tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16958126459557806162024-03-20T04:26:15.035-05:00Spam on Wry<b>A little bit of everything. A whole lot of nothin'. </b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-1257237207873592302014-03-25T21:25:00.000-05:002014-03-26T13:48:41.609-05:00A Stain On My Notebook (Where Your Coffee Cup Was)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-sISsgKa0c5Zvyd8CrSDMl8vuXkKltwhEkVz17GD0FuFelH5UrnT3C-Nm8GOOCql3T5B2xSG5AhAUnQtFoVwUZqpFzThlNriVByJvTJ_ipR_7kyLKgPJfhPnwwo6RLT3KrAVcKBgNQjQ7/s1600/facebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-sISsgKa0c5Zvyd8CrSDMl8vuXkKltwhEkVz17GD0FuFelH5UrnT3C-Nm8GOOCql3T5B2xSG5AhAUnQtFoVwUZqpFzThlNriVByJvTJ_ipR_7kyLKgPJfhPnwwo6RLT3KrAVcKBgNQjQ7/s1600/facebook.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
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I'm not the same guy I used to be.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong. This isn't an "I ain't as good as I once was" admission. I'm every bit as good as I once was. Maybe better. Snark and cynicism age like wine. But I <i>am</i> different.<br />
<br />
Twenty years ago, I was one of them. A coffee snob. A Java Dave's groupie. Java Dave's was as gourmet as you got in these parts before Starbucks invaded, blighting the landscape like locusts in Pharoah's garden. Three times a day, five days a week, at least once on Saturday. I was so groupie that I starred in one of their local television ads. Somewhere in the bookcase in the guest bedroom is an old VHS recording of that commercial. Anyone remember VHS? Then you remember back to when I had hair. No, really. The commercial proves it.<br />
<br />
Back in the day, you could put 10 different cups of black coffee on the table in front of me, and after one sip, I could tell you what country the beans came from and get it right at least eight times out of 10. But it wasn't just the coffee. Before they got too big for their britches, Java Dave's was Oklahoma City's <i>Cheers</i>. It was a place where the Norms and the Cliffs and the Davids of the world could waltz in, sit down and get a little attention before going back to work, to home, or whatever else we had to endure between visits to Java Dave's.<br />
<br />
Over time, things changed. The price of coffee went up; the buying power of my paycheck went down. Fifteen to 20 cups of coffee a week at $2 a pop didn't make financial sense. And then Sam sold the bar. Java Dave's franchised. Shelley Long was out; Kirstie Alley was in. It just wasn't the same anymore.<br />
<br />
That background led to one of those "I can't believe what I just heard myself say" moments tonight after a random conversation with the Geezer. She was watching TV as I was passing through the living room. Starbucks was advertising coffee. The word "blonde" caught my attention. That's not the unbelievable part. Apparently, Starbucks is selling sissy coffee now. I didn't see the whole commercial, but I'm assuming from what I saw that "blonde" is coffee that isn't quite roasted all the way. So you can, you know, <i>technically</i> drink coffee without the coffee taste. Or something like that.<br />
<br />
Geezer: "Is that Starbucks?"<br />
Me: "Looks like it."<br />
Geezer: "Do you like Starbucks?"<br />
Me. "They're pretty proud of their coffee these days. I'll have to be awful thirsty before I'll pay four bucks for a cup of coffee."<br />
Geezer: "But is it good coffee?"<br />
Me: "Eh. Coffee's coffee."<br />
<br />
Coffee's coffee. Wow. I actually said that.<br />
<br />
But it's true. Sure, some people make it too strong. Some people make it too weak. Sometimes it sits on the warmer too long and tastes burnt. Other times not. At the end of the day, it's still just coffee.<br />
<br />
Coffee is an institution, not a gourmet experience. Fathers and sons sit down and talk over coffee, whether it's "the talk" or just about cars or jobs or football. Young college boys and young college girls dream and giggle and flirt for hours on end over cups of coffee at Denny's, breaking the sickening gaze only long enough for the occasional, inevitable potty break. Don't forget to tip the waitress on your way out, loverboy. She's got kids to feed. Business deals are consummated over coffee. One man gives his word, another man takes it with a handshake over a cup of coffee. And it doesn't really matter where the beans are from, how it's brewed, or whether it's tree-hugger organic.<br />
<br />
That doesn't mean I don't still have strong feelings about coffee. I still wanna go all drill sergeant on the "double froth, extra chocolate, one shot vanilla, two shots raspberry with some nonfat whipped cream and sprinkles" dessert drinkers who try to pass that off as "drinking coffee." They remind me of the "that's why yellow makes me sad, I think," jackwagon in the Geico commercial. (Find it here: <a href="http://youtu.be/XfmVBmDKLZI" target="_blank">http://youtu.be/XfmVBmDKLZI</a>) You want chocolate cake? Nothing wrong with that. Just go to a bakery and get you some. But this is a coffee shop.<br />
<br />
Through all my coffee evolution, one truth hasn't changed. Friends still don't let friends drink decaf. Ever. When your doctor says you need to switch to decaf, you need to switch your doctor.<br />
<br />
Now if I could just get Mavis to come by with a warm-up.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-86551628098556964972013-11-27T22:54:00.000-06:002013-12-02T18:50:59.916-06:00Where have you gone, Norman Rockwell?<div style="text-align: left;">
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I struggled with whether to write this or just let it pass. I've so many friends who are passionate in the effort to keep stores locked up tight on Thanksgiving. They're good people. God-fearing, God-loving people. I love them dearly. I just don't agree with the premise that stores being open on Thanksgiving is a sign of the end of times. And the neat thing is, we can disagree and still be friends. Given the season, I'm thankful for that.<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. And I'm choosing to work six hours of overtime in my service-industry job instead of taking the whole day off as part of the company holiday. Friday also is a company holiday. Another day off with pay if I wanted it. And I'm working 12 hours of overtime that day. Eighteen hours of time-and-a-half in addition to the regular pay I get for working those days.<br />
<br />
Cha-ching.<br />
<br />
And that apparently makes me part of the problem. I must be one of those who has commercialized the holidays instead of embracing peace on earth and goodwill toward men. Money, money, money. That's all we're about. I must not care about the desecration of Thanksgiving by choosing to work rather than staying home to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" while trimming the Christmas tree.<br />
<br />
You might even be thinking: "I bet he's one of those 'Happy Holidays' folks, too."<br />
<br />
Given those conclusions, here's a little secret you'd never believe. I'm actually -- wait for it -- <i>thankful</i> for the opportunity to make the extra money tomorrow. Strange, isn't it, being thankful on and for Thanksgiving? Because of my chance and my choice to work a few on Thanksgiving, my family will have a Christmas. Not the kind you're thinking. There will be no big-screen TVs, no computers or flashing-light gizmos waiting to be opened. Baby, Santa's not going to slip a Sable under the tree. For me.<br />
<br />
In fact, retailers are going to be pretty ticked at our family this year. Between the Geezer and I, we'll probably not spend more than $80 total exchanging gifts. Without some holiday overtime, even that might be hard to come by. Several hundred unplanned dollars in doctor bills for the never-ending, no-cure illness called bronchitis and other life surprises will do that to you. Don't feel sorry for us. We're not feeling sorry for ourselves. We'll have a nice Christmas with what we have. Always do. Christmas, like Thanksgiving, is what you make of it.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing. I'm not alone. Times are hard for a lot of folks. Those kids ringing up junk tomorrow at Widgets-R-Us make several dollars an hour less than I. You don't think that the lion's share of those folks aren't thankful for some time-and-a-half? Sure, there will be some who are upset about having to work a few hours if it means they have to leave Aunt Bea's right after lunch in order to get to work on time. The vocal minority always screams the loudest, in all matters. Theirs is the story that always gets told, even if it doesn't represent the whole.<br />
<br />
Look, I like Norman Rockwell as much as the next guy. But stores being open on Thanksgiving isn't what's killing your Norman Rockwell holiday. In fact, for the majority of people, that holiday has been dead for years already. You really think if there wasn't shopping for the women to do the whole family would sit around the cleaned-off dinner table after supper swapping yarns about the good old days, sipping cocoa and playing Canasta until grandpa falls asleep and drools on his cards?<br />
<br />
Nope. In most households the dirty dishes are still on the table when the TV comes on, if it wasn't already on throughout the meal. There are, after all, important football games to be played. The womenfolk just have to understand that family reconnecting and all the associated warm fuzzies are one thing. Football is something else entirely, particularly with the playoffs looming. Where's the righteous indignation directed at the NFL, the NCAA and the networks for having the audacity to spit on Norman Rockwell with a football game or 12?<br />
<br />
In some parts of the country, Thanksgiving is synonymous with deer hunting. <i>Let's hurry up with lunch so we can go out and kill something!</i> Hunting isn't exactly a family-bonding experience, either. Having the entire family traipsing through the woods together chatting about how good the giblet gravy was while looking for a trophy rack tends to keep those racks beyond the rifle scope. It's a solitary sport on a "family" holiday. But we don't dare criticize hunting during Thanksgiving. If we did, we'd draw the ire of and get a generous dose of condescension from the NRA. You know them. They're that Order-of-the-Levites society that God on Sinai ordained to zealously guard and protect His Second Amendment, immediately after etching the sacred document in stone and handing it to Moses along with the tablet containing the far-less-important Ten Suggestions. So like football, hunting gets a free pass, too.<br />
<br />
Families and family-oriented traditions have been eroding for decades. Shopping on Thanksgiving isn't the beginning of the end, nor is it the end of the end. You want Norman Rockwell back? Re-instill Norman Rockwell values back into American families.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I'll still have a good Thanksgiving tomorrow, in spite of working a few hours to help make ends meet. I'll still have the big meal, pray over it longer than usual and wish I'd had one less slice of pie when I push away from the table. Then I'll go to my office and punch the clock for a few hours. When I'm done, I'll crawl in bed and be thankful all over again.<br />
<br />
I'll be thankful for your sake, that you didn't have or need to work on Thanksgiving, if in fact you don't. I'll be thankful that God saw my need and made a way to meet it. I'll be thankful that He likewise made a way for that single mom with a high school diploma and a minimum-wage paycheck who rings up all that crap at Cheap-O-Rama tomorrow to make a little extra so her needs could be met, as well. I'll be thankful that I have a job to work and money to pay the bills at a time when so many around me need work and can't find it.<br />
<br />
It might not make a great painting, but I think Norman would understand.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-43214976631772404292013-11-10T20:47:00.001-06:002013-11-10T21:50:21.271-06:00A (Pewaukee) Pirate Looks at 50<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh64w1yzsdiY4u2MtsVKhRv3bZX4Y1Dlg2ATKr8JLbX1w67IUHsFNpa3QQ8103bimgldVTwtnv9ZuVvcTovrE95qnOkgXFKvTukMmmXw0blVmit7il6KSvKxi5zY_1-GYt0YlwhmY615K0a/s1600/blogspot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh64w1yzsdiY4u2MtsVKhRv3bZX4Y1Dlg2ATKr8JLbX1w67IUHsFNpa3QQ8103bimgldVTwtnv9ZuVvcTovrE95qnOkgXFKvTukMmmXw0blVmit7il6KSvKxi5zY_1-GYt0YlwhmY615K0a/s200/blogspot.jpg" width="164" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">EDMOND, OK (UP) -- It's a nostalgic kind of day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This afternoon I attended a birthday party for an old (and longtime) friend, Tammy Beckland. She's 50 now. She's only lived in Oklahoma a couple of years, and introduced me to all her friends as the person in Oklahoma who has known her the longest, even longer than her daughter, Ellie. I guess that was her way of trying to make me feel old, too, though I'm years younger than she.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I believe God puts people in your life at certain times for a reason. I don't believe it's simply chance or dumb luck. Tammy, then a redhead, was part of a group of kids who meant a lot to me way back when.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">After my freshman year of high school, my family moved from Illinois to Wisconsin. Neighboring states; different worlds. In Illinois, we worshiped at a church with a couple hundred people that had a sizable and active youth group. The kids I went to church with were my friends. They were my social circle. I was blessed. And I took them for granted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In Wisconsin, the church was much smaller. There was no youth minister, and not much of a youth group. For the first time in my life, if I wanted friends, I would need to make them outside of "my" church. Looking back, the Pewaukee High School classmates who befriended me were no less good, no less Christian. Still it was different, because I was drawing distinctions that weren't really there.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU4KM81XiXyLGTH_-uJRFevIwe4d6Ryoxf8-XuqcJ6-P324X1pjAdmWQIZ41NL2I8jw5sAd2QBbCjZAnpVED32w_XM5vheFRgKxCJvJH7wMBekZm79zRr904Oee8MG8-yR3OuZ2krmgpAh/s1600/IMAG0088_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU4KM81XiXyLGTH_-uJRFevIwe4d6Ryoxf8-XuqcJ6-P324X1pjAdmWQIZ41NL2I8jw5sAd2QBbCjZAnpVED32w_XM5vheFRgKxCJvJH7wMBekZm79zRr904Oee8MG8-yR3OuZ2krmgpAh/s400/IMAG0088_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I hope I look that good YEARS from now when I turn 50.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In my Pewaukee days, Bible camp took on a whole new significance. Youth rallies weren't just something to do anymore; they were something to look forward to. Those were the times when I got to be with the kids from "my" church again. At that time, that meant a lot to me. I remember what it's like to end one camp session and start counting down the days until the next one started. Tammy, like a lot of other kids who were regulars at camp and youth rallies, were what made them special.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then we all graduated and grew apart. Tammy and a bunch of others went to York College. Some went to ACU, others to Harding. I came to OC. Nearly three decades later, through the magic of Facebook, Tammy appeared on my "people you may know" list. Turns out, she had just moved to Edmond to be near her grown daughter and son-in-law to be. And an old friendship was reconnected.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, one of the kids who helped me grow as a teen is stretching me once again. Tammy and I don't agree on everything. We're in different places in our walk. But our conversations are refreshing and honest, and at the end of the day, we both love and serve the same God. What I've learned about Tammy today is this: I've met few people in my life with the passion to reflect Jesus to the street people -- the "invisibles" as she calls them -- as Tammy has. The work that she does , both corporately and one-on-one with those folks God loves in this city is inspiring. I'm lucky to have her back, both as a friend, and as an example. Happy birthday, girl!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">...</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzgI33uj-kEIUpMv5rXPIGoIO0H61YlmrlmiDVwnmop1DMLdhSdRtMC7IihSkom3CNqo3P8crinH4sYWu9CdcN4F7wiLS5lHIWbrqLuFwcBkQFqHdfINWLaAk1_Ay912REj9ScUIqSTNad/s1600/earthquakes.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzgI33uj-kEIUpMv5rXPIGoIO0H61YlmrlmiDVwnmop1DMLdhSdRtMC7IihSkom3CNqo3P8crinH4sYWu9CdcN4F7wiLS5lHIWbrqLuFwcBkQFqHdfINWLaAk1_Ay912REj9ScUIqSTNad/s320/earthquakes.png" width="180" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Come on over, baby. We've got chicken in the barn. Whose barn? What barn? My barn.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">OK, so I don't have a barn. Or chickens to put in it. Still, there's been a whole lotta shakin' going on in Edmond recently. We're supposed to be known out here for tornadoes. We're cool with that. We're used to it. We know the drill. But now, earthquakes are all the Oklahoma rage. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Some blame it on fracking. Others say it's because the lake levels are low. I reckon our friends in Topeka, Kansas would tie it to homosexuality somehow. Whatever the reason, folks out here are starting to buy earthquake insurance because they're happening so frequently. Haven't had a big one yet, but you can feel them regardless, and it's a bit unsettling. Don't know that I'm going to buy earthquake insurance, but the outbreak has been enough that I've installed an earthquake alert app on my phone. No, it doesn't warn you in advance of a pending quake, but it does tell you after the fact the "where" and the "how strong." Check out the screen shot of quakes in my 'hood in just the last few days.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-90956143948332209542012-04-19T21:43:00.002-05:002013-11-10T16:29:52.528-06:00Will Work For More Compassion<div style="text-align: left;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
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Many years ago, fresh out of college and without a job, I spent a couple of afternoons standing on the corner of one of Oklahoma City's busiest intersections holding a sign that read: "Will work for state fair tickets." It was a publicity stunt for the State Fair of Oklahoma, one for which I was paid $40 for each afternoon, if I recall. Not bad coin for a half-day's work back then.<br />
<br />
While no motorists stopped to offer me state fair tickets, a real job, or even some spare change, the fair got exactly the publicity it hoped for. Within a few hours, I was mentioned on local radio stations. By the end of the first afternoon, a photographer from the state's largest newspaper had snapped my picture.<br />
<br />
It worked back then because at that time, street-corner beggars with their "will work for food" placards were few and far between. Today, you can't stop at a light at any busy intersection in Oklahoma City without encountering at least one person with a hand extended.<br />
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It's been interesting to watch the evolution of street-corner begging over the last several years. In the past, these folks usually would have some kind a prop like a crutch, or a bedroll to make you think they were sleeping wherever they could find a place. And the signs always told a story. A veteran down on his luck. A lost job and hungry kids. A disease with no insurance to pay for treatment.<br />
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Today's street-corner beggars don't even bother with the props. The signs no longer offer explanations -- or offers to work in exchange for money/food/gas, for that matter. Although I did see one a couple of weeks ago where the sign said something along the lines of "Need fuel for spaceship takeoff 12-21-2012" which I assume was in reference to the newest fad end-of-the-world date. But those are the exception, not the rule. Today's formula is simpler. Like "Need Help, God Bless You" or "Jesus Loves You."<br />
<br />
They love to play the religion card. Mix a little Jesus in there and the Christians in the Bible Belt will feel guilty. More than that, they'll roll down their windows to offer greenbacks. At times, I've been known to resent the playing of the Jesus card. Something inside me predisposes me to not want to give you money if you're not at least willing to tell me why you need it. Too often, I keep that window rolled up tight.<br />
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And that's why the gospels are such a slap in the face sometimes -- a lens through which I neither want to see or be seen. I've read through the gospels many times. When Jesus teaches about giving, he doesn't teach about giving responsibly. He doesn't teach generosity after judgment. He never asks me to evaluate the situation first. You can look for it in the red letters, but you won't find it.<br />
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Christians like to cling to Paul's teaching in 2 Thessalonians 3:10, loosely translated "if a man won't work, he shouldn't eat" as justification for turning a blind eye when justification would come in handy. The problem, of course, is the context. Paul is specifically talking about how <i>believers</i> should treat other idle, wicked <i>believers</i>. To use the passage to justify believers holding those outside the faith to the same standard takes the teaching out of context.<br />
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And it forces me to wrestle with the question: Which is more likely to tick Jesus off? Giving what isn't mine, but God's anyway (my money) to a con artist who will blow it on a bottle of Mad Dog, or not giving to someone truly in need because I've been played before and might be played again? I know that answer. Too many passages about cups of water and pairs of jeans and visits and angels in disguise and grass in the fields and birds in the air and barns of treasures and moths, rust and thieves to get that answer wrong.<br />
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Guess I've still got some more growing and giving to do.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-68239667002115409082011-12-27T00:59:00.001-06:002013-11-09T20:31:59.241-06:00Dirty Laundry, Revisited (Again)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA0-51ETM6oBpxA1KNDD1ngQ68msaNVMv19n-Wy6qGrorpd9hiNs_5azQlEgU6Kxtap52-b9HQiUHp1tuHYYwvhzsUTnjCU3cx8xTvaZzmBHYFPRqy-ngsmtsolQhu50ZAJBrRqxah4gI7/s1600/IMAG0019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA0-51ETM6oBpxA1KNDD1ngQ68msaNVMv19n-Wy6qGrorpd9hiNs_5azQlEgU6Kxtap52-b9HQiUHp1tuHYYwvhzsUTnjCU3cx8xTvaZzmBHYFPRqy-ngsmtsolQhu50ZAJBrRqxah4gI7/s200/IMAG0019.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Bitstream Charter, serif;"> </span><i><b> <span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></b></i></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23px;"><i><b><span style="color: #333333;"> </span><span style="color: white;">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.</span></b></i></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; line-height: 23px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Bitstream Charter, serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">She wasn’t wearing a bra to the party. I reckon I should be embarrassed to say that’s what first caught my attention.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> <i>All this work</i>, 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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> But what if?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> 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?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> 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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 23px;"> God help me.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-70208612027186386372011-09-03T13:06:00.001-05:002013-11-09T20:34:57.262-06:00Remembering 9/11. Quietly.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s1600/new+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s200/new+mug.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">© David Hartman</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif',Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> <span style="color: white;">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.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif',Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> I'll do none of that, thank you very much.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Default Sans Serif',Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Default Sans Serif',Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I know I'm in the minority here. I don't really care. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif',Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> 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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif',Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> The local car dealer on Broadway that lowers its dozens of large flags for any remotely sad reason whatsoever surely will remind me.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif',Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> The media, more adept at creating news than reporting it, won't let me forget, either. Already, <i>this weekend's</i> edition of "USA Today" was page after page after page after page of 9/11 filler. <i>Nine days out.</i> Page after page after page. What is <i>next</i> weekend's paper gonna be like?</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Pa5ZspPkaY/TmJa2B3dyWI/AAAAAAAAASU/CMsrH_bMwaA/s1600/IMAG0053.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Pa5ZspPkaY/TmJa2B3dyWI/AAAAAAAAASU/CMsrH_bMwaA/s320/IMAG0053.jpg" width="211" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Knock yourself out. But I'll pass.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Default Sans Serif',Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Let's just hope the P</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Default Sans Serif',Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">ope 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?</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif',Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> 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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif',Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> 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 <i>true</i> American, I'll try to exercise uncharacteristic snark restraint next week.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif',Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> But I make no promises.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-69670609797237606262011-08-25T23:08:00.009-05:002011-08-26T10:33:18.587-05:00Mavis Gets Around<div style="text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s1600/new+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s200/new+mug.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"> What do you do when you're overdue for a blog post but lack inspiration? You go looking for it.<br />
So I checked the <i>Spam on Wry</i> 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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> 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 <i>Cafe</i> 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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> 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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> 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 <i>Cafe</i>: "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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> 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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Different role. Different place. Didn't really feel like camp at first.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> 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 <i>cooking for a group</i> than <i>being at camp</i>. 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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> 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:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"When the oceans rise and thunders roar, I will soar with you above the storm.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Father, you are king over the flood. I will be still and know you are God."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> 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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> 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. <i><b>Ever.</b></i> Just like in Wisconsin.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> In all that I found peace. Fresh hope for another 20 years.<br />
And I found I don't have to go all the way back to Black River Falls just to look for Mavis.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-2391324042579266232011-08-14T02:20:00.007-05:002013-11-09T20:47:36.910-06:00Madison Avenue Meets the Youth Group Devo: Imagine That<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s1600/new+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s200/new+mug.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Default Sans Serif', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> <span style="color: white;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white; font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: inherit;"> So I'll start it here, because it's my blog. Because I can.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> 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 <em>and listen to</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> 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.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> 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.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> 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.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> 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.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> 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."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> Tell you what: Rather than me imagining sunshine always shining, how about if I imagine sunshine <em>not </em></span><span class="Apple-style-span">shining. Would it still be sunshine? Sunshine not shining is darkness. Period. Sunshine, by definition, shines. Always.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> 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.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> 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 <em>that</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> job?</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> 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.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> I'm done ranting. Your turn. Take your shots at me over the whole lazy church songwriting issue. I'm okay with that.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> 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.</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-55095348136055941272011-05-30T01:39:00.007-05:002011-05-31T10:23:28.510-05:00Breaking the Fast<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s1600/new+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s200/new+mug.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Some random thoughts after a month of blog inactivity which we'll chalk up to a lack of creativity and motivation:<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
What <i>did</i> 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.<br />
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.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">...</div> 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, <a href="http://davidhartmandavidhartman.blogspot.com/2011/03/court-sides-with-westboro-its-right.html">go here.</a><br />
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<i> Americans </i>deny that right, we're a textbook example of a house divided against itself.<br />
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.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">...</div> 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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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."<br />
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."<br />
Still don't believe there's a God who loves and blesses and sustains his people? Spend a few minutes <a href="http://mabeecolwell.weebly.com/blog.html">here</a>.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-11549464426670841602011-05-01T21:08:00.004-05:002011-05-04T00:27:26.393-05:00Of Henry Rathbone and the President<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s1600/new+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s200/new+mug.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"></div> 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 <a href="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/1555693/HLOTS%201-1%20GONE%20FOR%20GOODE_14048.mp4">this little exchange</a> between Det. Meldrick Lewis and Det. Steve Crosetti to mind. And it made me chuckle.<br />
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.)<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
And that's just sad.<br />
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. <br />
Fool us once, Barack Obama, shame on you. Fool us twice....<br />
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.<br />
Time's a wastin'. Give me a better choice and I'll cross party lines a second time.<br />
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.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-3352976437648357372011-04-18T10:47:00.001-05:002011-04-18T17:57:13.527-05:00Cam, Cam, Everywhere a Cam<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s1600/new+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s200/new+mug.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table> I'm not a big fan of reality TV. Mostly because I find it not too real. In what little I've seen, generally people act worse than they ordinarily would because if they didn't, who would watch? What would that do for the ratings?<br />
But I do find this whole live web stream phenomenon rather fascinating. On the grand scale, I have all kinds of privacy issues with where some of it is going. On the small scale though, some of it is just pretty cool, and it seems there's something out there for everyone.<br />
My first real introduction to the "reality" web cam world was several years ago when I read a story somewhere about a young woman in California -- Amanda -- who streamed her entire home life live on the web for the public to see. I'm pretty sure she was from California. Freaks like that don't generally hail from North Dakota. Anyway, it was a pretty good source of income for Amanda, the story said. Anyone could log on to her site, AmandaCam, and view live streams coming from the rooms of her home. It was free to watch Amanda in the living room or kitchen, but if you wanted to see more of Amanda's life -- and presumably more of Amanda -- you had to pay a monthly fee for access to the streams from the bedroom and bathroom. And people did pay I'm told. <br />
And I admit that curiosity got the better of me and drove me to her site. I never gave her any of my money. No, really. But I did spend some time one night watching Amanda sitting on her sofa with her white poodle watching TV. The highlight was when she got off the sofa, left the picture for awhile and came back a minute later with a fresh soda in hand. Pretty compelling stuff. For about three minutes.<br />
My second foray into the live web cam world came several years later while I was working at Faux News. Someone pointed my browser to the site "seemerot.com". There, you could watch the fully-embalmed corpse of a 41-year-old female from her well-sealed coffin. I'm not sure what makes a person want to have a live cam inside their coffin, nor do I understand why someone would want to watch. But I did. For awhile. I'd check in every few days for a few seconds. Not much rotting progress was being made, so it didn't hold my interest too long. Preparing to write this post, I went back to seemerot.com to see how things were decomposing some two years after my last visit. She still looks pretty much the same. A bit darker in color maybe, but that could also be my computer monitor, too.<br />
Frankly, coffin cams would be a much better idea if we skipped the embalming and maybe didn't seal the casket so well. A little worm action to help move the rotting process along would make it a more compelling visit. As a warning, if you just HAVE to see for yourself, <a href="http://www.seemerot.com/subterracam875/headcam1.jpg">use this link.</a> It's not the link from the main seemerot.com page. Apparently that site is having trouble generating revenue now and has resorted to some offensive advertising to offset the cost. The link I gave you will let you skip all that and go straight to the dead woman.<br />
Today, all the rage is the Decorah eagles. If you haven't heard about them yet, you haven't been paying attention. If you haven't gone to the site yet, <a href="http://www.ustream.tv/decoraheagles">go here</a>. Go now. The rest of this boring post can wait. It's an eagles nest live from a fishery in Iowa. Mom and dad eagle have three baby eaglets. You missed the hatching, but the eaglets are still toddlers, and you still have plenty of time to get invested in this before the kids enter their teen years and eventually get their drivers licenses and leave the nest for good.<br />
Essentially, it's a close-up, 24-hour-a-day live look at the nest. The site uses infrared light at night, which they say the eagles can't see or detect, so that even at 3 a.m. you can log on and see how things are going. Rarely are mom and dad eagle on the nest at the same time. Usually one is out doing whatever eagles do while they're out, but when they come back, they typically bring food. Usually a fish, though the other day one of them did come home with a fresh squirrel. Then the food-bearing parent does the nest thing while the other one flies off to wherever. Kinda gives you the idea that the parents don't really like each other. They just make babies when it's time, then move on when the kids have flown the coop. Not too unlike their human counterparts nowadays.<br />
As much fun for me as watching the eagles myself is when the Geezer watches. She gets into it. One of the three eaglets is a runt, and Geezer admonishes the runt not to let the bigger siblings take advantage and get all the food. The other day I was in another room, and I heard the Geezer saying something in a loud, disturbed tone. Seems one of the eaglets had wandered too close to the edge of the nest for the Geezer's liking, and Geezer didn't think the supervising parent was dealing with the situation appropriately. Everyone's a critic.<br />
Anyway, it's great viewing, especially for kids. If you get tired of eagles, <a href="http://www.ustream.tv/channel/owlceanside">go here</a> for an owl's nest. It's pretty good, too. Or <a href="http://www.ustream.tv/hummingbirdnestcam">go here</a> for a hummingbird nest. I haven't watched this one long enough to tell if the eggs have even hatched yet. All I see is the parent hummingbird sitting on the nest. She seems rather deep in thought, like she's hoping that none of the kids are hatched with ADHD. Keeping normal hummingbirds still for any length of time is hard enough these days.<br />
There are other streams available for baby squirrels, baby skunks and even baby puppies, if you're into that stuff. Any of the choices are a whole lot better than the reality trash on television.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-21153134963520351542011-04-04T06:00:00.004-05:002011-04-04T10:46:11.964-05:00Where Are All the Men In This Town?<div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxe_VeDLjo81KnguKOGUthDPbDLbQrNKRXL61DZ-A9gar19Np58dVbSBXYvINoaHb_g6m-YQO5nQeSa4R3Izg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s1600/new+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s200/new+mug.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I<span class="Apple-style-span">'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.<br />
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 <i>Homicide: Life on the Street.</i><br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
In the meantime, they're just two grieving mothers who form a bond as they wait and wonder where it all went wrong.<br />
<i>"Where are all the men these days? That's what I want to know."</i><br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
Even in stable, two-parent homes, kids can't model what they're not home to see.<br />
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.<br />
And men are going to have to rise to that challenge. No more running from babies and families.<br />
We're going to need dads who take their kids to church, then bring them home to God's other house.<br />
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.<br />
Superheroes that fight the evil in this world. We could use some real X-Men in this town.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-327874875790827162011-04-02T02:41:00.003-05:002011-04-03T08:43:45.033-05:00When Punishment Doesn't Fit the Crime, It's Probably a Lethal Injection<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br />
</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Jimmie Ray Slaughter was the babydaddy.</span><br />
<div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> For their crimes, Jimmie Ray Slaughter, Floyd Medlock and Michael Long were executed by the State of Oklahoma using lethal injection.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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?</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Sometimes it seems we just don't get it. Since when does the criminal get to choose his punishment? </span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Regardless, w</span>e 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.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate;"> If </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate;">pentobarbital</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate;"> is good enough to kill a dog, it's good enough for Jimmie Ray Slaughter.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-28910385142127654142011-03-29T09:45:00.000-05:002011-03-29T09:45:38.990-05:00Bryant Bashing Continues: Even Deion Disses Dez<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s1600/new+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s200/new+mug.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2LQALeDYOcM/TZFkU9GLlLI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/9IEVGh5gosY/s1600/bling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="142" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2LQALeDYOcM/TZFkU9GLlLI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/9IEVGh5gosY/s200/bling.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coming soon to a pawn shop<br />
near you.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
I guess those businesses know you're going to be good for the debt eventually. Except for when you're not.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">...</div> You may have noticed a new dinner music voice on <i>Spam On Wry</i>. 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.<br />
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 <i>Spam</i> 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 <i>Spam.</i><br />
Other subtle tweaks continue with<i> Spam on Wry</i> 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 <i>Spam on Wry</i> podcast for the handful of people who might want to listen to <i>Spam</i> on the go. Except I'm not a big fan of my voice, so that's a hard mental hurdle to leap.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-72469011771670614792011-03-24T10:18:00.004-05:002011-03-26T10:38:01.469-05:00Dez Sez Misdemeanor a Bum Rap. A Few More Would Make It a Spankin'<div style="text-align: left;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s1600/new+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-R0TbQS5hcS4/TYrraFvykxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/ycJ2_xoqT-8/s200/new+mug.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><i>Having already touched on underwear in a recent blog post, I'm not really looking to develop a theme here on </i>Spam<i>. 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.</i></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> 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.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> 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.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> 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 <i>his</i> 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.</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-TvBmAOED85Q/TYrrSuwSfOI/AAAAAAAAAJI/x8oAKGq2p1w/s1600/baggy_pants.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="106" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-TvBmAOED85Q/TYrrSuwSfOI/AAAAAAAAAJI/x8oAKGq2p1w/s200/baggy_pants.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Hope you don't trip over your</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">drawers, dude.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> 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.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> 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.</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-E6wztSxwKU4/TYrqNDwnRtI/AAAAAAAAAI4/hXBnAr-kEAo/s1600/low+risers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-E6wztSxwKU4/TYrqNDwnRtI/AAAAAAAAAI4/hXBnAr-kEAo/s200/low+risers.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">C'mon, girls. We're all twins</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">from behind. No need to prove it.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> But guess what! <i>They weren't his pants!</i> 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.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> 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 <i>that</i> cross examination went down. Whatever the state offered, son, I hope you took the deal.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> 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.<br />
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?</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> 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.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: 'Default Sans Serif', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> Even bellbottoms and big hair were better than this.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-13373068353622333162011-03-22T16:48:00.007-05:002011-03-26T02:39:03.089-05:00Victoria's Got It. Robert? Not So Much.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s1600/spam+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s200/spam+mug.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <a href="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/1555693/Bone%20Marrow%20Registry%20voicemail.mp3">File this</a> 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 <i>Spam</i>. 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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
Someone like Dick Vitale, maybe.<i> "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!"</i><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-_I1jXJeKMNM/TYkUeSOWlpI/AAAAAAAAAIo/OUDzc6y5ijk/s1600/eartha_kitt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-_I1jXJeKMNM/TYkUeSOWlpI/AAAAAAAAAIo/OUDzc6y5ijk/s200/eartha_kitt.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eartha Kitt</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Or maybe they could channel their inner Eartha Kitt, and do it "Santa Baby" style. They could even lay the soundtrack behind the message:<br />
<i> "David, baby, please call and take our phone kuh-weery</i><br />
<i> For me</i><br />
<i> Want your answers real bad</i><br />
<i> David baby, so call me on the toll-free tonight...."</i><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><i> </i>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.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">...</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ifn3057OBI8/TYkUnFehGOI/AAAAAAAAAIs/GKmOKFI5JME/s1600/Dick-Vitale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ifn3057OBI8/TYkUnFehGOI/AAAAAAAAAIs/GKmOKFI5JME/s200/Dick-Vitale.jpg" width="168" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dickie V.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.......<i>sexy</i>. And she's something new. I was getting bored with Grace.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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 <a href="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/1555693/Seven%20Little%20Girls%20Sitting%20In%20The%20Back%20Seat.mp3">keep my mind on my driving, my hands on the wheel and my snoopy eyes on the road ahead.</a> She's not just a companion, she's a potential life saver. And just $2.99 in the Android Market. Can't beat that.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-10743460658645877592011-03-21T11:47:00.000-05:002011-03-21T11:47:24.545-05:00Monday Special: Spam Nuggets, Breaded and Fried<div style="text-align: left;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s1600/spam+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s200/spam+mug.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"> 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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> 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.</div> 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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">...</div> 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."<br />
Without thinking too hard, I can come up with three names pretty quick.<br />
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.<br />
Another would be Garrison Keillor. I'd bore him, but he'd never bore me.<br />
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.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">...</div> 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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
You're welcome for the visual, Kenna :)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-19679198901780402242011-03-20T15:12:00.002-05:002011-03-20T18:57:16.090-05:00Is Wal-Mart Ruining Our Economy By Not Hiring Checkers?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s1600/spam+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s200/spam+mug.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table> 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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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 <i>any</i> reputable daycare <i>anywhere</i> 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.<br />
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.<br />
In the current system, you can work and still need public assistance. America doesn't need <i>more</i> jobs, it needs <i>better</i> jobs.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">...</div> 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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">...</div> 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.<br />
So let me clarify.<br />
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 <i>can</i> send, since it's the only way they make money to begin with.<br />
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.<br />
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.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-42782970083174728652011-03-13T03:00:00.002-05:002011-03-13T23:58:54.097-05:00Coupon Anxiety: Is It Really Worth It?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s1600/spam+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s200/spam+mug.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">I coupon like a boy. I know this. I really want to learn to coupon like a girl, but the process seems overwhelming and the bargains underwhelming.</span><br />
<div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> And it doesn't help that I've been burned by couponing before. Like last week, when the Geezer and I "cashed in" on a BOGO lunch entree deal at TGI Fridays. The catch is you have to pay for an entree and two drinks. Two drinks at $2.59 a pop. <i>Two fifty-nine!</i> For the price of one dine-in drink, I could buy a sixer and have change left over. And if you want sweet potato fries instead of the nasty white potato fries, that's $1 extra -- each.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> By the time we were done, I spent as much with one of us eating "free" as I would have spent for both of us to eat full price at Swadleys. And we'da gotten more food at Swadleys, free soft serve for dessert and better, blonder waitresses.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> But I saw the banner on the Sunday paper saying there were $332 worth of coupons inside, so I violated everything I stand for and actually paid money for a Daily Oklahoman, the newspaper that fired me awhile back.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> Lots of good stuff in there, if I needed canned tea, wax paper or mascara. But I don't. I did see a coupon for a free stick of deodorant when I buy one, and one for $1.25 worth of free spaghetti when I buy two jars of Ragu. I definitely eat spaghetti. I sometimes use deodorant. I'm still not sure sacrificing my principles was worth a stick of Right Guard and some angel hair pasta, though.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> I know there's an art to it. You gotta use a coupon when something is already on sale, so you get two discounts at a time. That takes some research. The local coupon queens at my church get together now and then to learn tricks and trade coupons, etc. I've been invited to attend. Maybe I should go. </div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> But I know I'd be the only guy there, and I wouldn't want to stifle the girl talk. There's only so much "do these jeans make me look fat?" and "I was just walking by and I saw these pumps in the window and I thought 'ohmigosh, those would be <i>perfect</i> with my mustard-colored scarf'" and "well, when<i> I</i> was pregnant with (insert child's name).....yada yada yada" a guy can take.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> Anyway, if anyone needs coupons from Sunday's paper, hit me up. Someone may as well use them. Oh, and if you really have to ask, then yes, the jeans probably do make you look fat. :)</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b>...</b></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span>I don't want to rant here, but I get more and more disturbed every time I hear on the news that the United States is pledging millions and billions of dollars in aid to some foreign country that just had a natural disaster. This time it's Japan. The same country that already owns about half of the United States as is. </div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> Here's an idea: rather than just giving them more of our money because we're nice guys, how about we give them the chance to sell us our country back for the price they paid for it. Then they can use that money to clean up the mess and take care of their folks.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> Look, I've got nothing against Japan per se, other than that whole Pearl Harbor thing. But America has got to break its habit of bankrolling every other nation's natural disasters. It would be one thing if other nations came running with equal generosity to help us whenever a hurricane wipes out a major city or an oil rig leaks and destroys the livelihood of thousands of Americans along our coasts. You just don't hear much about that happening, though, do you? Not nearly to the extent that we spend on other nations when they need a hand.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> I'm a Democrat. I'm all about helping my own poor. Some think we spend too much for public aid to the needy in the U.S. I'm not convinced we spend enough. But we don't enforce immigration laws, so we spend billions each year supporting people inside our borders who aren't even U.S. citizens. That has to stop. You want to benefit from the system, Option A is to become a citizen and pay into the system like everyone else. Option B is to go back where you came from. There is no Option C.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> We've also got to get out of the mindset that it's our responsibility to free other nations from their oppressive governments. Those folks need to fight their own wars and get their independence for themselves. Just like we did.</div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> Makes you wonder how much better off we'd be as a country if we just minded our own business.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-8427019533540205652011-03-11T02:01:00.001-06:002011-03-11T02:03:22.583-06:00Remembering Alan Day and Don Vinzant<div style="text-align: left;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s1600/spam+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s200/spam+mug.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Years ago, a reporter for a dying newspaper in a thriving Oklahoma suburb convinced his managing editor to begin a regular religion section in the paper, covering news and events relevant to members of the community's dozens of churches.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> That's how I met Alan Day, pastor of Edmond's First Baptist Church. As I shared with local pastors and ministers the paper's plans for expanded coverage of religious topics and local church events, many were skeptical or confused. Why would a newspaper that never really cared before about their activities if it didn't involve buying an advertisement start to care now? I understood the skepticism. But a good number of local church leaders were enthusiastic about the change, and Day was among my biggest and earliest cheerleaders in that effort. </div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"> In the year plus that would follow before I left that newspaper, Day regularly offered encouragement and story ideas. I launched a "read-through-the-Bible-in-a-<wbr></wbr>year" campaign as part of the paper's religious coverage. I asked the local clergy to contribute to a weekly column on Fridays, offering something from the week's scheduled readings that made the Bible relevant to our lives today. Alan was one of the backbones of that weekly column, taking his regular turn in the rotation, as well as occasionally penning something on short notice when another minister forgot his turn. And his material never disappointed.</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-v2QCkXj-ALE/TXnTcHxT_1I/AAAAAAAAAIE/VQv_tNi8p74/s1600/AlanDay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-v2QCkXj-ALE/TXnTcHxT_1I/AAAAAAAAAIE/VQv_tNi8p74/s200/AlanDay.jpg" width="133" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Alan Day</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Alan and his wife invited me one evening for the church's Wednesday evening meal and Bible class, and were gracious hosts. I was impressed by Alan's teaching ability, and he took the time to introduce me to as many people as he could while I was there. Everyone I came in contact with at that congregation was warm and friendly. Based on their welcome, it's easy to see why they are a large, growing church. I know the folks on staff at Edmond's First Baptist are good-to-the-core in their own right, but I guess I always attributed much of that general culture to Alan's leadership there.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> So I was saddened a couple of weeks ago to learn that Alan died suddenly in a motorcycle accident, leaving behind a wife, children, grandchildren and literally multitudes of lives he touched through his ministry. My community lost a giant that day.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Edmond lost an equal spiritual giant Thursday with the passing of Don Vinzant, the longtime minister at the Edmond Church of Christ, just up the street on Bryant from where Day ministered for more than two decades. Vinzant died after a brief illness.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> I knew Don better than I knew Alan, primarily because we both worked at Oklahoma Christian University for a number of years. I was always drawn to Don's genuine, warm personality. Though I've been away from OC for a number of years, I'd still bump into Don occasionally on campus, or at Panera Bread across the street from the church.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Don would always take the time for a visit. Our favorite topic of conversation was Bobby and Tamie Ross. Don knew that Bobby and I were close friends since our days as students at OC together. Don would gush about the Rosses to the extent that I often wondered if we were talking about the same Bobby and Tamie Ross. But there was never any doubt how much Don cherished and loved them.</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mC9qaWGElVY/TXnTS1pC76I/AAAAAAAAAIA/0uNkgMoSR3w/s1600/donvinzant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mC9qaWGElVY/TXnTS1pC76I/AAAAAAAAAIA/0uNkgMoSR3w/s200/donvinzant.jpg" width="130" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Don Vinzant</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Recently, our conversation topics also would include Jeremie Beller, my preacher at Wilshire. Jeremie is a former student of Don's and another man Don loved. He would always tell me how impressed he was by how well-read Jeremie is for a man of his age, and how Jeremie seems genuinely interested in study and growth.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> I never really minded talking about the Rosses with Don, but talking Beller with him always made me nervous. When a leader of a larger, deeper-pocketed congregation than your own brags on your preacher like that, you're dumb not to be concerned. I always told Don it was fine to admire Jeremie. From afar.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> But it's not the Panera visits with Don that I will remember most about him. It's the times I would bump into Don in one of the hospitals. On two occasions, once when my dad was hospitalized and another when mom was a patient, I ran into Don in the hospital hall. He asked why I was there, and when he found out I was visiting a sick parent, took the time to invite himself into their room for encouragement and prayer. He came to see someone else, but always had time for the parents of Bobby's friend. I often wondered if Don was doing it for Bobby's sake, for my sake, or for the sick parent's sake. The answer, of course, is none of the above. Don did it for his master's sake, following the example the master set.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> I read about how precious the death of saints is to God. I read about mansions and robes and crowns. Up there. Where God has plenty of men and women like Alan and Don. It just doesn't seem like there are nearly enough of them down here, where we need them.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> When it's my turn, I'll see them again on the other side. Until then, they'll be missed. My community is poorer for losing them too soon.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-79560226475234935312011-03-07T23:40:00.012-06:002011-03-08T11:02:05.626-06:00Sex sells.....salt?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s1600/spam+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s200/spam+mug.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© Saint David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table> It's not often you get relationship advice from a stranger at the mall. But Daria was a piece of work Monday night. And I must say, her advice sounds pretty solid.<br />
After spending a good five minutes washing my hands with Dead Sea salt and buffing my thumbnail, Daria asked me if I was married. I told the truth. "Do you have a girlfriend?" was the follow-up. I lied, but only because I knew where this was going. I walked this road about a month ago with another sales girl at the Dead Sea Premier Cosmetics kiosk at Quail Springs Mall. When they see you coming, they're relentless.<br />
"Do you know how to tell if she's a good girlfriend?" Daria asked in her flirty voice, her bright wide smile mere inches from my face. I'm pretty sure she still has her tonsils-- she was that close. And that's way too close for a first sales date. At least she hadn't eaten onions for supper.<br />
There were so many ways this could go, and this was a ride I wasn't going to miss.<br />
"Umm, no. Do tell. How can I <i>know</i> if she's a good girlfriend?" I asked, trying to act like she was about to give me some important, make-or-break relationship insight.<br />
"When you come home from a hard day at work, soak your feet for about 15 minutes in warm water," Daria explained. "Then you ask your girlfriend to rub your feet with this salt. If she will do it, she's a good girlfriend.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-qk10vgRG0CU/TXXXWtooUuI/AAAAAAAAAG0/EQFX0aXTrKU/s1600/salt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-qk10vgRG0CU/TXXXWtooUuI/AAAAAAAAAG0/EQFX0aXTrKU/s200/salt.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The $70 salt.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> "But if she won't, you need to move on quick," she warned, clinging to my soft, smooth hand, freshly washed in Dead Sea salt.<br />
"You're lucky to have a girlfriend, David," she said. "I'm still looking for the right man," she winked.<br />
Oh please. Now she's creeping me out. And she won't ....let...go.....of my hand. I was ready to move on to the next phase.<br />
I knew the next phase, because I've done this before. Now we were going to negotiate the price for the happiness this magic salt would bring.<br />
She turned my palm up. Wouldn't turn it loose, mind you, but turned it up so she could place a jar of the magic salt in my hand. In the rental car business, we call that "assuming the sale." Inside the jar was one full year of salt treatments, she assured. I looked at the jar. There couldn't have been three-quarters of a cup of salt in this jar -- none of it from the Dead Sea I'm guessing -- and you'd be lucky to get 60 days out of it.<br />
She was going to make it mine for just $69.99. I smiled, stifling a laugh. I was able to stifle this time because I knew the starting price already. The first time, I couldn't stifle.<br />
But wait......there's more. Back up a minute. After the salt wash, she had me rub some "body butter" into my hands. I'm thinkin' it's the same stuff you get at Wal-Mart for $5 a bottle. You know, cocoa butter or shea butter or whatever they call it. But this was <i>Dead Sea body butter, </i>and it was mine for just $59.99. What a deal.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-q1Q4VZtUFzk/TXXXEor2zDI/AAAAAAAAAGk/cjnizpKPUFM/s1600/body+butter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-q1Q4VZtUFzk/TXXXEor2zDI/AAAAAAAAAGk/cjnizpKPUFM/s320/body+butter.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The $60 body butter</td></tr>
</tbody></table> On this stop at the kiosk, Daria did something the first girl didn't. Well, besides putting all of her business way up in my business in the middle of the mall. She also buffed my right thumbnail with some kind of bar. Made it all shiny. Promised me the nail would stay shiny for two weeks. One shiny nail. Just what I need. For the next two weeks I can walk up to people, hold out my hands and say "which of these nails is not like the others?" Maybe we'll sing the <i>Sesame Street</i> song together.<br />
Because it was my lucky day, I'd get the nail buffer bar, a cheap pair of clippers and some kind of cuticle thingy I wouldn't have a clue what to do with -- three years worth of shiny nails -- for just $59.99.<br />
She took out a calculator, violated my personal space again, and stroked the keys. 7, 0 + 6, 0 + 6, 0 = $190.<br />
"I don't think I can afford that," I said, knowing I wouldn't have to. Daria explained she had a long day. I could tell. Looked like she overslept and got dressed in a hurry, because there were a couple of shirt buttons she missed. I was gonna be a gentleman and point that out. But I'd already given myself over to lying, what's the harm in a little leering, too?<br />
She needed to make a sale. So for me, she'd sell me the salt for $50, the butter for $50 and <i>give</i> me the nail set. She pulled out the calculator again, showing me how she was willing to slice $90 off the price for nothing more than an "I can't afford it." To drive the point home, we divided $100 by 12. That's just eight bucks and change a month. Divide that by four. Just two bucks a week.<br />
"Well, maybe I'll come back and see you on payday," I lied, for the second time in five minutes. The preacher is right. Lying <i>does</i> get easier the more you do it. That's dangerous.<br />
She tried the three-for-two. Now I knew it was time for the two-for-one. She put the nail kit away. "For you, David, I'll sell you the salt for $59 and you can have the body butter for free."<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-hE1RvPhZKuY/TXWTKkpnqXI/AAAAAAAAAHE/Y-ObyAFRXUU/s1600/IMAG0038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-hE1RvPhZKuY/TXWTKkpnqXI/AAAAAAAAAHE/Y-ObyAFRXUU/s200/IMAG0038.jpg" width="176" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The camera doesn't do it justice.<br />
It really <i>is </i>shiny.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> I didn't immediately answer. I wanted to see what was next.<br />
"Your girlfriend, David. Do you spoil her?" I wasn't expecting her to revisit the fictional girlfriend, and it took me a moment to remember I had one.<br />
I nodded.<br />
"It's a great present for her. You can do something really special for her. You can rub it all over," she said.<br />
Oh boy.<br />
"Y-you m-m-mean all over her h-hands, right?" I stammered, playing innocent.<br />
She laughed. "No, David. You can rub it <i>all...over</i>. Give her a massage. It's a great natural healer for the whole body."<br />
I'm pretty sure I turned red. I'm certain I felt sadness and relief, all in one tangled emotion. I don't have the greatest job in the world, and sometimes I let that mess with my self-esteem. But at least I'm not talking dirty to middle-aged guys in a busy mall for minimum wage plus commission. I knew it was just about time to bring our little spa tease to a close.<br />
"You can afford this, David," she assured me. Then she stepped back, eying me from head to toe. "You look like you're worth a million bucks."<br />
Lying's not only habit-forming, it's contagious.<br />
I mean look at me. No, seriously. Scroll up and <i>look at me</i>. I was no prize 25 years and 70 pounds ago, and the decades haven't exactly been my friend. I'm standing there in a t-shirt, cheap faded jeans and $15 Wal-Mart sneakers that have holes in both big toes, and she's trying to make me feel like a movie star.<br />
And it worked. For a moment, I did feel kind of like Chevy Chase in <i>Vacation</i>. You know, the part where he's trying to convince Christie Brinkley that he's the owner of a hotel chain and that Beverly D'Angelo, the kids and the Queen Family Truckster are all just a disguise. Maybe she was right. I'm tired of pretending I'm not Donald freaking Trump from Mars.<br />
<i>This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy.</i><br />
"You can have the salt for $29," she conceded.<br />
"I can't today," I answered, agreeing to take her business card and revisit her on payday. Technically I didn't lie, because I didn't say which payday.<br />
Accepting defeat, she let go of my hand and got out of my face, but handed me her card. I showed her the prominent spot in my wallet where I put it. A place where I won't forget.<br />
And I won't forget. Because now I wanna see just how cheaply I can get it. The salt I mean. Maybe I'll go back tomorrow night and see if I can talk her down to $19.99.<br />
Of course, she <i>is</i> single. That's what she said. She'd never lie to me, I'm sure, except for that million bucks nonsense. So maybe I'll go back tomorrow and make <i>her</i> a deal. I'll take the salt for $30, then after work, we'll go back to her place so I can soak my feet awhile. Then I'll hand her the salt and see if she passes the 'good girlfriend' test.<br />
If she rubs my feet, then something tells me I'm into something good. If not, I'll just take her advice, dump her like a dishrag and return the salt to a different kiosk in a different mall.<br />
If I act like I lost my receipt, maybe I'll get full price back for it. It's only fair.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-15705734312268243572011-03-06T16:08:00.002-06:002011-03-06T16:29:14.201-06:00Saving Time in the Daylight. Or in the Dark Night.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s1600/spam+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s200/spam+mug.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© Saint David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Daylight Savings Time means we spring forward next week.<br />
I've been thinking about the whole time saving concept in conjunction with Daylight Savings Time, and remembered something I read online years ago from a website offering practical tips on saving your valuable time. I don't remember the website, but what I'm about to share with you was the only time-saving tip there worth remembering, anyway.<br />
The tip is on how to take off your shirt faster, and it can easily save 1-2 seconds every time time you take off a shirt. Since I started employing this method years ago, I've probably saved 3-5 minutes of my valuable time. It's a wonder I ever managed to undress without it. But it's not just the time saved. Through the years I've probably saved gallons of water by stepping into a running shower a couple of second faster every morning. So it's environmentally friendly as well.<br />
One caveat though....this seems to work best with t-shirts or stretchy shirts. I wouldn't try it with a dress shirt or something that had a lot of buttons. I know, I know....some of you are just naturally curious and will want to learn from your own mistakes rather than learning from Saint Hartman's, so do what you gotta do. Just don't say I didn't warn ya if something bad happens.<br />
Using the wonderful technology of the HTC EVO's dual cameras, I'll show you how to go from zero to shirtless in no more than a second, after you get the hang of it. If you have a weak stomach, a couple of the images might <i>scare</i> you shirtless too, but it's a risk I'm willing to take here at Spam on Wry to make your lives more time efficient.<br />
So much easier than raising the shirt up from the bottom. Start at the top and let gravity work for ya.<br />
Remember, at Spam on Wry, we love reader feedback, so please feel free to share other important time-saving tips you've come across!<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-K77Oz0fRMts/TXP2ol_RlhI/AAAAAAAAAFk/PWk2Gjfju_0/s1600/IMAG0028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-K77Oz0fRMts/TXP2ol_RlhI/AAAAAAAAAFk/PWk2Gjfju_0/s200/IMAG0028.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1. Reach behind your back<br />
and grab the shirt from the<br />
collar. Hold your thumb<br />
against the tag for a good<br />
grip.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-Q1ZGGN55aZk/TXP5tLgAWCI/AAAAAAAAAFs/pGWRkWz6aP4/s1600/IMAG0029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-Q1ZGGN55aZk/TXP5tLgAWCI/AAAAAAAAAFs/pGWRkWz6aP4/s200/IMAG0029.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2. From the back, pull the<br />
collar straight over your head<br />
until the tail of the shirt<br />
is over your head as well.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-Q_mzNy_moF0/TXP22NbJIpI/AAAAAAAAAF0/BEHphmvX1Jg/s1600/IMAG0032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-Q_mzNy_moF0/TXP22NbJIpI/AAAAAAAAAF0/BEHphmvX1Jg/s200/IMAG0032.jpg" width="118" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3. Keep pullin' till the<br />
shirt slides off the<br />
shoulders...<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-9E0nVRuYVR4/TXP29xEVLPI/AAAAAAAAAF8/uf8SHP-CIKw/s1600/IMAG0031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-9E0nVRuYVR4/TXP29xEVLPI/AAAAAAAAAF8/uf8SHP-CIKw/s200/IMAG0031.jpg" width="119" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4. Then straight down<br />
the arms. Done!<br />
<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-7513562839564432582011-03-04T07:18:00.003-06:002011-03-05T19:36:08.007-06:00Anticipating Saint Hartman's Day: How Will YOU Celebrate?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s1600/spam+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s200/spam+mug.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© Saint David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> I'm a saint. No, really.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> For years I've thought about it, even aloud and publicly in forums like Facebook. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> It was time to either move or get off the canon.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> So Thursday I became Saint David. Or Saint Hartman. I think I like the second one better. There's probably a Saint David already. Probably not a Saint Hartman. I like to be unique.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> For a nominal fee, I purchased my sainthood through the Universal Life Church, in which I've been a reverend for more than a decade. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> To become a reverend, I had to provide my name and a valid e-mail address. Wanna be a reverend? Check out the church's website. Tell 'em Saint Hartman sent ya.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Though I don't yet have my official document suitable for framing, I was assured my sainthood was effective the day I submitted payment. The certificate will come soon enough, but not until the official scribe at the monastery scribbles it out. Sounds impressive, doesn't it?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> I know what some of you are thinking. Hartman's gone mad. How could he abandon his conservative Christian upbringing to do something like this? He's hellbound.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Well hold your horses. Before I even became a reverend in the ULC years ago, I researched the organization to see if I lined up with their tenets. Religiously, they're harmless. It's okay for me to believe whatever I want about religion under the umbrella of the Universal Life Church, so long as I respect your right to believe whatever you want under the same umbrella.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> I'm fine with that. To be clear, I'm not required to concede that anything you believe necessarily is a path that leadeth unto eternal salvation. All I have to do is respect your right to walk your own path. </span>I do that anyway. If I'm gonna live and let live, why not be a saint in the process?<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> But why saint, when for the same nominal fee, I could have been a Cardinal, Friar or Lama? Peace Counselor, Swami or Very Esteemed? I could have even been a Pope. Not <i>the</i> Pope, I presume, but a Pope nonetheless.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> I chose saint as much for you as for me. Every saint worth knowing has his or her own day. If you're a really special saint, you day is recognized by whoever recognizes those things, and your day becomes a national holiday. Pretty soon folks are getting paid to take the day off to celebrate you.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> If I can give my friends one more holiday to celebrate, why wouldn't I? I can't promise your employer will give you the day off on St. Hartman's Day. Yet. That national holiday process is slow to develop. But there's no time like the present to get the ball rolling. As one of my colleagues, the Rev. Jesse Jackson, would say, "if not me, who? If not now, when?" By the end of this decade, my goal is to have St. Hartman's Day celebrated by tens of people worldwide. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Saint Hartman's Day officially will be celebrated on Dec. 21. It's my birthday, so it makes sense. I have mixed feelings about celebrating that day. Sadly, Dec. 21 is the shortest day of the year, and I don't want anyone feeling like they're getting less bang for their St. Hartman's Day buck. On the other hand, it's close to Christmas, another national holiday where you get the day off. Perhaps by proximity to Christmas, it'll be easier to convince the boss to cut you loose for the day. Plant the seed now. What can it hurt?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> On the left side of the blog, you'll see the official countdown widget to St. Hartman's Day 2011. You can even indicate if you plan to join the celebration. Feel free to leave a comment telling how you plan to celebrate the special day as well.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Enjoy!</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-70639103557307213702011-03-03T11:18:00.003-06:002011-03-05T19:37:22.326-06:00Court Sides with Westboro: It's the Right Call<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s1600/spam+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s200/spam+mug.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table> The United States Supreme Court amazed me yet again.<br />
Earlier this week, they overturned a lower court ruling giving millions to the family of a dead marine after members of the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas picketed the marine's funeral with their hate rhetoric that God hates homosexuals and America.<br />
The court ruled 8-1 that the protestors had the right to protest after all.<br />
I'm not surprised by ruling. I'm surprised there was a dissenting vote. Someone needs to refamiliarize Justice Samuel Alito with the First Amendment. If ever a slam dunk was thrown in the lap of the high court, this was it.<br />
Look, I don't like the Westboro Baptists any more than the next guy. It's just fair to say I probably <i>dislike</i> them less than most. Stick with me a minute before you start firing off the hateful comments and e-mails.<br />
If you're unfamiliar with the Westboro Baptists, it's a <b>small</b> church headed by a guy named Fred Phelps. Fred has a lot of kids. His kids have a lot of kids. The family tree comprises the lion's share of the Westboro membership. No mainstream Baptist group that I'm aware of claims fellowship with them.<br />
In a nutshell, their mission in life is to warn Americans that God hates them because America has given itself over to homosexuality. God will surely destroy America for this and damn us all to Hell. Phelps rails against some other sins as well, but his pet sin is homosexuality.<br />
To spread their message, the family protests high-profile events throughout the country, most often funerals of dead American soldiers. There, they wave their anti-American, anti-homosexuality signs on the streetcorners and shout their message to cars passing by.<br />
<a href="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/1555693/westboro-church.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/1555693/westboro-church.jpg" width="318" /></a> If you wonder why they picket funerals of dead soldiers, their reasoning is simple: not only does God hate fags, he hates anyone who enables fags. The group takes guilt by association to extremes. If you fight to protect America -- a nation given over to homosexuality -- you're as damned as the homosexual himself. Presumably, if you so much as pledge allegiance to the United States, you're an enabler, and therefore damned.<br />
There's no Jesus in their message. No forgiveness, no love. Just Hell.<br />
One of Phelps' daughters, Shirley Phelps-Roper, serves as the spokeswoman for the church. Back in my reporter days, I had an opportunity to spend about 30 minutes on the phone with Shirley before they were to protest a military funeral in my town. At the funeral protest itself, I spoke with her again, this time among a group of reporters who covered the protest in a makeshift streetcorner press conference.<br />
The Westboro Baptists don't see saving the United States from hell as their mission. Theirs is not to worry if or how you come to salvation. Their goal is simply to warn you of what they believe is coming. Think of them more as John the Baptist types, not Jesus types, and you'll understand them better.<br />
Their method of spreading their message is offensive, but effective. Every funeral they picket, they make news. People talk about them. Municipalities adopt new ordinances to prohibit them from being near funerals. Police arrest them.<br />
But the Phelps family is legal smart. Most of the adults in the family are lawyers, so they get all their representation pro bono. And they usually win, simply because no matter how offensive people find the message, sharing their message isn't illegal. And for that matter, it shouldn't be.<br />
Let's be clear. They offend me. I don't believe their extreme "guilt by association" theology is Biblical. I don't believe Jesus teaches us to confront people with their sin without offering a message of hope and salvation. God hates sin; he loves sinners. He made them. He wants them to be reconciled. Jesus said if you're not with me in that reconciliation project, you're against me. Since the Westboro group isn't trying to save souls, I'm pretty confident I know where they stand with Jesus.<br />
It's just that I've long ago gotten past letting Fred Phelps and his kids upset me. My God is bigger than Fred Phelps; He'll deal with Fred.<br />
But in a contemporary religious climate where anything goes, I have to admit I find it a bit refreshing that <i>someone</i> out there is willing to call a sin a sin and declare the consequences of sin without caring who they offend in the process.<br />
In that streetcorner press conference with Phelps-Roper, one of the reporters confronted her with the story of Jesus forgiving the woman caught in adultry.<br />
"Yes, he did," Phelps-Roper replied. "But when he had forgiven her, he didn't tell her to go march in some adulterer's pride parade, did he?"<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/YgYDE-mW7Nw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe> <br />
On that point, Phelps-Roper nails it, and raises a problem much larger and more dangerous in the kingdom than the Westboro Baptists pose themselves.<br />
On the opposite end of the Westboro spectrum are the hundreds of "churches" who adopt a "come as you are, stay as you are" theology that refuses to confront any sin at all.<br />
Jesus was all about "come as you are." He was <i>never</i> about "stay as you are."<br />
It just saddens me that well-meaning Christians get so worked up about the Westboro Baptists -- a church that isn't growing, by the way -- but don't seem nearly as concerned about the churches that draw football-sized crowds every Sunday to tell people it's okay to live however they want. That God loves everyone and God will let no one perish because he loves them is more polite, yet far more harmful and deceptive kingdom rhetoric than "God hates fags."<br />
The power of the cross to save is directly proportionate to the power of sin to condemn. No more, no less. If sin doesn't destroy, then no cross necessary.<br />
It's a message we need to hear more often.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695812645955780616.post-55104473963648407952011-03-01T01:41:00.020-06:002011-03-05T19:38:42.960-06:00Delayed Gratification: Where's My (Coke) Reward?<div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s1600/spam+mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Rep4lLSpq20/TXLjsKPsO7I/AAAAAAAAADc/qEARb-tjjy4/s200/spam+mug.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© David Hartman</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Monday was a big day for me. Sorta.</div><div> It's the day I surpassed 4,000 points in my My Coke Rewards account. As I type, I'm at 4,177 points, with probably another 150 points waiting to be deposited in the account in the coming weeks.</div><div> I haven't been saving points for anything specific, though I've been hoping that Coke will partner with Best Buy again so I can convert points into a Best Buy gift card. For 4,000 points, I'd get enough Best Buy cash to take a nice chunk out of my next cell phone upgrade.</div><div> That's probably what I'll hold out for, until I get tired of holding out, or until I really need a phone upgrade regardless. But I checked the Coke Rewards catalog today to see if there was anything to tempt me to cash in now. Here are some examples of what I found:</div><div> I can have a $50 Nike gift card for 2,000 points, so I assume I could get $100 worth of Nike for 4K points. The only trouble with that is it's been a long, long time since I've dropped a Franklin on shoes. It'll be a longer time before I do it again. So it doesn't strike me as a good use of points.</div><div> Also in that 2,000-point category are the lovely white Ultra Spa Terry Velour Robes. One-size-fits-all and unisex. In other words, cheap. Probably a thread count of about 30. Again, for 4,000 points I could get his-and-hers matching robes. Except there ain't no her, and if I wore a bathrobe, I'd never admit it publicly. <i>Ever</i>. So what's the point in that?</div><div> I've taken a hard look at the six-piece stoneware nesting mixing bowl set (2,000 points) and the seven-piece stainless steel utensil set (1,750 points). I don't really know stoneware. I do know Pyrex. If they were Pyrex bowls, I'd probably cash in. But if they were Pyrex, I wouldn't get six of them for 2,000 points.</div><div> Then there's the one free rental day of a midsize car from Avis for the whopping sum of 2,000 points. If only I didn't work for Hertz....</div><div> For 3,300 points, I could get three sets of AMC Silver Experience movie tickets at 1,100 each. Each set includes two large drinks and a large popcorn, so each is worth about $25 in junk food alone. But I don't go to the movies. I've seen maybe three in the last five years. I don't go unless politeness requires. </div><div><a href="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/1555693/notebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/1555693/notebook.jpg" width="320" /></a> Reminds me of one of the last movies I did see at the theatre. <i>The Notebook</i>. Mom and dad wanted to go see it, but dad didn't want to drive. So I was designated driver, which meant they bought my movie ticket. Things were going just swell until we got to the part where the kids were in the old house alone and young Allie started taking off her clothes. My 70-something mother, who talks too loud because she can't hear, turned to my dad and said in her outside voice: <i>"What are they doing? What is this movie rated?"</i> The first question was rhetorical. It was obvious what they were doing. Everyone heard. Everybody snickered. I got up and went to get a Coke. Best $10 I ever spent on a watered-down Coke. When I came back, I sat elsewhere.</div><div> Mom liked the movie, by the way. When it's on TV, she watches it again -- with the volume real loud because she can't hear. Whenever it gets to the juicy parts, I stop what I'm doing and either come into the room or just walk past, so she's aware of my presence. Too embarrassed to watch it in front of me, she always changes the channel until I leave. I loiter until I'm pretty sure the good parts are over.</div><div> Anyway.</div><div> Are there any good, beefy offers in this catalog at all? Well, 500 points could get me a $20 gift card from Omaha Steaks. Now we're talking! Quick math check: 4,000 divided by 500 is eight. Eight times 20 is 160. A hundred and sixty bucks worth of meat! At Wal-Mart, that's not a bad deal. At Swadley's it would be an awesome deal. At Omaha Steaks, that's about five pounds of 80/20 and a couple of chicken legs, excluding shipping. Or maybe two 12-ounce ribeyes. That's hard to swallow, even with the hundreds of Cokes I've chugged in the last year to get them for free.</div><div><a href="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/1555693/coke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/1555693/coke.jpg" width="200" /></a> Maybe I expect too much. I should just take 10 years of Martha Stewart magazines at 400 points a year and call it a day. Or I could get 4,000 Cristian and Jacky "Laughing Out Loud" wallpapers at <b>zero points each</b> and still have all my points left over for all this other great stuff. That's enough wallpapers to give one to all my blog followers. Okay, as of today, that's enough to give 4,000 to all my blog followers.</div><div> I don't know who these people are -- Cristian and Jacky -- but they look happy in the wallpaper, don't they? They're laughing. Out loud, no less. Probably just scored a rent one, get one free deal from Blockbuster for 50 MCR points and they're deciding what to watch.</div><div> And that's when Cristian turns to Jacky and says "remember that time we saw <i>The Notebook</i> in Oklahoma City and that lady said....?"</div><div><br />
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</div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17042318038206312279noreply@blogger.com0