The best album of the decade

Dennis Wilson, the only actual surfer among the Beach Boys, the drummer, the one-time friend of Charles Manson, the one who drowned nearly twenty years ago, released an album titled Pacific Ocean Blue in 1977. It has been "lost" from then until its re-release this week. I have read about it being one of the greatest rock albums of all time.

It is.

Buy it. Now.

You're welcome.

Are we still fighting the Civil War?

Spent the day today (Saturday) in northwest Arkansas with two purposes in mind.



The first was to visit Pea Ridge Civil War National Battleground. Why? Well, for one it is one of the best-preserved Civil War battlegrounds we have left. It is almost exactly like it was 150 years ago when a battle was fought here between thousands of Union and Confederate soldiers. The outcome of this bloody battle ensured that Missouri would remain part of the Union.



The other reason I wanted to visit was to get another stamp in my National Park passport. Hey, I told you I am a total dork.


After touring Pea Ridge (and watching cannon being fired, and eating cracked corn and boiled peanuts and real bacon), I drove another hour through the Ozarks to John Michael Talbot's Little Portion Hermitage monastery. Although two of the main buildings were destroyed by a fire in April, I was able to see their stone chapel and walk through their beautiful prayer garden.



It was a day I will not soon forget.

So, why write about these two events in one post? What do they have in common. Much, if you ask me. The first, Pea Ridge, was the site of a battle between men who should have all been on the same side. They were all Americans--they all spoke the same language. Officers from each side had fought the previous war together--they were friends, they were classmates from West Point. Now, because of a difference in how they interpreted states' rights (which is really what the slavery issue came down to--was it a federal decision or was it up to each individual state to determine how it would treat slaves?) they were shooting each other. Dead.

(In saying this, I am in no way condoning slavery. It was, and is where it is still practiced, abhorrent. Slavery was and is wrong. But the American Civil War was not about a moral decision--it was about Constitutional interpretation.)

The Hermitage is a community of Christians, of followers of Jesus. These brothers and sisters work, pray and worship together. They are seekers of God and learning to love one another as Jesus commanded us. It just so happens that these believers are Catholics. And that is where civil war begins.

A bit of background. I came to faith outside of Dayton, Ohio in the Jesus People movement and the Charismatic renewal of the 70s. The church where Jesus met me, and where I fell in love with Him, was a Baptist church. There I was taught how to study Scripture, introduced to the Holy Spirit, and was told that Catholicism was a cult, just like Mormons or Moonies. Dayton is a very Catholic city, with many Irish Catholics and many Catholic churches and schools. So now I was learning that all of these people were as far from God as were pagans. Maybe farther.

Then I went to work at the Zondervan Family Bookstore in Town and Country Shopping Center. Next to our store was a World Bazaar store, kind of an early version of of Pier One. When we needed change ("I only have twenties--I need ones"), I would go next door to World Bazaar and see Mary Schmidt. (It seemed that if Mary was working, I needed change a lot.) Mary was maybe a couple of years older than I, but we were friends because we worked next to each other. Mary was, how shall I say, stunningly beautiful, so it wasn't hard for me to find a reason to talk with her. But I was really in love with Jesus, and that is what I wanted to talk about the most. And I quickly found out that Mary was a--gasp!--Catholic. Should I even be talking with her? Was I going to have to repent to my youth group for becoming friends with a member of a cult? I figured if I could get Mary saved, then I would be ok. I mean, Catholics could become Christians, right? So I asked Mary if she wanted to become a Christian.

"But I am a Christian," she said.

"You're a Christian? I thought you were a Catholic." (I was an idiot.)

"Well, I believe that Jesus is God's son. And every morning I pray and ask Him to help me do what he wants me to do. What more do I have to do?"

Uh, nothing.

That day I learned that Catholics are Christians too.

Yet there is still a war raging in many circles between Protestants and Catholics. Us vs. Them. We are right, they are wrong.

What is wrong with Catholics? They pray to saints. (That is not what the Church teaches. Catholics ask saints to pray for them, just as I might ask you to pray for me when I have a need.) They worship Mary. (No, they just show her respect, as Jesus showed His mother respect. Is there anything wrong with showing respect to the woman who bore God's son?) Catholics think the Pope is infallible. (No, but they feel he is appointed by God to lead the Church. And we are told to show respect to to those who have spiritual charge over us. Again, is there a problem showing respect?)

The was between the states is over. We are one nation again. So when will the war between brothers and sisters in Christ end? When will we embrace one another, pray with one another, serve one another? When will we make Christ known by loving one another?

Two Songs

I downloaded a couple of songs from iTunes this week. Well, more than a couple--four or five actually. But two of them are related. I didn't realize they were until today. Musically they are both from 60s rock bands--although these songs were recorded in the 70s. The first is from Faces titled Ooh La La. It is a fun two chord tune about a grandfather's advice to his grandson about women. (Basically that they are nothing but trouble and you shouldn't let them control your heart--sound advice, if you ask me.) It has a great hook--a chorus that sticks in my mind.

I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger.
I wish that I knew what I know now when I was stronger.

It is a great tune, one that gets a lot of play in my car and on my iPhone/iPod.

The second song is by the Kinks called (I Wish I Could Fly Like) Superman. Ray Davies sings,

Woke up this morning, started to sneeze
I had a cigarette and a cup of tea
I looked in the mirror what did I see
A nine stone weakling with knobbly knees
I did my knees bend press ups touch my toes
I had another sneeze and I blew my nose
I looked in the mirror at my pigeon chest
I had to put on my clothes because it made me depressed
Surely there must be a way
For me to change the shape I'm in
Dissatisfied is what I am
I want to be a better man

Superman Superman wish I could fly like Superman
Superman Superman I want to be like Superman
I want to be like Superman
Superman Superman wish I could fly like Superman

You may have heard this song when you have gone dancing at your local club. Uh, you don't go clubbing? Neither do I. So I asked Leah my Dancing Daughter to dance to this song. She always makes me laugh and feel good when she dances.

(Dick Clark would have said, "Great beat, good to dance to. I'd give it a 10.")

So, what do these songs have in common? They both call for me to long to be something I'm not. They both cause me to want what I don't have. The second, Superman, is a look in the mirror--and what do I see? A nine-stone weakling with knobbly knees. I wear clothes, literal and figurative, because what I see in that mirror makes me depressed. So I wish I could fly like Superman.

Superman, Superman--I want to be like Superman.

But when I look in the mirror again, I don't see Superman. I keep on wishing, and I keep on seeing the knobbly-kneed weakling.

Then I listen to Ooh La La. Great song. I really could listen to it over and over and over.

I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger.
I wish that I knew what I know now when I was stronger.

Oh how true. Someone recently wondered if there is anything I don't know. I laughed, knowing that the little I know is really a lot of useless crap. But I thought, There is one thing I would like to know--how to make a time machine. I would go back, say to my college days. There are decisions I would make differently. Or not make at all. If I knew what I know now when I was younger and stronger I would be able to make better decisions, change the outcome some big things in my life.

Two songs, same verse. I want to be someone I am not. I want to play "what if." What if I had made better decisions? What if I were a better person? What if I were Superman?

Then I was reminded--reminded that God is the God of the living, not the dead. He is the God of "what IS," not "what if." God, says Luis Palau, is never disillusioned about us, because he has no illusions about us. So he is not put off by my knobbly knees. He does not look down on me because I made decisions that I think, in hindsight, not the best. God does not live according to past, present or future. All days are today for Him, all moments are "now." He has no regrets. Why should I carry mine around when He does not?

So, I will enjoy Faces and the Kinks. Crank them in the car. Laugh as Leah dances like Superman. But I do not need to let the lyrics live in my heart.

Music--the heartbeat of life.

Something good about Nebraska

I give my good friend Laree no end of grief about her home state of Nebraska. Really, I have only two reasons to do so:

1. They are a Big 12 rival of my Oklahoma Sooners. Admittedly, not much of a rival these days. The Sooners regularly beat the Cornhuskers like redheaded stepchildren. But still...

2. Because there is so little else to give Laree a hard time about.

But I now have to say something good about her state. I am finding great enjoyment in the writings of Willa Cather (pictured above) who, while not technically a native of Nebraska, did grow up there. I came upon Willa Cather in an airplane magazine a few years ago. The writer listed his five favorite novels. One was Cather's Death Comes to the Archbishop. It sounded intriguing, so when I got to wherever I was going I stopped at a bookstore and bought the book. It is set in one of my favorite parts of the country--New Mexico. The story follows two missionary Catholics who have been sent to the new United States territory to restore the faith and rebuild mission churches.

The story itself is good and rewarding, but it is the quality of Cather's writing that grabbed me. It is so simple, so sparse. This is textbook as to how to use the fewest words to tell the story. So now I am checking out more of Cather's novels. (Death Comes to the Archbishop is on my shortlist for taking with me on vacation later this month for a second read.)

So today I stopped at Barnes and Noble and bought O Pioneers!, Cather's tale of the women and men who helped to settle Nebraska in the nineteenth century. Cather published this novel in 1913, at which time she was no longer living in Nebraska. After she graduated from University of Nebraska-Lincoln she moved to Pittsburgh where she taught English and worked for Home Monthly magazine. Then she accepted a position with McClure's magazine, taking her to New York where she lived and wrote until her death in 1947. But her Nebraska roots show through in many of her novels, including O Pioneers!, My Antonia, and One Of Ours.

Here are a few samples of her simple, yet deep, prose from O Pioneers!

"The history of every country begins in the heart of a man or a woman."

"There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they never happened before; like the larks in this country, that have been singing the same five notes over for thousands of years."

"I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do."

"From two ears that had grown side by side, the grains of one shot up joyfully into the light, projecting themselves into the future, and the grains for the other lay still in the earth and rotted; and nobody knew why."

I'd give up my iPhone just to be able to write one sentence like that.

Here is a poem that Cather published in McClure's in 1911 titled Prairie Spring.

Evening and the flat land,
Rich and sombre and always silent;
The miles of fresh-plowed soil,
Heavy and black, full of strength and harshness;
The growing wheat, the growing weeds,
The toiling horses, the tired men;
The long empty roads,
Sullen fires of sunset, fading,
The eternal, unresponsive sky.
Against all this, Youth,
Flaming like the wild roses,
Singing like the larks over the plowed fields,
Flashing like a star out of the twilight;
Youth with its unsupportable sweetness,
Its fierce necessity,
Its sharp desire,
Singing and singing,
Out of the lips of silence,
Out of the earthy dusk.

OK, this poem alone makes me want to visit Nebraska.* I want to go to Red Cloud in south central Nebraska where she grew up and dig my hands through the soil, heavy and black, full of strength and harshness. I want to listen to the larks singing over the plowed fields. I want to see the fading fires of sullen sunsets. I want to experience prairie spring in Nebraska.

*I also want to visit Nebraska because it is one of a handful of states I have never been to or through. The others are Rhode Island, Vermont, Wisconsin, Montana, Alaska, and North and South Dakota. But let's be honest. Those last two are very questionable whether or not they are real states. They sound like they have been made up, like the Canadian Army. But I am willing to drive to where the map says they are to check it out.

When I was touring the Wright Brothers' museum in Dayton last summer, I noticed they had a display about Cather. I have no idea why, but will check that out further next time I am in Dayton. But relating her to my heroes, Wilbur and Orville, only makes me like her all the more.

I recommend you check out a Willa Cather book from your library and give her a try. You may just find yourself longing for a visit to the Cornhusker state.

There, Laree. I said nice stuff about your state. Are you happy?

Just for a laugh

While we are on the topic of "best things," how 'bout the best comic strip going today? Well, next to Doonesbury, that is. Get Fuzzy features the wittiest writing this side of Joe Posnaski.

Here is a recent Sunday strip that kept me laughing throughout the morning. (Click on the image to enlarge it so you can read it.) Enjoy.

WKRP In Cincinnati

Greatest TV show ever? No question: WKRP In Cincinnati. And now, thanks to the ever-alert Rick Westcott, who told me about this great use of the internet, you can see the entire first season online.

Watch the very first episode here:

And now you can watch Little Ed, the preacher of the Church of the Mighty Struggle.

Get the devil in a Bulgarian Headlock!

Enjoy...

Dance Fever

By my reckoning, I just attended my 23rd dance recital. But who's counting?

A Sunday in mid-May, the Sunday of Mayfest, is the day of Miss Shelly's dance recital at the Tulsa Performing Arts Center. All. Day. Long. Three separate recitals--1:30, 5 and 8. It wasn't that long ago when Rebekah and Leah were both dancing, and both were in multiple dances--five or six dances--in each of the recitals. We would get the girls there around 8 in the morning and get a room at the hotel next to the PAC. We would be at all three performances, taking short breaks in the hotel in between. Ah, those were the days.

Today I only went to the 5 o'clock show. Rebekah was there, but in the audience next to me with Lex. Leah was in five dances, but her main responsibility is now as a full time teacher with Miss Shelly. So I was there to not only see her dance, but to see her kiddos dance as well. And dance they did. (There is Leah off to the left in the wings directing one of her classes in their dance.)



Leah danced in the opening number on very short notice--she had one week to learn the routine, which, of course, she did. She is so good...



For many of those 23 years we not only cheered on Rebekah and Leah, but our "other" daughters as well--the Randolph girls. Jennifer is Rebekah's age and is now a teacher with Miss Shelly. Melanie is graduating next week from Savanah College of Art and Design. Christine just finished her sophomore year in college in NYC. So that leaves Lara as our last other daughter dancing. All of the Randolph girls are great dancers, just like Rebekah and Leah. But Lara--well, she is something special. I am no dance expert, but this is as close to perfect as you can get. (Lara has the white tights in the front. She has absolutely perfect poise and posture here.)



Leah danced in two jazz numbers and a modern dance number.



Afterward we visited with Leah, Jennifer, Miss Shelly and some of the other teachers at this great school. Am I proud of Leah? You bet. Will I be there for my 24th dance recital next May? You can count on it.

Oh, Leah was also happy that her friend Ty came. I think this was his fourth recital. He has a long way to go to catch up.

Five albums on a desert island

You know the drill. You are going to be stranded on a desert island, and you will have a solar-powered CD player but can only take five CDs with you. (Why, when the Howell's took all of their worldly belongings on a three hour cruise, you can only take five CDs seems at first to be an unnecessary hardship. But let's say the Howells are on board with you and there is just no more room...)

I have thought about this for several years--really. My friend (and my brother-in-law's brother-in-law; it's complicated) Don Mann and I will sit around and discuss this for hours. One rule we strictly abide by: No greatest hits albums. Those are artificial records made solely for a quick buck, not for art. A pox on them all.

So far I have come up with three "for sure" albums:

1. Exile On Main Street--Rolling Stones
2. Sticky Fingers--Rolling Stones
3. Eat A Peach--Allman Brothers

So, I have two more to go. Here are some of the nominees:

Pet Sounds--The Beach Boys (actually, as my friend Mike D. points out, it is Brian Wilson with The Wrecking Crew studio musicians who put this together)
Layla And Other Assorted Lovesongs--Derek and the Dominoes
Excitable Boy--Warren Zevon
Leon Live--Leon Russell
On Stage--Loggins and Messina
Hotel California--The Eagles
Kind Of Blue--Miles Davis
The Royal Scam--Steely Dan
All 'N All--Earth, Wind and Fire

And, to show I am not entirely pagan:

Glo--Delirious
Shotgun Angel--Daniel Amos

OK, go to it. Argue for or against any of these nominees. Add to the list.

Once we have this decided, the next question will be a much harder one: Ginger or Mary Ann?

Do we really need more books?

A very humbling shopping trip today. Stopped by the Mardel in south Oklahoma City and spent some time browsing through their bargain book shelves.

(For a review of the really poor customer service I received at this--and other--Mardel store, see post below.)

There were hundreds of titles, mostly all spine-out, on half a dozen shelving units, both fiction and non-fiction. Each book had a colored sticker on it to designate what percentage off of the already discounted price you would get should you choose to buy one of these misfit books. Were these old stock books that had been in a warehouse for years, if not decades? Hardly. Many were published in 2007--I know, because I was the acquisitions editor for some. Or the writer.

It is always an, um, experience to see a book you wrote on the bargain shelf. With a 90% off sticker. I think the store was actually paying customers to take one of my books off their hands.

(At my local Borders store here in Tulsa, Scott--the general manager--likes to stock books from local authors. He has had my books on endcaps or prominent table displays. Right now, The Gospel According To Dan Brown is on a shelf just inside the store. Hardcover. Marked down to three bucks. Next to those collections of Edgar Poe poems that are priced four bucks. At least I am in good company.)

As I looked over these titles--many of them written by very notable and good authors--I had to ask myself, Do we really need to publish any more books? It is a question that I face every time I see stacks of discounted books.

Of course we do need more books. Just not as many as I or anyone in publishing would think.

Need a copy of Cracking Da Vinci's Code/Youth Edition? I know where you can get one ... cheap.

Poor service is inexcusable

I visited the Mardel bookstore off I-240 in the City today. (Mardel is a regional Christian bookstore chain, founded by the same family who started Hobby Lobby stores. "The City" is Oklahoma City.) Wanted to get a copy of a classic book, The Cloud Of Unknowing.

They didn't have it, or even stock it. A book that has been in print almost continually since the 14th century, and they don't stock it.

What they did have--in abundance--was bad attitude.

I walked up to the incorrectly-named "customer service counter" in the book section. A woman by the name of Amy was looking over special order forms. These are pieces of paper that give the name of a book requested by a customer who is not standing at the customer service counter at the time. As a matter of fact, the customers who were represented on the papers that had Amy's rapt attention were not even in the store. As far as I know, they may not have even been in the same state.

But I was there. At the counter. In the store. In Oklahoma.

My request was simple: "If I were the book, The Cloud Of Unknowing, where would I be? The book is by an unknown author, so you would have to look it up by title." Simple, straightforward. A quick request that required a quick answer. But Amy was busy with her pieces of paper. My question caused her to have to look up from what she was doing, move her hand about eight inches to the right, and flip through her inventory catalog. A lot to ask, I know. She finally got around to doing this after sighing heavily, looking up a couple more special order titles on her computer, THEN looking for my title. Halfway through her flipping through the pages of the catalog--a demanding task, as it is ordered in alphabetical order according to title, and she had to decide if the book I mentioned would be filed under "T" or "C"--she went back to her computer screen to revisit the precious special orders.

After a wait in which I figured the Cloud had probably passed and all was now known, Amy glared in my direction.

"We don't have the book and we don't normally stock it but we can order it for you." Actually, she ran all this together so that it was more like "Wedon'thavethebookandwedon'tnormallystockitbutwecanorderitforyou." And she said this with a very clear tone that let me know ordering this book was the last thing she wanted me to do.

"I'll get it elsewhere, thanks."
"Ok." Back to the special order forms.

I don't ask that clerks in stores line my path with rose petals. They don't have to rush to my side to make sure my every need is met. But civility is expected, and kindness would not be out of line. Rudeness is my cue to take my business elsewhere. Perhaps Amy was an exception. Perhaps. But I have encountered rudeness at other Mardel stores, including the store at 71st and 169 in Tulsa, and the store on Powers in Colorado Springs. So my next guess is that floor personnel at Mardel stores are trained to be rude. Hey--all I have to go on is personal observation. My guess is as good as any.

So, unless there is a great reason for me to enter through the portal of a Mardel--and I can find books many other places (for instance, stores that actually stock a classic book)--I am done with them. Thanks Mart Green for your contribution to my alma mater. Your family's Hobby Lobby stores (founded and owned by your father) have some good deals on picture frames from time to time, so I will continue to shop there. But I am no longer interested in the rudeness your staff shows me on a consistent basis at your Mardel stores.

See ya.

"I" is now "i"

OK. I am willing to change.

Adam Palmer says "internet" should be lowercase, as is other media, such as "radio," "television," and "newspaper." He cites that esteemed grammatical resource, Wired magazine.

So, from now on, it is "internet."

There.

Are you happy now?

Graduation time!

Yesterday was commencement at Mid-America Christian University. Beautiful day for it. I went because, well, I have too. I am part of the administration there, so it is rather expected of me to show up. But I think I would have gone anyway had I known how fun it would be.

I lined up to march in at the end of the administrators and just in front of the faculty. (Next year I will get a cap and gown so I look more academic. The blue suit looked very "director of strategic marketing-ish," but a master's gown with my University of Oklahoma colors would be a lot more fun for commencement.) I turned to introduce myself to the gentleman behind me.

"Hi, I'm Jeff."
"I'm retarded. Retired. I mean, retired."

I knew right away I had found a friend. I never did catch his name. He must be north of 80 years old, but sharp as a knife. He grew up in Dayton, as did I. (We had a long march, from the administration building to the arena where the ceremony was held, so we got to talk a lot.) His memories include buildings and schools that are no longer in existence. He taught religion at MACU, and I'll bet he was a hoot to have as a professor.

"You know the best thing about these ceremonies?" he asked.
"What's that?"
"When the guy praying at the end says, 'Amen' and we all get to go home."

We got to our seats--second row; at least I am not a vice president and didn't have to sit on the stage--and he starts digging in in his pockets. Pulls out some candy that we shared throughout the next hour.

The speaker was Lesa Smaligo, an education lobbyist for the Oklahoma Legislature. Not a really big position. I mean, it is above a greeter at Wal-Mart, but not by much. But she was a great choice for commencement speaker--her speech was less than ten minutes long.

"Is that it?" asked my elderly friend. "Is she finished?"
"Looks like it," I said. "She's sitting down."
"I like her! She can speak again next year if she keeps it short like that."

Then came the graduates. Happy and smiling. I don't yet know many of the students--I only knew one graduate by name--but they were a good-looking group. One kid did a somersault onto the stage, got up, wrapped the president in a bear hug then waved his diploma wildly as he walked off. I thought he should have got a bigger ovation than he did. Most just smiled, shook hands with those on stage, and walked off. I think there should have been more gymnastics, maybe some dancing. But then again, I want clowns and dancing at my funeral, so what do I know?

As we filed out, my new friend seemed to have had a good time.

"That was shorter than last year. Good, good."

I hope to sit with him again next year. Maybe I will bring the candy...

OK Rock and Roll

Here is just another reason Oklahoma is so cool: We are going to have an official state rock and roll song.

How cool is that? There is only one other state with an official rock song--my birth state, Ohio. The McCoys' Hang On Sloopy is heard at every Ohio State football game, played loud and proud--especially when we are kicking Michigan's butt up between their ear holes. Of course, Ohio also has the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, the place where Alan Freed coined the phrase "rock and roll" in the 50s. So Ohio is definitely a rockin' state.

And soon, my adopted home state of Oklahoma will join Ohio when we name our official state rock song after voting ends on November 15. Oklahoma already has an official state song ("Oklahoma"), folk song ("Oklahoma Hills"), country and western song ("Faded Love"), and waltz ("Oklahoma Wind"). But we NEED a rock and roll number to make us complete! And you can help.

I need some ideas of what song to nominate. At first I thought it would be very hard to beat JJ Cale's Tulsa Time--and still do. But then I started thinking of all the other possibilities. How about Eric Clapton doing Take Me Back To Tulsa (I'm Too Young To Marry)? Or The Gap Band's You Dropped A Bomb On Me? (GAP comes from three street names in the Greenwood section of downtown Tulsa: Greenwood, Archer, Pine.) There is my favorite country song of all time, David Frizzel and Dottie West singing You're The Reason God Made Oklahoma. But it ain't really rock and roll now, is it?

What about Russell Bridges--better known as Leon Russell, the Master of Space and Time. You could create a whole catalog of his songs to nominate, but it would have to be topped with his version of Jumpin' Jack Flash/Youngblood from his Leon Live triple album set. Or why not just make that whole set our state's official album?

I am leaving off some of the newer bands, like Flaming Lips, Admiral Twin, Hanson, and the All American Rejects. Earn your way, fellas, then come see me.

There is Merle Haggard's Okie From Muskogee. That could certainly qualify. You can view the songs that have been nominated thus far and choose from those or come up with one of your own. Then go here and nominate it yourself, or share your song idea with me, and I will nominate it. Only restrictions are the artist must be from Oklahoma or the song be about Oklahoma.

You would think other states would also want their own rock song. Colorado has Rocky Mountain High, but you are on some kind of high if you think John Denver was a rock singer. North Carolina--those cretins who think the airplane was invented in their backward state--have unofficially adopted In My Mind I'm Going To Carolina, but not officially. And you would think that Nebraska would make The Boss's Nebraska their state song. It's a lovely little ditty about how 19 year old Charles Starkweather and 14 year old Caril Fugate went on a killing spree and knocked off 11 people. Who wouldn't want to sing that song at graduations and state fair openings?

So fire off those comments. Tell me what great rock song really says OKLAHOMA IS OK!

Hey--we have an official state everything else. Our state vegetable is the watermelon. Go figure...

Springtime for ... Tulsa

It has been a rough stretch of road weather-wise in Paradise for the past few months. An ice storm in December shut the city down for a week, destroyed trees throughout the northeast part of the state, and caused an estimated $150 million in damage. We still have broken limbs hanging from our four Ponderosa pines that I can't get to, and don't have the $800+ to hire someone to come clean them up.

We had a day in February when it hit 81 degrees, and a stretch in late March where it didn't get out of the 20s. In the past couple of weeks we had a hail of a storm, with flying chunks of ice larger than golf balls pounding away up and down our street. Both of our cars are more than likely totaled, and I am sure I will need a new roof. And with the hail came inches of rain that have left parts of Green Country underwater.

So with temps in the low 80s both days this weekend, and no rain, snow, ice or hail, Tulsa got out of the house and headed to ... LaFortune Park. At least it seemed that most everyone in Tulsa was there tonight.

I am making it a habit to go walk on the three mile trail around LaFortune on Sunday afternoons, followed by an hour or so in the prayer room at Believers Church. It's a great way to conclude the week and get the next started right. Normally I don't have to search for a parking spot late on Sunday. Today, however, was the most crowded I have ever seen the park.

Walking through the playground and picnic part of the park was like walking through the Woodland Hills Mall the day after Thanksgiving. There were birthday parties and picnics going on in every square inch of space. White, black, Hispanic, Asian all mingled under the budding trees. Kids waiting in line for slides. Small-scale soccer games were going on. (I made a nifty save on a ball kicked into my path. Nice return kick, if I say so myself...)

After I waded through this throng and was past the play area, the crowd thinned out a bit. But it was still crowded around the track. Runners, walkers, people walking their dogs, dogs walking their people. Many--like me--had white earbuds trailing from their ears. (I was listening to a mix that included Neil Young, Eric Clapton, Johnny Cash and the Doobies among others.) Usually when I pass another runner/walker on the trail I will nod a greeting. After all, this is Tulsa. It is almost a crime not to greet someone with a friendly Howdy or head nod. But to do this today would have made me look like a bobblehead doll.

Anyway, it was great to experience a great spring day with others, even if the only things we share in common are gladness that this winter is finally over, and a sore neck from all that nodding.

New Favorite Columnist

It is now official. Paul Greenberg has been dethroned as my favorite columnist. (Non-sports columnist, that is. Steve Rushin, late of Sports Illustrated, will reign for a long time as my favorite sports columnist. I would wade through a river of tuna casserole to read a Steve Rushin column--and I hate tuna.) Greenberg is still wonderful, and I read almost everything he writes. But I have a new favorite.

Lenore Skenazy aka The World's Worst Mom.

I have enjoyed Skenazy in the Tulsa World over the past year or so since I noticed her columns. The picture the World posts with her contributions shows a woman with a smile that says, "Hey, ya got a minute? I have something to share with you that you might find interesting." Pictures of other columnists give me the impression that they know way more than I do about anything (which may be true) and they KNOW THAT THEY KNOW much more than I do (which is just annoying arrogance). But her friendly smile alone was not enough to vault Skenazy over Greenberg.

She made a strong run at number one a few weeks ago when she wrote a piece titled Victoria's Secret Isn't Sexy It's Raunchy But her leap into the esteemed number one slot came with an essay released on April 1. Some may have thought it was an April Fool's Joke, but if so, the joke is on them.

Why I Let My 9-Year-Old Ride the Subway Alone tells how Skenazy took her son to Bloomingdales in the heart of Manhattan armed only with a subway map, a MetroCard, a $20 bill and some change in case he needed to make a call. No cell phone. No GPS homing device. No private eye to tail her son. Oh, she did leave him with one more thing: one of the greatest gifts a parent can give a child: a vote of confidence.

Skenazy's son wanted to be trusted to find his way home. So she let him. And he did it. No one kidnapped the boy. No one mugged him. We are not told whether or not he was accosted by those who sell fake Rolex watches, but we can assume if he was, he kept his wits and his twenty bucks about him.

Once this column was released, Skenazy become a hot celeb. She was the catch of the day on numerous news shows, talk shows, and news and talk shows. On many of these news ambushes she was assailed for--get this--allowing her son some independence. How dare she! Why, if everyone did that, then our kids might grow up to think for themselves, rather than have to be spoonfed by cable news on how to think about anything and everything. Shame on Skenazy. Doesn't she know that without Madison Avenue to tell us what is right for us to buy, wear, and eat we probably would cease to exist before the next ratings book came out?

Anyway, Lenore Skenazy took all of the guff she received in stride. As a matter of fact, it gave her the idea for Free Range Kids She tells us why it is not only ok but almost necessary to allow our kids to eat snow. And how that coat hangers are making us stupid. I highly recommend you check her out.

Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to take our 14 year old to Bloomingdales and see if, armed only with a subway map and a MetroCard, can find his way home to Tulsa.

The Light Shines--review of new Stones movie

Wow.

For those who need a further explanation, read on.

In the review below, I basically pan the soundtrack to Shine A Light by the Rolling Stones. But, as I expected, you really have to see the boys to appreciate their songs. All I can say is seeing is believing.

For all who are saying "I'm not really a Rolling Stones fan," can I ask, Do you like rock and roll? If so, then please understand that these boys perfected the art. Period. It would be like saying, "I love baseball, but I would never want to see Babe Ruth." Or, "I'm a big fan of opera, but I don't like Pavaratti." The Stones are the core of rock and roll. They have been for 45 years, and they don't look like they are ready to step aside any time soon.

Martin Scorsese assembled an incredible cast of cinematographers for this film. The visuals are stunning, especially seen on an IMAX screen. Seeing the sweat dripping down Mick's neck, or Keef blowing a cig butt out of his mouth with ash flying adds flavor to the song you will not get just listening to it on your iPod. The concert was in New York's Beacon Theatre, a rather small venue that also lends a special atmosphere to the sound. There are no huge props on an even huger stage. There is no B stage for three songs. It all happens in a rather subdued set, which makes it all feel very personal. No elaborate costumes, even for Mick. (I do hope there was not a draft in that theatre, or Lisa Fisher would have caught a nasty chest cold.) Keef, as always, dressed as if he just had an accident in a thrift store. Actually, he looked like Jack Sparrow's father. He even wore a skull and crossbones pin on his jacket.

You can read the review of the individual songs in my previous post. I will just add a few comments here.

Of the three guests, Jack White was the best. He and Mick teamed up for a fun and memorable version of Loving Cup. Jack traded verses with Mick and guitar licks with Keef and Ronnie. It worked perfectly. Near the end of the show, Christina Aguilara came on stage to sing Live With Me with Mick. Now, I am not a fan of pop music any more than I am a fan of having my hand put through a meat grinder. I wouldn't know any of Aguilara's "hits," nor would I care. But--wow--she rocked in this song. Maybe the best version of the Let It Bleed selection I have heard.

The middle guest, blues guitarist Buddy Guy, was another story. In the review of the album, I say that the song he contributes, Muddy Waters' Champagne and Reefer, is just horrible. Having seen it, I understand a bit better why it is so bad. I don't think the boys and Guy ever rehearsed the song before. It is like they are seeing each other for the first time. Mick saves it by yanking some great blues out of his harmonica, but Buddy Guy is playing with a band only he can hear. At the end of the song, however, Keef takes off the Guild hollow body guitar he has just played and gives it to Guy. Nice gesture. Maybe next time they will practice together before taking the stage.

Keef is in great form the whole show. He is having a ball, whether ripping riffs while chatting with Charlie, tossing picks to the audience, or leaning on Ronnie's shoulder. For his first beer song he leaves his guitar behind and sings You've Got The Silver, but looks a bit lost without his constant prop. He even breaks off an air-guitar riff. His second beer song, Connections, is the weakest song of the set, but Scorsese interjects some interview snippets in it, so it goes quickly.

There is old footage of the Stones scattered between songs adding a bit of humor to the show.

French journalist to Keef: "What question are you asked most often?"
Keef: "The one you just asked me now."

Ronnie is also at the top of his game, whether ripping chords on a Les Paul or gliding on the pedal steel. Charlie is, well, Charlie. He never misses a beat, but you have to wonder what he is thinking. "Let's see. Tomorrow I will start by shopping for shirts at Marc Jacobs, then jackets at Dior Homme. If I have time, I'll pop into Christian Louboutin and try on some new loafers." In the introductions, he actually addressess the audience. Get this. He says, "Hello." The drummer speaks.

Mick is vintage Mick. His dance moves would be great for a 24 year old. But someone who is 64? The only way I could move like that is if someone poured a bottle of Dave's Insanity Hot Sauce down my pants. His energy is frantic, which again adds to the sound in a unique way. You do not see Mick dancing when playing the CD in the car.

Downsides to the show, other than the Buddy Guy song? None, really. Well, other than I thought I would be out of place by jumping up in the IMAX and dancing to the songs. I wanted to sing along, I wanted to applaud at the end of each song. I felt like I was at the concert (but only paid $10.50 rather than $150).

OK--go see this. It is just outstanding fun. You might just find yourself actually liking the Rolling Stones after all.

Pre-review of Shine A Light

Friday is the opening of the latest Martin Scorsese concert flick, Shine A Light, with the self-proclaimed "World's Greatest Rock and Roll Band," the Rolling Stones.

OK, so the movie is not out yet, and I am just a putz writing on a laptop in Tulsa. I have no connections to get to see previews of movies. I will see it when other normal schleps can lay down a sawbuck at the IMAX. But I do have a slight head start in that I picked up the soundtrack for the film--also called Shine A Light--yesterday when it became available at the local Large Blue And Yellow Box electronic retail store. So I have an idea what to expect from the film. And, to be honest, after two times through the album, I am not as excited as I once was about the film.

First of all, we are talking about a band who has released more live than studio albums since 1990. Have any of them, other than the classic Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out, been that great?

Correct answer is "not really."

But this time around I thought, "It was recorded in a smaller venue (The Beacon Theatre in NYC), they have included some songs rarely heard in concert, and Martin Scorsese is involved. I"ll bet it is better than average."

Conclusion: I guess it is, but not by much.

The boys start off with a good version of Jumpin' Jack Flash, and it's a gas gas gas. Shattered is fine, but this is where we start to notice that the audio mix is just off enough to sound weird. Like they have the wrong instruments up at the wrong time. But then we go into a, well, hot version of She Was Hot from their Undercover album. Then two from their best record--and perhaps the last true rock album ever recorded: Exile On Main Street. (The two songs are All Down The Line and Loving Cup.)

These two songs lead into four concert rarities: As Tears Go By, Some Girls, Just My Imagination and Faraway Eyes. Again, the sound mix is off just slightly, but enough to take a bit of the fun of these songs away.

Next is a Muddy Waters song, Champagne & Reefer, with guest Buddy Guy. Ok--this is just horrible. Buddy Guy is playing one tempo, Keef another, and Charlie seems completely lost trying to make sense of either. Mick sounds as if he is totally embarrassed by it all and just wants to get the song over with. He ends it by dropping an MF-bomb in reference to Buddy Guy, I suppose in a positive sense. I suppose. I have not even imported that cut onto my iTunes and hit Skip when it comes on. It's that bad.

The boys have not recovered when they take off on the third Exile song, Tumbling Dice. They give it a halfhearted effort, with it ending better than it started. They sound, to be honest, bored.

Then come the beer songs. (So called because when Keef sings his two solos, many people in the audience get up and go for beer.) Keef does a great job with both You Got The Silver and Connections. A good end to the first disc.

(Oh--you can get a single disc "basic" version of Shine A Light for 10 bucks, but why not spend two dollars more and get the "deluxe" two-disc version? C'mon.)

The second disc starts off with a cut from Scorsese talking about not wanting Mick to burst into flames from the lights he has at the front of the stage. I have a feeling this is the funniest line in the movie, and now that I have heard it, I don't have to take my laughing face to the show. Anyway, we go into the meat of the Stones' set list: Sympathy For The Devil, Live With Me, Start Me Up, Brown Sugar and Satisfaction. All mediocre at best. All played with very little passion or soul. On Brown Sugar, for instance, Keef sets such a fast pace I was left wondering if he looked at his watch and thought, "Damn, it's 10 o'clock. I'm going to miss the rerun of the Golden Girls if I don't get going." Do not buy this album for these songs. I mean, it's better than listening to most any rock that has come out in the past twenty-five years, but it is not vintage Stones.

The last four songs sound as if they were sorta stapled on by a producer who thought, Wow--we can't put out just one and a half discs. We had better add some songs. So they did: Paint It Black (good), Little T&A (a song I have never understood, appreciated or enjoyed--and still don't after hearing it here), I'm Free (makes me think I'm watching a commercial and I start reaching for the TV remote), and the title song, Shine A Light. This last song is well-done, but rather anti-climactic.

So, on the whole about a B- effort from the boys (who are in their mid-60s and should each send me a Christmas card just for calling them "boys"). Maybe after I see the movie I will appreciate the album more. After all, you have to see Sir Mick and Keef to really appreciate their music.

I am wondering, however, if I will be able to take an IMAX-sized Keith Richards. We will see this weekend...

Best Blueberry Muffin

In Will Ferrell's fun Christmas romp Elf, Buddy the Elf has ventured from the North Pole to New York City to find his father. In his first turn around the city, he comes upon a coffee shop that proclaims they serve the "best cup of coffee in the world."

"Congratulations!" shouts Buddy as he explodes into the shop. "You did it!"

Buddy has never heard of hyperbole or superlatives.

I, on the other hand, have been known to live by them. On my fortieth birthday, my friends and family gave me a surprise party where they each got up and shared something I had said was "the best." The best coffee (Boston Stoker). The best chili (Skyline). The best shampoo (Herbal Essence in the old bottle with the hippy girl on the front). You get the idea. It was the best 40th birthday party I had.

While I at times pitch bon mots freely hither and yon, I am suspicious when others call their product "the best." So when I read a large sign in front of my new favorite coffee shop--Cafe Fusion at Believers Church in Tulsa--saying that their blueberry muffins are the "world's best," I thought Jeremiah had run into a sale on hyperbole at Sam's Club and wanted to use it all. Besides, I am not a big muffin person. If I want calories, give me cinnamon rolls or shortbread cookies. Muffins are mostly dry and tasteless overpriced bread. It would be like saying, "We serve the world's best cardboard shaped like cupcakes." I had no interest in the advertised muffins whether they were world class or not. I'll stick to the coffee if you don't mind.

One day last week, however, I was a bit peckish while at the Cafe reading. I went up to the counter and looked over the offerings. Sausage rolls (an Oklahoma thing). Raisin Bran muffins (actually pretty good for something that has the word Bran in it). And those "world's best" blueberry muffins. I tried one.

And now I am hooked.

Holy cow. World's best does not even come close to describing these gastronomic works of art.

First of all, Lauren and Jeremiah make them up in small batches--batches of six or so muffins at a time--so when you get one you know it is fresh and hot. But in saying they make small batches, this is not to infer that the muffins are small. They are not. They are meal-sized, larger than your fist but not quite as big as your head fruit and grain delicacies. Lauren and Jeremiah fill the muffin tins with hearty scoops of blueberry-packed batter so that, when they are in the oven, the dough overflows the tin. What you end up with is really two muffins in one. The first is the crispy top, with just enough crunch to make it seem like a fresh-baked cookie. You break off pieces around the edge of the top, then pieces of the top itself. This is dessert ahead of the main course. Actually, if you stopped here, you would stand, applaud and be very satisfied.

But there is more.

Once the top has been dealt with--washed down with whatever beverage you are enjoying at the time--you have the main "muffin" part of the muffin. You could say this is the entree, and it is nearly that filling. There is just enough warm dough to hold together all of the blueberries they packed into the tin. I'm not talking about two or three small berries. You really could not take a bite above the molecular level without enjoying a large berry or two. This is the blueberriest blueberry muffin in the history of food.

It takes me at least an hour--usually two--to make it through one of these BBBs (blueberry bad boys). At two dollars per, it may be the best food bargain this side of eating tree bark. Mark this down and do not miss it: When in Tulsa, you must visit Cafe Fusion and imbibe. You can blame Jeremiah if you become a blueberry muffin addict.

Next time, we'll talk about how this coffee snob got hooked on Rishi teas.

Next time.

Fellowship Follow-up

Great time as always at Doug's Second Friday Of March Madness party. Some observations before I hit the sack:

Best food: Marshall brought wings from Wings To Go. They did not last long. (Another reason to get there early.)

Best drink: Dave had his Fair Blender and fruit in high fashion this year. I think the cherries really added that special something. Great smoothies. I had three.

Best dessert: Dr. Tim brought a tray of "ooey-gooeys." "Don't eat too many," he said, "or you'll be ooey-gooeying all night." OK.

Best food I missed: Dr. Tim also brought some meatballs in barbecue sauce. I saw them, but then filled my plate with wings and chips and guacamole. Totally forgot to go back and get meatballs. I'm sure they were good, though.

Weirdest food: Scotty brought his usual boxes of Ho-Hos and a bag of Twizzlers. He also had a greasy brown bag of cracklin' he got from some clients up from the bayou. Cracklin' is fried pig fat rolled in Cajun spices. I passed and had another round of smoothie.

Funniest comment about food: Doug--"When it comes to fried food, freshness is the most important factor."

Second funniest comment about food: Mike D, with a box of Ho-Hos in hand, to Dave as he was leaving--"Want some nappy-headed hos to go?"

Funniest comment about sports: Mike D--"I'd rather have a yogurt enema than watch an entire NBA game."

Funniest comment on world affairs: Marshall, putting forth a name for consideration for the ORU presidency--"Here's another name: Condi Rice." Dave--"Yeah, but I'm not in agreement with her position on the Palestinian situation." Me--"I don't think the ORU president has much say in the Palestinian situation."

World problems solved: All (except maybe the Palestinian issue).

Fun had: More than we deserve.

The Fellowship of Madness

I love living in Tulsa. I have visited many different towns and cities in our fine country, but I have to call one place "home," and that one place for me is Tulsa. I love it 365 days a year, but one in particular.

The second Friday of March Madness is time to gather at Doug's house. Doug opens his home to a bunch of guys who have a couple of ties: Most of us went to St. James United Methodist Church together in the 1980s. We all like basketball, but not all like the same teams. And all of us love to eat.

So tomorrow night I will wait in my driveway for Mike D. to swing by and pick me up in his late mom's 1985 Honda. I'll toss my food contribution into the backseat, strap in, and away we go.

Well, we don't go far. Doug lives about ten minutes away, and that's if Mike takes the wrong turn into Doug's neighborhood, which has been known to happen. Mike and I are usually the first ones to arrive. One year, we even beat Doug. It turned out that Doug's daughter was in a basketball playoff game and was running late. We figured that was Doug's personal problem and was not to deter us from our goal: good seats in front of the TV before the others arrived.

We used to be banished, er, assigned by Doug's gracious wife, Cheryl, to an upstairs room that had a TV, a bench press, some metal folding chairs, and three beanbags. It was our goal to get the beanbags. Four hours of sitting in a metal chair takes a bit of the joy out of the evening, but only just a little. But last year Doug had gone uptown--he bought a big screen TV and set it in his living room. Lots of comfortable seats and much closer to the food.

The food. Everyone brings something, There is no coordination of effort to assure we hit all the food groups. Some years all we have are bags of chips. Other years it's all desserts. Dr. Tim, a dentist, usually brings the best desserts. Drumming up business? We don't care. Scotty brings the same things every year: A box of ho-hos and a bag of Twizzlers. One year Scotty was in South America teaching a class on oil well management and missed the party. But his daughter came by my house with a grocery bag on Friday afternoon.

"This is from my dad for tonight's party at Doug's," she said. Inside the bag: a box of ho-hos and a bag of Twizzlers. Scott is a good man.

Dave is also consistent in his offering. A few years ago at the Tulsa State Fair, Dave wandered into a tent where some guy was demonstrating a powerful blender. The man was shoving all kinds of fruit into the pitcher and grinding it to a thick liquid state.

"This machine makes perfect fruit smoothies--a delicious and nutritious way to start your day."

Dave had never seen such a machine, but he knew he could not live without it. Somehow he talked Clair into letting him buy the thing. Ever since, Dave comes to Doug's armed with the powerful Fair Blender and an bag of fresh fruit. By halftime we have fresh fruit smoothies--which help wash down the cookies, chips and dip we have been feasting on.

Two or three years ago, Dave missed the party to take his son camping with the Boy Scouts. He caught crap from the rest of us for a year, and I don't think he will repeat the same mistake again.

I already know that Kalin will be bringing guacamole and chips. Now the secret to great guacamole is to serve it fresh. By fresh I mean minutes, not hours, old. The guac that he brought last year was so good I swear Kalin mixed it up on the hood of his car just before he walked in the door.

We watch two complete basketball games. Well, two games are on, and our eyes are looking at the TV, but we usually find some interesting topics to discuss. Suffice it to say that we solve all of the world's problems in one evening. All. For four hours on a Friday night in March, everything is as it should be.

Unless, of course, Dave goes camping.

Next week, great week

It's always fun to look forward, isn't it? I like the days from Thanksgiving to Christmas to goooo sloooooow so I can enjoy the buildup. Now, next week isn't Christmas, but there are a couple of fun things coming.

Monday afternoon: Opening Day in Cincinnati. There is nothing to compare with opening day in Redsland. Kids skip school throughout southwest Ohio whether they have tickets for the game or not. There is a parade from Findlay Market to Fountain Square in downtown Cincy. Great American Ballpark is packed. And then there is a baseball game.

Cincinnati was the first professional baseball team (starting in 1869), and they used to get the honor of being the first baseball game of the season. They still get to open at home every year, but thanks to ESPN, there are games played before the Reds take the field for the first time. This year, two American League teams teed it up in Japan almost a full week before the Reds. Of course, the Reds play real baseball--National League style. So I hardly count AL games as official games.

Anyway, I am in Tulsa, and may be in Oklahoma City, when the Reds game (against the Arizona Diamondbacks) starts. So how will I celebrate? I already bought a Cincinnati Reds tie. I'll wear it to church Sunday (surprising most who have never seen me wear a tie to church ever until this past Sunday, and annoying the handful of Pittsburgh fans in the house) and to Mid-America Christian University (where I ply my trade) on Monday. And will find a way to listen to the game. I will be with the boys in red and white in spirit.

Let the games begin.

The second fun thing coming up next week is the debut of the new Rolling Stones movie, Shine A Light, directed by Martin Scorsese. Yes, I will be going to see it at the IMAX. I will report in full after the viewing experience.

Anything coming your way next week?

What I Believe

I believe in God the Father almighty
Maker of Heaven and Maker of Earth
And in Jesus Christ
His only begotten Son, our Lord
He was conceived by the Holy Spirit
Born of the virgin Mary
Suffered under Pontius Pilate
He was crucified and dead and buried

And I believe what I believe
Is what makes me what I am
I did not make it, no it is making me
It is the very truth of God and not
The invention of any man

I believe that He who suffered
Was crucified, buried, and dead
He descended into hell and
On the third day, rose again
He ascended into Heaven where
He sits at God's mighty right hand
I believe that He's returning to
Judge the quick and the dead
Of the sons of men

And I believe what I believe
Is what makes me what I am
I did not make it, no it is making me
It is the very truth of God and not
The invention of any man

I believe in God the Father almighty
Maker of Heaven and Maker of Earth
And in Jesus Christ His only begotten Son,
Our Lord
I believe in the Holy Spirit
One Holy Church, the communion of Saints
The forgiveness of sin
I believe in the resurrection
I believe in a life that never ends

(Creed, lyrics by Rich Mullins)

Thanks, Rich. Hope you are enjoying paradise. Hope to see you soon, bro.

What About Saturday?

We celebrated Good Friday yesterday, and now are waiting for Easter (Resurrection) Sunday tomorrow. But what about Saturday? Is there nothing special about the next-to-last day of Holy Week?

Jesus is dead. We saw him die yesterday. His blood stains the cross that is still standing on a nearby hill. We saw his body wrapped in linen and placed in a cave with a large rock rolled in front. A Roman guard is stationed in front of the cave to prevent any of us, Jesus' followers, from breaking in and stealing the body.

Jesus' followers. What a laugh. We followed, all right. Followed Jesus away from our families, away from our friends, away from our jobs. and for what? We were promised a kingdom, but now the king is dead and we are wanted men. We are in hiding, staying out of sight of the Pharisees. If they find us now, well, they will ask Pilate for more crosses. But if we can stay hidden for a while, maybe they will forget about us. There will be another claiming to be something special, another so-called Messiah, and the Pharisees will chase after him and his followers.

But what about us? We left all to follow the one we really thought was different. We saw what we thought were miracles--but Jesus couldn't even save himself. What miracle worker lets himself be killed? We heard his words about love, about going farther than we are asked to go, about trusting God. We stuck with him when he said we would have to eat his flesh and drink his blood. We didn't understand it, but we stood by him. And now he has deserted us.

He said to trust him, and we did. But now he's gone, and he has taken with him our lives. He has taken our families and our livelihoods. He has taken our freedom (at least for now) and our courage.

He has taken with him our hope.

We are, of all men, most miserable. We have no where else to turn. Peter says when it is safe to leave the room where we are hidden, he's going to try to start his fishing business again. We don't really care. We don't care about anything. We just sit and think. That is the hardest thing--we are trapped in here with all of our thoughts, all of our memories. We can't escape them.

There is nothing left. Darkness has become our friend, but now even the darkness is starting to fade.

The sun is coming over the hill.

Good? Friday

I just returned from going through the Stations of the Cross at our church. There are fourteen stations in all. We walked through the steps of Jesus as he walked to His death. It should have been my death, for I am thoroughly guilty of sin against God and am deserving of execution. I have no appeal.

About the third Station you are encouraged to kneel before a table. On the table is a small rock, not much bigger than your hand. Pick it up. Know that it was the weight of our sins that caused Jesus to stumble and fall as he climbed the hill to his death. What should have been my death, my thorns, my nails, my cross.

Further on there is another Station where you kneel before a table, only the rocks here are a bit larger and heavier. It was this even heavier load that caused Jesus to stagger and fall as he got closer to the place where his life would end. It was my life that should have ended.

Near the end of the Stations is yet one more table to kneel before, and yet larger and weightier rocks to lift. As I knelt before the table, I held this large rock--the weight of the sins of the world--in my hands before me. I cried out in my soul to God, "Kill me! Drive nails into my hands. Rip the flesh from my back. I deserve to die, not you!" But then I tilted my hands down toward the floor and let the rock fall. With the heaviness gone, my hands felt suddenly weightless. They began to lift on their own.

I do not deserve the freedom I experience, but I have it because the Son of God took my place in the execution chamber. I cannot explain it--it makes no sense to me. As I placed myself, even ever-so-briefly, even only in an imaginary way, in the footsteps of Jesus as he faced the cross, I could not help being struck by the irony of the phrase "Good Friday." It seemed to me that for Jesus it was a pretty bad Friday. As I reflect further, though, I now see that Good is not nearly a strong enough adjective for that day. It was the day when the only sinless one paid the price for all of my sins for all time. The rock has rolled, my hands are free to rise. For me, it was a Great, Fantastic, Stupendous Friday.

Sunday will be even better.

Cloverfield

Finally, they get one right.

Most people say they watch movies to escape real life. If that is the aim, then the movies Hollywood is dishing up these days are perfect. Very few have any grounding in reality. And therein begins the problem.

So a young girl goes to see a flick that features a shy, slightly-less-than-beautiful girl somehow lands the great-looking guy. And by lands, I mean in bed. Sans marriage ring. All is well.

A young guy goes to the movies and sees an ordinary dock-working deadbeat dad not have a good relationship with his kids, but ends up saving the world from invaders from outer space. All with the white of an egg.

Yep, everyday stories, at least in my neighborhood. Happens all the time.

Or not.

Thus you may begin to understand why I am not much of a movie person. Or when I find one I really like, it is something that fades into obscurity fairly fast. The Englishman Who Went Up A Hill But Came Down A Mountain is a great movie that I will bet a Braum's milkshake you have never heard of, let alone seen. How about Joe Vs. The Volcano? Harvey? Marty? (Wow--when was the last time I watched Marty? Great, great movie about real relationships. Another one they got right.)

Anyway, last night I took our 14 year old son, Mark, to see Cloverfield at the Dollar Theatre (on Tuesdays, only 50 cents!). After twenty minutes I figured this would be either a brilliant movie or horrible. No middle ground.

Decision: Brilliant.

(Warning: This movie is "shot" from one handheld camcorder. There is a lot of movement of the camera, just like when your mother-in-law tries to shoot video at a birthday party. More, even. It is like the ride at Kings Island where you go into a round room and place your heels, butt and head back against the wall. Then the room spins and the floor drops out. Your objective is to not puke, 'cause it will go all over everyone. Same kind of feeling with the way Cloverfield is shot...)

If you don't know the premise, you are led to believe that what you are watching is a homemade video tape found in the area of US-477, formerly known as Central Park. I won't go through the plot--there are plenty of places you can read about that--but do know that this is not just another monster destroying NYC flick. This is about real life for today's young adults. Yes, there is an allusion to sex outside of marriage. There is profanity--a lot of it. There is drinking to excess.

Like I said, reality for young people today. (Both in and out of the church, I might add, but won't elaborate now. Later.) It was not glamorized. As a matter of fact, the guy who had sex with a girl who had been his friend for a long time is told by his brother, "You are not worthy of her." The brother is in the middle of explaining just how unworthy he is when the ground shakes--literally. But the rest of the film follows the one who took advantage of his friend the girl as he attempts to rescue her because he knows he has not treated her right.

Very good.

One girl drinks heavily at the front end of the show, doing her best to get drunk as quickly as possible. When all monster cuts loose and the party turns into an evacuation from New York City, this girl has trouble escaping harm. So we see the effects of alcohol abuse. We are not told, we see. Much more powerful.

Again, very good.

The profanity? Well, to tell the truth, if I had been in the attack these kids were, I would have said my fair share of Holy $#!* as well. Don't tell me if the Statue of Liberty's head--all twenty five feet and several tons of it--came hurtling through the air at you, you would just say My Goodness.

So, maybe not great, but at least real.

At the end of the show, Mark was not moving. He stared at the screen. We got up, walked out--he was just staring ahead. Said nothing for about ten minutes. (I remember when I saw The Deer Hunter, I didn't talk for nearly an hour. Very powerful show.) I could tell he was really moved by the show. How? Not sure. But knowing him as his father, I think I can look into his head fairly clearly.

Mark did not see actors. (As a matter of fact, the acting was not very good. But the non-acting was great! I really bought into this as a "real" video.) He saw people not much older than he in "real" situations. OK, the monster thing is not real, but don't we face monsters most of the time? Like when Mark does not know if he wants to walk with Jesus and be made fun of, or if he wants to cuss and drink and make fun of Christians himself. This is the kind of thing he is walking through right now, and it is threatening to tear up his insides. He is looking to evacuate, but he also feels pulled to go back and help that part of him he knows is right. In this way, Cloverfield really hit home with him. I recommend you check it out if you haven't already..

Joe Bob Briggs would give it at least three kung-fus.

Stoning the Stones

Music is very important to me. By very important, I mean ahead of other needless things like food and water. But not as high as a good nap on Sunday afternoons.

I came of age--musically--in the late 60s. The groups I grew up with then were the "second half" Beatles (everything from Revolver to Let It Be), Crosby Stills Nash and Young, and Jimi. In the 70s I added the solo Beatles (George's All Things Must Pass is the best solo Beatle album by far, and Paul's Wing's Wildlife absolutely horrible--but I owned them both), Grand Funk, Chicago and my all time favorite group, Loggins and Messina. (Not their chart stuff--that was only fair. Their long jam songs were and are the perfect music.)

The 80s were the lost decade music-wise. You have Genesis and you have U2. One song by Level 42. Maybe one from Huey Lewis. Oh, I guess some ZZ Top. But after that? Waste of time.

The 90s made me turn to talk radio, only to run into Rush. So I learned to love classical music.

It wasn't until this new century that I returned to my rock roots, only to discover the best bands were the old bands. And the best of the old (and oldest of the best) were ... the Rolling Stones.

Now, I never was much of a fan of the Stones. I like Brown Sugar, but Angie bored me. Start Me Up got old hearing it at every sporting event when they introduce the players. And I didn't get their satire on songs like Symphony For The Devil. I started to change my opinion of Mick and Keef when, in 1995, two of my students at Centerville High School approached me.

"Mr. Dunn," they said (not in unison, but you get the idea), "we want to go see the Stones in St. Louis, but our parents won't let us go unless an adult goes with us. Since you are the closest thing to an adult we know, we are wondering if you would go. We'll buy your ticket, we'll pay the gas. All you have to do is ride with us."

I thought about it for, oh, a second--maybe--before saying Yes. What a concert. The whole time I was thinking, "We in the Christian world are wasting our time trying to out-entertain the non-Christian world." I mean, from the opening power chord of Satisfaction to the last drumbeat of It's Only Rock and Roll I was treated to a non-stop rock and roll circus. Mick jogs five to seven miles PER CONCERT. He is more active on stage than a kid with ADD and an endless supply of Snickers. I began to change my mind about the boys from London.

I went back and listened again to what is considered their great trilogy: Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers and Exile On Main Street. Amazing stuff these boys cranked out. Their albums following these three were hit-and-miss, mostly miss, but even when missing they were better than 90% of the rest of the stuff being hawked in record stores. I wondered why I had never really given them a chance before. And I think I know. It was their "bad boy" image.

Of course I should be one of the first to know that image is often just that--a made-up persona. But there we had Mick with his tongue hanging out, and Keef with a needle in his arm and a spoon up his nose. Brian Jones dead from drugs. Ronnie Woods in rehab. Only Charlie seemed somewhat normal--but only as normal as drummer can be. And in the 70s, 80s and 90s, one could not call oneself a Christian and accept people like this. (We had yet to learn about grace and mercy, you see.)

Well, now it seems that Keef--who could be legally declared dead from all the drugs he has pumped into his body--is reading his Bible. Says parts of it are boring, but the only crime there is saying outloud what many of us think to ourselves. And Mick, on his mostly-forgettable solo album The Goddess In The Doorway, includes lyrics that could be sung in most evangelical churches today. Could it be the boys are searching? Could it be that they have now realized that even with the millions of dollars they have made, the endless pleasures they have consumed, the knighthood (for Sir Mick), the wives and lovers they have gone through, they just can't get no satisfaction? And would it be such a bad thing if they feel empty in their souls and start seeking for what can truly satisfy? Can God forgive their past? Is Jesus' blood sufficient even for Mick and Keef?

I'm thinking it is. More than enough. So let's not get too worked up next time we see the boys (who are now closer to 70 than 60) on TV or the magazine rack. Instead, pray for them. Remember, it's only rock and roll.

The Irish In Me

"Progress should mean that we are always changing the world to fit the
vision, instead we are always changing the vision."--GK Chesterton


My wife is wrong about one thing. She thinks St. Patrick's Day is my
favorite holiday. Actually, that honor is reserved for the last
Saturday in February when Holland Hall prep school (here in Tulsa) has
its annual book fair. Doors open at 8--I'm there at 6. Sorting through
table after table stacked with used books is certainly a great day for
me. Going home with a box of books for less than 20 bucks, looking
through them, figuring out which ones I just bought that I already had
(this year, only one!), then putting them in the order I hope to read
them--truly a great day.

But I am proud of my Irish heritage. And I do appreciate Kathy making
corned beef, cabbage and mashed potatoes for me, even if the Irish had
never heard of corned beef until they immigrated to the U.S. Oh, and I
really like the shamrock cookies she makes each year. So on the whole,
St. Patrick's Day is good for me.

It just so happens that my favorite hymn has its roots in an 8th
century Irish poem. "Be Thou My Vision" was translated into English by
Mary Byrne in 1905, and made into the hymn as we know it in 1912. My
favorite version is by Van Morrison from his Hymns to the Silence
album. But this morning on my drive to Oklahoma City (in torrential
rain) I listened to the version by Phil Keaggy, with its war-chant-
like drums. (This would be a great song for Triibe, Gyle and Mark.)
The next-to-last verse really speaks to me:

Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise,
Thou mine Inheritance, now and always:
Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my Treasure Thou art.

I sing this with great gusto (and off key), often with tears streaming
down my cheeks. But do I really mean it? Do I really live it? Can I
truly say that I don't heed the call of riches? How much do I really
like the praise of men? If it is to be, it will only be when the
first two verses are ingrained in me.

Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, I Thy true son;
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

As I progress in my walk with the Lord, am I changing my world to fit
His vision, or am I trying to bend His vision to fit my ever-changing
world? For me, this is a daily struggle. Some days I win, others I
lose. Oh God, be thou my vision every day! May the last verse be my
soon cry:

High King of Heaven, my victory won,
May I reach Heaven's joys, O bright Heaven's Sun!
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.