In memory of his death 25 years ago today, the title/lyric comes from a John Lennon song called Remember off his first solo album. Click the title to visit his official website.
Here is a list of the Greenbay Packers Injured Team members:
Green Bay Packers
Injuries
B. Franks TE Doubtful Neck/Back
N. Diggs LB Questionable Knees
R. Thomas LB Questionable Quadricep
C. Williams DT Questionable Calf
B. Favre QB Probable Right Hand/Right Forearm
G. Jackson DT Probable Hip
M. Tauscher T Probable Foot
Here is a list of the Packers who are out for the season. Notice the bulk of offensive weapons (starters and backups) and secondary on the list.
T. Franz S IR Shoulder Starter
J. Harris RB IR Right knee #3 Running Back
J. Walker WR IR Ankle #1 Reciever
T. Murphy WR IR Neck #3 Reciever
N. Davenport RB IR Broken right ankle #2 Running Back
A. Green RB IR Knee #1 Running Back
E. Little S IR Hamstring Starter
W. Williams RB IR Hamstring #4 Running Back
J. Horton CB IR Sprained shoulder Starter
J. Thornburg S IR Separated shoulder Starter
R. Lee RB IR Ribs (Never heard of him, but he's a running back)
The Packers have scored 239 points this season.
The Packers opponents have scored 242 points this season.
The Pack has lost by 3 points or less 5 times this season and by 7 or less 7 times. They have had a chance to win every game except two, opening weekend to Detroit and against Pittsburgh.
They have a legitimate shot to win by a touchdown or more the next two weeks (Detroit and Baltimore) and probably won't get beat by much the last two weeks as Chicago doesn't have an offense and Seattle will be resting theirs. Its probable then that they will finish the season having outscored their opponents.
They will have done this largely as a team made up of no-names, practice squad call-ups, and second, third, and fourth stringers. The only pillar to their once palpable offense remains Brett Favre at QB, he has one real reciever and a running back who couldn't make any NFL team the last three years who is simply playing with heart and guts.
I get sick of people trashing Favre, saying he should retire. Did he throw two bad interceptions last week against Chicago? Yes!!! And they cost us the game, but why do you think we were even in it? While CBS showed the Colts game and Peyton Manning(a Superbowl virgin with a history of choking, a propensity to whine, and the greatest collection of offensive talent ever assembled around him) Fox was carrying the Bears-Packers game. It was an ugly game, mostly an excersise in the Bears defense's ability to stop the Packers, and their offense's ability to not screw up and kick a couple field goals. There was a play that reminded me why I became a Packer fan in the first place. (I am a recovering Cowboys bandwagon rider from the early nineties. It's been twelve years since my last cheer.) With a 2-9 record, behind against the division leader, with nothing to gain in the big picture, down by 3 in the game, the Pack called a double handoff that put Brett Favre (3-time MVP, Superbowl champ, NFL record setter in multiple categories, none more impressive than his streak of 217 consecutive starts) out in front of their eighth string running back as the primary blocker. That's right, Brett Favre was the primary blocker, and not only did he hit someone, but his block got the Pack a first down.
I live in the midst of hysteria currently, because the Colts truly are an amazing football team, and I have friends and relatives who will be pumped if they go to a Superbowl. But for me, there simply isn't any wonder about the Colts being undefeated. They ought to be. But this Sunday I watched my team, a Pack of serious underdogs with nothing left to play for and they never quit. I watched their only marquee player, at least the only one left, put his ass on the line to get a first down. That's freaking football! That's the kind of team I can be proud to root for even in a loss. Sunday Brett favre punched himself out. It'll happen again, maybe this season, hopefully for a couple more. But I'd rather have someone to cheer for willing to put it all on the line, throw into three recievers with a prayer, and get beat up and stand back up than ever cheer a team on that didn't have any heart.
I can't stand John Elway, and once, he beat the Packers in a Superbowl with sheer guts and determination. I still can't stand John Elway, but he's a champion. That can't be taken away from him and shouldn't be. Brett Favre is a champion and that shouldn't be forgotten either. He's playing with a JV team and hanging tough when a lot of other guys would have sat down already. Maybe this season Peyton Manning and the unstoppable Colts will truly be unstoppable, they'll hoist the Lombardi trophy and be called champions for the rest of their careers. But until they do...
My dad, when he was a basketball coach used to have a saying:
"To be the best you have to outwork the rest."
You also have to beat the best. The Packers, not the best. The Colts, let's see.
And let the champions be champions forever.
Dec 8, 2005
Dec 7, 2005
No more waitin', tonight I feel the light I say the prayer. I open the door, I climb the stairs... (Coming To Terms) Part II
The title is the second half of the Bruce Springsteen lyric from last post. He cannot crack the Big Three, but he can have first dibs at repeating titleship. Click the title to read a great article about The Boss from Slate online magazine.
Coming To Terms
Part Two
When I was younger and we had to take the ISTEP tests I would always test in the high ninety percetiles. I was always in Gifted and Talented classes. I was always among the leaders of whatever class I was in, whatever school I was in. I remember hundreds of conversations with my parents that included the phrase "you can be anything you want to be J.D." and I know not every kid heard that.
And I know not every parent who says that believes it, but I believe mine did.
I became an incredible slacker, half-assing high school in some uncommunicated later rationalized nonverbal protest to how incredibly easy it all was. Now I tell kids high school is what they make of it, which is as important as I can make it without feeling dishonest. I made it a good nap, some fun times, and a lot of wasted talent. I had tested in the ninety percentile and finshed my senior year the lowest ranked smart kid in the class, somewhere above the middle and below the expectation, where academically I feel most comfortable.
But the problem is I believe it too-that I could be anything I want to be.
So here, 26 years into the game, I come to a new edge of reasoning I haven't yet explored, simply stated in the question I've been asking myself lately, "What am I waiting for?"
In March in Indiana and probably other places but I've never been, basketball is an all consuming distraction from life and work and school. We used to save up hallpasses to skip class for the library to watch the day games of the NCAA tournament and now we save up vacation days for it. There was always a sense in those early round games that a 16 seed might beat a 1 one year. And frequently 13s and 14s from little schools would beat up on underachieving teams from big ones. I still remember Valporaiso putting up a fight a few years ago, Butler hanging tough when Andrew Graves was there, and ISU showing their punch in the torunament beating Oklahoma. Sure those are three Indiana schools! I'm telling you, if you don't live here, it's insane! All year long though, in almost every sport, in almost every situation I'm rooting for the underdog. It's not only something I find consisent with my upbringing, but I think its consistent with my faith as well. The least shall be greatest, the meek shall inherit the Earth, one year Creighton will beat Duke! I'm cheering for the underdog.
But I've never been the underdog. Sure I'm fat and bald, with crazy eyes and a weird complexion, but is there anyone who thinks superficaial things really limit us, or that my particular looks are a hindrance to my abundant charm?
I am white-I think we've established they aren't the underdogs throughout history.
I am male-Yep, top dogs, regardless of what's fair.
I am American-Is there any doubt we're still the most envied country?
Middle-class-for as broke as I always am I fall into this category by birthright and on my own.
Christian-By choice I belong, with plenty of reservations, to the larger religion named Christianity.
I am young, demorgraphically-They market TV and movies to 18-39 year old males so my opinion means dollar signs.
Plus I am talented. I am wise beyond my years. Accomplished for my years. Soon, I'll be educated as much as any peer, with twice the experience. I can write and I can sing and I can speak and I can think and I can lead. People listen to me and trust me and come to me for advice and wisdom. I am not an underdog. I am not an underdog and my being a slacker serves no one but my inner fear of failing-which I've never really done!
Please don't read this as an ego piece, although my ego is sizable. It is time I started fulfilling some of my earlier promise.
I need to be speaking to 20 groups a year, leading worship or retreats with kids and parents. I need to record my music. I need to fulfill the last months of my call to this church while making myself emotionally available to the next thing(s). I need to challenge this church not to take the easy way out. I need to challenge myself the same way. I need to write with some purpose other than these self absorbed rants and little moral teachings to people I know love me. I need to focus next semester, so I can be all the places I am challenging myself to be and be fully available to those people. I need to get some drugs/therapy/sleep or making out in to get me over my damn funk. I need to start putting the ideas I have together for my future. I need to be persistent AND patient simultaneously. I need to continue to put things in perspective.
Reinhold Niebuhr's famous Serneity Prayer needs to be on my mind:
God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next.
Amen.
--Reinhold Niebuhr
I don't belong at the bottom of the smart pack, the middle of the whole pack, or in the backrow with the slackers. I have been given too much to waste it not doing, or feeling too sad to overcome. I believe in myself, to a fault, to the end. It is a testament to those who have raised me and taught me, and on their behalf, finally I can no longer squander the time I have nor the gifts I've been given.
What do I want to be?
A (Leader, Preacher, Father, Son, Brother, Husband, Writer, Speaker, Singer, Friend, Counselor, Director, Dreamer, Visionary) who helps people live a better life. And not just a life changed, but a changed life that makes them want to help others too. Going by that list I have accomplished exactly four of the list if I'm honest and one was handed to me at birth and another a couple years later. I've earned two. I have work to do.
I need to climb the stairs from out of this gray. I need to get to work. I need to start living the life I'm capable of. I need to start being what I was meant to be. What moral teaching is there to render from this self absorbed affirmation? We all have work to do becoming what we were meant to be. Please try. Please help me try. If you're reading this you have played a role to this point in my life. Probably your take on what I've done thus far is a little more forgiving than mine. It doesn't matter. What matters is that there are things I need to be doing and its time I started doing them.
Coming To Terms
Part Two
When I was younger and we had to take the ISTEP tests I would always test in the high ninety percetiles. I was always in Gifted and Talented classes. I was always among the leaders of whatever class I was in, whatever school I was in. I remember hundreds of conversations with my parents that included the phrase "you can be anything you want to be J.D." and I know not every kid heard that.
And I know not every parent who says that believes it, but I believe mine did.
I became an incredible slacker, half-assing high school in some uncommunicated later rationalized nonverbal protest to how incredibly easy it all was. Now I tell kids high school is what they make of it, which is as important as I can make it without feeling dishonest. I made it a good nap, some fun times, and a lot of wasted talent. I had tested in the ninety percentile and finshed my senior year the lowest ranked smart kid in the class, somewhere above the middle and below the expectation, where academically I feel most comfortable.
But the problem is I believe it too-that I could be anything I want to be.
So here, 26 years into the game, I come to a new edge of reasoning I haven't yet explored, simply stated in the question I've been asking myself lately, "What am I waiting for?"
In March in Indiana and probably other places but I've never been, basketball is an all consuming distraction from life and work and school. We used to save up hallpasses to skip class for the library to watch the day games of the NCAA tournament and now we save up vacation days for it. There was always a sense in those early round games that a 16 seed might beat a 1 one year. And frequently 13s and 14s from little schools would beat up on underachieving teams from big ones. I still remember Valporaiso putting up a fight a few years ago, Butler hanging tough when Andrew Graves was there, and ISU showing their punch in the torunament beating Oklahoma. Sure those are three Indiana schools! I'm telling you, if you don't live here, it's insane! All year long though, in almost every sport, in almost every situation I'm rooting for the underdog. It's not only something I find consisent with my upbringing, but I think its consistent with my faith as well. The least shall be greatest, the meek shall inherit the Earth, one year Creighton will beat Duke! I'm cheering for the underdog.
But I've never been the underdog. Sure I'm fat and bald, with crazy eyes and a weird complexion, but is there anyone who thinks superficaial things really limit us, or that my particular looks are a hindrance to my abundant charm?
I am white-I think we've established they aren't the underdogs throughout history.
I am male-Yep, top dogs, regardless of what's fair.
I am American-Is there any doubt we're still the most envied country?
Middle-class-for as broke as I always am I fall into this category by birthright and on my own.
Christian-By choice I belong, with plenty of reservations, to the larger religion named Christianity.
I am young, demorgraphically-They market TV and movies to 18-39 year old males so my opinion means dollar signs.
Plus I am talented. I am wise beyond my years. Accomplished for my years. Soon, I'll be educated as much as any peer, with twice the experience. I can write and I can sing and I can speak and I can think and I can lead. People listen to me and trust me and come to me for advice and wisdom. I am not an underdog. I am not an underdog and my being a slacker serves no one but my inner fear of failing-which I've never really done!
Please don't read this as an ego piece, although my ego is sizable. It is time I started fulfilling some of my earlier promise.
I need to be speaking to 20 groups a year, leading worship or retreats with kids and parents. I need to record my music. I need to fulfill the last months of my call to this church while making myself emotionally available to the next thing(s). I need to challenge this church not to take the easy way out. I need to challenge myself the same way. I need to write with some purpose other than these self absorbed rants and little moral teachings to people I know love me. I need to focus next semester, so I can be all the places I am challenging myself to be and be fully available to those people. I need to get some drugs/therapy/sleep or making out in to get me over my damn funk. I need to start putting the ideas I have together for my future. I need to be persistent AND patient simultaneously. I need to continue to put things in perspective.
Reinhold Niebuhr's famous Serneity Prayer needs to be on my mind:
God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next.
Amen.
--Reinhold Niebuhr
I don't belong at the bottom of the smart pack, the middle of the whole pack, or in the backrow with the slackers. I have been given too much to waste it not doing, or feeling too sad to overcome. I believe in myself, to a fault, to the end. It is a testament to those who have raised me and taught me, and on their behalf, finally I can no longer squander the time I have nor the gifts I've been given.
What do I want to be?
A (Leader, Preacher, Father, Son, Brother, Husband, Writer, Speaker, Singer, Friend, Counselor, Director, Dreamer, Visionary) who helps people live a better life. And not just a life changed, but a changed life that makes them want to help others too. Going by that list I have accomplished exactly four of the list if I'm honest and one was handed to me at birth and another a couple years later. I've earned two. I have work to do.
I need to climb the stairs from out of this gray. I need to get to work. I need to start living the life I'm capable of. I need to start being what I was meant to be. What moral teaching is there to render from this self absorbed affirmation? We all have work to do becoming what we were meant to be. Please try. Please help me try. If you're reading this you have played a role to this point in my life. Probably your take on what I've done thus far is a little more forgiving than mine. It doesn't matter. What matters is that there are things I need to be doing and its time I started doing them.
Dec 6, 2005
I got somethin' in my heart, I been waitin' to give. I got a life I wanna start, one I been waitin' to live. (Coming To Terms) Part I
Title today comes from a Bruce Springsteen song off his latest album Devils and Dust. The song is called Leah. Bruce may be the only person I'd consider disrupting the Music Trinity I've immortalized with the links on the right. Instead he's gonna get the double quote treatment as my next post will use the second half of this lyric. Click on the title to see Bruce's pretty comprehensive page.
Coming To Terms
Part I
This funk has got to end and it needs to end right now. I can't be what I need to be to people, for people, for myself with this weight on me. So if you will indulge my rantings I will be offering up a two part self induced therapy writing/bitch session/vision forming piece in my next posts, hopefully coming to some form of conclusion about how I get over my grayness...again.
First the bitch session...
Tonight I went to a movie, that was to begin at 5:20, it began at 5:43 after 4 commercials, 6 previews for other movies, of which I will be seeing 0, and a dated dumb introduction for the movie theater I was at, as if the decals on every doorway, popcorn tub, cup, and urinal cake wasn't enough. Okay that last one is just satirical, but it made my point. I go to the movies to get away from all the BS that comes with living near other people. I don't need sold Coke or Movie Tickets while I'm at the theater drinking a Coke, and I sure don't want to be persuaded to join the National Guard when I'm clearly blowing off steam watching Herbie Rides Again. (Satire people! Which I will denote from now on with a big italicized S)If the commercials were products related to the film I think I'd be okay with it. If the Marines wanted to show that dragon slaying commercial of theirs before Jarhead, okay. Or if The Occult wanted to sell broomsticks before Harry Potter I'd be cool with that S. Why didn't the Catholic church have some commercials on before The Passion of The Christ? Or why shouldn't OUT magiazine sponsor Brokeback Mountain. For God sakes, why not just have actors wear Nascar jumpsuits with sponsorship on them within the movie? S Skittles bring you Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain...Taste The Rainbow! (If you've missed the satire to this point, stop reading. I will only be making you madder.)
But EVERYTHING is for sale and no one isn't a sellout!
And it makes me sick. Christmas is supposed to be this blessed holiday where we celbrate the Son of God coming into the world to save all mankind, and how do we celebrate the beginning of the season? How is it that we kick-off this season of peace and hope and silent nights? By kicking the snot out of eachother over toys and electronics on the day after we give thanks to God for our many blessings. Let's beat each other over a Wipe-Me Elmo. This year there were fist fights over sales priced computers at Wal-Mart. Two things. One-if you are buying a computer at Wal-Mart, can the purchase really mean that much to you? Two-get some freaking perspective. On Thanksgiving we feed our big fat faces,(and in the USA most of us are big and fat) unbuckle our pants, rollover and watch overpriced crybabies play a game that too many act like is more important than life itself (I can say this because my beloved Packers are absolutely atrocious this season, but I'm guilty), sermonize what it means to be American, why the war is justified, why the Pacers are the best team in the NBA, and why Ron Artest is not a thug, (Okay this quickly became my Grandma Rose's house on Thanksgiving...let me rebound) we nap and eat and half-ass thank the Divine for our blessings we're clearly taking for granted, except for the wisest of us, and then, fed and rested, with freshly clipped coupons we rush to the stores at the buttcrack of dawn to kick the snot out of eachother over meaningless fleeting crap that could never bring us contentment or express love. Meanwhile some kid in Iraq is just glad his dad didn't get killed on police duty, some girl in Israel is simply thankful her mother wasn't at the fruit-stand when the suicide bomber denoated her bomb, and fifteen kids in a single tent split a bowl of rice I'd have let the waiter clear from my table with T-bone from my steak. Joy To The World!?
And this holiday my greedy ass asked for a computer or at least a sizable chunk of money so I could buy one. And what will I do with that computer? Write self-indulgent songs? Self-damning blogs? On my better days. I'll probably look up topless pictures of Carla Gugino and Jessica Alba and gamble online.
I work in a church, and I'd like to tell you that at least we focus on the right things during the holidays. But I can't. We're in steep competition mode. We have got to have a Christmas Eve service and it has got to be better than last year's and we have got to have it at 11 like every year because people expect that and the children have got to sing and the bell choir has got to play and the altar colors have got to be white and we need a brass quartet and lots of special music. Guess what? When God sent his son, on the first Christmas, you know what he did? He sent a host of angels into the fields to announce the birth to some shepherds. He didn't make the sky rain fire or the Earth rumble, except for a single star there wasn't a whole lot of cosmic fanfare, and except for a few shepherds, some stinking animals, and what had to be a few days or weeks later if you use your brain some kings, Jesus' birth is kind of boring. The Savior was born where cows slept and at my church we've got to pull out all the stops to celebrate it.
And we'll sing these ridiculous hymns. Away in a Manger? Second verse-The cattle are lowing the baby awakes, but little Lord Jesus no crying he makes. Why not? The cattle are lowing. I might be crying once I find out what lowing is. And why is it bad for Jesus to be a human baby, crying instead of some deity superaware of his surroundings? The First Noel? The First Noel, the Angels did say, Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay, In fields where they lay keeping their sheep,On a cold winter's night that was so deep. Okay. This song gets the story right, but what does so deep mean? Profound? Was the snow deep? Was it a cold winter's night in the middle of the desert? Yahoo Weather predicts December 25 to be in the 50's in Bethlehem this year, like most years. Lot of those snowy Bethlehem scenes seem kind of unifornmed don't they? Ofcourse The date of Christmas was originally a pagan holiday, but that is for another blog. I just think some of the hymns have a very Western December in Kansas take on Jesus' birth. But the hymns aren't the worst of the Christmas season's musical sins. Not at all.
Has anyone ever heard the song Christmas Shoes? Now, why does that singer grunt and groan that song, and why does the kids choir sing at all, and why do so many people fail to see how juvenile and clcihe that whole song is? I can barely go into stores these days, or banks, or offices-they all have cheesy Christmas music blaring. Overproduced cornball fluff piped over the speakers like The Tran-Siberien Orchestra is a respected group of musicians or Kenny G broke new ground with his Christmas albums. And nothing is as bad as new covers of Christmas classics. I heard some punk band do a just God-awful rendition of Silent Night, all sped up and angst ridden. For Christmas music you have almost got to go back to The Rat Pack, some Dean Martin It's Cold Outside or Frank Sinatra singiing anything to find the last time Christmas music didn't seem stale. Ironic isn't it-to find music that doesn't sound overproduced and cheesy I reccommend some of the most overproduced cheesy music ever made. But its the singers that sell it. When Dean sings a Christmas song I know he's had two or three egg nogs and he means some serious Yule-Tide business. Do you think Frank Sinatra ever went shopping at Wal-Mart and fistfought for a computer? (Striek that question...it doesn't even make sense.) Give me some Mel Torme Christmas Song or Burl Ives or hell Bing Crosby and David Bowie. I do not want to hear Avril Lavigne's version of White Christmas.
And Christmas will come and we'll all give away a little bit more of its meaning again this year. Today, Yahoo News reported that some megachurches are cancelling Sunday services on Christmas. That's right, some Christian churches think its a better idea to cancel service on Christmas so families can be together instead of worshipping. Amazingly, admittedly, I am torn on this subject. I have been to very few Christmas services that I thought had anything to do with Jesus, really. But to not try on this day of all days to celebrate Christ seems extremely hypocritical, and frankly kind of defeatest. I will be waking up on Christmas day to dig candy out of my stocking because my mom thinks its still fun to give her grown children candy and dollar store trinkets and blame it on Santa. My sister and I will trade all the stuff we don't like to eachother for stuff we do, and most of it I will give to kids in January sometime. I'll get to spend some time with my father's parents but as son as they leave I'll be sad because I never know when it'll be the last time I see them. the whatever I get, I will retreat to my room or some room to entertain myself playing with a toy or putting together something or reading. Each year, the fact that I don't have a wife and kids seems more serious than the year before, so I'll be down and the next few days I'll just be in my head waiting for New Year's Eve when I'll entertain three or four invitations, but ultimately go hang out with the friend that knows me least, because then my life seems strangely fresh, and by midnight I'll have convinced myself I am one hell of a guy and that this is my year.
After the New Year, when I'll justify getting blitzed and acting like I'm 21 instead of 26, waking up emotionally and spiritually refreshed, but physically ill, I'll watch five or six bowl games that mean nothing to me, but will dominate my week. The Tostitos Fiesta Bowl, The Nokia Sugar Bowl, The Drano Toilet Bowl! S And these five or six games, over three or four days will show my true spirit. Do you know who I'll be rooting for in every game?
The Underdog.
It is this knowledge of myself that leads me to the conclusions of my next post. I am a rooter for/supporter to/champion of the underdog. But there is no real point in acting anymore like I am one. It is time I quit complaining and seeing all the shit I can't fix and started hoping more and changing the stuff I can. It is time I truly took hold of my own promise and committed myself in a real way to what it is I am capable beyond all my peers of doing.
Coming To Terms
Part I
This funk has got to end and it needs to end right now. I can't be what I need to be to people, for people, for myself with this weight on me. So if you will indulge my rantings I will be offering up a two part self induced therapy writing/bitch session/vision forming piece in my next posts, hopefully coming to some form of conclusion about how I get over my grayness...again.
First the bitch session...
Tonight I went to a movie, that was to begin at 5:20, it began at 5:43 after 4 commercials, 6 previews for other movies, of which I will be seeing 0, and a dated dumb introduction for the movie theater I was at, as if the decals on every doorway, popcorn tub, cup, and urinal cake wasn't enough. Okay that last one is just satirical, but it made my point. I go to the movies to get away from all the BS that comes with living near other people. I don't need sold Coke or Movie Tickets while I'm at the theater drinking a Coke, and I sure don't want to be persuaded to join the National Guard when I'm clearly blowing off steam watching Herbie Rides Again. (Satire people! Which I will denote from now on with a big italicized S)If the commercials were products related to the film I think I'd be okay with it. If the Marines wanted to show that dragon slaying commercial of theirs before Jarhead, okay. Or if The Occult wanted to sell broomsticks before Harry Potter I'd be cool with that S. Why didn't the Catholic church have some commercials on before The Passion of The Christ? Or why shouldn't OUT magiazine sponsor Brokeback Mountain. For God sakes, why not just have actors wear Nascar jumpsuits with sponsorship on them within the movie? S Skittles bring you Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain...Taste The Rainbow! (If you've missed the satire to this point, stop reading. I will only be making you madder.)
But EVERYTHING is for sale and no one isn't a sellout!
And it makes me sick. Christmas is supposed to be this blessed holiday where we celbrate the Son of God coming into the world to save all mankind, and how do we celebrate the beginning of the season? How is it that we kick-off this season of peace and hope and silent nights? By kicking the snot out of eachother over toys and electronics on the day after we give thanks to God for our many blessings. Let's beat each other over a Wipe-Me Elmo. This year there were fist fights over sales priced computers at Wal-Mart. Two things. One-if you are buying a computer at Wal-Mart, can the purchase really mean that much to you? Two-get some freaking perspective. On Thanksgiving we feed our big fat faces,(and in the USA most of us are big and fat) unbuckle our pants, rollover and watch overpriced crybabies play a game that too many act like is more important than life itself (I can say this because my beloved Packers are absolutely atrocious this season, but I'm guilty), sermonize what it means to be American, why the war is justified, why the Pacers are the best team in the NBA, and why Ron Artest is not a thug, (Okay this quickly became my Grandma Rose's house on Thanksgiving...let me rebound) we nap and eat and half-ass thank the Divine for our blessings we're clearly taking for granted, except for the wisest of us, and then, fed and rested, with freshly clipped coupons we rush to the stores at the buttcrack of dawn to kick the snot out of eachother over meaningless fleeting crap that could never bring us contentment or express love. Meanwhile some kid in Iraq is just glad his dad didn't get killed on police duty, some girl in Israel is simply thankful her mother wasn't at the fruit-stand when the suicide bomber denoated her bomb, and fifteen kids in a single tent split a bowl of rice I'd have let the waiter clear from my table with T-bone from my steak. Joy To The World!?
And this holiday my greedy ass asked for a computer or at least a sizable chunk of money so I could buy one. And what will I do with that computer? Write self-indulgent songs? Self-damning blogs? On my better days. I'll probably look up topless pictures of Carla Gugino and Jessica Alba and gamble online.
I work in a church, and I'd like to tell you that at least we focus on the right things during the holidays. But I can't. We're in steep competition mode. We have got to have a Christmas Eve service and it has got to be better than last year's and we have got to have it at 11 like every year because people expect that and the children have got to sing and the bell choir has got to play and the altar colors have got to be white and we need a brass quartet and lots of special music. Guess what? When God sent his son, on the first Christmas, you know what he did? He sent a host of angels into the fields to announce the birth to some shepherds. He didn't make the sky rain fire or the Earth rumble, except for a single star there wasn't a whole lot of cosmic fanfare, and except for a few shepherds, some stinking animals, and what had to be a few days or weeks later if you use your brain some kings, Jesus' birth is kind of boring. The Savior was born where cows slept and at my church we've got to pull out all the stops to celebrate it.
And we'll sing these ridiculous hymns. Away in a Manger? Second verse-The cattle are lowing the baby awakes, but little Lord Jesus no crying he makes. Why not? The cattle are lowing. I might be crying once I find out what lowing is. And why is it bad for Jesus to be a human baby, crying instead of some deity superaware of his surroundings? The First Noel? The First Noel, the Angels did say, Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay, In fields where they lay keeping their sheep,On a cold winter's night that was so deep. Okay. This song gets the story right, but what does so deep mean? Profound? Was the snow deep? Was it a cold winter's night in the middle of the desert? Yahoo Weather predicts December 25 to be in the 50's in Bethlehem this year, like most years. Lot of those snowy Bethlehem scenes seem kind of unifornmed don't they? Ofcourse The date of Christmas was originally a pagan holiday, but that is for another blog. I just think some of the hymns have a very Western December in Kansas take on Jesus' birth. But the hymns aren't the worst of the Christmas season's musical sins. Not at all.
Has anyone ever heard the song Christmas Shoes? Now, why does that singer grunt and groan that song, and why does the kids choir sing at all, and why do so many people fail to see how juvenile and clcihe that whole song is? I can barely go into stores these days, or banks, or offices-they all have cheesy Christmas music blaring. Overproduced cornball fluff piped over the speakers like The Tran-Siberien Orchestra is a respected group of musicians or Kenny G broke new ground with his Christmas albums. And nothing is as bad as new covers of Christmas classics. I heard some punk band do a just God-awful rendition of Silent Night, all sped up and angst ridden. For Christmas music you have almost got to go back to The Rat Pack, some Dean Martin It's Cold Outside or Frank Sinatra singiing anything to find the last time Christmas music didn't seem stale. Ironic isn't it-to find music that doesn't sound overproduced and cheesy I reccommend some of the most overproduced cheesy music ever made. But its the singers that sell it. When Dean sings a Christmas song I know he's had two or three egg nogs and he means some serious Yule-Tide business. Do you think Frank Sinatra ever went shopping at Wal-Mart and fistfought for a computer? (Striek that question...it doesn't even make sense.) Give me some Mel Torme Christmas Song or Burl Ives or hell Bing Crosby and David Bowie. I do not want to hear Avril Lavigne's version of White Christmas.
And Christmas will come and we'll all give away a little bit more of its meaning again this year. Today, Yahoo News reported that some megachurches are cancelling Sunday services on Christmas. That's right, some Christian churches think its a better idea to cancel service on Christmas so families can be together instead of worshipping. Amazingly, admittedly, I am torn on this subject. I have been to very few Christmas services that I thought had anything to do with Jesus, really. But to not try on this day of all days to celebrate Christ seems extremely hypocritical, and frankly kind of defeatest. I will be waking up on Christmas day to dig candy out of my stocking because my mom thinks its still fun to give her grown children candy and dollar store trinkets and blame it on Santa. My sister and I will trade all the stuff we don't like to eachother for stuff we do, and most of it I will give to kids in January sometime. I'll get to spend some time with my father's parents but as son as they leave I'll be sad because I never know when it'll be the last time I see them. the whatever I get, I will retreat to my room or some room to entertain myself playing with a toy or putting together something or reading. Each year, the fact that I don't have a wife and kids seems more serious than the year before, so I'll be down and the next few days I'll just be in my head waiting for New Year's Eve when I'll entertain three or four invitations, but ultimately go hang out with the friend that knows me least, because then my life seems strangely fresh, and by midnight I'll have convinced myself I am one hell of a guy and that this is my year.
After the New Year, when I'll justify getting blitzed and acting like I'm 21 instead of 26, waking up emotionally and spiritually refreshed, but physically ill, I'll watch five or six bowl games that mean nothing to me, but will dominate my week. The Tostitos Fiesta Bowl, The Nokia Sugar Bowl, The Drano Toilet Bowl! S And these five or six games, over three or four days will show my true spirit. Do you know who I'll be rooting for in every game?
The Underdog.
It is this knowledge of myself that leads me to the conclusions of my next post. I am a rooter for/supporter to/champion of the underdog. But there is no real point in acting anymore like I am one. It is time I quit complaining and seeing all the shit I can't fix and started hoping more and changing the stuff I can. It is time I truly took hold of my own promise and committed myself in a real way to what it is I am capable beyond all my peers of doing.
Dec 2, 2005
In every heart there is a room, a sanctuary safe and strong, to heal the wounds from lovers past until a new one comes along.
No one has written music more like I imagine it better than Billy Joel. For me there is Johnny Cash, then Billy Joel, then Dave Matthews, and all other musicians have a long way to go to crack the top three. This title comes from a great song of his called And So It Goes. I am proud to tell you that Billy has a new box set out next week and has announced a tour next year!
You know what those three deserve permanent link status. I'm doing it.
This is a poem I wrote last year and reworked tonight while I couldn't sleep. Don't try to read too much into it. (Especially you mom) Am I this guy? Yeah, some moments of the day. I'm the guy he wants to be sometimes too. Hope you all enjoy.
When I Realized I Had Lost My Flavor
By J.D. Rose
The cinnamon had lost its flavor,
So I spit my Big Red into the bottom of the splatter guarded urinal
then remembered how much I hate people that do that,
fished it out, and washed my hands four times.
In the mirror I saw this broken man
washing his own piss off his hand.
Where did I go?
Somewhere between our first meeting and this moment
I had been sucked dry of all my charisma,
vampire bitten and relieved of my charm by a red mouth and green piercing eyes.
Now I was a man running late washing the waste off his hands.
The old me would’ve shaken his head at the new me.
He’d have used him as his motivation to work hard
lest he become that guy in the bathroom the other day-
The guy living the splatter guarded life afraid to take chances,
so conscious of hurt that he defends the urinal’s honor.
The one in remission.
The one so afraid of infection he washes his hands four times.
As I rolled the paper towel dispenser down,
ripped off three squares, and looked away from my reflection
I felt for the first time the full weight of all I had lost.
And it wasn’t you I wanted to see again.
You know what those three deserve permanent link status. I'm doing it.
This is a poem I wrote last year and reworked tonight while I couldn't sleep. Don't try to read too much into it. (Especially you mom) Am I this guy? Yeah, some moments of the day. I'm the guy he wants to be sometimes too. Hope you all enjoy.
When I Realized I Had Lost My Flavor
By J.D. Rose
The cinnamon had lost its flavor,
So I spit my Big Red into the bottom of the splatter guarded urinal
then remembered how much I hate people that do that,
fished it out, and washed my hands four times.
In the mirror I saw this broken man
washing his own piss off his hand.
Where did I go?
Somewhere between our first meeting and this moment
I had been sucked dry of all my charisma,
vampire bitten and relieved of my charm by a red mouth and green piercing eyes.
Now I was a man running late washing the waste off his hands.
The old me would’ve shaken his head at the new me.
He’d have used him as his motivation to work hard
lest he become that guy in the bathroom the other day-
The guy living the splatter guarded life afraid to take chances,
so conscious of hurt that he defends the urinal’s honor.
The one in remission.
The one so afraid of infection he washes his hands four times.
As I rolled the paper towel dispenser down,
ripped off three squares, and looked away from my reflection
I felt for the first time the full weight of all I had lost.
And it wasn’t you I wanted to see again.
Let me go. Don't give me the answer, 'cause I don't want to know. Just let my heart go on beating a little bit longer. I'm so young.
The title today is from a Randy Newman song called Let Me Go. My generation will know him from the Toy Story movies, but he's made some great music. Check him out by clicking the title.
Hello All. I've been in a funk lately. Too little sleep, too much to do, too many excuses for my too little motivation to overcome. I'll make it out. I just need a week or so to get back to myself. Wednesday was the first anniversary of the death of a buddy of mine up here in Fort Wayne who died pretty suddenly. I came across this piece I wrote in the days that followed and decided it was as good a way as I had to honor him. I talk about all the things he didn't do, but trust me a void was left. He was a good guy and a caring guy. I am proud to have known him. I noticed I write about heroism a lot. I wonder what that means? I'll get back to posting more regularly soon.
Life In The Meantime
By J.D. Rose (July 16, 1979- )
I’ve been spending a lot of time in the last few years in hospitals with people who’ve only been given a little more time. I’ve begun to use a phrase that I’m annoyed with, but have no other alternative to. I keep telling friends that I’m impressed when people decide to “finish strong”. It’s a phrase that comes out of sports I guess. My dad always told me to run through first base, to not let up, to finish strong. And as these people round third headed for home, I guess it’s all I can think to say to them.
“Finish Strong.”
I was watching video footage of Pope John Paul II (May 18, 1920- ) today following his tracheotomy and it occurred to me there aren’t too many authentic heroes these days. The same thought in a different form had flashed through my mind the night before when a teenager, who was five years old in 1994 was talking about how great singer Kurt Cobain (February 20, 1967-April 8, 1994) was. ‘Only the good die young’ would be believable if it were ‘mostly’ the good die young. This would make room for the good to live longer and other people less than good to die young as well. Or maybe that’s it, if you die young you get some pass and we don’t hold you to the same standard as someone that lives long. After all, if you made bad choices they were simply youthful indiscretions, and you didn’t have a chance to grow into a mature human being. I fully contend that Elvis Presley (January 8, 1935-August 16, 1977), had he lived until old age, would have been the first Michael Jackson (August 29, 1958- ). The same could be said for JFK (May 29, 1917-November 22, 1963) and Bill Clinton (August 19, 1946- ). But as I watched the 84 year-old Parkinson ridden, deathly ill for his sixth consecutive year, smiling, barely interpretable, barely mobile Pope get wheeled away from his window I wondered what young rebel will blow his brains out tonight or drug overdose and be on a best-selling t-shirt tomorrow and claimed an icon.
In college we used to play a game on New Year’s Eve called the Death Pool. Every one put in a dollar, and named someone they thought would die the coming year. If that person died, and if he died before anyone else’s person, you won the pot. If no one died that was named, the pot was held for another year. I picked Pope John Paul II for four years from 1998-2001. In fact I was the odds on favorite to win each of those years, but lost once to my friend Jeff (January 20, 1973- ) who chose Yankee Joe DiMaggio (November 25, 1914-March 8, 1999) and two years later to my then girlfriend Kate (July 21, 1979- ) who picked Jack Lemmon (February 8, 1925-June 27, 2001) after my suggestion. After all Walter Matthau (October 1, 1920-July 1, 2000) had died the year prior and it only seemed fitting. The prize money was never distributed however due to our very bitter break-up and the next year I voted for her new husband instead of the Pope, and someone else picked a winner, but I never knew who.
When I first left for college, in August of 1997, my college roommates and I began the ritual of turning every death into a themed celebration. In September when actor Burgess Meredith (November 16, 1908-September 9, 1997) died we had a Rocky marathon and got drunk on Pabst Blue Ribbon. In October when singer/songwriter John Denver (December 31, 1943-October 12, 1997) died we got two cases of Coors Light and made each other say “Rocky Mountain High” before each drink, because none of us owned any of his music. At the end of the first semester comedian Chris Farley (February 15, 1964-December 18, 1997) died and we called each other up from our homes and then drank some liquor with our high school buddies. Of course no one really remembers that these people died, and a lot of other famous people as well, and a few people I knew personally who weren’t famous. All any one remembers about the fall of 1997 is that philanthropist (?) Princess Diana (July 1, 1961-August 31, 1997) died in a mysterious car crash in a tunnel.
I saw video footage of her car being pulled from the tunnel, her and her boyfriend leaving a party the night before, every minute of her funeral, her son’s walking down the street with their goofy looking Dad. I listened to Jane Pauley (October 31, 1950- ) and Tom Brokaw (February 6, 1940- ) I think, talk about the regal way the royal family dealt with the death, and the fitting tribute her funeral was, and I couldn’t give a damn about it all. I just didn’t have any other option. It was on every channel, and has been on some channel in some form ever since. Meanwhile as I watched the coverage a small scroll at the bottom of the screen told me that nun, activist, Medal of Freedom recipient, Nobel Peace Prize winner, future Catholic saint Mother Teresa (August 27, 1910-September 5, 1997) passed away, and I was struck by the apparent lack of interest.
As I watched CNN that night, between Larry King’s (November 19, 1933- ) overbearing panel discussion about Diana I was given some information about Mother Teresa’s death and shown some video footage of her work in Calcutta. I was only slightly surprised when my roommate Matt (born sometime in 1979- ) came in and asked who that ‘old lady’ was on the TV. Somehow I knew he would know who Diana was, although couldn’t tell me a single thing she had done, except get married.
Later that school year Sonny Bono (February 16, 1935-January 5, 1998) would die and we’d plan a ski trip for the following weekend that never happened. Harry Caray’s (March 1, 1920-February 18, 1998) death prompted a three night Budweiser brooha that took us into Cubs spring training coverage on ESPN on a somewhat somber note. We joked that we should have a Star Trek party when Dr. Benjamin Spock (May 2, 1903-March 15, 1998) died on the ides of March and we threw a true Rat Pack booze fest for Frank Sinatra (December 12, 1915-May 14, 1998) at the end of the school year. Some were celebrated more than others by the media and I suppose we were selective too.
For some people that pass, there are Time covers and magazine articles and moments of silence. For a few their legends grow larger with their deaths and for a few their deaths seem to overshadow their lives. Everyone remembers lost loved ones in their own way. Sometimes they do this with alcohol in a dorm room. Sometimes a bit more publicly. Elton John (March 25, 1947- ) sang at Diana’s funeral and that song was one of the biggest hits of the winter. Few ceremonies were held in Mother Teresa’s honor until October of 2003 when Pope John Paul II beatified her in a large-scale ceremony in the Vatican City and may now be called Blessed Teresa by Catholics in prayer.
In America in 2005 we’ve turned dying into its own reason for living. We value those flames that get snuffed out even if their snuffing was their own self-destructive behavior. Occasionally, albeit crass, we put such deserved deaths under spotlight and thank the deceased for their singular contribution to society, namely their own removal from it. The best source of such celebration is the Darwin Awards, an annual book, and a website of the same name. The goal of the Darwin Awards is to honor those folks who naturally select themselves out of the gene pool, thus improving humanities collective chances. Here’s the most famous winner, taken from www.darwinawards.com .
Jet Assisted Take-Off
1995 Darwin Awards Winner
The Arizona Highway Patrol were mystified when they came upon a pile of smoldering wreckage embedded in the side of a cliff rising above the road at the apex of a curve. The metal debris resembled the site of an airplane crash, but it turned out to be the vaporized remains of an automobile. The make of the vehicle was unidentifiable at the scene.
The folks in the lab finally figured out what it was, and pieced together the events that led up to its demise. It seems that a former Air Force sergeant had somehow got hold of a JATO (Jet Assisted Take-Off) unit. JATO units are solid fuel rockets used to give heavy military transport airplanes an extra push for take-off from short airfields.
Dried desert lakebeds are the location of choice for breaking the world ground vehicle speed record. The sergeant took the JATO unit into the Arizona desert and found a long, straight stretch of road. He attached the JATO unit to his car, jumped in, accelerated to a high speed, and fired off the rocket. The facts, as best as could be determined, are as follows:
The operator was driving a 1967 Chevy Impala. He ignited the JATO unit approximately 3.9 miles from the crash site. This was established by the location of a prominently scorched and melted strip of asphalt. The vehicle quickly reached a speed of between 250 and 300 mph and continued at that speed, under full power, for an additional 20-25 seconds. The soon-to-be pilot experienced G-forces usually reserved for dog-fighting F-14 jocks under full afterburners.
The Chevy remained on the straight highway for approximately 2.6 miles (15-20 seconds) before the driver applied the brakes, completely melting them, blowing the tires, and leaving thick rubber marks on the road surface. The vehicle then became airborne for an additional 1.3 miles, impacted the cliff face at a height of 125 feet, and left a blackened crater 3 feet deep in the rock.
Most of the driver's remains were not recovered; however, small fragments of bone, teeth, and hair were extracted from the crater, and fingernail and bone shards were removed from a piece of debris believed to be a portion of the steering wheel.
Ironically a still-legible bumper sticker was found, reading
"How do you like my driving? Dial 1-800-EAT-SHIT."
That’s the American Way; go out in a Wile E. Coyote (created by cartoon director Chuck Jones (September 21, 1912-February 22, 2002) in 1965) blaze of glory and the rest of humanity can eat shit if they want. After all what’s life worth if not for dying in a big way. For this Air Force guy dying of prostate cancer at seventy-five wasn’t a future goal. To think of it, it isn’t one of mine either, but I’m not looking to buy a rocket anytime soon. What is this need in us to die well? Why should any of us finish strong? We’re all going to finish.
I lost a friend in November at the age of 23. He wasn’t a rock star, or royalty, or clergy, or even all that interesting to be honest. He was an evangelical conservative Christian Republican, most of which I’m not. I’m certain he died a virgin. I’m certain he never had a girlfriend or woke up with a woman kissing his chest. He never passed out at a party or woke up at four a. m. beside the toilet. He probably never even smoked a cigar or called a 900 number and laughed after hanging up. He was just a good guy and so maybe the good do die young, but for what purpose? Should I be happy he died without having lived? Because I’m not. He didn’t finish strong, he barely started. And I’ll not cry that he died so young for the mere sake of tragedy, or that I miss my friend. I’ll cry because I want to understand if Ben Wiegman’s (January 14, 1982-November 30, 2004) life had any value at all. I’ll cry because I wonder if mine does. If all Mother Teresa gets is a scroll at the bottom of the screen I wonder what that says about her impact. Will Paris Hilton (February 17, 1981- ) who’s done absolutely nothing of value for society get a state funeral and will Tom and Jane come talk about how well the heiress’ family is taking the tragic news of her untimely ecstasy overdose.
What I have to carry with me are a few flashes of Ben at a karaoke bar, having his first rum and coke on my dime, golfing poorly, debating the 2004 election, consoling me afterward, talking about graduation, life after college, and life in the meantime. I want to say that his life made a huge impact on the world and I can’t even say it made a huge impact on me. I keep thinking about this damn Walt Whitman (May 31, 1819- March 26, 1892) poem:
O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself,
(for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean
—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
I haven’t thought today about Princess Diana, Kurt Cobain, Elvis, or even Michael Jackson with all his recent coverage. In fact, had I not seen the Pope on TV he wouldn’t have crossed my mind either. Twice tonight I could smell perfume on a girl in my class that reminded me of Kate. I saw a picture of Joe DiMaggio on a Sports Century promo for ESPN earlier this week and I called and talked to Jeff. The program for Ben’s funeral was in my dressier winter coat and I wore it today to class and thought of him most of the time. I returned an email this morning to the hard rockin’ teenager who thinks Nirvana invented music. And as I head to bed I’ll pass pictures of my college buddies and my dad on the wall. First thing in the morning I have some hospital visits to make.
Maybe the world didn’t notice that Mother Teresa died, but I bet the people she fed did. I bet the men and women she saved and sheltered noticed, and now they have Blessed Teresa to pray to. I don’t know if it’s wholly accurate to say we each have a verse to contribute. It is certainly poetic, but I’m finding, and beginning to come to terms with the fact, that we really contribute a note at a time and the audience is almost always a small one. But if we’re all going to finish anyway someday, why not make it strong? Why not go out with a metaphorical bang, feeding and clothing your neighbor while you can. Life in the meantime; while we wait to be out of college, or to be picked from the commoners for higher things, or shot off into the stratosphere of fame and fortune and accomplishment, that is where the heroes are.
They are laying there bets down one dollar at a time.
Hello All. I've been in a funk lately. Too little sleep, too much to do, too many excuses for my too little motivation to overcome. I'll make it out. I just need a week or so to get back to myself. Wednesday was the first anniversary of the death of a buddy of mine up here in Fort Wayne who died pretty suddenly. I came across this piece I wrote in the days that followed and decided it was as good a way as I had to honor him. I talk about all the things he didn't do, but trust me a void was left. He was a good guy and a caring guy. I am proud to have known him. I noticed I write about heroism a lot. I wonder what that means? I'll get back to posting more regularly soon.
Life In The Meantime
By J.D. Rose (July 16, 1979- )
I’ve been spending a lot of time in the last few years in hospitals with people who’ve only been given a little more time. I’ve begun to use a phrase that I’m annoyed with, but have no other alternative to. I keep telling friends that I’m impressed when people decide to “finish strong”. It’s a phrase that comes out of sports I guess. My dad always told me to run through first base, to not let up, to finish strong. And as these people round third headed for home, I guess it’s all I can think to say to them.
“Finish Strong.”
I was watching video footage of Pope John Paul II (May 18, 1920- ) today following his tracheotomy and it occurred to me there aren’t too many authentic heroes these days. The same thought in a different form had flashed through my mind the night before when a teenager, who was five years old in 1994 was talking about how great singer Kurt Cobain (February 20, 1967-April 8, 1994) was. ‘Only the good die young’ would be believable if it were ‘mostly’ the good die young. This would make room for the good to live longer and other people less than good to die young as well. Or maybe that’s it, if you die young you get some pass and we don’t hold you to the same standard as someone that lives long. After all, if you made bad choices they were simply youthful indiscretions, and you didn’t have a chance to grow into a mature human being. I fully contend that Elvis Presley (January 8, 1935-August 16, 1977), had he lived until old age, would have been the first Michael Jackson (August 29, 1958- ). The same could be said for JFK (May 29, 1917-November 22, 1963) and Bill Clinton (August 19, 1946- ). But as I watched the 84 year-old Parkinson ridden, deathly ill for his sixth consecutive year, smiling, barely interpretable, barely mobile Pope get wheeled away from his window I wondered what young rebel will blow his brains out tonight or drug overdose and be on a best-selling t-shirt tomorrow and claimed an icon.
In college we used to play a game on New Year’s Eve called the Death Pool. Every one put in a dollar, and named someone they thought would die the coming year. If that person died, and if he died before anyone else’s person, you won the pot. If no one died that was named, the pot was held for another year. I picked Pope John Paul II for four years from 1998-2001. In fact I was the odds on favorite to win each of those years, but lost once to my friend Jeff (January 20, 1973- ) who chose Yankee Joe DiMaggio (November 25, 1914-March 8, 1999) and two years later to my then girlfriend Kate (July 21, 1979- ) who picked Jack Lemmon (February 8, 1925-June 27, 2001) after my suggestion. After all Walter Matthau (October 1, 1920-July 1, 2000) had died the year prior and it only seemed fitting. The prize money was never distributed however due to our very bitter break-up and the next year I voted for her new husband instead of the Pope, and someone else picked a winner, but I never knew who.
When I first left for college, in August of 1997, my college roommates and I began the ritual of turning every death into a themed celebration. In September when actor Burgess Meredith (November 16, 1908-September 9, 1997) died we had a Rocky marathon and got drunk on Pabst Blue Ribbon. In October when singer/songwriter John Denver (December 31, 1943-October 12, 1997) died we got two cases of Coors Light and made each other say “Rocky Mountain High” before each drink, because none of us owned any of his music. At the end of the first semester comedian Chris Farley (February 15, 1964-December 18, 1997) died and we called each other up from our homes and then drank some liquor with our high school buddies. Of course no one really remembers that these people died, and a lot of other famous people as well, and a few people I knew personally who weren’t famous. All any one remembers about the fall of 1997 is that philanthropist (?) Princess Diana (July 1, 1961-August 31, 1997) died in a mysterious car crash in a tunnel.
I saw video footage of her car being pulled from the tunnel, her and her boyfriend leaving a party the night before, every minute of her funeral, her son’s walking down the street with their goofy looking Dad. I listened to Jane Pauley (October 31, 1950- ) and Tom Brokaw (February 6, 1940- ) I think, talk about the regal way the royal family dealt with the death, and the fitting tribute her funeral was, and I couldn’t give a damn about it all. I just didn’t have any other option. It was on every channel, and has been on some channel in some form ever since. Meanwhile as I watched the coverage a small scroll at the bottom of the screen told me that nun, activist, Medal of Freedom recipient, Nobel Peace Prize winner, future Catholic saint Mother Teresa (August 27, 1910-September 5, 1997) passed away, and I was struck by the apparent lack of interest.
As I watched CNN that night, between Larry King’s (November 19, 1933- ) overbearing panel discussion about Diana I was given some information about Mother Teresa’s death and shown some video footage of her work in Calcutta. I was only slightly surprised when my roommate Matt (born sometime in 1979- ) came in and asked who that ‘old lady’ was on the TV. Somehow I knew he would know who Diana was, although couldn’t tell me a single thing she had done, except get married.
Later that school year Sonny Bono (February 16, 1935-January 5, 1998) would die and we’d plan a ski trip for the following weekend that never happened. Harry Caray’s (March 1, 1920-February 18, 1998) death prompted a three night Budweiser brooha that took us into Cubs spring training coverage on ESPN on a somewhat somber note. We joked that we should have a Star Trek party when Dr. Benjamin Spock (May 2, 1903-March 15, 1998) died on the ides of March and we threw a true Rat Pack booze fest for Frank Sinatra (December 12, 1915-May 14, 1998) at the end of the school year. Some were celebrated more than others by the media and I suppose we were selective too.
For some people that pass, there are Time covers and magazine articles and moments of silence. For a few their legends grow larger with their deaths and for a few their deaths seem to overshadow their lives. Everyone remembers lost loved ones in their own way. Sometimes they do this with alcohol in a dorm room. Sometimes a bit more publicly. Elton John (March 25, 1947- ) sang at Diana’s funeral and that song was one of the biggest hits of the winter. Few ceremonies were held in Mother Teresa’s honor until October of 2003 when Pope John Paul II beatified her in a large-scale ceremony in the Vatican City and may now be called Blessed Teresa by Catholics in prayer.
In America in 2005 we’ve turned dying into its own reason for living. We value those flames that get snuffed out even if their snuffing was their own self-destructive behavior. Occasionally, albeit crass, we put such deserved deaths under spotlight and thank the deceased for their singular contribution to society, namely their own removal from it. The best source of such celebration is the Darwin Awards, an annual book, and a website of the same name. The goal of the Darwin Awards is to honor those folks who naturally select themselves out of the gene pool, thus improving humanities collective chances. Here’s the most famous winner, taken from www.darwinawards.com .
Jet Assisted Take-Off
1995 Darwin Awards Winner
The Arizona Highway Patrol were mystified when they came upon a pile of smoldering wreckage embedded in the side of a cliff rising above the road at the apex of a curve. The metal debris resembled the site of an airplane crash, but it turned out to be the vaporized remains of an automobile. The make of the vehicle was unidentifiable at the scene.
The folks in the lab finally figured out what it was, and pieced together the events that led up to its demise. It seems that a former Air Force sergeant had somehow got hold of a JATO (Jet Assisted Take-Off) unit. JATO units are solid fuel rockets used to give heavy military transport airplanes an extra push for take-off from short airfields.
Dried desert lakebeds are the location of choice for breaking the world ground vehicle speed record. The sergeant took the JATO unit into the Arizona desert and found a long, straight stretch of road. He attached the JATO unit to his car, jumped in, accelerated to a high speed, and fired off the rocket. The facts, as best as could be determined, are as follows:
The operator was driving a 1967 Chevy Impala. He ignited the JATO unit approximately 3.9 miles from the crash site. This was established by the location of a prominently scorched and melted strip of asphalt. The vehicle quickly reached a speed of between 250 and 300 mph and continued at that speed, under full power, for an additional 20-25 seconds. The soon-to-be pilot experienced G-forces usually reserved for dog-fighting F-14 jocks under full afterburners.
The Chevy remained on the straight highway for approximately 2.6 miles (15-20 seconds) before the driver applied the brakes, completely melting them, blowing the tires, and leaving thick rubber marks on the road surface. The vehicle then became airborne for an additional 1.3 miles, impacted the cliff face at a height of 125 feet, and left a blackened crater 3 feet deep in the rock.
Most of the driver's remains were not recovered; however, small fragments of bone, teeth, and hair were extracted from the crater, and fingernail and bone shards were removed from a piece of debris believed to be a portion of the steering wheel.
Ironically a still-legible bumper sticker was found, reading
"How do you like my driving? Dial 1-800-EAT-SHIT."
That’s the American Way; go out in a Wile E. Coyote (created by cartoon director Chuck Jones (September 21, 1912-February 22, 2002) in 1965) blaze of glory and the rest of humanity can eat shit if they want. After all what’s life worth if not for dying in a big way. For this Air Force guy dying of prostate cancer at seventy-five wasn’t a future goal. To think of it, it isn’t one of mine either, but I’m not looking to buy a rocket anytime soon. What is this need in us to die well? Why should any of us finish strong? We’re all going to finish.
I lost a friend in November at the age of 23. He wasn’t a rock star, or royalty, or clergy, or even all that interesting to be honest. He was an evangelical conservative Christian Republican, most of which I’m not. I’m certain he died a virgin. I’m certain he never had a girlfriend or woke up with a woman kissing his chest. He never passed out at a party or woke up at four a. m. beside the toilet. He probably never even smoked a cigar or called a 900 number and laughed after hanging up. He was just a good guy and so maybe the good do die young, but for what purpose? Should I be happy he died without having lived? Because I’m not. He didn’t finish strong, he barely started. And I’ll not cry that he died so young for the mere sake of tragedy, or that I miss my friend. I’ll cry because I want to understand if Ben Wiegman’s (January 14, 1982-November 30, 2004) life had any value at all. I’ll cry because I wonder if mine does. If all Mother Teresa gets is a scroll at the bottom of the screen I wonder what that says about her impact. Will Paris Hilton (February 17, 1981- ) who’s done absolutely nothing of value for society get a state funeral and will Tom and Jane come talk about how well the heiress’ family is taking the tragic news of her untimely ecstasy overdose.
What I have to carry with me are a few flashes of Ben at a karaoke bar, having his first rum and coke on my dime, golfing poorly, debating the 2004 election, consoling me afterward, talking about graduation, life after college, and life in the meantime. I want to say that his life made a huge impact on the world and I can’t even say it made a huge impact on me. I keep thinking about this damn Walt Whitman (May 31, 1819- March 26, 1892) poem:
O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself,
(for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean
—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
I haven’t thought today about Princess Diana, Kurt Cobain, Elvis, or even Michael Jackson with all his recent coverage. In fact, had I not seen the Pope on TV he wouldn’t have crossed my mind either. Twice tonight I could smell perfume on a girl in my class that reminded me of Kate. I saw a picture of Joe DiMaggio on a Sports Century promo for ESPN earlier this week and I called and talked to Jeff. The program for Ben’s funeral was in my dressier winter coat and I wore it today to class and thought of him most of the time. I returned an email this morning to the hard rockin’ teenager who thinks Nirvana invented music. And as I head to bed I’ll pass pictures of my college buddies and my dad on the wall. First thing in the morning I have some hospital visits to make.
Maybe the world didn’t notice that Mother Teresa died, but I bet the people she fed did. I bet the men and women she saved and sheltered noticed, and now they have Blessed Teresa to pray to. I don’t know if it’s wholly accurate to say we each have a verse to contribute. It is certainly poetic, but I’m finding, and beginning to come to terms with the fact, that we really contribute a note at a time and the audience is almost always a small one. But if we’re all going to finish anyway someday, why not make it strong? Why not go out with a metaphorical bang, feeding and clothing your neighbor while you can. Life in the meantime; while we wait to be out of college, or to be picked from the commoners for higher things, or shot off into the stratosphere of fame and fortune and accomplishment, that is where the heroes are.
They are laying there bets down one dollar at a time.
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