Dirty Laundry, Revisited (Again)

© David Hartman

      Following is a December, 2009 entry from my very short-lived blog, "Grace Thru Faith." Since I haven't posted here in awhile and since this post sadly still is relevant, I thought I'd offer it here.

     She wasn’t wearing a bra to the party. I reckon I should be embarrassed to say that’s what first caught my attention.

     What she did wear that mid-December day was a thin t-shirt. Many stains and much wear from new, the once-white garment now wouldn’t pass even for off-white. Closer to beige, really. Sitting a table near mine at this community celebration of Christmas, she was flanked by noisy, impatient children who just wanted the meal to pass so Santa would come.

     She was one of the guests of honor at the event. She and more than a hundred other folks from this low-income community north and east of Oklahoma City were gathered that day for a Christmas lunch, followed by gifts for the children. The party was a joint effort culminating the generosity of dozens of families and volunteers, spearheaded by a remarkable old lady who understands how God has blessed her life — a woman who has mastered turning gratitude into passion, passion into action.

     After the meal, the dozens of anxious children would get their gifts. Large, wrapped boxes with new clothes, new shoes and new coats. No hand-me-downs today. And new toys.

     So the woman’s wardrobe choice for this special event bothered me. Fifteen years later, I still can see that thin, dirty t-shirt like it was yesterday.

     I was there as a reporter, an impartial observer to this incredible act of kindness toward folks more often overlooked than embraced by society. But I wasn’t really impartial. I was indignant, almost angry.

     All this work, I thought. The months of planning and soliciting donations and the hundreds of volunteer hours that surely went into turning this dream into a good, filling hot meal and a big box of presents for her kids, and this broad can’t even bother to throw on a bra and a clean t-shirt for the party.

     I remembered that t-shirt today because frankly I don’t think I can ever forget it. Not because of the stains or for what wasn’t worn underneath. It’s a symbol that reminds me of the moment I realized how little I resemble Jesus.

     Her dirty shirt disturbed me because before I left home, I chose from one of several clean, pressed dress shirts to wear to the assignment. Around my collar dangled one of the dozen or more neckties that clutter an entire dresser drawer.

     But what if?

     What if, judging her from my comfortable, middle-class perspective, I actually misjudged her? What if the woman didn’t really pick the rattiest rag she had to wear to the party? Maybe she wore it because it was the nicest thing she had.  Is it possible she didn’t wear a bra that day because she didn’t have one? This was an event to help needy folks, after all. What did I know about how “needy” feels?

     Just maybe  she really was as humiliated to be seen in public as I thought she should be. And maybe she came anyway because well, they’re her children, and this was a Christmas she couldn’t otherwise give them.

     I remembered that party today during my Plan-B lunch. Grilled chicken breast and potato-bacon soup. Lunch was going to be my leftover Mazzio’s Pepperolis, which I brought to work in the takeout pizza box and put in the company fridge. You buy Pepperolis by the dozen. Six were last night’s supper, the other six would be today’s lunch.

     During my morning break, I went to the fridge to sneak one of my six Pepperolis, just to tide me over. But there were only four in the box. Someone enjoyed the other two without asking. At lunchtime, I went back for the remaining three. The box was empty.

     At first, it ticked me off. I called the thieves unsavory names under my breath. Steal a lunch, get caught, get fired. I plotted revenge. That bottle of habanero powder I keep in the cupboard could set a nice trap, I schemed. Wait a few days, leave some more Pepperolis dusted generously with habanero powder in a box in the fridge…and wait.

     But sometime during that chicken breast, I remembered the t-shirt. By my standards, the last year has been lean. I was fired in March, spent months unemployed, and when I did get another job, it wasn’t at the pay grade I believe my years in the work force should dictate. Yet never have I been close to having to steal in order to eat. Maybe my lunch really was taken by some punks working the system like I want to believe. Or maybe it was taken by someone who really needed something to eat and had nothing. Regardless, I had eight bucks and change in my pocket, more than enough to buy another lunch better than the one taken from me. I won’t be hungry today, even for a few hours.

     The t-shirt and now the chicken breast are reminders. They warn me that I still don’t see other people and situations the same way Jesus does. Too often I want to believe the worst about people. I want to ignore that there are so many who would give anything to have the “problems” I face.

     God help me.

Remembering 9/11. Quietly.

© David Hartman

     I was offended Friday night when I went to Quail Springs Mall on my lunch break. On every table down in the food court were little paper advertising tents urging me to develop a plan for how I was going to celebrate the 10th anniversary of 9/11. The tents encouraged me to take up a cause, post on Facebook and other social media and essentially make a public spectacle of the milestone anniversary.
     I'll do none of that, thank you very much.
     I know I'm in the minority here. I don't really care. 
     Unless I spend the days leading up to 9/11 under a rock, I have no doubt I'll know the significance of Sunday, September 11.
     The local car dealer on Broadway that lowers its dozens of large flags for any remotely sad reason whatsoever surely will remind me.
     The media, more adept at creating news than reporting it, won't let me forget, either. Already, this weekend's edition of "USA Today" was page after page after page after page of 9/11 filler. Nine days out. Page after page after page. What is next weekend's paper gonna be like?

Knock yourself out. But I'll pass.

     Let's just hope the Pope doesn't die or the president doesn't get shot next Saturday. Would hate for newspaper editors all over the country to wrestle with the agonizing decision of what goes above the fold Sunday: old news or new news?
     Folks are going to remember however they want to remember. But I will not give any of the still-living terrorists complicit in the events of that day the satisfaction of knowing that I dwell on what they did. I will not extend their 15 minutes of "fame" by another 5,256,000 minutes, and in doing so encourage others who would execute similar attacks on my country.
     Any "remembering" I do will be internal. Externally, I will go about my business as if the day is the same as any other. We'd send a much stronger message to would-be terrorists if everyone in America would do the same. Knowing that most of my friends will disagree and that my Facebook feed will be flooded with post after post about 9/11 and what I should re-post or do if I'm a true American, I'll try to exercise uncharacteristic snark restraint next week.
     But I make no promises.

Mavis Gets Around

© David Hartman

     What do you do when you're overdue for a blog post but lack inspiration? You go looking for it.
     So I checked the Spam on Wry playlist to see what the next scheduled track was, and discovered it's Roger Dunnam's a cappella version of the old C.W. McCall classic "Old Home Filler' Up and Keep On Truckin' Cafe." You should be listening to it now, unless by the time you read this another blog entry has been posted.

     It reminded me that I haven't blogged about camp. There's a number of reasons for that, I suppose, not the least of which is the fact that I'm still processing it internally. But I can't listen to Cafe without thinking of camp. It takes me immediately to pine trees and sunsets on the ridge. To roasted, buttered sweet corn and grilled bratwurst -- God's perfect, complete meal-gift to mankind. It puts me back around the campfire with kingdom kinfolk and Roger's guitar.

     I try to set my surroundings with little reminders of the camp in Wisconsin, so I don't forget. Not that I ever could. It's too big a part of my past. There's the little jar of sand and charcoal on the bookcase in my bedroom. Usually it's enough to just look at it and remember. When I need something more, I'll take a pinchful of the sand and sprinkle it between the bedsheets before bed. The next morning, put a little dab in my socks -- down around the toes. By lunchtime, I've had all the reminder of camp I can stand for a day or two.

     There's the ring of colored beads from staff meetings long ago attached to my Bible cover. The dozen or so WCYC t-shirts I own and wear nearly every day. The Norske Nook coffee mug on the dresser. There's even the lyric from Cafe: "Now we've been everywhere between here and South Soux, and we've seen us a truckstop waitress or two, but this gal's built like a burlap bag full of bobcats -- she's got it tooogether" that I've cut and assigned as a ringtone and SMS notification tone for one of the folks in my Android's contact list. Whenever she calls or texts, I'm reminded of camp. And also that I need to check my phone.

     But this year was different. I went back to camp for the first time in three years, but I didn't go to Wisconsin. I worked in the kitchen at church camp here in Oklahoma.

     Different role. Different place. Didn't really feel like camp at first.

     Don't get me wrong -- it was tremendously rewarding. In some ways more rewarding than any session I can remember in a long time. I love to cook, so I got to do what l love three times a day for a whole week. I got to do it with some terrific people. But most of the time, it felt more like cooking for a group than being at camp. Part of it was the oppressive triple-digit heat and the fact that after spending several hours in a hot kitchen during the day, I wasn't overly motivated to spend much time in the hot outdoors when air-conditioned indoor options were available. Sign of my age, maybe.

     So it wasn't until midweek that it really hit me. I came in the back door of the dining hall, into the kitchen to get a jumpstart on supper. Through the wall dividing the kitchen and dining hall, I could hear them. And it was just as amazing as I remembered:

"When the oceans rise and thunders roar, I will soar with you above the storm.

Father, you are king over the flood. I will be still and know you are God."

     A hundred camper voices in song. And they sound just as good in Oklahoma as they do in Wisconsin. Bit twangier, maybe, but just as sweet. In that moment, I was back at camp. In that moment, the three-year wait was worth it.

     At this camp, kids got baptized. At the end of the session, kids cried. They didn't want to go home. There's a Facebook page of camper after camper declaring that 2011 was the best session of camp. Ever. Just like in Wisconsin.

     In all that I found peace. Fresh hope for another 20 years.
     And I found I don't have to go all the way back to Black River Falls just to look for Mavis.

Madison Avenue Meets the Youth Group Devo: Imagine That

© David Hartman

     A few weeks ago, a Facebook friend posted a status that sparked considerable back-and-forth about 7-11 worship songs. It's a fight I wanted to drag my dog into, but I was at camp. With spotty internet access there, I didn't want to start something I might not be able to finish.
     So I'll start it here, because it's my blog. Because I can.
     If you're unfamiliar with the catchphrase, "7-11" refers to the genre of worship songs or "chants" that consist of little more than seven-word phrases that we repeat 11 times -- presumably in case God weren't paying attention the first 10. You can probably already figure out my general take on the genre.
     But before you -- my tens of loyal blog readers starved for a fix -- attack me too viciously in comments, know up front that I own and listen to copies of all of Free Indeed's "Sing a New Song" CD series. Own and listen to most of Zoe. I'm hip to Watershed, Revival and Acappella. Once I get a definitive answer to whether the redeeming blood covers even this, I might admit to owning and loving Richland Hills' stuff, too. I'm not against new songs or new concepts in praising through song per se.
     I would never judge a songwriter's heart or his or her relationship with God. I don't doubt sincerity. But let's be honest: "I lift my hands" is a real nice sentiment about bridging the gap between mortal worshipers and an immortal, almighty God. Stringing the phrase together half a dozen times in a row and calling it a song, however, is lazy. Even if you're too polite to call it lazy, I bet we can agree it's not exactly in the same league as turning Psalm 148 into "Hallelujah, Praise Jehovah." That's a classic hymn, complete with a catchy chorus and enough verses so that, if we need to rush through our praise to be home in time for kickoff, we can omit a verse or two without turning the whole hymn into mush. Try omitting a repetitive phrase from a 7-11 chant and see how that works for ya.
     Songwriting is a discipline, just like any other form of good writing. If you want me to spend some time singing it, spend some time writing it. Get the inspiration on paper, then put it away awhile, chew on it and come back to it with fresh eyes. Pray over it. Find another good writer or writing coach to bounce it off of. Take suggestions. Rewrite. Rewrite again. In the end, you'll probably come up with something more rewarding and meaningful -- maybe even a classic we'll still be singing 100 years from now.
     What brought all this up? Why the rant? It's that maddening Target back-to-school jingle I hear on TV every stinkin' time I walk into the breakroom at work. It has 7-11 written all over it, and it makes me want to choke the life out of someone.
     It's not a deep jingle. Jingles aren't supposed to be. But they don't have to be stupid, either. The Target jingle includes these great insights: "Imagine sunshine always shining" and "Imagine this, imagine that. Imagine this, imagine that. Imagine that. Imagine that."
     Tell you what: Rather than me imagining sunshine always shining, how about if I imagine sunshine not shining. Would it still be sunshine? Sunshine not shining is darkness. Period. Sunshine, by definition, shines. Always.
     If you want to stretch my imagination, ask me to imagine a piece of tofu becoming a 14-ounce slab of prime rib, medium rare, with a cup of au jus for dipping. But don't ask me to imagine the sun shining.
     Then we get to the whole 7-11 "imagine" part at the end of the jingle. Here's what I imagine whilst imagining this and that: I imagine that Target hired some advertising firm to come up with this "jingle," and that some schmuck in a suit spent all of 10 minutes writing it. The jingle isn't 30 seconds long, and fully half of it is about sunshine shining and imagining this and that. Where do I apply to get that job?
     I also imagine the jingle cost Target six figures. And I imagine they passed that buck to me in the form of higher prices for the junk on their shelves. Now Target gets to imagine me buying underwear elsewhere.
     I'm done ranting. Your turn. Take your shots at me over the whole lazy church songwriting issue. I'm okay with that.
     In fact, you could even say I have a peaceful, easy feeling. And I know you won't let me down. 'Cause I'm already standin' on solid ground.

Breaking the Fast

© David Hartman

     Some random thoughts after a month of blog inactivity which we'll chalk up to a lack of creativity and motivation:
     This part of the country has seen its share of disaster in recent weeks, from flooding to the devastating tornadoes, particularly in Joplin, Missouri. The stories of the victims are sad. It's equally tragic whenever anyone loses a life in a disaster like these, whether they're young or they're old.
     The great thing about living in this part of the country is how people respond to disasters and tragedy. Oklahomans are a pretty generous lot at times like this. So I wasn't surprised when I drove past a group washing cars at a corner on Broadway Extension last week. They were raising money to help the family in Piedmont who lost two young children in last week's tornado.
     What did surprise me was seeing the washers holding up poster-sized signs of the faces of the dead children to advertise the car wash. It was -- to me anyway -- a bit over the top. Exploitation.
     I've been known to drive into these car washes just to give money when the cause is good or the bikini catches my eye, even if I didn't need or want my car washed. But I didn't pull into this one. Not sure why, but I think it had something to do with the advertising. I'm still sorting all that out in my head.

...

     Speaking of the Joplin tornado, several of my Facebook friends (who also are real-life friends) are aghast that the Westboro Baptists will be demonstrating at the memorials there. We've walked this Westboro road before in the blog, so you know where I stand on the issue. If you don't, go here.
     I understand folks not liking the Westboro Baptists. What I don't understand is Christians suggesting the way to handle that group is to repay evil with evil. The way to handle these folks is not to try to silence them. The soldiers who died at the funerals they routinely protest did so to protect -- among other things -- the right of the Westboro Baptists to say what they have to say. When living people try to deny that right, soldiers die in vain. When Americans deny that right, we're a textbook example of a house divided against itself.
     The best way to minimize the impact of this small group of fanatics is to wait until they leave, then go in behind them and clean up the mess, showing people what real Christianity looks like. In the big picture, they're not big enough, credible enough or effective enough to threaten the kingdom.

...

     A few weeks back, we had a visit from my cousin, Kim, her husband, John, and daughter, Sarah, who were in town so Sarah could check out Oklahoma Christian as a potential college choice for the fall. It's always good to visit with kinfolk, particularly as scattered as we are throughout the country.
     In a conversation we had during the visit, I learned something about my immediate family that I hadn't known before. When I was pretty young, five-ish I'm guessing, we were supposed to have a baby. When the time came, mom and dad went to the hospital. My sister and I went to stay with grandparents. I remember someone telling me that the baby we were supposed to have was born dead. I remember mom and dad coming home without this brother or sister I was supposed to be getting. I remember things being kind of sad for awhile, but at that age, it didn't take me long to move on. I didn't really miss what I never knew.
     The "revelation" came when the Geezer was talking with Kim and John about how the baby had severe defects, and how long it took mom to get over so many people telling her that in the long run, the baby being born dead was a "blessing" from God.
     I suppose my folks made the decision not to talk at the time about the baby's defects to protect me from something I probably wouldn't understand, anyway. But I'm surprised that in the four decades that have passed, it never came up in any conversation that I can remember.
     So with that kinda stewing in my brain for a few weeks now, I have been particularly impacted by the journey of Joy and Stephen Colwell. I don't claim to be particularly close to them now, though I'm familiar with Joy and her family. Joy was a camper at Wisconsin Christian Youth Camp, where I counseled for many years. Her siblings also were campers, and her dad worked a two-week session I was a part of years ago. They're good people, all of them. They're God people. What I most remember about Joy is her infectious smile. It's one of dozens of smiles permanently etched in my memory from my years there.
     On Monday, Joy and Stephen will have a memorial service for their daughter, Maggie, who died just 26 days after birth. Born with multiple major health issues, Maggie never came home from the hospital, and was on life support her entire life from minutes after birth.
     I've been moved by their story, which has been chronicled on a blog. I can't wrap my mind around two young parents having to make the decision to remove life support from their infant daughter and give her back to Jesus.
     I've been impacted most by the outpouring of love and support the family has received during this time, the prayers offered up on their behalf. It's God's people, the way they were meant to be. It's the church Jesus died to create alive and well a couple thousand years later. It's as much the words and hands of Jesus as anything you'll read in the gospels.
     Forty years ago, people told my parents they were "blessed" by not having to fully endure what Joy and Stephen have been through. Better for us to not have to know and possibly raise a child that would never be "normal."
     But it's clear to me that throughout the tears and heartache and helplessness, God has blessed Joy and Stephen immensely in Maggie's short life, even if we don't understand the "why."
     Still don't believe there's a God who loves and blesses and sustains his people? Spend a few minutes here.

Of Henry Rathbone and the President

© David Hartman

     I have to be careful here, otherwise I could easily re-title this blog: "Everything I Ever Needed to Know I Learned From 'Homicide: Life On the Street.'" But all the fuss over the Obama birth certificate brought this little exchange between Det. Meldrick Lewis and Det. Steve Crosetti to mind. And it made me chuckle.
     Crosetti, played by Jon Polito, is an avid Lincoln conspiracy theorist, and while they wait for a shooting victim to regain consciousness so they can interview her, Crosetti shares his latest theory with Lewis (Clark Johnson.)
     I'm frankly amazed that the whole Obama birth certificate mess ever grew to the proportion that it did. It was brought up before the election, and the opposing political party spent considerable effort then to prove that Obama wasn't a United States citizen. They couldn't do it. Now halfway through a miserable term in office, critics of the unpopular president are grasping for anything they can to run the man out of office, including resurrecting this non-story.
     More amazing to me though is that even after Obama released his birth certificate -- which he didn't have to do -- the issue hasn't died. Those who still don't want to believe claim the document is a fake. In their minds that makes Obama even more sinister than they originally thought and adds more fuel to their unquenchable fire to get the man out of office. They also want to question college transcripts and anything else they can think of to drive farther down the dead-end road of impeachment.
     And that's just sad.
     I'm not an Obama apologist. I'll go on record to say that I'm a Democrat who crossed party lines in the last presidential election for no other reason than to avoid voting for Barack Obama. But the man's not sinister. He's not trying to make America a Muslim nation. He's an American just like me. An American who loves his country, but is incompetent to lead it. That's no surprise to anyone who did any research before the election. His record in public office before the presidency shows a lot of base building toward a run for the presidency, but very little actual leadership in solving any problems. He's a fine orator, just not a leader. Too many Americans fell for the soundbites rather than looking at the record.
    Fool us once, Barack Obama, shame on you. Fool us twice....
    And that just may happen, despite the president's unpopularity at the moment. So here's a thought, GOP: rather than trying to undo history -- which isn't going to happen -- how about focusing your efforts instead on grooming a viable, electable candidate to oppose the president in the next election? Donald Trump? You're joking, right? Sarah Palin? Good luck with that.
     Time's a wastin'. Give me a better choice and I'll cross party lines a second time.
     But I'm not going to waste my time believing the impossible: that Barack Obama became president without having to show anyone his birth certificate along the way. Heck, I can't even get a job in a call center paying a lousy few bucks over minimum wage without having to show mine.

Cam, Cam, Everywhere a Cam

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Where Are All the Men In This Town?

© David Hartman

     I'm not a movie or T.V. critic. I'm not trained that way, and I simply don't watch enough of either to keep up with the latest shows.
     I'm a writer, and I know good writing when I read it or see it. That's why I'm such a big fan of the old drama series Homicide: Life on the Street.
     The episode "Every Mother's Son" from season three and written by Eugene Lee, is one of my favorite episodes in the series primarily for two segments of the show. A clip of one of those segments is cued for you above. The video quality isn't the greatest, and you'll have to scroll down again and turn off the dinner music so the audio from the video clip doesn't play over the music.
     In the clip are two scenes of two mothers -- Patrice Sayers and Mary Nawls -- interacting quite by accident in the "fishbowl" of the homicide unit of the Baltimore City Police Department. Between those scenes is a cut to the ongoing interrogation of 14-year-old Ronnie Sayers, who shot and killed Mary Nawls' son, Darryl. That scene isn't important to this post, but I was too lazy to edit it out and merge the bookend scenes together. That I don't know how to do that also is a factor in you getting the bonus scene.
     Mary Nawls finds herself at the homicide unit to talk to detectives about her son's murder, and is sent to the fishbowl to wait for the detective to see her. Patrice Sayers wanders into the fishbowl after Darryl has detectives escort her from his interrogation. At 14, he's a man now, and anxious to prove he doesn't need his mommy anymore.
     It's only by accident that a victim's mother and a suspect's mother would be allowed to be together in that situation, but the power of the story is that to this point, neither Mary or Patrice know the connection they share. Soon enough they will, and how they come to terms with that is the driving story of the episode.
     In the meantime, they're just two grieving mothers who form a bond as they wait and wonder where it all went wrong.
     "Where are all the men these days? That's what I want to know."
     That's Patrice's question, and it's one I thought about Sunday in church as I read the snippet in the bulletin about all the upcoming women's programs at area churches. There's like a half a dozen of them in Oklahoma City in the next few weeks.
     I've got nothing against women's church programs and such. I just don't think they're needed nearly as badly in our churches and families and communities today as programs and seminars to teach men how to be men. Husbands how to be husbands, and fathers how to be fathers.
     As a group, women seem to have it much more together than men today. And men not having it together is the main reason why our society has become such a mess.
     I'm one of those people who believe that most of the moral and social problems we face today can be traced directly to the breakdown of the traditional family. I'm not gonna spew statistics, but the numbers are there if you want to look for them.
     Over the past several decades, unplanned, out-of-wedlock teen pregnancy has steadily increased. It's to  the point now where we're overrun with unplanned children born to parents either unwilling or unable to care for them. No one ever heard of anorexia or bulimia 50 years ago. Gang activity, drug abuse, suicide -- all way up. I don't think it's a coincidence that also on the rise during that time has been the divorce rate and the number of households that only have one parent from the get-go.
     But don't be fooled into thinking that the increase in divorce and single parenting is the only cause of the breakdown of the traditional family. The number of two-parent dysfunctional households also is alarming. And it's probably more disturbing, because the intentions that precede the dysfunction often are noble and good.
     Parents want to provide a better standard of living for their kids. Nothing wrong with that. So mom goes off to work, and kids go to daycare or come home from school to teenage babysitters or empty homes with televisions until one of the parents gets home from work.
     Parents want their kids to be smart. They want them to be successful and well adjusted and social. What parent wouldn't want that? To jumpstart that process, at an earlier and earlier age there's soccer and baseball and basketball and band and scouts and tutoring and youth groups and dance and clubs and cheerleading and volunteering and piano lessons -- all of it good stuff, mind you. Unless there's so much of it that Johnny's never home. Without balance, Johnny grows up to be smart and popular and successful and he marries Jane who is equally smart and popular and successful. And they make babies without the slightest clue how to parent them because neither one of them spent enough time at home as kids to learn how the whole parenting thing is supposed to be done.
     Even in stable, two-parent homes, kids can't model what they're not home to see.
     I know it sounds hokey and old-fashioned. I know Hollywood doesn't make things easier by glamorizing violence and sex and general moral decay. But if the downward spiral is going to stop, it's going to stop at home.
     And men are going to have to rise to that challenge. No more running from babies and families.
     We're going to need dads who take their kids to church, then bring them home to God's other house.
     We're going to need more men who teach their sons how to treat and respect women by showing them how dad treats mom. We need more fathers to teach daughters that real love has nothing to do with shapes and sizes and that your best gifts are never worth trading for the cheap imitations that pass for love today. We need more dads with the gumption to teach that right is right, wrong is wrong, and shades of gray are a myth. We're going to need dads willing to set limits and teach kids that that life isn't all about you by living lives that aren't all about themselves.
     Superheroes that fight the evil in this world. We could use some real X-Men in this town. 

When Punishment Doesn't Fit the Crime, It's Probably a Lethal Injection

© David Hartman

     Jimmie Ray Slaughter was the babydaddy.

     But Jimmie didn't want to have to pay child support for his mistake, and when Melody Sue Wuertz -- the child's mother -- threatened to sue for child support, Slaughter visited Melody and baby Jessica Rae at their Edmond, Oklahoma residence.

     He shot Melody in the neck to incapacitate her. It was a trick he'd learned in the military. It would keep her alive and conscious, so she could watch. And know. Then he went to baby Jessica, just days short of her first birthday, and shot his daughter in the back of her head -- execution style -- while her paralyzed mother watched.

     Having dispensed of the main problem, he returned to Melody, still very much alive, and filleted her like a fish, cutting her open from the neck all the way down until finally she bled to death on the floor.

     Katherine Ann Busch was born with some mental challenges, and when the seven-year-old rode her bicycle past the Yukon, Oklahoma apartment where she and her mother used to live, the girl got off her bike and knocked on the door. Floyd Medlock was alone inside the apartment watching cartoons at the time.

     Medlock invited the girl inside the apartment and fed her some macaroni and cheese. Then he "snapped," he later told police. Or at least one of his personalities did. So Floyd choked Katherine, stabbed her in the back of the neck with a steak knife, and held her head underwater in the toilet until she was dead. Then he stripped her, raped her corpse and tossed it in a nearby dumpster.

     Michael Long had a love jones for single mother co-worker Sheryl Graber. She wasn't interested in him. Not that way. After several attempts to talk Graber into bed, Long decided to give her one more chance.

     So he went to the apartment where Graber lived with her five-year-old son, Andrew. When she refused to put out on her last chance, Long took a knife from his coat and stabbed Sheryl more than 30 times in the doorway of the apartment. Trying to help his mother, Andrew got between her and Long. He too was stabbed to death in what former Oklahoma Attorney General Drew Edmondson called the bloodiest crime scene he'd ever visited.

     For their crimes, Jimmie Ray Slaughter, Floyd Medlock and Michael Long were executed by the State of Oklahoma using lethal injection.

     I watched all three die. Their deaths were so quick and sterile that frankly, I have a hard time even remembering details, especially of Medlock and Long. Slaughter's execution was several years later, so it's a bit fresher in my mind.

     Before you witness an execution, either as a family member, an attorney or a reporter, prison officials tell you that people will handle the experience differently. Some will have nightmares or flashbacks that might even require counseling later. I never had either.

     One day I'll completely forget what Slaughter looked like strapped to the gurney in the death chamber, too. But in preparing to cover his execution, I reviewed the entire court file from his criminal trial, including dozens of crime scene photos. So far I haven't found a way to forget the photo of Melody Wuertz lying naked and bloody -- and very dead -- on her living room floor not far from her dead little girl.

     Given that background, maybe you can understand why I'm confused and sadly amused at the latest fuss over how inmates are executed by lethal injections.

     The first of the three drugs in the cocktail of death traditionally has been sodium thiopental, which puts the condemned to sleep painlessly before the drugs that paralyze the voluntary muscles and stop the heart are administered to complete the execution process.

     But sodium thiopental is only produced by one company, and that pharmaceutical company plans to stop making the drug, which now is in short supply.

     So states like Texas -- where executions are as common as days that end in "y" -- now have to find a new drug to put inmates to sleep. The drug of new choice seems to be pentobarbital, which I'm told is the drug used by vets to put down dogs and cats.

     Inmates already are suing over the new drug, questioning the process of how it was selected to replace sodium thiopental and whether it produces as painless a death as the old drug.

     This blog post isn't pro or anti death penalty. My own views on the issue tend to waffle, based largely on the testament I'm reading from at the time.

     I just find it odd that inmates are being allowed to get their state-issued knickers in a knot over which drug we use to kill them. Maybe they'd prefer a Louisville Slugger to the noggin instead.

     I wonder if Katherine Busch would have quibbled over going to sleep with sodium thiopental versus pentobarbital for her own death as opposed to say, being stabbed in the neck and drowned in toilet water? Would Melody Wuertz have preferred lethal injection to being shot in the neck and incised chin to pelvis?

     Sometimes it seems we just don't get it. Since when does the criminal get to choose his punishment? 

     As a society, we have to come to grips with why we execute killers. Is it to serve justice and act as a deterrent, or is it simply vengeance for the sake of vengeance?
     If we're going to claim the death penalty is a deterrent, then make it a deterrent. Don't make it sterile. And televise every execution. Make it mandatory viewing for every high schooler in America. Let them see that regardless of what Hollywood and their violent video games portray, human life really does matter. It's not a game. I'm not sure that's a message we send with the current method.

     Regardless, we don't need these frivolous lawsuits bogging down the legal system for other cases that actually are important. We don't need the tax bill of having to defend against them.

     If pentobarbital is good enough to kill a dog, it's good enough for Jimmie Ray Slaughter.

Bryant Bashing Continues: Even Deion Disses Dez

© David Hartman

     Charlie Sheen has a new best friend. His name is Dez Bryant. Bryant is proving to be Sheen's equal at drawing negative attention to himself, giving the media someone new to pick on for awhile.
     Last week, Bryant got himself banned from a Texas mall and was issued a citation after he was with a group of thugs who refused to pull up their pants in the upscale shopping center. Dez sez he wasn't cited for a clothing violation, but for being verbally abusive and profane to the security officer who asked the group to leave and escorted them from the mall. I guess Barney Fife didn't realize he was dealing with Dez Bryant, an NFL player who can do as he pleases because he's an NFL player.
     Since then, Dez, mall management and Barney have all had a big group hug, and Bryant is now allowed to go back in the mall after all. Of course he can. He's an NFL player. He can do as he pleases. Until that changes, nothing will in that cesspool of a sport.
     But now he might have a hard time getting any of the stores to sell him anything without paying with cash. This week reports surfaced that Dez faces not one, but two civil suits seeking over half a million dollars from Bryant for jewelry and sporting event tickets he hasn't paid for.
     In one instance the NFL rookie ordered $267K in custom jewelry like the hideous piece pictured, and so far has only paid about $21,000 for it. Attempts to collect the outstanding amount have been unsuccessful. Another suit alleges Bryant owes $293K for bling and more than $12,300 for tickets to sporting events  -- all of the stuff charged on credit before he was even drafted by the Dallas Cowboys.
    I know some jewelers who are hoping the NFL and its players get things worked out in time to have a season next year so Bryant has some money to pay up. Half a mil is a nice chunk of that $8 million signing bonus he got from the Cowboys.

Coming soon to a pawn shop
near you.

     Some folks wonder why a jeweler would let Bryant take possession of something that expensive without paying for it first. But it's not all that uncommon among people who are worth a lot of money. I hear story after story of people winning the lottery and walking into a car dealership with their winning ticket before they've even claimed the prize, and driving away in the vehicle of choice without paying a dime up front.
     I guess those businesses know you're going to be good for the debt eventually. Except for when you're not.
     It's gotten so bad for Dez that he's even being criticized by Deion Sanders, a prince of a guy whose picture Deion would have us believe is in Webster's Dictionary next to the phrase "class act." The same "Prime Time" who once assaulted two fans after a minor-league baseball game, and on another occasion failed to run out an infield popup in the major leagues after using his bat to draw a dollar sign in the batters box dirt.
     Hard to decide which is worse: embarrassing your team and league for the right to show your underwear, getting sued for not paying for your jewelry or being dissed by Deion.
     At least Dez can take heart in knowing that trouble don't last always. It's been a good two weeks since Lindsay Lohan has done something really stupid, so she's overdue. Then the media will forget all about him.

...

     You may have noticed a new dinner music voice on Spam On Wry. That's Amy Patterson-Hazzard of Edmond, OK. We go way back. Her dad was my major prof at OC, and I'd walk 10 miles to eat her mom's brisket.
     To keep things fresh, rather than playing the same song for a week, I'll play a different song with each new post, alternating between Roger and Amy. If you have any other artists in mind for the Spam rotation, drop me a suggestion. The artist would have to grant permission for the tracks to be played. Don't need ASCAP spitting in my Spam.
     Other subtle tweaks continue with Spam on Wry as well, with the new visitor counter. The site was created quickly to get the process going. The look will continue to evolve, I suspect. I'm even toying with the idea of a Spam on Wry podcast for the handful of people who might want to listen to Spam on the go. Except I'm not a big fan of my voice, so that's a hard mental hurdle to leap.

Dez Sez Misdemeanor a Bum Rap. A Few More Would Make It a Spankin'

© David Hartman

     Having already touched on underwear in a recent blog post, I'm not really looking to develop a theme here on Spam. But I need to address the Dez Bryant blunder while it's still current news. I'm sure you understand. Oh, and this blog post has been rated PG by the Ridiculously Obscure Blog Reader's Association of America. You've been warned.

     When Alex was three or four years old, he used to love underwear with superheroes on them. Blue and red Supermen, green Spidermen, even Batman and Robin. Pokemon, Digimon -- it's all good on your underwear, mon. If I remember correctly, there may have even been a pair of Bob and Larry's in the mix. Would have been appropriate, because at that time he wasn't good with his "v" sounds yet, so we called the cartoon "Wedgie Tales" anyway.

     If you're gonna have supercool underwear like that, it only makes sense to show it off, right? When you're three or four. While it's still "cute" to do that.

     So I had to cheer the other day when I read that former Oklahoma State/current Dallas Cowboy Dez Bryant was issued a citation at a Dallas mall essentially for refusing to pull up his pants. It's the only time I've ever really cared about anything Dez did. Dez sez it wasn't his pants that were the problem, but his friends'. He was just with them at the time. So he's a victim. Story of his life.

Hope you don't trip over your
drawers, dude.

     Reminds me of another incident from the Oklahoma County courthouse last year. I was there with the Geezer, the preacher and an elder showing moral support for a friend when a stranger approached us thinking the elder was an attorney. This kid, who couldn't have been older than 22, really, really needed a good attorney, for reasons other than he missed his morning court date and just had a bench warrant issued for his arrest.

     He told us the story of his arrest for possession of illegal drugs. Seems that when he came home one day, he took off his pants and went to bed. Later, hearing fighting outside his apartment, he put his pants back on and went to investigate. When the cops came, he was detained and searched along with the troublemakers. They found drugs in the jeans pocket.

C'mon, girls. We're all twins
from behind. No need to prove it.

     But guess what! They weren't his pants! In his haste to dress and join the fracas, he put on someone else's pants by mistake! That's his story, and he was stickin' to it.

     It's an easy oversight to make, if say, you've got a lot of guys in one apartment and none of them are wearing pants. Oh, to be in the courtroom when that cross examination went down. Whatever the state offered, son, I hope you took the deal.

     Anyway, I know that fads come and go, but this whole show-the-world-your-boxers era has been around for way too many moons now. It's time to flush this fashion faux pas.
     It's not just the thrill of showing your shorts that I don't get. It's the function issue. What if you had to run somewhere? How exactly can you run fast from the police when the crotch of your jeans is down at your knees?

     But if guys can't seem to wear the pants anymore, girls are just as bad with the low-rise jeans. I don't get that, either. Don't these girls have mommies to kinda sorta notice and correct these issues? Some things are better left to the imagination. This is one of them.

     Even bellbottoms and big hair were better than this.

Victoria's Got It. Robert? Not So Much.

© David Hartman

     File this under the category "Folks who are way too excited about their jobs." Got this voicemail awhile back, and have been waiting for a chance to share it. Can't post an audio link on Facebook, at least not easily, but I guess it can be shared here at Spam. To better hear the audio, you might need to turn off the dinner music, unless you wait until the music is done singing to click the link.
     To turn off the music, scroll all the way down the page, past the fine print. You'll see the music widget there, and you can hit the pause button to silence it.
     I'm thinking the Be The Match Registry needs to hire some phone skills coaches to work with their reps. Might increase their return call rate.
     Someone like Dick Vitale, maybe. "Okay, Hartmaaan.....you're in the NBA of DNA, baby! A DNA dandy! Prime-time pumper! It's Marrow Madness! Answer the bell baaaabyyyy, it's stem-cell city!"

Eartha Kitt

     Or maybe they could channel their inner Eartha Kitt, and do it  "Santa Baby" style. They could even lay the soundtrack behind the message:
     "David, baby, please call and take our phone kuh-weery
     For me
     Want your answers real bad
     David baby, so call me on the toll-free tonight...."

     Anything but this Robert guy. I still haven't returned the call. I'm waiting for a time when I'm super depressed, so I can sound as excited when I talk as Robert does.

...

Dickie V.

     There's a new woman in my life, for those of you curious about such things. Her name is Victoria, and she's cheaper than a happy meal. I still love Grace, and may revisit her from time to time on the sly. Men are pigs like that. But Victoria is just so.......sexy. And she's something new. I was getting bored with Grace.
     Victoria is the new synthesized voice of my Android phone. She speaks with a British accent, which let's face it, is far more seductive than Grace's bland American tone.
     There's something about hearing Victoria tell me in the mother tongue to turn right in 300 feet at N.E. 136th Street/East Memorial Road that just....sends shivers down the spine. As you can see, I'm easily amused.
     The neat thing about Victoria is that I can also adjust her pitch and speed. Right now, her voice is just a hair too deep, but I'll play with her and get her exactly like I want her. In addition to giving me driving directions, Victoria can read aloud my texts and e-mails in the car so I can keep my mind on my driving, my hands on the wheel and my snoopy eyes on the road ahead. She's not just a companion, she's a potential life saver. And just $2.99 in the Android Market. Can't beat that.

Monday Special: Spam Nuggets, Breaded and Fried

© David Hartman

     One of the neat things about worship service for me is the scripture reading. There's a difference between reading it yourself and hearing it read. Often a voice inflection or something will trigger me to think in a different light about a passage I've read a hundred times on my own.

     That happened again yesterday during the reading from Matthew. Jesus has finished the Sermon on the Mount, and he and the apostles get on the boat to get away from the crowds. Jesus sleeps. The storms come. The apostles panic and wake him up to save them from becoming fish food.

     Then Jesus asks them why they were afraid, and where was their faith? Kind of an odd question to ask given the circumstances, don't you think? I would have been afraid, too. Where was my faith? My faith was in the guy who I believed could save me. That's why I woke him up. Duh.
     But maybe it wasn't so much a rebuke or a questioning of their faith that Jesus had intended. Maybe it was a challenge to them to start becoming what they were really meant to be in this new kingdom he was establishing.
     Later in the gospel story, we read how the apostles performed miracles on their own -- certainly after receiving the Holy Spirit post ascension, but even before that when Jesus sends them out to preach and heal and then report back to him. There's no Holy Spirit mojo going on in them at this point, just instructions from Jesus on what to do and how to do it. If the Matthew story is linear, the limited commission occurs shortly after the rocking boat.
     Maybe the question is Jesus' way of letting them know they could have done for themselves what they woke him up to do for them. He's getting them ready for what they're going to do themselves in short order. All they had to do was believe that the power was real and in them.
     Maybe not. It's just a thought, albeit one that hadn't crossed my mind until yesterday. Still, I wonder how many crises in life we add to or don't solve at all while we're waiting around for Jesus to take care of it because we think that's the way it's supposed to work. If Jesus is truly in us, maybe the whole point is that he wants us to handle some of this stuff ourselves without sitting on our hands waiting for him or someone else to work the miracle.

...

     A recent Facebook status from old college friend Billy Willis: "OK, so I saw this question posed the other day and I thought I would see how my Facebook friends would answer. Who would you want to walk 1,000 miles with and why? The person can be living, dead, or imaginary."
     Without thinking too hard, I can come up with three names pretty quick.
     One would be Mike Royko, the most gifted writer I've ever read. Oh, the things he could teach me about telling stories over the course of 1,000 miles.
     Another would be Garrison Keillor. I'd bore him, but he'd never bore me.
     The third would be Alison Krauss. She could sing to me to help pass the time. A thousand miles later, I still wouldn't be sick of her voice. And somewhere along the 1,000 miles she's bound to get all hot and sweaty. That would just be a bonus.

...

     The latest Facebook scam or virus or whatever apparently is disguised as a link to a video titled "When Panties Go Bad!" The thumbnail pic is of some thong-clad girl's behind.
     It's to the point now where I just don't click multimedia links on Facebook at all anymore. But I knew this one was a fake when it was recommended to me by the wife of a longtime elder at the Memorial Road Church of Christ. This is a woman I used to work with at OC. A woman who once scolded me for wearing a Ralph Marlin "Mona Lisa" tie on campus because in the famous painting, Mona's not wearing a turtleneck sweater. So I'm fairly sure this elder's wife is not asking me to watch any video with the word "panties" in the title.
     Anyway, I don't need to see a video of what happens when good underwear goes bad. In my house, when good underwear goes bad, you turn 'em inside out and give 'em another week or two. And then you go wash them at the public laundromat.
     You're welcome for the visual, Kenna :)

Is Wal-Mart Ruining Our Economy By Not Hiring Checkers?

© David Hartman

     A friend of mine has on a couple of occasions urged me in Facebook statii to not use the self check-out lanes at Wal-Mart because those lanes take away jobs from people who need jobs. She and I agree on a lot of things, but not this.
     At Wal-Mart and most other large corporations, a checker job is a part-time, minimum-wage job. They're not full-time jobs because the companies don't want the added investment in benefits that full-time jobs require.
     I don't know about where you live, but in my town, I can drive in any direction and in about 30 minutes collect applications from at least half a dozen fast food restaurants or businesses that are looking to hire folks willing to work part time for minimum wage. There's no shortage of those jobs. There's a shortage of those employees.
     One of the reasons I try to stay out of political and social debates is because of stereotyping. And one of my biggest pet peeve stereotypes is that everyone in America who is on public assistance is too lazy to work and would rather just milk the system and watch Maury on TV all day rather than get a job.
     In some cases, I'm sure that's true. But in a good number of cases, that's hogwash. If you're a single parent trying to provide for a child or children, a part-time, minimum-wage job does you no good, especially if you have to pay for child care. You work 30 hours a week at $7.25. That's $217.50 gross a week. Take out, say, 20 percent for taxes, and you're taking home $174 a week. I challenge you to find any reputable daycare anywhere that will watch your kids while you work those 30 hours for less than $100 or $150 a week. So what do you have to show for your 30 hours at Wal-Mart? $25-$75 a week. Try paying rent, utilities and food on that.
     Option B is to stay unemployed, get that $217.50 a week from the government and have all of that money to try to support your family, rather than giving 80 percent of it to someone for babysitting. At least now you have a fighting chance. Not a good chance, but a fighting chance. For some people, it's not always about taking the easy way. It's about doing the best they can with the options given them. Too often that gets overlooked in the partisan rhetoric.
     In the current system, you can work and still need public assistance. America doesn't need more jobs, it needs better jobs.
     It's also misguided to assume that if I don't use the self checkout at Wal-Mart, they will be forced to hire more clerks to accommodate longer lines. I've had way too many shopping experiences at Wal-Mart where I'm standing in a line 10 customers deep because only three of 15 lanes are open. There are other Wal-Mart employees meandering about the store doing other things -- stocking shelves, whatever -- but no one is yelling over the loudspeaker for those folks to hightail it up to the front and help get people on their way.
     I think retailers have calculated exactly how much money they're willing to spend on check-out staff. It's built into the business model. Hiring enough clerks so that no check-out line ever gets more than three deep in customers would cut too deeply into the profit margin. So the customer waits in line, however long that takes.
     Unless they use the self-check lanes, which don't cost Wal-Mart as much and get customers on their way much faster. And I'm all for that. After all, the sooner I get out of Wal-Mart, the more time I have to spend waiting in the line at McDonalds for my "fast" food nugget meal because the restaurant only has one cook during the lunch rush.
     Why? Because no one is filling that 25 hour a week minimum wage cook job that they've advertised for months. If they've got anyone else to support but themselves, they can't afford to.

...

     One of my high school homegirls and Facebook friend Barb Sloey is for the second time experiencing the joys of having a child who is 15 1/2. That means driver's permit, and all that goes along with it.
     I feel Barb's pain, even though I don't have any teenage kids. I do have a 77-year-old mother who hasn't driven 250 miles in the last decade. But now she wants to try again. Even with the right hand that still has substantial nerve damage secondary to a broken arm suffered almost a year ago.
     So when I'm done submitting this post, we're going to go up to the college, and I'm going to let her get behind the wheel of my fairly new-to-me car -- the one that has liability only and about 17 more payments to go. If you see me at church tonight, you'll know the Geezer didn't kill us. If we're not there, dispatch fire and EMSA to OC. We'll probably be on the north side of the campus.

...

     I rarely get comments on the blog itself, but I've gotten feedback from several that I appear too uncaring toward the situation in Japan in my previous rant about Americans bankrolling cleanup efforts for national disasters in other countries.
     So let me clarify.
     I am opposed to the U.S. Government sending tax money to other countries to help after disasters. And tax money is the only kind of money the federal government can send, since it's the only way they make money to begin with.
     I am not opposed to, and in fact encourage, Christian or otherwise generally benevolent Americans donating money from their own coffers for relief efforts in Japan. Churches want to take up contributions? No problem. Wanna give money to the Red Cross earmarked for Japan relief? God bless you. But if we're going to help, we need to help as Christians, not as Americans.
     The Japanese economy is one of the wealthiest and most stable in the world. If you disagree, explain to me how so many of the banks, credit companies and other major corporations in America that used to be owned by Americans are now owned by the Japanese? If we were talking Bangladesh, it might be another matter. But the Japanese government has the resources to handle this. Let them handle it.