republican National Convention. The kicker: "PARTY OF LINKIN'".

Monsters' Ball

I usually agree with Kevin McCullough, but I will have to respectfully disagree with him on the issue of dodgeball. Normally I think of Kevin as being an empathetic person, and, indeed, I believe his strong faith makes him work to grow more understanding of others. But it is clear from his World Net Daily article that he, being one of the popular and strong boys, has no concept of what dodgeball is like for an unpopular and clumsy girl. None at all.

When I count my blessings, I usually count the fact that I will never, ever have to go to school again unless I want to. I think I will have to add to that the fact that, in this life, no one will ever force me to play dodgeball against my will again.

I say "in this life." It is only because of my faith that I am certain there will be no dodgeball in my afterlife either.

I regret if this will put me on the other side of Heaven from Kevin. Perhaps we can share a chocolate milk during recess.

TRACKBACK: I got a witness.

It's not even train time, and I've already gotten my first big rush of good feelings today, courtesy of Dan and Angi Lovejoy's incredibly kind and thoughtful words on why I am an enigma.

Dan and Angi, an Oklahoma couple I've never met, have done their best to dispel any enigmas about themselves via their witty "100 Questions" entry. It includes this gem from Angi: "It’s a lot easier to be nice to people with the last name of 'Lovejoy.' I don’t want it to be ironic."

Transitory Pleasures

There are some days when the inspiration just doesn't come. These are times when I feel distanced from the hopefulness and joyfulness that I need in order to reach out to others. I'm left with a shamefaced insularity, something that can go away only with prayer.

You know how, in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Alice tries to reclaim her identity by remembering poems? Every time she tries to recall a verse, it comes out surreal and twisted. "How Doth the Little Busy Bee" becomes "How Doth the Little Crocodile."

In much the same way, I sat down this morning to write an inspirational Dawn Patrol entry, and I wound up writing something which I fear is the dullest thing to grace the Web since the early days of another writer's blog. But I know why I did it. I wanted to reassure myself that, no matter how I feel when I get up today, I will have 13 glorious minutes ahead of me.

Even when life seems empty and ordinary, there is always something to look forward to. And if that something is also the most reliable part of your schedule, then you are doubly blessed.

On an ordinary day, when I have no one special to see and nothing special to do, my favorite part of the day is the 13 minutes when I'm on the PATH train to work.

The ride always goes by too fast. Yet it wouldn't seem as much fun if I got to the station a half-hour early and took an extra round-trip excursion before heading to the office. The delight in the ride is intensified by the fact that the 13 minutes are precious. I do not experience any other segment of time in an ordinary day as fully and intensely as I experience this ride, which seems to be over in a blink of an eye.

I sit in the first car as it's the nearest to the exit of my destination station, 33rd Street. I always try to go for the seat all the way at the very front, as it's right by the front window—where I can gaze at the signals if I'm feeling contemplative—plus there are a few extra inches of elbow room. During the week, I can almost always get away with putting my bags on the seat next to me, as I ride at an off-peak hour.

So far, this is wonderful. I'm sitting with a window view of the train tunnel, I'm spreading out. The driver walks in and if I'm lucky I get a hello. I always feel like a celebrity when a driver says hello to me—more so than with the conductors, since drivers aren't social by nature.

I come equipped with goodies from the health-food store—unsweetened iced herbal tea; tofu jerky; and an outsized, crusty sourdough roll—a good book (today's will be Vol. 1 of the complete "Peanuts"), and the Good Book (King James version).

During the course of the ride, I start on the iced tea and devour the rest of the food—jerky first, then the roll. Eating and drinking isn't allowed on the train, so I do this all discreetly, hoping the conductor will appreciate my efforts to look like I'm not consuming. I've been officially admonished only once in the past few years.

My method to avoid leaving crumbs is to stick my hands into the plastic bag containing the sourdough roll and break the roll into little pieces. Then I gingerly pull the pieces out one by one. It feels good to tear at that thick crust and reach the soft inside, which contrasts with the exterior like the flesh of an exotic fruit.

The good book is opened up simultaneously with the iced tea and tofu jerky. It's orchestrated with all the precision of a ballet. I've done it so many times that it's unconscious, but I can map out the steps for you up to this point:

1) Enter train. Grab front seat.
2) Put purse in elbow-room section. Put book bag and food bag in next seat.
3) Look to see if conductor is watching. If no, take quick swig of iced tea.
4) Open tofu jerky.
5) Cross right leg over left leg. Smile and say "hi" to driver as he walks in and hope for a similar response.
6) Take out good book and open to wherever I left off.
7) Begin eating tofu jerky. Keep taking swig of iced tea when conductor isn't looking.

By now, the train is moving, and I feel the wonderful forward motion. I'm reading in perfect light. No one is sitting near me, no one's bothering me. It's still early enough in the day that the car doesn't smell. The sound of the car is a gentle white-noise—loud enough to drive out other auditory distractions, but muted and steady enough to not be a distraction itself. The tofu jerky and intermittent iced tea is delicious. And the best part is...

...there is absolutely nothing that I have to be doing right now.

I can't pay bills on a train; it's not a good idea to take out my checkbook in public. I can't clean my apartment on a train. I can't even call people on a train—not a PATH train, anyway. And I can't get started at my job of copyediting the latest news articles on a train.

All I can do are my favorite solitary activities in the world—read and eat. Simultaneously.

Nine and a half minutes into the ride, the train hits 14th Street. By this time, I'm actively engaged in breaking up the sourdough roll and savoring the pieces as though they were the last such delicacy I will ever eat in my life. Indeed, they are the best thing I will have until I have another one tomorrow.

If I'm very disciplined, I'll have put away the good book by now. If not, the closing doors at 14th Street are a wake-up call, and I frantically grab my Bible out of my book bag. The last three and a half minutes of the trip are reserved for Bible time.

If I'm feeling all right, I'll just open to where I left off—currently it's 1 John. But if I'm down, I'll pick a psalm and read it carefully.

Too soon I hear the conductor call out 33rd Street. I grab everything, do an "idiot check" (looking back to make sure I didn't leave anything—somehow, an umbrella on the floor will always escape this check), and take my spot at the door so I can pop right out like a petite jack-in-the-box when they open. I'm already wishing I had another sourdough roll.

Finger Tip

"If love is blind, the universe is braille." - Brute Force

In light of the New York City 9/11 commission hearings, I'd like to direct you to an article I wrote recounting my World Trade Center experiences during the summer of 2001, when I was the publicist for the oldies-concert series there.

I have a headline in today's paper about "Martha Stewart Living"'s getting canceled: "Martha's show finely chopped". I was taking the long-ago advice of my friend and fellow copy editor Joshua, who says that the key to writing a good Martha Stewart headline is making a food pun. Joshua's own Martha headline from 2002 (second item down on that page) remains the best ever.

Two for the Road

I am listening right now to Orson Welles's Mercury Theatre production of G.K. Chesterton's The Man Who Was Thursday. Hearing it, I realize more than ever that the story is essentially a modern-day retelling of the Book of Job, but with the physical suffering omitted to focus on the frustration and longing.

I can see why Philip K. Dick cited Chesterton as an influence, for Chesterton spoke directly to Dick's obsession: what makes a person human. For Dick, the answer was empathy. For Chesterton, it was one step further: God's empathy with us.

Suffering, Chesterton says, is a necessity, because we must each engage in our own personal battle with creation in order to discover what it means to overcome the world. Moreover, in experiencing suffering as part of the seeker's experience, we deny the accuser the right to claim that we are detached from the realities of everyday life. And if we are not detached, if we can empathize with the accuser's suffering, then he is shown as a deceiver and a fraud if he cannot empathize with us. That bit of Judeo-Christian theology inspired the empathy test in Dick's novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (which was made into "Blade Runner").

But the point on which Chesterton extended the concept—and on which Dick got lost in exegesis—was that the story doesn't begin with our feeling empathy for others. The story begins with Jesus, the Suffering Servant, taking on our pain, so that whatever we feel, we know He feels it with us. Realizing that necessarily takes away our self-pity. But it also confers strength and hope.

For a person in pain, it's hard when God offers no immediate abatement of the core of the suffering. I'm experiencing this feeling as I write, during a time when, with blessings all around, my faith is nonetheless being put to the test. Yet His presence, even when at its least tangible, always has an effect.

I remember something a dear friend did for me when I was in college and my cyclical, suicidal depression was at its worst. I confessed my sadness to the pal, who decided I should take a round-trip excursion on the Staten Island Ferry with him.

I was sad when we took the trip. I was sad when it was over. But something deep inside me changed just a little, because I realized I couldn't tell myself nobody cared. Somebody cared. Somebody loved me enough to spend time with me when I was no good company to anyone.

We don't know why we feel pain. We'll never know in this life. But we can always be certain that the Son of God is walking through the fire with us.

The Truth in Small Things, Part 17:After the Ball

"Had the most beguiling night with exactly the same subject of which you wrote so beguilingly today," writes my friend Jim, a screenwriter whose chronic lymphocytic leukemia makes his hands stiffen as he types. He's referring to my essay about walking in newness of life.

"I had never known pain like the sort that began in the evening. It was like a grand ball at an embassy—the dress was dazzling and all was dancing. It was just that way of experiencing it that kept me from screaming. Soft moans were heard...like the swirl of petticoats. I now stick my hands under hot water. It is always worth this nonsense writing to you."

Strong stuff, to say the least. Read it again.

I have a hard time stopping myself from reading it over and over. What does it mean? Well, I know what it means. It's a truth that I don't like to face—few people do—yet it's ultimately comforting.

In the midst of one of the most blessed times of my life, I have been suffering from bouts of emotional pain. Unlike past depression, it's neither chronic nor existential—just a reaction to circumstances not under my control. And also unlike the past, I know that it is temporary.

What Jim's words do for me is remind me that, in a strange but real way, I am better for having a new kind of pain.

Think about the saddest people you know—people who suffer from depression, or who keep making the same mistakes. They endure the same kind of pain, over and over, with boredom and ennui adding to the emotional toll.

If you're capable of experiencing a new kind of pain—one which, however torturous, evokes a different kind of feeling than before, that's proof you're still alive, still changing, and still capable of changing your direction.

Objects at rest will remain at rest unless acted upon by an outside force. If a new sensation sets you in motion, the same motion that can take you into worlds of pain can also take you to a better spiritual place.

Nilsson wasn't far off when he explained the circular logic of "Coconut" to me: "The cause is the cure."

This is why God told Moses to raise up the image of a serpent so that people who looked at it would be healed of serpent bites. It's why God showed Moses that he must cast a certain tree into bitter waters to make them sweet—Jewish tradition says that the tree's wood was itself bitter. And it's why Elisha was able to render poisonous stew safe to eat by adding meal.

What this means is that, when a door is opened, one can pass through it in any direction. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit and a contrite heart. When we are broken, that's when God can come in through the cracks. It's the only way that we can be healed on the inside.

POSTSCRIPT: Jim writes to remind me something I'd forgotten when I wrote the above post—that when he wrote to me last week about the "ball," I wrote back quoting 2 Corinthians 12:7-10. That's where Paul describes God's response when the apostle asked the Lord to remove the thorn in his flesh: "My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness."

"I just think your quote from Corinthians 2 was a true balm," Jim writes now, "and I responded:

"That's why it's my dress ball, Dawn—I am aware of the encompassing presence of God in what I am bereft of and what I am overburdened with.    

"Kind of wonderful, ain't it?"

Left Behind

I was at a party last night, sitting next to a friend of mine with whom I try not to discuss my faith. I mentioned I'd been thinking about my punk teenagehood, and someone asked me what had sparked the recollection.

"Well, I heard this sermon about—" I said...

...and right then, my friend got up and left the room.

I hate it when that happens.

Peter says, "If ye be reproached for the name of Christ, happy are ye; for the spirit of glory and of God resteth upon you: on their part he is evil spoken of, but on your part he is glorified."

It's hard to imagine feeling happy about moments like that. I feel quite sad thinking about it now—though more, I'm sorry to say, out of my own feeling of rejection than out of concern for the friend who won't hear. Because regardless of what people say, if Jesus is such a central part of my life, it is a rejection when a friend refuses to hear me speak of Him. Certainly if I talked about the New York Yankees or French cooking once or twice a day, friends wouldn't have such a violent "there she goes again" reaction.

But the interesting thing about Peter's statement is the reason why he says I should be happy: because the spirit of glory and of God rests upon me.

What I think he means is that whenever we talk about God or acts out our faith, it is because God is already touching us and motivating us to do so. So I should be happy because the fact that I am witnessing for Christ means that He is personally touching me.

I have to hold onto that feeling of blessing because the perspective of worldly rejection is sometimes too much for me to bear.

The Truth in Small Things, Part 16:Hugh Don't Own Me

I have discovered an excellent source of wisdom for choosing a person to love and sustaining a love relationship.

Find out what Hugh Hefner does—and do the opposite.

I'm not just saying don't be promiscuous, don't be superficial, don't be an ossified cadaver who has to wear a new bathrobe every day because yesterday's is already permeated with the putrid stench of death and decay. No, there is far more to be learned from Hefner's behavior and attitudes than mere externalities.

He told the New York Post last week, "I'm very attracted to women who resemble women I've been involved with. We do tend to repeat ourselves, whether we are aware of it or not, when it comes to our love mates."

He's right. We do repeat ourselves. And that is A Bad Thing.

Considering how the Bible is the source of tradition, it is surprising to see how many times God stresses the importance of taking part in something radically new.

• Psalm after psalm declares, "Sing unto the Lord a new song."
• The Lord says through Isaiah, "Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it?"
• Paul writes in Romans 6:4 that we should walk in "newness of life."
• In 2 Corinthians, Paul writes "Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new."
• And towards the end of God's word, in Revelations, John writes, "And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new."

I see all of this as good reason for making myself the anti-Hef—not just with regard to love interests, but the world at large. Everyone deserves to be seen as a "new thing," not just a person upon whom I can project my own preconceptions. The successful practice of such a philosophy greatly increases one's enjoyment of life.

The night before last, at 1 a.m., I found myself at the 33rd Street PATH station, where I had time before my train to grab a snack and a read from the newsstand. As I paid for my National Review and Barnum's Animals*, the cashier—a fortyish woman who was probably even more tired than I was—said cheerfully, "Do you know how many different kinds of animals are in each box?"

I didn't.

"You should know," she said, still smiling. "Seventeen."

Now, I don't remember ever having seen this delightful woman before, but it's entirely possilbe that I've given my cash to her many times without ever thinking that she would both know such a piece of trivia and have a sense of whimsy. But you can bet that from now on, I'll look forward to seeing her whenever I'm on my way home.

G.K. Chesterton wrote, "If you look at a thing nine hundred and ninety-nine times, you are perfectly safe; if you look at it the thousandth time, you are in frightful danger of seeing it for the first time."

Playboy magazine is all about continually changing one's object of desire in hope of experiencing a new feeling that is in reality the same as every previous feeling. Love is largely about seeing the same people, day after day, in hope of experiencing a new level of feeling—one that builds upon past feelings, and yet transcends it in both degree and kind.

God's way is much harder than Hef's way. But when it comes down to it, I'd rather have the keys to the kingdom than the Playboy Club Key. For one thing, my membership's prepaid.


*I have no doubt that somewhere, there is a good man who would marry a woman upon hearing that she bought those two items together.

"They Say I'm a Killer"

Last night, at a formal event at New York City's elegant Hotel Pierre, I was introduced to Nobel laureate Dr. James D. Watson, who, along with Dr. Francis Crick, discovered the double-helix structure of the DNA molecule.

I was introduced to the gaunt, aged legend by another scientist, who proceeded to tell Watson about his biomedicals company, which funded work in the genetics field.

Watson interrupted him: "Is your company geared towards research or service?"

The scientist paused for a second, taking in the unusual question. "Research," he answered.

"That's the problem with these companies today!" the Nobel laureate erupted. "Everyone's doing research in genetics and nobody's doing service. Because it's too controversial"—he sneered—"to help mothers so that they can give birth to healthy babies."

My mouth was open wide enough for flies to come in. I was taken aback at the sheer rudeness of the outburst—to see an esteemed scientist speak to an admiring colleague that way. Even worse, I couldn't believe the swiftness with which Watson almost immediately turned the conversation toward his obsession. And I was kicking myself for having forgotten what that obsession was, after reading about it when it hit the newswires nearly a year ago.

Still, if you read a seemingly sensationalistic story on the Web site of an advocacy organization*, you tend to take it with a grain of salt. Call me naive, but I couldn't have conceived the depth of Watson's conviction about the extinguishing of "undesirables" if I hadn't heard it from the legend himself and—I'm very sad to say—seen the expression on his face. I'm afraid it is no coincidence that Watson's institute is based at the same Cold Spring Harbor laboratory where Charles Davenport conducted his sickening, Carnegie-funded eugenics experiments.

"They say I'm a killer," Watson went on, his tired eyes taking on fire. "It's those right-to-lifers."

"They say I'm a killer," he repeated, "and everyone's afraid of offending them." He was still looking at the other scientist. The scientist, whom I know didn't share his views, maintained an attentive silence—partly, I believe, out of gentlemanly respect, and partly out of not wanting to put gasoline on a fire.

But I had nothing to lose. So I took a deep breath, adjusted my jaw so it was back in line with my upper lip, and said, in the gentlest voice I could muster, "I'd love to know more about why you feel that way, as I'm a right-to-lifer myself."

Watson looked me in the eye and told me he was qualified to advocate in favor of mothers choosing to abort "unhealthy" children because he wished he could have aborted his own son, who is mentally handicapped.

He went on, unprodded, to say that he was an "unbeliever," so he was sure he would have had no moral qualms about killing his own child.

It was the same horrible sentiment he expressed to the Australian paper The Age last year:

Declaring "I'm not a sadist", the man who co-discovered DNA said that parents, especially mothers, should have a right of genetic veto over the make-up of their child.

"Any time you can prevent a seriously sick child from being born, it is good for everyone," Dr Watson told The Sunday Age. "Most mothers wouldn't want to have dwarfs."....

He says he has never seen a soul in a test tube.

There was no way that I could argue with him—it wasn't the time or place, and I don't believe I could have swayed him. But I'm sure he could see the emotions on my face—the desire to be respectful, mingled with stifled horror and pity.

I could only wonder what would make someone whose work had brought so much healing decide that the best way to prevent sickness is to kill people.

UPDATES:

• Thanks to Charles G. Hill for writing about this post and adding some insights of his own.


• Andrew Careaga just posted an item about his own encounter with Dr. Watson.

*This link, which is now [as of Oct. 31, 2007] dead) originally led to an article on an ultraconservative Web site accusing Watson of being a eugenicist.

A Good Girl for 22 Minutes

It's true; for 22 minutes today, starting at about 3:30, I will be a Good Girl—a guest on WMCA 570 AM, home of the Good Guys. Kevin McCullough has invited me to talk about how The Dawn Patrol broke the story on Planned Parenthood's Teenwire, which was covered last night on MSNBC's "Scarborough Country." You can hear the show live and replayed all day by clicking the "Radio Free New York button on the WMCA Web site. Wendy Wright of Concerned Women for America may be taking part in the segment as well.

* * *
Wrote a new "Truth in Small Things" last night—and lost half of it in a computer glitch. Perhaps it wasn't true or small enough. Will try again tonight. In the meantime, check out one of the series' highlights, "The Last Temptation of Lamont Cranston," in The Dawn Patrol archives.

I'm a Little Bit "Country"

I'm very happy to announce that, thanks to a TV producer I met who checked out this blog, the Planned Parenthood Teenwire story that I broke late last month is going to be featured on MSNBC's "Scarborough Country" either tonight or tomorrow at 10 p.m. EDT.

If you would like to read my Teenwire posts in order, they are: "Disgusteen," "No 'Wire Sangers Ever," and "Pencil Pushers."

New York Post columnist Ben Silverman penned a hilarious piece for the public-relations industry Web site PR Fuel that describes a reporter's inner monologue. As a copy editor, I fell over laughing at his explanation for the use of the term "spokesperson."

No new personal or inspirational blogging this early morning due to recovery from a day of being very sick (from lunch, I think—I was my usual non-bacchanalian self at Saturday night's POP GEAR!). I hope to have a new installment of "The Truth in Small Things" tomorrow and perhaps something else in the meantime.

Inside Looking Out With Timothy Leary

Rocker Alan Merrill, whose Web site details his fascinating history (and whose version of "Handy Man" got my vote in the 2003 Village Voice critics' poll, is one of the few talented musicians who truly can write prose with as much craft as he writes songs. In the journal that he recently added to his Web site, he shows that he's got plenty of stories to share, including tales of his growing up as an Upper West Side showbiz kid (here's the lady he'll be honoring tomorrow).

Some of Alan's stories have the raciness you'd expect from someone who's had more than a taste of the rock-star life (he wrote the classic "I Love Rock and Roll" and had hits with his own groups throughout Europe and Japan), but his style is subtle rather than salacious. He has a sensitive and analytical mind, and he's more interested in substance than surfaces.

The most popular of all his online tales is "Millbrook, Tim Leary, Richard Alpert, And Me." It's a jarring, ultimately terrifying account of an upstate New York "getaway" that his mother arranged for him after the JFK assassination, which turned into a nightmare when the young teen found himself in the middle of Leary's "experiments." It captures the trade-off that kids of "hip" parents experienced during that era—the excitement of freedom from rules, counterbalanced with the lack of protection from those who would misuse that freedom.

When I grew up in a bohemian Seventies household, my mother tried hard to manage her social relationships so that I would have a degree of independence but still be protected from druggies and anyone who didn't treat children with respect. That was very important to her, and I think she did a good job. But I saw enough of kids who had "freer" households to know that the situation Alan describes was a common one for children of parents who thought they were keeping up with the times.

UPDATED TWICE—Think Pink

My friend and downstairs neighbor Irwin Chusid sends this wonderful time-wasting formula, created by WFMU's Mike Lupica. I haven't tried it yet, but have no doubt it works. Let me know if you get interesting results:

1. Go to http://www.allmusic.com

2. Look up *any* artist or band.

3. By clicking on links in the "roots and influences," "followers," "performed songs by," "influence on," etc., categories, try to get to the artist page for FRIJID PINK in 5 moves.

4. I tried it a bunch of times and was successful every time! I even got there by looking up MC Hammer!

MC Hammer--->(influenced by) James Brown--->(influence on) Wayne Kramer---> (member of) MC5---> (similar to) Frijid Pink

5. Bask in glow of time wasted in front of computer.

UPDATE: By George, it works!

Mariah Carey--->(influenced by) Madonna--->(similar to) Prince--->(influenced by) the Beatles--->(similar to) the Animals--->(followers) Frijid Pink

UPDATE #2: Michael Lynch writes:

Dawn Eden--->(worked with) Michael Lynch--->(worked with) Hilton Valentine--->(member of) The Animals--->(songs covered by) Frijid Pink

Where's the Rest of Me?

I put a tongue-in-cheek line about my disappearance at the end of yesterday's entry, and received a delightful response from my friend Peter Horvath of the Anderson Council that was more than I could have asked for. It references members of a 1960s music group, the Millennium, which I wrote about extensively; my research and love of them defined my life for many years:

To Dawn's Captors-

Please return Dawn to her computer keyboard at once!
I'm afraid that this clone you have replaced her with will start posting images of aborted fetuses on her blogger if we don't stop her!

re: your ransom request

We cannot provide the freeze-dried and powdered relics of Curt Boet(t)cher that you request. We CAN, however, provide a life-sized cardboard cutout of Lee Mallory. Please let us know if this is an acceptable compromise.

Thank You.

-Peter Horvath

So, in the grand Dawn Patrol tradition of "We Play Your Requests," here is a post with no social conscience whatsoever—a long-over "post about nothing," or, rather, about everything, because it's about some of my favorite people in the whole world.

Last Sunday, I had the rare treat of brunch with my friend Jason Frederick, who was visiting from L.A. A wonderful composer of film soundtracks, Jason was in town for the Tribeca Film Festival's showing of a movie on which he'd worked, "2 B Perfectly Honest." (You'll hear an ultra-groovy, Hammond organ-fueled snippet of the film's soundtrack if you visit its site.)

The indie flick boasts an all-star cast that includes John and Aida Turturro, Andrew McCarthy, and two pop-culture icons who haven't graced the big screen in a while—Robert Vaughn and Hayley Mills. Part of it takes place at a Village chess shop that happened to be right across from where we lunched, so I snapped a shot of Jason in front of it.

I met Jason through my longtime pal Dave Rave, and thereby hangs a tale. It's a tale so long, in fact, that after I teased Dawn Patrol readers with this photo a while back, the task of explaining all the wonderful ways Dave's and my life have intersected over the years seemed too huge to attempt, and I backed off. I mean, you try writing 50 words or less about the person who was your best friend when you were 19, whose love and kindness helped you through your darkest times, and who's stayed a devoted friend, regardless of communication gaps or geographical distance, for the 16 years since.

I actually did manage to squeeze the history of my friendship with Dave into 2000 words for my liner notes to his CD Valentino's Pirates. Unfortunately, I don't have the notes in my computer, otherwise I'd post them, but you can read a good summary in Stanton Swihart's excellent biography of Dave on the All Music Guide.

What I can tell you is that the photo above from just before my college graduation on May 18, 1989, shows a 20-year-old me flanked by Gary Pig Gold and Dave Rave outside my NYU dorm on University Place, by Washington Square Park. I was in love with Gary and best friends with Dave. Since Gary and Dave were themselves New Best Friends in the Brian Wilson sense—discovering dynamic musical chemistry as they collaborated intensely on what would become Valentino's Pirates—it was a time of great love and excitement all around. To this day, when Dave, Gary, or I speak to one another about what's going on in our creative lives, if we're trying to describe a current state of hope, wonder, and opportunity, the highest expression we can use is, "It's the feeling like 1989 again."

Last March, I had a beautiful time seeing Dave perform at the Sidewalk Cafe. Afterwards, I posed for this shot with him (left) and Michael Mazzarella, whom I introduced to him in July 1988. Michael, whom I've known since April 1986, is the longtime leader of the Rooks, which I would easily call the most important group to come out of New York City in the past 20 years. By important, I mean that the group's music has great depth, feeling, and artistry. They make albums, not just collections of songs, they're serious without being pretentious, and they draw no distinction between pop and rock. In other words, sparkling, catchy, utterly accessible songs that yet boast layers of musical and lyrical depth.

All of which is much easier for me to write than to say that Michael, too, is one of my favorite people in the world and I love him very much. He also truly saved my life a few times during the years when I suffered from depression, and he lifts me up every time I see him. Being able to be with both Michael and Dave together after having introduced them so many years was the greatest feeling.

The Sidewalk show was a songwriters' night booked by Joe Mannix, who's at the right in this photo with Dave and one of the local indie-pop music scene's greatest supporters (who also has one of the sweetest English accents I know), Jennie Barnett. I've likewise known Joe a long time—I think we met in 1991—and have seen him go from being the moptopped leader of local Britpopsters Oral Groove, to a goateed singer-songwriter who's built an international grassroots following through albums and tours.

Musically, I tend to prefer Joe's earlier, poppier work to his current work, but you have to keep in mind that I don't own any music by Tom Waits or U2. I do absolutely love his voice, which merges the range and depth of a classic Irish tenor merged with the McCartneyesque splendor of Glen Tilbrook. Personally, he inspires me with his enthusiasm for music and his dedicated scene-building—he's one of those rare performers who is also a sincere and devoted fan.

Pencil Pushers

Here are some visual aids to go with yesterday's post about Planned Parenthood's Teenwire Web site. These are all items that Planned Parenthood manufactures for teenagers. The teens receive them through sex educators who buy them at the organization's online store:

The official Planned Parenthood condom lollipop, apparently intended to help young girls make the transition between bobby sox and human papilloma virus.

The official Planned Parenthood Teenwire school-supplies bag, bearing the message, "Being a good partner means having the right tools." Could that be a double-entendre? Let's give the grown-ups who sit in air-conditioned offices (paid for by Planned Parenthood donors) and invent these slogans the benefit of the doubt...for now.

The official Planned Parenthood Teenwire eraser. Its message: "Rub away the confusion." Could that be a double...no, of course not. I've got to get my mind out of the gutter. Planned Parenthood is merely using "hip" language to get the kiddies to learn about birth control.

The official Planned Parenthood Teenwire pen, bearing the legend: "Different strokes for different folks!" Could that be a—a—I cant take it anymore! Of course it's a double entendre! They're all double entendres! Planned Parenthood is hellbent on teaching underage schoolkids that sex is as natural as breathing and should take even less thought.

"DOES SIZE MATTER?" screams the official Planned Parenthood Teenwire ruler. I'm sure the size of donors' wallets matters a great deal to Planned Parenthood, as they're the suckers who subsidize condom lollies and all these other "tools" to supposedly educate kids about birth control.

The sad irony is that, at least with regard to these salacious items, that money is teaching kids neither about birth nor control. It is, however, teaching them no less than four different ways to make bad puns about sex and masturbation. Finally, we all know what Planned Parenthood really wants—a generation of highly sexualized and mildly amusing teenagers. The kind of kids who'll laugh when their condoms break and chortle through their vacuum aspiration.

"I Don't Know, You Naughty Boy, I've Never Keppled!"

My most serendipitous recent blog discovery is Benjamin Kepple's Daily Rant, which yesterday was about "Religious Aspects to Risk." The highly entertaining entry advises a fellow blogger called The Raving Atheist against his plan of using occult means of winning the lottery. I disagree with Kepple over the idea of answered prayers' sometimes being "coincidence"; we may misread God's motives in answering them, but it's God's decision whether or not to allow them to come true. Even so, I'm getting taken in by the writer's ultra-erudite turn of phrase, which would be inexcusable in one less witty. When he's at his best, he takes the decadent tools of irony and points them back at the ironists themselves.

Joy Meets Girl

I can't think of a better way to start your Sunday than reading "Against the Flow," a post by Christy, a k a Reckless Writer. She is onto some beautiful and exciting truths, as well as real joy. God bless her!

Today's New York Times contains a disturbing op-ed by David Brooks, "Sex and the Cities," on the very same subject I coincidentally described early this morning in "Sex and the Seedy" (below). The link to read Brooks' story requires registration, so here are a few choice paragraphs:

Sexual marketplaces are a rapidly expanding feature of society, and they are becoming more distinct from marriage marketplaces. Furthermore, as the sex markets become bigger and more efficient, people have less incentive to get married. As the scholars Yoosik Youm and Anthony Paik write, "Opportunities in the sex market act as constraints in the marriage market."

The big problem here is that there is an overwhelming body of evidence to suggest that marriage correlates highly with happiness. Children raised in marriages tend to have more opportunities than children raised outside marriage.

Overall, Americans are spending much less time married. They marry later and divorce at high rates, and remarry less and less. We are replacing marriage, one of our most successful institutions, with hooking up. This is a deep structural problem, and very worrying.

On weekdays, when I have the most readers, I try to keep my writing to things I know. On the weekends, I step out and write more about what I feel. I did that last night, hoping for a response, and got just the kind of thoughtful one I desired, from Will (see below). If you have any thoughts you'd like to share about what I write, please feel free to write to me (dawn -at- dawneden.com). If I feel your words express a truth that augments or amplifies what I've written, as Will's did, I may print them. I may also print them if I disagree strongly enough that they inspire me to make a point I haven't made before. Or I may not use them at all and just zip you a thank-you. Such is the luxury of not having a "comments" function on my blog. But I am interested in anything you might have to add.

UPDATED WITH RESPONSE: Sex and the Seedy

Today's subject is casual sex and what it does to the spirit.

Inside every "Yes" is a "No."

If you say "Yes" to having a certain person as your very best friend, you are saying "No" to having room in your heart and time in your day for another person in your life to have that level of imporance.

As all children know, if you say "Yes" to eating dessert at the start of dinner, you are saying "No" to eating it at the end of the meal.

Most of all, whatever you say "Yes" to at the very end of the day, be it a person, a good book, or something to eat or drink, you are saying "No" to any other outside stimulation until morning.

I find that much of my everyday life is spent trying to forget the sour taste in my mouth. When the last decision I made is a regrettable one, I often try to think back to my second-to-last decision, even obsessing on it, in the hope that I could get back into that same situation and not make that very last decision.

This, as the Preacher would say, is vanity.

It's why I have a hard time believing anyone when they tell me that they are completely happy indulging in casual sex.

When I think back to my own experiences, I have such pleasant memories that, if I were to focus only upon them, I would want to repeat those experiences endlessly.

But when I accepted Jesus, one of the gifts He gave me was 20/20 hindsight.

Now I don't just think of the kiss. I think of the horrible urgency, the sickening "it's now or never" feeling. And it turns my stomach.

There is something in the very nature of casual seduction that makes one feel used. The feeling that, if one hesitates, if one fails to give the right cues, if one doesn't make eye contact at just the right point, one will lose the other person's interest.

If I'm attractive, I should be attractive yesterday, today, tomorrow, next week, next year. I shouldn't have to do a dance in order to make one person choose me over others when the prize is measured in minutes and hours.

I know that some people enjoy that dance and look upon it as a challenge. I have myself. Yet, even if a dance results in pleasure, how soon it becomes transactional.

All casual sex is transactional. For lovers of casual sex, the highest level the experience can attain is the level where the transactions move so swiftly and seemingly effortlessly as to be almost unnoticeable—like a car with EZPass gliding through a toll booth. But they can never be entirely unnoticeable.

Sex between a man and woman who are married in mind, body, and soul is as different from transactional sex as the companionship of your best friend is from that of your company's human-resources director. A loving life partner gives without expectation of receiving back in kind. Instead of a series of toll bridges, sexual union becomes, in the immortal words of Phil Phillips, a "Sea of Love.

This is why casual sex is so insidious. By saying "Yes" to casual sex, one does more than just say "No" to being respected or being treated like anything higher than a body with all kinds of exciting bells and whistles. Giving assent to casual sex reinforces a mindset where one thinks of all of life as being "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours," "use or be used, "sweet dreams are made of this," and so on.

And if you don't agree, think upon the people you know who would think nothing of letting a stranger use their body, and try to think of how many of them are truly happy. The stranger may return the body in good condition, but the mind and soul comes back with one less "Yes"—and one more night of cynical transactions to run through their memory's self-censorship machine.

UPDATE: Will Duquette responds:

Speaking as a married Christian with four kids who knows (honestly) nothing whatsoever about casual sex but has considerable experience with the other kind, I've got a couple of comments about your recent posts.

First, you're still buying into the "love and romance" thing, even if you're placing it in the context of marriage. Love is not a prerequisite for marriage, as thousands of years of human experience witness. (I admit, I'd rather marry for love than otherwise, and I did, but it isn't essential.) As Lewis puts it somewhere, there's nothing wrong with a couple choosing to marry each other for the sake of mutual help, procreation of children, and preservation of chastity--because, of course, sex within marriage isn't unchaste. I'll grant you, there needs to be a minimum level of mutual respect. But the essential thing seems to be that they cleave to one another and forsake all others.

So while love and romance are a good thing, one of the things God gives us to enjoy, they aren't the only thing or the most important thing. The error that you're preaching against in these posts, more than anything else, is the idolatry of sex. And sex can be set up as an idol within marriage just as easily as it can be outside of marriage, and with even more disastrous consequences.

Marriage is, in one sense, all about sex; but being married is only marginally about sex. People are inclined to treat sex like dessert; I'd say that it's more properly viewed as gravy. It flavors and improves the rest of the meal--but it can't stand by itself.

Of course, had I said this to myself in the days before I was married, I doubt I'd have believed me. :-)

UPDATE #2: My beloved mom has thoughts on this subject, which I've put in a separate post.