Still Alive

Ecuador was good.

In Chicago for a while before school starts up again. Doing some reading for my master's and catching up with Spartacus; it's been a long time. :-)

I've had political thoughts lately, but I've tried to stifle them for my own good. Maybe more on that at some later date when my intestines are not so riled up.

Happy long, lazy weekend before the New Year, y'all.

Less Tongue, Please

I've been convicted lately about my unruly mouth. So much trouble over so few words... I need to try to follow James's council:

If anyone considers himself religious and yet does not keep a tight rein on his tongue, he deceives himself and his religion is worthless.... With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse men, who have been made in God's likeness. Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers, this should not be. Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? My brothers, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water.

Thus begins tongue patrol, day 1.

Best. Governor. Evar.

Cheers to Florida's newly elected governor, Charlie Crist, who has opted to cancel his inaugural ball and donate to charity the money that would have been spent on the opulent event.

If the rest of his term is undertaken as thoughtfully and compassionately as this first bit, Florida will unqeustionably benefit from Crist's tenure as chief executive.

Wow. Just... wow.

I don't know if you've been following the Vern Buchanan/Christine Jennings election contest in Florida, but Howard Dean and the DNC have been calling for a revote because of alleged voting machine problems. Nothing new in Florida, right? :-)

Here's the "wow" part. Florida Republican Tom Feeney (I don't think he's any relation to the crotchety principal in Boy Meets World) released a statement containing this sentence:

DNC Chair Howard Dean and his liberal entourage should be called the UNDemocratic party for their refusal to honor the election results from Florida's 13th Congressional District.

I could say a lot about this, but I'm just not sure what to add. I could talk about how Feeney refuses to address the issues, instead setting up a straw man and making a ridiculous ad hominem attack worthy of a 6-year-old, but that just seems too easy. Any suggestions?

Sometimes I Am Astounded...

...by my lack of love.

I have been forgiven of much, and I have been given innumerable blessings. Why, then, should it bother me in the slightest when a silver Mitsubishi with Johnson County plates pulls out in front of me illegally and then proceeds to ride the brakes the whole way down the hill?

More troublingly, why should I become enraged and want to do something -- anything -- to show my displeasure to the Mitsubishi's driver, to anyone else nearby, and, indeed, to the whole world?

If I have received forgiveness for every fault, every mistake, every willful act of disobedience, then why don't I relax and pray for the will to love Mitsubishi Man with my whole heart?

And why don't I smile more?

On Christmas Card Lists

Making a list of people to send cards to is a surreal activity, as I discovered today.

"Should we send one to the N family?" Mrs. Luaphacim asked me.

"Hmm... nah," I replied, and took a casual swig of my cinnamon-hazelnut coffee. About two milliseconds later, I nearly choked on the coffee as I thought through the implications of what I had just done.

The N family was, once upon a time, my family's closest set of friends. They visited us at holidays, and we visited them on many weekends. They were much worldlier than we. For instance, it had never occurred to me that cutoff overalls were even an option as a fashion item until Z, the N child closest to my age, wore a pair -- with one shoulder strap recklessly unfastened -- to our Fourth of July barbeque one year. Those cutoffs were a revelation to me, and they were also the genesis of my ill-advised and much too long-lived Grunge phase.

Z influenced innumerable other things in my life besides fashion: my computer games, my music (ska was once the coolest genre in existence, believe it or not), and certain choice invective. He was the one who revealed to me what, exactly, Mike Tyson had done to earn universal scorn. He was the one who enlightened me with regards to the utility of waterproof firecrackers in fishing.

Now, with a single word -- a carelessly uttered word, at that -- I had banished Z and the whole N family to the realm of impertinence. They no longer mattered in my life.

Behold the fearsome power of the Christmas card list.

On Having a Wonderful Wifey

It's amazing how big a difference she's made in my life. Today, as we were cleaning out the closet, we went through a bag of old stuff from a life I can't believe I ever lived. An old keychain and a patch from my undergraduate school, a toy car I used to send across the floor of the newsroom on late nights while the computer was restarting because it had choked on the scripts my former boss had slapped together, a ticket from a glee club concert I had sung in... a small heap of reminders, somewhere between memorabilia and what Philip K. Dick called "kipple."

I'm light years away from there now. I remember driving home from work at three in the morning, the only one on the roads, staring at the stars above as I rolled down the lonely country road toward my family's house. I remember the empty pang I felt, the regrets about how little I had accomplished, about how lonely I would be when I crawled into my solitary bed and slept the morning away.

Looking back, I realize that those were some of the most productive days and nights of my life. I learned so much, felt so much, did so much that I didn't see... but I'd trade those four years in a heartbeat for a single day with her (even though I've already had hundreds of those and will probably have 10,000 more).

This morning, she came out and made a bagel while I was working. Her smile, her groggy "good morning," the way she rubbed the sleep out of her gorgeous blue eyes and came over to hug me... these are things that I knew would be good, but that are so much better than I imagined that I wonder sometimes if I'm dreaming.

I know I'm rambling, I know this is boring and nearly incomprehensible and probably way too saccharine, and I know that I should be typing away at my immigration project instead of typing this. I just had to let it all out. Thanks for reading it, if you did. Next time, I'll try to have something more interesting for you.

The Light, The Glory, and The Frustration

Note from the LuapHacim, 11/14/2012: The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect my current beliefs and convictions. Even if they do, I would almost certainly express them in different words today. Time changes people, and I am not exempt. Nonetheless, because of its historical value, I will not modify or remove this post. It tells you (and me) something important about where I've been. Read on at your own peril.

At church the other day, I had a conversation about American history with a middle-aged homeschooling father. It went a lot like most of my discussions on that topic with that particular demographic (including my own father, whom I love dearly and respect deeply).

In this case, though, the discussion centered on a pseudohistorical text called The Light and the Glory, which I would encourage you to take a look at if you can manage to do it without putting money into the pockets of certified nutcases David Manuel and Peter Marshall. Basically, their argument is that the Puritans were spot-on in their idea that God chose America to be a "City on a Hill," his modern-day Chosen People. This, of course, implies that it also was God's will for Western Europeans to brutally force indigenous peoples off their lands and gradually annex an entire continent from one end to the other because it was their "destiny" to do so. Here's what Tim LaHaye, of Left Behind fame, has to say about The Light and the Glory: "[It]reveals our true national heritage and inspires us to stay on God's course as a nation."

The fact that Sunday's "discussion" focused on that book made it very hard for me to adopt my normal strategy for dealing with politics at church (smiling and nodding until they stop talking at me).

Homeschooling Dad: So, have you read The Light and the Glory?

Me (desperately wanting the answer to be different): Well, yeah.

HD: Boy, isn't it great to see how God's finger is in American history all the way through, shaping us into what we've become today?

Me: Hm. It sure is neat that God cares about us.

HD: I really think that's what's wrong with our society, ever since the '60s when they started taking all of that stuff out of schools. That's why we're so evil as a nation today.

Me: Hm.

HD: So, what did you think about the book?

Here's where I'm faced with a dilemma. I know that telling him what I really think of the book has the potential to generate a whole lot of heat and not much light. But, quite frankly, it's not a very good piece of historical writing.

For one thing, the authors constantly and insidiously insert their own ideology into their narrative of events. I know that any scholar will be biased in her account of a particular event, but she should at least make an effort to discuss those biases and try to minimize them, if history is to be told in any kind of objective way.

For another thing, the sources they use are frequently a.) taken out of context, b.) extremely biased toward the Puritan view of American history, and c.) gauges of individual convictions rather than historical events.

On top of that, the authors' proposed solution to what they see as a biased, secularized American history is a polar opposite that only serves to reinforce a problematic binary. Ultimately, I decide to err on the side of not laying the issue down quietly.

Me: I didn't really like it, actually.

HD: Really?! Why not?

Me: It doesn't seem to be very balanced, for one thing.

HD: Well, after 40 years of imbalance, isn't it about time that we had our say?

Me: But I don't think the answer is to create an oppositely biased account. That's like letting the other side define you.

HD: Oh, so you just disagree with the approach they take to fix the problem?

Me (frustrated): Sure.

Marshwiggle: OK, time to start Sunday school, everyone. Let's open in prayer for Luaphacim's liberal soul.


No, I did not make that last part up.

Tee hee. I love that Marshwiggle guy. :-)

Actual Conversation With Mrs. L.

Guy on a skateboard rolls past Luaphacim and and Mrs. Luaphacim as they walk up the hill to school.

Luaphacim: That hippy needs to stop gallivanting around on his skateboard and get a job.

Mrs. Luaphacim: But maybe he's on his WAY to his job.

Luaphacim: Well, it's not a very responsible mode of transportation! What happens if one of those wheels comes off? Then where will he be? A hippy on a worthless, three-wheeled skateboard. A three-wheeled hippy.

A long pause, punctuated by the sounds of Luaphacim panting as the hill gets steeper.

Luaphacim: I mean, even those new-fangled roller skates would be better.

Mrs. Luaphacim rolls her eyes.

Luaphacim: No, really. Because if one of the wheels came off, he could just go on one foot. It's easy, I see 'em do it all the time.

Another long pause.

Luaphacim: I mean, even those in-line skates that all those young punks wear would be more responsible. Because that way if you lose one, you've got a whole row of extras. You probably wouldn't even notice you were missing one. Yep. That'd be the way to go. Mmhmm.

Mrs. Luaphacim: You're so weird.

Wonderful News!

New dollar coins with president heads! w00t! Here's the schedule for the first year (2007):

* George Washington - February 16
* John Adams - May 18
* Thomas Jefferson - August 17
* James Madison - November 16

I can't wait for Taft! By my calculations, he will arrive in fall 2014... which is kind of a bummer. I WANT HIM NOW

This is Why I Don't Self-Identify as 'Evangelical'

Note from the LuapHacim, 11/14/2012: The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect my current beliefs and convictions. Even if they do, I would almost certainly express them in different words today. Time changes people, and I am not exempt. Nonetheless, because of its historical value, I will not modify or remove this post. It tells you (and me) something important about where I've been. Read on at your own peril.

Interesting story in the New York Times this morning:

Many conservative Christians say they believe that the president’s support for Israel fulfills a biblical injunction to protect the Jewish state, which some of them think will play a pivotal role in the second coming.

The story does a better job of capturing the issue's complexity than I could do here, but I do have a few thoughts and responses to add.

First of all, I find it sad that modern American Christianity has been hijacked by a nineteenth-century eschatological construct: namely, the idea of a "rapture" that is somehow separate from the return of Christ to judge the world. The construction of elaborate timelines and pseudo-scientific accounts of "The End Times," as this camp describes the age in which we live, is a hallmark of this movement. You can see examples of proponents' handiwork everywhere, from Bible commentaries to the New York Times best-seller list. Tim LaHaye and Jerry. B. Jenkins of Left Behind fame are perhaps the most prominent pop-theologians for this brand of theology.

The most disturbing part of the phenomenon, for me, is that these folks take prophetic accounts and literalize them in order to establish an account that artificially imposes human ways of understanding over the power of God. Ultimately, this insistence on human ways and methods is what is wrong with the Evangelical movement's support of Israel, as well.

Evangelical support of Israel springs directly from the writings of people who hold this Rapture/Tribulation/Second Coming view of eschatology. Their logic is that, since the Biblical book of Revelation talks about the existence of a Jewish people (which they conflate with the modern nation-state) in the "Last Days," the existence of a nation-state comprised of Jews must be necessary in order for the prophecies to be fulfilled. They further assume that it is the United States' role to ensure the prosperity of said state.

Secondly, in their blind support of "Israel," Evangelicals ignore the misdeeds of the Jewish state and its officials. Israeli leaders have been responsible for many civilian casualties, and they have resisted sensible plans to allow the Palestinians a home for the past 60 years. Their resistance has embittered and hardened the Palestinian people to an enormous extent -- perhaps to the point of making a lasting peace impossible.

Third, and perhaps most importantly, it is not the role of Christians to ensure that God's plans succeed. He has no need of our pitiful political machinations. If He wants to use the modern nation state of Israel as a vehicle to fulfil prophecies, that's His prerogative. What we should not -- indeed, must not -- do is to impose our own notions of "the End Times" over God's plan. We should focus on doing what Christ commanded: loving the Lord with all that we have and are, and loving others more than we do ourselves. If God wants to do things in Israel, I bet He can take care of that without our think-tanks and pro-Israel rallies and careful plans for bringing about the Second Coming.

Bibliophilia

I was walking along a downtown storefront last week when I felt an old, familiar urge. Through the window of a second-hand bookshop, I saw a lovely leatherbound edition of Plato's Republic, one of my old favorites. Against my will, I found my steps drifting from my intended path and through the creaky old front door of the shop.

In the soft light of floorlamps and one old chandelier, the shelves around me beckoned with the siren-song of good books to be had at a discounted price. My soul yearned to go through the store, to select baskets and bags full of books, to buy everything that looked even remotely enlightening, and then dive into that stack of musty old books, never to resurface. Even the smells of the place were seductive: catnip and cinnamon-scented candles and old paper all blended together and finished off with a hint of freshly baked pizza from next door.

It was too much for me; I was compelled to go to the nearest shelf and begin browsing through the well-worn treasures there.

A hard-bound copy of Isaac Asimov's Foudation Trilogy in a tattered dustjacket was the first volume to catch my eye. It reminded me of my twelfth summer, when I read every piece of short fiction Asimov had ever written. I traced the words on the spine with a tentative finger, and immediately, the cozy little bookshop faded into nothingness around me.


I am in a bright bedroom with nautically themed wallpaper and dust-motes dancing in the beams of summer sunlight that flow through the room's double windows.

"Son," my father's voice calls, far away.

"Yeah?" I look up, annoyed, from my book.

"We're about to go to the pool. Come on out to the van!"

Normally, I like going swimming with my dad and siblings. The cool embrace of the pool never fails to fill me with joy, and I love the feeling of lying on a beach towel on the concrete pool deck after exhausting myself with swimming.

But, at the moment, psychohistorian Hari Seldon is in the midst of a dilemma that threatens the future of the human race, and he really can't afford for me to stop paying attention to the story at this particular juncture. So, of course, I do what any red-blooded twelve-year-old American lad would do: I lie.

"I'm not feeling too good, Dad. I think I'll just stay here and rest."

"Are you sure?" He sounds a little concerned; I'd better reassure him.

"Yeah, I'm sure. I'll probably be OK by the time you guys get back."

"All right, son. Get some rest."

I don't, of course.


I blinked and looked around. The bookstore was the same as it had been when I had drifted into memories, but the winter sun was lower in the sky outside the front window, and I was about 30 pages into the old, familiar story I had devoured like candy during that summer thirteen years ago. I hadn't even realized I was reading, and at the memory of my deception, I felt my ears get warm and the bottom of my stomach sink. I put the book back and continued down the rows.

I found Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn on the very bottom row of the store's "American Authors" section. It was a well-thumbed paperback edition, but the binding was tight and all the pages seemed intact.

As I flipped through the book to my favorite scene, the one where Huck describes Emmeline Grangerford's morbid art and poetry, I felt the nostalgic tug once more at my elbow. The next moment, I was gone again from the bookshop.


The early evening is muggy, and mosquitoes buzz in whining paths around my head as I sit on the veranda of the rambling, three-story camp building. Overhead, a bug-zapper crackles every once in a while, enveloping over-curious insects in its electric embrace. I am engrossed in the story of the feud between the Grangerfords and the Shepherdsons; I love the way Twain unfolds the saga through the eyes of his naive, morally excellent narrator, Huck Finn.

"Hey, Micah!" I look up to see Pete, one of my good friends. We were on the maintenance crew last week. He looks excited about something.

"Hey, Pete. What's up?"

"Some of the guys are going out back to play paintball in the Maple Woods. You wanna come?"

I hesitate for a moment. I do enjoy playing wargames with my friends, but Huck has just learned about Harney Shepherdson's elopement with Sophia Grangerford, and I'm right in the middle of the part where the feud bursts out into open warfare.

My sixteen-year-old brain weighs the benefits of paintball against those of reading: adrenaline versus art, struggle versus sensibility, interaction versus intellect. After a careful moment of consideration, I make my decision.

"I'm really kind of tired, Pete. I don't think I'd enjoy it as much tonight. Maybe next weekend."

He looks slightly dampened, but he nods. "OK. That's probably smartest; I don't know how late we'll be out. I guess you'll probably get to sleep before us tonight." He laughs as he turns to leave.

I laugh, too, but not for the same reason.


I came to myself in the bookstore, my finger in the middle of Huckleberry Finn and my eyes staring off into the distance outside the window. I found myself wishing I had gone with my friends that night; "next weekend" had never come.

The sun was almost down now, and I had to stop by the grocery store for a gallon of milk on my way home; I knew I really ought to leave. I sighed and carefully slid the book back into its gap on the bottom shelf.

As I made my way toward the door, I noticed that the book that had lured me inside had somehow been knocked over in its display. I had every intention of simply setting it back up and then leaving the store -- it was getting late -- but something compelled me to handle it a little more than necessary in the process. I flipped through it, smelled the old, worn leather, and felt the pages brush against my fingertips.

I felt myself being transported away again, but this time I knew what was happening. I could simply set the book down, open the door, and step out into the chill of the winter's night. I could be on my way to the grocery store, and then home to my wife.

I could have resisted the pull, but I didn't.


My eyes are bloodshot, my muscles ache from sitting in the same position for hours on end, and my brain is weary. I have a philosophy paper due in eleven hours, and it's nowhere near done yet. If I want any sleep, I need to complete this thing soon.

The good part is that the paper is about Plato's Republic, a work for which I have developed quite an affinity. I love his ideas about reality; they seem to fit well with my own observations of the world and the futility of human actions.

I am in the middle of typing a wonderful sentence about Plato's shadows on the wall of the cave when an instant message window pops up on my laptop's screen. It's from Mike, one of my old camp friends.

"hey," it says, "we're playign ultimate 2nite. u wanna play? :)"

I consider it. I really enjoy ultimate Frisbee, and I've been working for a long time, but I'm fascinated by Plato's conception of reality.

"No," I type back. "I'm sort of busy. I have a paper due tomorrow."

"weenie. i have a paper too, but u dont see me studying. just come out for like 30 min."

"Well... I don't know, Mike. I really feel nervous about it."

"it'll do you good to slack off, you never takea break. i guarentee my paper is longer than yours anyway."

Plato calls me from the dogeared book in my hands, but I do have a good start on my paper, and my brain is really tired. Amazingly, the call of Frisbee begins to drown out the call of the book. I do a mental double-take; I'm not sure I've ever experienced this feeling before in my twenty years of life.

"OK, Mike," I type. "Where are you guys playing?"

"on the quad like normal. its right behind the library, so i expect to see you out there by the time i get there from my dorm."

"You got it, buddy."

As I shut down my computer and pack my books, my body vibrates with tension. Part of me -- a really big part -- wants to reboot the computer, sign on to Messenger, and tell Mike that I can't play after all. But another part -- maybe the part that hasn't fully bought into Plato's idea of the Real, which can only be attained by philosophers -- tells me to keep packing my academic life away, to go out to the Quad and play Frisbee with my whole heart.

And I do.


On the drive through the wintry night toward the grocery store, I contemplated the memory of that evening when I first realized I could say no to the books. It was a refreshing revelation; it freed my mind and body from chains that I never realized I had been wearing. It was my first step in a journey toward a more balanced existence, one in which I recognized that socialization and physical activity were, in some ways, even more necessary than mental activity.

I smiled and patted the leatherbound Republic on the seat next to me. I would have to reread it sometime -- but not tonight.

Life Pauses

Every once in a while, in the middle of a hailstorm, there's a moment of calm when the frozen spheres of ice stop pelting the wet earth. Then, a heartbeat later, the hailstones start up again, harder and faster, and leave your brand new hybrid SUV with a fresh coat of pockmarks.

Occasionally, when a horde of gibbering barbarians are ripping you limb from limb, a butterfly lands on your nose, forcing a brief hiatus in the carnage as you all admire its delicate gracefulness. It only lasts a moment, however, and soon enough, you find yourself adding a delicately musky flavor to several dozen pots of nutritious broth.

Very infrequently -- in fact, so infrequently as to be almost unheard of -- the Internet has a moment of universal lag. All over the world, illegal music downloads stand still, a million Counterstrike players curse simultaneously, and the rerun of Wolf Blitzer's talking head comes to a jerky halt. It only lasts a microsecond, and then the seekers of immorality, frivolity, and futility can resume their lives.

Sometimes, even the sea itself stops its motion and simply lies there, full and unwanting, self-reliant, at perfect peace.

These moments are necessary because they give the universe a chance to recalibrate. Anubis tares his scale against Ma'at's feather; Loki, in his raven form, has a delicious snack of birdseed; Lazarus asks Abraham for one last drink before shuffling back to the mortal coil.

Ultimately, though, even the sea must return to action, as Matthew Arnold wrote:

Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

But just before that note of sadness, there is a heavenly caesura whose soundless resonance cannot be overwhelmed by the sea's despairing, eternal cadence.

Obscured, yes.

Extinguished, never.

After Apple-Picking

The weather was frosty this morning, so I thought I'd post some Frost-y poetry. :-)


After-Apple Picking
Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

This is Me Not Rejoicing in My Enemy's Calamity

Note from the LuapHacim, 11/14/2012: The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect my current beliefs and convictions. Even if they do, I would almost certainly express them in different words today. Time changes people, and I am not exempt. Nonetheless, because of its historical value, I will not modify or remove this post. It tells you (and me) something important about where I've been. Read on at your own peril.

This brief was in USA Today this morning.

Let's all pray for her. And certainly not exult in her potential downfall.

Coulter may face charge of voter fraud

Conservative columnist Ann Coulter has refused to cooperate in an investigation into whether she voted in the wrong Florida precinct and may be prosecuted for voter fraud, Palm Beach County Elections Supervisor Arthur Anderson said. He said that his office has been looking into the matter since the Feb. 7 Palm Beach Town Council election and that he would turn over the case to the state attorney's office by Friday.

Knowingly voting in the wrong precinct is a felony. Anderson, a Democrat, said a letter was sent to Coulter on March 27 requesting that she clarify her address for the voting records “or face the possibility of her voter registration being rescinded.” She and her lawyer have yet to respond to several inquiries, he said.

Progress on the Immigration Project

The more I go through Minuteman documents and communications, the more I realize that I didn't understand a few important things about their movement:

1.) Its rhetorical complexity
These are not just xenophobic people wanting to keep the other out of their nation; they draw lines between legal (authorized) movement into the country and illegal movement. Nonetheless, their ways of thinking about what it means to be "authorized" are sometimes extremely offensive -- English-only policies, for instance. They wish to maintain their sociocultural hegemony by ensuring that all legal immigrants are "integrated" into our society, and I have a problem with that. That, however, is beyond the scope of this semester's paper.

2.) Its (often shockingly) deep roots in U.S. history -- albeit a very mythologized, ideologically colored version of that history
The Minutemen, as their name implies, seem to envision themselves as the intellectual and ideological descendants of the ragtag group of militia who were ready to fight "on a minute's notice" in the Revolutionary War against King George. From that, their use of military language and ideas readily follows. Interestingly, the modern-day Minutemen seem more interested in maintaining the establishment (as defined by law) than in doing anything really revolutionary. They do, however, see themselves as opposing the Congressional establishment in some very interesting ways.

3.) Its use of military metaphors without necessarily viewing individual immigrants as enemy combatants
The use of "invasion" and "battle line" terminology is extremely frequent in this particular discourse... what's really, interesting, though, is that several of the ground-level folks in the movement go out of their way to paint the picture of individual immigrants as idealistic, hopeful people rather than as enemy troops. The real villain seems, in many ways, to be the politicians south of the U.S. border -- Minutemen have a perception that the politicians are corrupt and unwilling to "fix" their national problems.

The metaphors that seem most common so far are these:

THE BORDER IS A BATTLE LINE

ILLEGAL IMMIGRATION IS A FACELESS FORCE

ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS ARE OBJECTS (as opposed to subjects) BEING MOVED BY LARGER FORCES

A BORDER SHOULD BE AN IMPERMEABLE LINE OF SEPARATION WITH SPECIFIC CONDUITS

A SEALED BORDER IS A DREAM THAT SEEMS UNATTAINABLE BUT ISN'T

A SEALED BORDER IS A REVOLUTION

I'm trying to arrive at some overarching conclusion as to what big structural metaphors shape this whole debate, but I don't have any solid, final answers yet.

Faith That Works

Note from the LuapHacim, 11/14/2012: The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect my current beliefs and convictions. Even if they do, I would almost certainly express them in different words today. Time changes people, and I am not exempt. Nonetheless, because of its historical value, I will not modify or remove this post. It tells you (and me) something important about where I've been. Read on at your own peril.

The problem so many people identify with religion in general -- and Western Christianity in particular -- is that it doesn't really do anything. Churches are just as corrupt as any other organization -- or, if you live in Kansas, where the churches give money to the state attorney general's for-profit organization, maybe even more corrupt.

That's why it's so refreshing to see Ugandan Christians actually acting like Christians. They're forgiving those who terrorized their villages, accepting them back and facilitating reconciliation.

The church in the West could learn a lot about Jesus from these folks.

Uh-Oh.

Note from the LuapHacim, 11/14/2012: The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect my current beliefs and convictions. Even if they do, I would almost certainly express them in different words today. Time changes people, and I am not exempt. Nonetheless, because of its historical value, I will not modify or remove this post. It tells you (and me) something important about where I've been. Read on at your own peril.

Kind of scary story from the New York Daily News today. Apparently, talking on the phone can have an extremely adverse effect on sperm count and quality. Since Mrs. Luaphacim wants to have babies sometime, this probably means I should limit my hours of gabbing with people like Spartacus, EB, and, ironically, even Mrs. L herself! :-(

Or I could ignore the media-created freakout session based on a study with somewhat questionable methodology. But no, that would be foolish.

What Musician am I?

Which Musical Artist Are You?

this quiz was made by Selena


I know; I was surprised, too.

My Seminar Project

I'm pretty excited about the project I'm doing in my metaphor theory seminar. I'm examining metaphors in Minuteman rhetoric (the anti-immigration people, not the UMass mascots). It's been pretty fun so far, but I've got a long way to go.

Progress:

I've collected stuff from five different categories:

-Minuteman blogs and forums
-Minuteman official communications (operations manual, Web site, etc.)
-News stories (including press releases and some stuff from right-wing pubs as well as the MSM)
-Speeches, statements, and so forth from lawmakers associated with the Minutemen
-Text of immigration legislation

My hypothesis is that the Minutemen, a very vocal minority, have had an enormous effect on the kinds of rhetoric used to talk about -- and legislate about -- immigration. That's why I'm looking at the legislation; I think it will have many of the same conceptual metaphors that the Minutemen routinely use to frame the debate.

I know there are some holes in my approach, but I'm patching them, I think... We'll have to see.

My new semester

It's funny how, even though the semester isn't even half over, all the grad students in the department go wild to see the new course list for the spring. I mentioned to a couple of people that it was online, and they promptly trampled me like wildebeest in heat in an effort to get to their computers. Crazy.

My semester is looking pretty sweet:

MWF 3-3:50 -- Beowulf. The original text, suckaz. (Ic sprece ealda Englisc.)
TR 9:30-10:45 -- Linguistics and Second Language Acquisition. And I'm wagering it's every bit as good as it sounds. :-)

MWF 1-1:50 -- Teaching a class on sci-fi, robots, and mechanical monsters. I think it's safe to say I'm about to meddle in God's domain and then reap the horrifying consequences.

MWF ??? -- Boring ol' 102. Boo.

New Direction

I've decided that politics are bad for my blood pressure, so I'm going to take this blog in a different direction. I've been reading (or I'm supposed to have been reading, I guess, if you want to know the truth) a lot of theory lately, and my Master's exam is coming up, so this is now going to be my place to comment on that stuff, as well as to play with some other school-related projects. Sorry if you were looking forward to more of my white-hot liberal agenda; I'm all out.

So there ya go.

On Moral Superiority

Interesting piece in the New York Post today about the U.S.'s refusal to bomb Taliban members who were gathered at a cemetery (in accordance with established rules of engagement. Apparently, the decision has led to a lot of outrage from people connected to the 9/11 attacks:

Lt. Robert Jackson, of Engine 54/Ladder 4 in Midtown - which lost 15 men at the WTC - noted that the Taliban don't play by the same rules as the American military, which said its higher ethical and moral standards prevented it from attacking the terrorists while they were gathered in a cemetery.

"The terrorists would not have held back," Jackson fumed.

"These guys are terrorist cowards. They hide behind women, they hide in schools. But we're not. We're the United States of America."

What Jackson doesn't see is that because we're America, we must hold ourselves to a higher standard. If we want to convince the world that we're any better than a vicious group of people willing to use any means to achieve their ends, then it is essential that they see our commitment to things like fair play and respect for human life.

The cemetery rules of engagement are there for a very important reason -- to allow our foes what they deny us: human dignity. Only in keeping the moral high ground will we make any headway in this nebulous "war" we've gotten into.

Why, Captain Obvious, How Nice To See You Again So Soon!

New York Times: In Unpredictable District, Some Say Bush Is Politicizing Terrorism. No, you think?

On a related note, the evangelical they interview in the story is refreshingly suspicious Bush's lie-filled rhetoric: “The whole thing about W.M.D. and that Iraq is somehow tied to 9/11, I just don’t believe it.” So maybe there is hope for the redemption of American Evangelicalism, after all?

Thank You, Captain Obvious

Obvious AP headline of the day: Senate Finds No al-Qaida-Saddam Link. This is what I've been trying to tell you people for the past five years.

File this under 'Headlines luaphacim Can't Resist'

Cannibal teacher may have had fourth victim

Seriously, isn't that irresistible? You clicked on it, didn't you? Go on, admit it.

This tickles my funny bone :-)

Note from the LuapHacim, 11/14/2012: The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect my current beliefs and convictions. Even if they do, I would almost certainly express them in different words today. Time changes people, and I am not exempt. Nonetheless, because of its historical value, I will not modify or remove this post. It tells you (and me) something important about where I've been. Read on at your own peril.

Sorry for the long absence; life has gotten in the way.

This makes me smile:

[Iranian president] Mahmoud Ahmadinejad shrugged off tomorrow's U.N.-imposed deadline for Iran to halt its nuclear program and said he and Bush should take their dispute to the airwaves.

"I suggest holding a live TV debate with Mr. George W. Bush to talk about world affairs and the ways to solve those issues," he said in a rare press conference in Tehran. "The debate should be uncensored, in order for the American people to be able to listen to what we say, and they should not restrict the American people from hearing the truth."

Isn't that the best idea evar? The world's two least sane leaders in the same place, at the same time, talking at one another about the same topic.

One wonders if Bush's non sequiturs and rhetorical missteps would be able to hobble Ahmadinejad's twisted, outrageous, brilliant insanity. Either way, I'd watch it.

Megachurches: Shearing the Sheep

The Associated Press has the story:

Billions of dollars have been stolen in religion-related fraud in recent years, according to the North American Securities Administrators Association, a group of state officials who work to protect investors.

Between 1984 and 1989, about $450 million was stolen in religion-related scams, the association says. In its latest count — from 1998 to 2001 — the toll had risen to $2 billion. Rip-offs have only become more common since. ...

Lambert Vander Tuig, a member of Saddleback Church in Lake Forest, Calif., ran a real estate scam that bilked investors out of $50 million, the Securities and Exchange Commission says. His salesmen presented themselves as faithful Christians and distributed copies of The Purpose Driven Life, by Saddleback pastor Rick Warren, according to the SEC. Warren and his church had no knowledge of Vander Tuig's activities, says the SEC.

I have long been suspicious of megachurches like Saddleback, and this is a perfect example of the potential problems with such organizations.

Where the naive observer sees a big group of people who all love God and come together to serve Him, scammers see just another big group of suckers. When the Body grows beyond a small, closely knit group into a vast, unwieldy organization that, like Soylent Green, is MADE OF PEOPLE, it has the potential to become a great big sitting target that does little to glorfiy God and much to glorify the Organization itself.

More disturbing, perhaps, is the fact that conmen can have such wild success among those who self-identify as Christians. Imagine what $2 billion could do for the poor in the Third World, or even in New Orleans's Ninth Ward. Imagine what it could do to spread Christ's message of love in the U.S. Heck, imagine how many little communion cups of grape juice it could buy.

So why are these "Christian" businesspeople sinking money into get-rich-quick schemes? How does the pursuit of mammon suddenly trump God's commands for how Christians ought to use their resources?

The scammers use a pretty impressive line with megachurch members. They depend on the "prosperity theology" of people like Benny Hinn and Robert Tilton, along with their gross misreadings of the Bible, to justify this pursuit of money. "Claiming" verses like "Seek first the kingdom of God and all these [material] things shall be added unto you," the predators set up an imaginary world where God's will for His followers is that they be rich, have an olympic-sized pool, drive a Mercedes. And the key to this dreamworld is investing in a real-estate deal, a Ponzi scheme, a promising "Christian" business.

Once again, as with the misguided political machniations of the Religious Right, this is a case of Christians losing sight of the Biblical imperative that Christ's kingdom is not to be of this world. They forget that this world is not the true home of those who place their faith in Christ; our hope lies beyond, and all the material goods we accumulate here will go through the fire and come out on the other side as ashes.

Only through genuine sacrifice and a willingness to surrender all to the God who saved them can Christians experience true success. And that has nothing to do with getting rich in this life.

Cal Thomas's Problematic Commentary

Note from the LuapHacim, 11/14/2012: The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect my current beliefs and convictions. Even if they do, I would almost certainly express them in different words today. Time changes people, and I am not exempt. Nonetheless, because of its historical value, I will not modify or remove this post. It tells you (and me) something important about where I've been. Read on at your own peril.

In today's Washington Times, Cal Thomas has a column that makes some very dangerous assumptions about U.S. foreign policy. Here's an excerpt:

During World War II, U.S. and German forces fought the battle of Hurtgen Forest. It began Sept. 19, 1944 and ended Feb. 10, 1945. That was one battle in a strategically insignificant corridor of barely 50 square miles east of the Belgium-Germany border. The Germans inflicted more than 24,000 casualties on American forces, while another 9,000 Americans were sidelined due to illness, fatigue and friendly fire. Had live TV beamed this battle to America, there might have been an outcry that the policy was failing and somehow a cease-fire and an accommodation with Hitler should be achieved.
America won that war because the objective wasn't to understand the Nazis, or to reach an accommodation with them; the objective was to win the war. Anything less in this war — against an equally evil and unrelenting enemy — will mean defeat for the United States and for freedom everywhere. That's what Mr. Rumsfeld was getting at when he said, "We can persevere in Iraq or we can withdraw prematurely, until they force us to make a stand nearer home. But make no mistake: They are not going to give up, whether we acquiesce in their immediate demands or not."
Rumsfeld is right.

Thomas here is using the "terrorists are evil like Nazis" rhetorical thread that has become so wildly popular with conservatives during the past five or so years. And on the face of it, the comparison makes sense: both groups are hateful and use vile tactics to accomplish their purposes. But the comparison falls apart if you look at it closely enough: The Nazis had a government; the terrorists have none. The Nazis had a capital and land and clearly delineated allegiances; the terrorists, once again, have none of the above. In its war against the Axis, the United States had specific, well defined criteria for defeating the Nazis. We have none for the conflict in Iraq.

This brings me to my next beef with Thomas's argument: he unquestioningly accepts Rumsfeld's claim that the U.S. occupation of Iraq is somehow connected to that ephemeral creature, the "War on Terror." Moreover, it would appear from Rumsfeld's and Thomas's arguments that, if we pull our (raping, killing) troops out of Iraq, the Iraqis will somehow come out of their country and attack our Freedom. Or something. It's vague.

So, according to this neat rhetorical construct, we have no choice but to continue on in a conflict that has no clearly defined goals or benchmarks for success.

It's like we're stuck in a fight against Nazis, but in this fight, the Nazis are zombies who just keep coming back to life. So it's really like an eternal Nazi zombie fight. Or something. It's vague.

Finally, a Thinking Evangelical!

Sorry about the hiatus; I was at Bible camp all week. Trying to get back into the swing of things now...

The Christian Science Monitor has an interesting review of historian Randall Balmer's new book, Thy Kingdom Come: An Evangelical's Lament. An excerpt:

"[R]ight-wing zealots have distorted the gospel of Jesus Christ, defaulted on the noble legacy of 19th-century evangelical activism, and failed to appreciate the genius of the First Amendment," he says. What the Religious Right hankers for is "the kind of homogeneous theocracy that the Puritans tried to establish."

It's really interesting how those who have taken the time to study the actual history of the Evangelical movement in America are the ones who are the most puzzled about where we're going, politically and socially.

What happened to the freedom of conscience espoused by early leaders like Roger Williams? What happened to the individual's decision to follow God or the World? They've been lost in the rhetoric of "reclaiming America for God," which is a very dangerous notion, to my way of thinking.

The Fifth Commandment Strikes Back

Interesting story in the Wall Street Journal today about immigration and caretakers of the elderly:

Immigrants, whether legal or undocumented, make up a disproportionate share of those who care for the elderly -- and the need for such workers is set to explode in the coming years.

If you know me, you know I hate to pretend the existence of some prior Golden Age of something or other. I prefer to critically identify each era's strengths and weaknesses, so I'm not going to pretend that this is a purely modern problem.

Nonetheless, I wish modern America was better at honoring our parents. All too often, we move out of the house at 18, accept expensive weddings,gifts, and whatever else we can get out of Mom and Dad, and then shuttle them off to the nursing home (and conveniently forget to visit) when it becomes something of a challenge to care for them.

Certainly, there are people who are better off in assisted lilving situations, and most of us do have economic opportunities that would be severely limited if we became our own parents' caretakers. But I wonder if we'd be better off sacrficing a little bit of financial gain for ensuring our parents comfortable, enjoyable final years in our own care.

Maybe, if the flow of immigrants is stemmed, we will be forced to consider more options besides nursing homes? And perhaps we will see we should have been doing so all the time?

On Taking the Moral High Ground

Columnist John Podhoretz asks an interesting question in a New York Post op-ed:

What if the tactical mistake we made in Iraq was that we didn't kill enough Sunnis in the early going to intimidate them and make them so afraid of us they would go along with anything? Wasn't the survival of Sunni men between the ages of 15 and 35 the reason there was an insurgency and the basic cause of the sectarian violence now?

He goes on to imply that Israel should wage all-out war against Lebanese civilians in an effort to stamp out Hezbollah. In other words, he argues that Israel's best strategy is to ruthlessly victimize a largely innocent populace in order to eliminate a terrorist organization.

Podhoretz obviously believes he's being edgy and thinking outside the box here. He goes so far as to compare Israel's invasion of Lebanon with the firebombing of Dresden and the United States' nuking of Japan. But his argument is deeply flawed for at least three reasons:

1.) Hezbollah is not a universally supported, state-sponsored regime. It is, rather, a subgroup of the nation, and to punish every person in Lebanon for Hezbollah's actions is morally repugnant because it implies that every Lebanese citizen is complicit in the terrorist actions of a few.

2.) The U.S. and Britain were not necessarily in the right in their massive attacks on civilian populations. At the very least, there is a school of thought that says our second nuclear bombing of Japan -- specifically, Nagasaki -- was for the benefit of gaining face with Russia rather than for bringing a quick and less painful end to the war.

3.) The West -- and nations that we support -- must refrain from using massive strikes on innocent people as a strategy in any fight against terrorist organizations. For one thing, it is counterproductive, since it is more likely to increase resistance than to eliminate it. But for another, slaughtering civilian populations in order to get rid of opposition is a terrorist tactic. If we surrender our moral high ground by stooping to our enemies' level, we are in effect reinforcing their view of the world rather than proposing an alternative.

Today's Wrong-Headed Opinion Pieces

Note from the LuapHacim, 11/14/2012: The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect my current beliefs and convictions. Even if they do, I would almost certainly express them in different words today. Time changes people, and I am not exempt. Nonetheless, because of its historical value, I will not modify or remove this post. It tells you (and me) something important about where I've been. Read on at your own peril.

First up, a New York Post editorial on the middle eastern conflict:

Israel must be allowed to do the work envisioned by U.N. Resolution 1559 - which calls for the disarming of Hezbollah in southern Lebanon.

This will not only eliminate a threat to Israel (and punish a group that has slaughtered Americans, too); it will also help rein in Syria, and its patron, Iran.

And that is in America's interest.

Israel will likely take significant casualties. And that's a tragedy. But the Israeli Defense Force is serving a vital cause. If it's successful, peace in the Middle East will be that much closer.

This is just one example of the institutionalized pro-Israel stance that permeates the American media and political environment. We get the idea that, because Israel has more international clout and had its statehood established by the U.N., it is somehow more valid or acceptable than other nations (that are not also sanctioned nation-states).

The net result of this institutionalized bias is a binarized rhetoric that villifies all anti-Israeli groups and casts Israel as a stalwart hero. It also allows us to overlook things like this:

The United Nations' emergency relief co-ordinator, Jan Egeland said that neither Hizbullah or Israeli seemed to care about civilian suffering. He said that one third of those killed or wounded have been children, and that it has been difficult to reach the wounded in Lebanon because road and bridges had been cut by Israeli air strikes.

The U.N. has indicated that both countries could face war crimes charges. Where's your moral high ground now, Moses?

The second opinion piece I'd like to look at is an op-ed by Sol Stern, who laments the "problem" of social justice education. He writes,

The root of the problem is "social justice" education. It starts in teacher preparation programs, where rigorous training in math, science and literacy takes a backseat to theories about victimization and inequality. Teachers-to-be are told that conventional instruction is an outgrowth of capitalist oppression; "true" education helps students see the unfairness all around them and challenge society to change.

He goes on to assault Freirian pedagogy and schools' attempts to change society by focusing on social problems. He saves a special vial of wrath for the Bronx's Leadership Institute, where:

When I visited recently, it was already clear that the idea of democratic empowerment for the students was subverting any hope for a rigorous education. Kids wore ghetto garb, chewed gum, and drank soda in class.

 It is interesting that these three things (none of which have a lot to do with pedagogical devices or the value of skills or knowledge acquired) are taken as a sure sign of corruption in the academic environment.

The problem here is that Stern is so wedded to a phallic academic hegemony that he is incapable of even considering alternatives to his monolithic ideal. Why, for instance, shouldn't kids drink soda or chew gum in class? It happens in the university classroom, and no one bats an eye. More troubling is his assumption that "ghetto garb" creates an environment that is inherently problematic for learning. He racializes the pursuit of knowledge and, in doing so, betrays the fact that his assumed academic environment is one that conveniently ignores the existence of a world outside the classroom.

Stern concludes,

Social justice teaching is a frivolous waste of precious school hours, especially for poor children, who start out with a disadvantage. School is the only place where they are likely to obtain the academic knowledge that could make up for the educational deprivation they suffer in their homes. The last thing they need is a wild-eyed experiment in education through social action.

Embedded in this paragraph is a rat's nest of problematic assumptions, many of which are contradictory. I don't especially want to deconstruct the whole thing, so let me just highlight the most glaring assumptions here:

• Poor children are "disadvantaged," "deprived" of education and therefore should be taught "the fundamentals" -- this is a generalization that again privileges the white, middle-class existence
• Poor children are the only ones who teachers are trying to help through these programs of social education -- This helps to create a dichotomy of the unmarked us vs. Them (those poor, benighted, disadvantaged masses), as well as a dichotomy between the unmarked teachers (those who buy into bourgeois conceptions of education) and Them, the hapless and incapable group that uses Marxist theory in a vain attempt to better people's lives
• We need to help the Disadvantaged by teaching them how to try to compete in a system in which they are inherently disadvantaged
• Attempting to make systemic changes in order to level the social playing field is frivolous
• Radicals who act on their convictions are "wild-eyed" ideologues who make oppression worse despite their best efforts to the contrary

Urgh.

Why Aren't People Upset About This?

I don't know about everyone else, but I'm extremely frustrated by bureaucracy -- particularly when that bureaucracy is part of a "reform." Case in point: Medicare. According to Government Executive, Medicare contributed to this monstrosity:

The national paperwork workload increased by 5.5 percent in fiscal 2005 over the previous year to reach about 8.4 billion hours, according to a new Office of Management and Budget report.

Come on, people. This is the 21st century! Use some dadgum computers. This is yet another symptom of a hugely bloated system that continues to get bigger and bigger. The source of the bloating is pretty simple -- each new federal office implements a huge number of new forms and paperwork (ostensibly necessary in order for it to do its job), and then it can never be eliminated, because then who would issue and process that paperwork?

Ick.

Once More, Scary News That Surprises No One

Note from the LuapHacim, 11/14/2012: The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect my current beliefs and convictions. Even if they do, I would almost certainly express them in different words today. Time changes people, and I am not exempt. Nonetheless, because of its historical value, I will not modify or remove this post. It tells you (and me) something important about where I've been. Read on at your own peril.

Not much of the mainstream media has gotten around to this yet, but it's in progressive rags and homeland security publications, so I bet it'll be in the MSM within a couple of days. Apparently the Homeland Security Department has been collecting information about student anti-war protests in California. What's even worse: they've also been sharing that information with the Pentagon. So not only are you a terrorist if you don't like America's phallic foreign policy, but you're also a potential threat to America's military complex. Wonderful.

In other awful news, there's an ongoing debate in the House about human rights. Rep. Peter King, a New York Republican who I normally can mostly agree with, had this to say in an article from Newsday:

"I prefer we adopt legislation ratifying the president's commissions now. I don't see how you can apply the Geneva Convention to illegal combatants," said King, who is chairman of the Homeland Security Committee. "This is a new type of war. They shouldn't get the same type of rights American soldiers get. As far as the guys at Guantanamo , I say treat them humanely, but wouldn't give them the same rights as Americans."

There's a very disturbing trend in what Rep. King says here. Rather than rethink the president's resolution (which the Supreme Court found to be in conflict with both U.S. and international law), he seems to want to get on board with the problematic plan, even though it shows a troubling disregard for international standards of prisoner treatment.

More troubling still is the underlying assumption here that American troops are somehow superior to enemy combatants simply because they are supported by an "official" government rather than by underground organizations. Essentially, this is saying that "unlawful" troops are less worthy of receiving human rights than U.S. soldiers are.

So much for no more politics. Grr.

Wikipedia on Shelley the Republican

Note from the LuapHacim, 11/14/2012: The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect my current beliefs and convictions. Even if they do, I would almost certainly express them in different words today. Time changes people, and I am not exempt. Nonetheless, because of its historical value, I will not modify or remove this post. It tells you (and me) something important about where I've been. Read on at your own peril.

Hehehe. This is the best wiki EVAR:

[Some] readers believe that the name 'Shelley' might be a nom de plume, or that her purported opinions do not reflect the actual views of the author. When asked if her site is satirical, Shelley insists it is not, as she remarks in "Sign the petition for US citizenship for Christ."

Yes. Clearly not satire. :-)

I'll Take 'Swords' for $500, Trebek

Note from the LuapHacim, 11/14/2012: The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect my current beliefs and convictions. Even if they do, I would almost certainly express them in different words today. Time changes people, and I am not exempt. Nonetheless, because of its historical value, I will not modify or remove this post. It tells you (and me) something important about where I've been. Read on at your own peril.

The New York Post reports that America's Upright and God-Fearing Commander-in-Chief has a potty mouth:

President Bush yesterday vented his frustration with the surging violence in the Mideast during a private chat with British Prime Minister Tony Blair that was picked up by an open microphone - insisting Syria should get Hezbollah to "stop doing this shit."

One wonders to what extent this verbal slip will alienate Bush's "Thank God for Dubya" fan base -- if at all.

Mr. Bush, didn't you know that your scripture commands you to "let no unwholesome word proceed from your mouth"?

I say we impeach this vile-mouthed reprobate; the blessing of God is no longer with him.

I, U.S., Take You, Afghanistan...

Funny headline and serious story in the New York Times today:

[Afghan Prime Minister] Karzai betrayed little nervousness in public, but when asked whether he was asking for additional American troops and assistance to help quell the surge in attacks in the south, he replied: “Yes, much more, and we’ll keep asking for more and we will never stop asking.”

This guy doesn't play it too close to the vest, does he? In all sincerity, isn't this exactly what every legitimate antiwar activist has been saying since before the first day of the United States' ground war in Afghanistan? There is literally no end in sight, people.

We will (and, indeed, are more or less morally obligated to) keep pouring money into this "war on terror." This highlights once more the most significant problem with the Bush administration's foreign policy: there is no exit strategy when you're fighting a vaguely defined ideological concept. It's worse than 'Nam, and I don't make that comaprison lightly.

Meanwhile, a story in the Christian Science Monitor underscores the challenges facing America's increasingly overtaxed armed forces:

Several months ago, before Haditha was a household name synonymous with allegations of murder and misbehavior against US troops, Rep. John Murtha made a provocative statement.

"The tremendous pressure and the redeployment over and over again is a big part of this," the Pennsylvania Democrat said of the incident in a May 17 briefing. "And this strain has caused them to crack in situations like this."

I think Murtha's association of rape and murder allegations with multiple tours of duty is a very keen and accurate one. And there is no light at the end of the tunnel. Heck, I'm not sure it's even a tunnel. It might simply be a pit with no bottom. And America is going deeper and deeper into something we can't really see...

Happy Wednesday anyway, I guess.

Advice to Students

Note from the LuapHacim, 11/14/2012: The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect my current beliefs and convictions. Even if they do, I would almost certainly express them in different words today. Time changes people, and I am not exempt. Nonetheless, because of its historical value, I will not modify or remove this post. It tells you (and me) something important about where I've been. Read on at your own peril.

Thanks for letting me know about your concerns. I'm very sorry to hear about your aunt/grandmother/parakeet/wisdom teeth. Unfortunately, the course policies that you've known about since the beginning of the semester still apply.

Yes, I'm aware that you squandered your free absences earlier this term even though you didn't know that a DISASTER would occur, and I would wager that I am every bit as sad about that as you are. If you had been in class, you might have had some clue about how to write the papers instead of being a lovely millstone pendant that gets disgruntled when its papers don't get A's.

I'm sorry you feel that way about me. If it's any consolation, the feeling is mutual, and I don't get to write nasty, spiteful comments about you at the end of the semester in an effort to reduce your already pitiful merit-based pay raise.

Look on the bright side; at least if you can manage to scrape through college and get that business degree, your starting salary will probably be more than I make in three years at this awful job where I'm supposed to mold you into a competent writer. And I bet it's more rewarding than wrestling with people who are convinced that what you're trying to accomplish is useless, too.

I'm glad we've had this little talk. Please don't hesitate to let me know the next time you totally freak out over something that should never have come as a surprise to you. I'm in this cancer-causing office quite a bit.

On Running

On Running

To begin with, you need to know that I am more or less fat. Make no mistake; I am not the spectacular, Howard Taft sort of fat that requires plumbers to pry my obese body from White House bathtubs. Nor am I the wheezing, Rascal Scooter-riding sort of fat that cannot walk more than a block without experiencing a myocardial infarction. Rather, I am the sort of fat that perspires profusely on steep hills. I am the sort of fat that feels more at home in front of a computer keyboard than on a playing field. In short, I am the sort of fat that does not like to move around very much.

That is why it surprised me so much when my friend and colleague, Jerry, came up to me in the cafeteria of our small mission school near Four Corners one day and asked if I would help him coach the cross-country team. I was initially tempted to ask if he had taken leave of his senses. After all, I never used to run in Kansas, where the hills are few and the climate is normally bearable (if not exactly hospitable). Why, then, would I ever want to chase my students across miles of Reservation scrub brush, down dusty washes and up stone-studded mesas, beneath the relentless Arizona sun?

It only took me about two seconds to decide I was going to refuse, but I stared down at the ugly brown and green institutional tile beneath my feet for several more moments before responding.

“Wow, Jerry, thanks for thinking of me,” I began in what I hoped was a tactful tone. “But, you know, I’ve never been too athletic. Or even interested in athletics. Sprinting drills always made me vomit in junior high.” I pushed my Navajo taco-laden aluminum lunch tray down the cafeteria counter toward the desserts and chuckled as if I were joking. I was not, of course.

Jerry smiled his gentlest smile and helped himself to a heaping pile of spinach leaves and tomatoes. “Boy, this is great stuff,” he said. “You ever eat spinach salad?”

I knew from his smile that he was nowhere close to dropping the cross country question.

He loaded his plate high with fruit and walked with me to an empty table near half a dozen mischievous kindergarteners. “You know, Micah, all during my bus run this morning, I was praying about you.”

My stomach sank. So that’s how it was going to be. “Really, Jerry? Well, thanks! I can use it; my kids have run me ragged today.” Perfect segueway. All I had to do was tell the story about how Shaun had handed in a mostly blank paper for the math quiz this morning, and Jerry would begin his standard lecture about the importance of discipline for junior high boys who have no fathers at home. Unfortunately, before I had a chance to say anything, he raced on with his thought.

“Yeah, I told the Lord all about the situation from the time I finished my bowl of oatmeal until the time I picked up the first set of kids.” He speared an enormous stack of spinach leaves with his fork and stuck them in his mouth. “Do you ever get up early? I love getting up at four o’clock every morning so I can watch the sun come up. It reminds me of how Christ’s light pushes our darkness away as we seek Him.” I decided not to tell him that I hadn’t seen a sunrise in three months.

“Well, it sure does sound nice, Jerry.” The piece of frybread that served as my taco shell had gotten cold and lost some of its crispness, but the meat was good. I wanted seconds. Before I could get up, Jerry had finished chewing his forkful of spinach.

“You might pray about it for a while, Micah. The Lord wants us to take good care of our bodies, and I think maybe running would help you to do that. It’s done wonders for me.”

I decided I could do without another taco. Anyway, my junior high kids were in line for seconds, and they would probably devour whatever had not already been served. Instead, I started on my brownie.

“You’ve heard me talk about my schizophrenic episodes, right?” Jerry asked. I nodded. “Well, they used to be so bad that I couldn’t get to sleep at night. When I found Christ, He began to help me overcome them. For a while, I tried things like prayer and meditation, but they never completely stopped the episodes.” He ate a colossal bite of fruit cocktail. While he chewed, I looked around the cafeteria – we could really use some new paint on the walls. Maybe if I brought that to Jerry’s attention, he’d start talking about being encouraged by the church youth groups that came out to the mission to do work projects every summer. I took a breath to speak, but he had finished his fruit cocktail and gone on.

“After a long time,” Jerry continued, “I decided to start living a more disciplined life. I made lists of what to do and when. That helped.” He looked at me, suddenly more intense than I had ever seen him before – veins were bulging all over his weathered forehead. “But running was what really made the difference. The Lord used it to help me rely on him to overcome those monsters in my head. I was always sanest after a long, exhausting run that sapped my body of strength and made me realize I couldn’t solve my problems under my own power.

“Now,” he concluded, his veins beginning to retreat, “would you at least prayerfully consider it? These kids need something to do after school, and I think you’d benefit from it, too. You could stand to lose a few pounds, and you’d be amazed how much better you’ll feel.” He smiled his gentle smile again and took a swig of apple juice.

I carefully chewed the last bite of brownie while I sorted frantically through excuses. I wasn’t busy after school, I really could use the exercise, and running hadn’t made me vomit in nearly a decade.
Then, in a very soft voice, Jerry drove the final coffin nail: “Micah, if you don’t do it, I’m not sure who else I can ask.”


That afternoon, as I struggled up an impossible trail through a stand of dead mesquite to the top of a sandy wash, I cursed my helpfulness. No amount of good will or virtue should be able to justify such pain. My calves were aflame. An invisible rapier was plunging deep into my side with every step, and I would have been drenched in sweat if I hadn’t already run out of moisture. I wanted nothing more than to stop, turn around, and limp home.

I tried to tell myself it was for the children, but that was hard to do when Shaun was literally running circles around me and taunting me: “What’s the matter, Mr. Micah? Can’t you go any faster than that? I could’ve made it to the mesa and back by now!”

I wanted to reply, “You rotten little monster! I’m only doing this so you won’t hang out with your no-good cousins and piss your life away with drugs and alcohol!” What I did instead was grin and gasp out Navajo puns about my name. (Early in the school year, one of the kindergarteners helpfully informed me that the Navajo word for “fat” was k’ah, which explained why my junior high students laughed every time the class clown, Clint, called me “Mr. My-K’ah.”)

Just as I reached the top of the wash and began to slow down, Jerry came running by. “Keep going, Micah. I know it hurts, but you’ve got to set a good example for the kids. I need you to do this.” Then, before I could protest, he was off to stop Clint from pushing his little brother off the edge of a cliff a hundred yards away.

I kept going, but my body, that hated prison, was beginning to fail me, as it always had done in such ventures. I knew I would not be able to complete the run unless we turned around soon. The loose red dust at my feet felt like hands clutching at me to slow me down, and every once in a while, an errant mesquite bush reached out to imprint itself on my bare legs. The very landscape seemed to be conspiring against me. Then, without warning, another wash loomed ahead of me. Before I had time to think about toiling up the other side, I had plunged down into the dry stream bed. Toward the bottom, I tripped on the root of a tough little pine tree and fell on my face in the sand. Brilliant.

Shaun, my faithful satellite, wouldn’t let me rest even a moment in my ignoble position. “Clint, come here! Mr. Micah fell on his face!” He circled me giddily.

I scrambled to my feet and began a half-hearted lope toward the other side of the wash. “Hey, Shaun,” I managed to gasp out, “Are you going to stand around shouting for Clint all day, or are you going to run?” With that, I attacked the far bank of the wash, which seemed to be steeper than was geometrically possible. Even Shaun seemed to be having trouble with it. Then Clint poked his face over the edge, and the bank got even steeper.

“Hey, Mr. My-K’ah, you’re all red. You look like you’re going to explode. And why do you have so much sand on your face?” Clint was delighted to have such a rich source of comedic material to work with. I was slightly less so.

I slowed down for a moment so I could get enough breath to talk. Then, I said, “Clint, your brother called you a little girl and ran off toward the mesa. I bet you could catch up with him if you wanted.” I breathed a silent apology to God and Clint’s brother and continued up the side of the wash unhampered by mockery from the top.

We finally made it out to the mesa and back. It had only been about ten minutes of running, but as I stretched out in the cool darkness of the school gym afterwards, I decided it had felt more like ten hours. I simply had to find some way out of this nightmare before the next day’s practice. I would corner Jerry in the hallway and tell him simply and firmly that running was not something I could do. I would tell him how painful it was, how it seemed like the least natural activity known to man. I would quote St. Paul’s words to Timothy: “For bodily exercise profiteth little: but godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come” (I Tim. 4:8, KJV). Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew none of this would work, so I also resolved to become violently ill if nothing else availed.


Jerry has a way of convincing you that you really want to do something even if you know in the profoundest depths of your viscera that you truly, inarguably do not want to. That, to make a long story somewhat shorter, is why I was running the same dusty trail under the same blazing sun the next day. Even Shaun was the same, except that his orbit had become somewhat more elliptical. One thing was different: today, every muscle in my body was screaming at me in unutterable anguish. Every jolt of foot against ground sent an exquisite wave of agony through my body. My thighs were tight, my back was tense, my knees ached, and my abdomen felt like a nest of writhing adders. Our pre-run stretches, sit-ups, pushups, and bench presses hadn’t helped; if anything, they made my muscles even less yielding.

The first three minutes of the run held more pain than the entire previous day. I didn’t know how my muscles could function under such duress, and I kept expecting myself to shatter or fold up into an origami crane or something. And, of course, my stomach began to feel queasy as I struggled up the side of the second wash.

Then, about three and a half eternal minutes into the run, my muscles began to relax and move more easily. My body loosened up and started functioning more closely to the way I wanted it to. I found myself able to jump over narrow ditches without wincing in pain upon landing. I discovered I could run down the sides of washes and back up without wanting to scream from the pain. It was miraculous; I wondered if the patron saint of fat men had finally awakened from his long nap and begun interceding for me in Heaven. Of course, I am a Protestant, so that hardly seemed likely. Nevertheless, I was running without pain, and it felt too good to question.

Two minutes later, something even more amazing happened: I found myself wanting to run. Some inexplicable force flooded me, filled me with longing to keep run and never stop. My feet’s impact against the ground suddenly felt good. My muscles were no longer pained. Instead, they felt strong and powerful; they grew mightier with every glorious step.

My mother tells me I ran before I could walk. Apparently, my balance was so bad that I could not keep it long enough to stand in one spot. “You were like a little whirlwind,” she always says with a half-sigh, half-chuckle. Then she gives my shoulder a nostalgic little squeeze and offers me food.

That was what I imagined as I felt that sudden, vital boost surge through my being: My 18-month-old self taking those first hesitant steps, then finding himself unable to stay standing and beginning to fall and moving his legs to keep his balance and going faster and faster until it feels like he is flying. He runs and runs, overjoyed to be doing something besides crawling with his hands and knees on the ground. He is going on his legs like the Big People, and he keeps moving and moving until finally he gets tired or loses his balance or reaches Mommy, and she is proud, and he knows he will do that again – often.

My legs pumped rhythmically, my hands grasped the air in front of me, my feet pounded the red, soft-packed sand of the Arizona high desert, and my body forgot it had ever done anything else. This was what it was made for, this rush of motion and purpose and triumph. Then, less than a minute later, it was gone. I suddenly lost the rush, lost my glory, lost my ability to expand beyond my bounds. But I had tasted it for a short time, and that was how the addiction began.


That winter, I ran four days every week. I ran with my students, with other teachers at the mission, and alone. I ran up rough hills, over rocky mesas, down roads of red sandstone, past windmills and water tanks, and around innumerable goat-pens. I avoided sheepdogs and snakes, raced my own best time, stained every pair of socks I owned with fine, red desert dust, and probably amused a great many Navajo grandparents who wondered why the fat bilagáána from Immanuel Mission was in such a hurry – and what was wrong with the old chítii he normally drove.

My body, which I so often had despised for its weakness, was beginning to change. It was becoming harder, stronger, faster, better. My k’ah melted slowly off of my frame, and as my muscle waxed and my fat waned, I gained new physical abilities. I could leap over ditches and climb up remote canyon trails. I could choose where to move and how fast. Granted, my endurance was limited at first, and I was often forced to reduce my speed to a slow trot, but I could push myself to go farther and faster every day. I did not have to stop until I chose.

I began with short runs: five minutes into the desert and five minutes back. At my beginning speed, that normally meant about three-fourths of a mile. I tried to increase my time by a minute each way every day. I slowly began to range farther and farther from the mission. I ran beyond the mesa, up the bus road toward the Carrizo Mountains, where I encountered ATVs and horseback riders on remote paths. I ran in the other direction, down to Waterfall Canyon, where I met a lonely Vietnam vet named Scuddy Benally and his one-eyed dog, Ashkii. One day, my day of greatest triumph, I ran five miles in 50 minutes. I felt immortal and omnipotent that afternoon as I chased my shadow away from the setting sun, back toward the mission’s front gate.

The runner’s high that I had experienced on my second day of running came and went and eventually became less frequent as my body grew more accustomed to exerting itself. But I no longer needed it to appreciate running; I found myself enjoying the fact that my body was in the best shape it had ever known. I could run two miles without being especially tired afterwards, and I could run five miles without collapsing. I felt stronger and more capable, and sometimes, I even caught occasional glimpses of what Jerry had said about spiritual growth through bodily exercise.


The running didn’t last through the winter. Cross country season had ended, and I had a new Herculean labor to perform for Jerry: Teaching the fundamentals of basketball to sixth-grade girls. It was, I admit, better than coaching Shaun and Clint, but just barely. My free time vanished, so I cut back to two runs per week, then one, then one every once in a while. My lack of time, coupled with the bone-chilling winds of the harsh high desert winter and the physical demands of basketball practice, made my desert runs impractical and seemingly redundant.

My last run of the winter was on a gray November morning when the cruel wind was blowing across the desert, kicking up clouds of red dust. I decided to head once more toward the mesa, but not the close outcropping we had touched on my first desert run; instead, I was going to touch the part of the mesa that I had determined to be about a mile and a half away from the mission’s gate. I started out at a 10-minute-mile pace: relaxed, but still a bit of a challenge.

I followed the bumpy, potholed sandstone road toward the mesa, jumping from one side of the ditch to the other as I encountered obstacles. About five minutes out, I broke off from the roadside trail across the trackless desert floor. My legs were feeling good that morning, so I took a couple of detours that required jumping over holes. I ran down the side of a wash and up the other side faster than I would have thought possible three months before. Then, as I approached the mesa, I saw a longhorn bull roaming near my goal.

The bull gave me pause. On one hand, I wanted very badly to finish the run. On the other hand, the bull did not look happy, and several of his cows were also nearby. I pondered what I would do if the bull charged, and I decided I would not be able to escape it if it did. So, without reaching my objective, I turned around, went home, and showered before school, and that was how I stopped running in the desert.


I stayed in shape through the rest of basketball season, but by softball time, I was content to limit my physical activity to sliding into second. My paunch began to regroup, and I almost welcomed the old familiar feeling of too much flesh around the waist, hips, and thighs. It seemed like returning home after a long, arduous journey. But the tricky thing about running is that it doesn’t let you go completely back. When you’ve run five Arizona desert miles on a hot August afternoon, something in you changes. In the melting away of flesh, the molding of muscle, you undergo a transformation regardless of whether you want to, and that’s something no amount of Navajo frybread can chase away. Even when it has been months since the last time, you still get cravings.


The morning I was going to return for good to Kansas, I awoke three hours before my alarm was set to go off. I squinted in the darkness at the clock’s dial, double-checked the alarm’s setting, and scratched my head in confusion. I hadn’t awakened before my alarm clock’s raucous buzzing in months. I tried to roll over and get into a sleepy position; no luck.

I resignedly got up and walked into the front room of the tiny trailer I had inhabited for the past year. All my possessions were packed away except my clothes for the day and an extra T-shirt and pair of shorts that I had put out just in case something drastic happened. I changed into them, pulled my socks and shoes on, and left for one last desert run.

I decided to head for the mesa, using the same path I’d taken months before on my last run. This morning stood out in sharp contrast to that one; it was still dark, but I could tell it would be one of those gorgeous, cloudless Arizona days when the sky is bluer than turquoise, the sun brighter than anything you can imagine. The desert air was still, and the wind had decided to stay in the Carrizo Mountains for the day. My feet pounded the trail, and at first, my muscles were stiff from disuse, but they loosened up after a few hundred yards of ten-minute-mile running. The fresh morning air felt magical on my face.

I ran hard that morning, harder than I ever had before. I got to the mesa in record time, and then I kept going for another ten minutes beyond my mark. Something in me ached to continue, to keep running until I was completely exhausted, but I turned back because of the long road I had to drive that day. Nevertheless, I ran hard, fast, and far that morning, and as I hopped over the cattleguard beneath the mission gateway, I felt victorious. I had run not because I had to, not because I thought I needed it, but for the sheer joy of running, for the feel of the solid land beneath my feet, for the feel of my muscles striving together, united in purpose. I had run for the feel of the morning light slowly pushing the darkness West across the enormous, unblemished sky.

Essay Project

I'm tired of politics, so I'm going to make a transition to blogging creative writing for a while. Consequently, updates will probably be less frequent, but they might end up being more pretty and/or thoughtful.

As creative writing goes, I'm not much of a poet, so that's out for the moment. I don't really write plays -- all my attempts seem to degenerate into satire -- and my fiction tends to be unreadable. That leaves me with one literary genre: literary non-fiction. Sorry if that seems pretentious or somehow arrogant, but it's the only thing I really feel confident about generating at this point. I pretty much promise it won't be rambling rants and self-important Observations About Significant Things (though I make no guarantees). It might, however, be a little more introverted than anyone wants to read, and I'm not offended if you choose to ignore it. So there you go.

I'll probably post some old stuff before getting into new writings; I welcome comments on anything I post here.

fidius.org: What's My Pirate Name?

fidius.org: What's My Pirate Name? (3/3)

My pirate name is:

Dirty Jack Rackham

You're the pirate everyone else wants to throw in the ocean -- not to get rid of you, you understand; just to get rid of the smell. You have the good fortune of having a good name, since Rackham (pronounced RACKem, not rack-ham) is one of the coolest sounding surnames for a pirate. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from fidius.org.

On 'Political Correctness,' Religion, and Politics

Note from the LuapHacim, 11/14/2012: The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect my current beliefs and convictions. Even if they do, I would almost certainly express them in different words today. Time changes people, and I am not exempt. Nonetheless, because of its historical value, I will not modify or remove this post. It tells you (and me) something important about where I've been. Read on at your own peril.

There's an interesting New York Post editorial today that deals with Harvard and its loss of a big donation from Oracle Corp. CEO Larry Ellison:

Someone finally put a price on political correctness:

$115 million.

That's the tidy sum that Harvard won't be getting because its PC-obsessed faculty drove the school's president, Larry Summers, out of office.

What kind of "political correctness" does the Post's editorial board villify? The answer, of course, is anti-essentialist, egalitarian theory:

The final straw was Summers' observation at an academic conference about the preponderance of men in the hard science and math fields. He urged the attendees to think outside the box and consider the possibility that men were different than women.

Cue a wave of PC outrage: Academic freedom, it seems, no longer stretches so far as to permit the questioning of feminist dogma. Summers was obliged to backtrack and grovel for forgiveness.

And there's a very good reason he was "obliged" to do so: that statement goes against every legitimate theoretical framework of the past 30 years. Moreover, the Post's board misstates the case. Of course women are different from men. That's the starting point for feminist thought. The difference between feminism and essentialist modes of thought, however, is that most of the differences between men and women are socially and culturally constructed. That is, they are more or less artificial and can therefore be remade.

The fact that the vast majority of academics believe in some form or another of feminsm should probably make the president of a university think twice before saying things that go completely against what most of his underlings hold to be valid. At the very least, his statement demonstrates his abrasive, to-hell-with-you management style (which seems to be the real reason for his sacking, if you look at the opinions of people who actually know what they're talking about).

I love how "political correctness" has become shorthand for "philosophy that some people value but I don't because I don't want to take the time to understand it." That's fantastic.

---

In a development that probably shocks someone but shouldn't, male NY prison guards may have sexually assaulted female prisoners. What? Men in a position of power tend to victimize women for their own gratification? When did this start happening?

Maybe I shouldn't be too hard on them; I know that boys will be boys (according to ex-president Summers, anyway).

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Stanley Crouch writes about Barack Obama and his efforts to return the Democratic party to the good graces of that ol'-time religion. He astutely discusses Obama's recent recognition of multiple Christianities in the nation's past:

The compassion at the center of Christianity drove both the abolition movement and the civil rights movement. This was an alternative Christianity to the one that upheld slavery and remained silent while its symbol, the cross, became a beacon of bigotry when burned as a signature of the Ku Klux Klan.

Obama's recognition of that difference could reinvigorate partisan discourse and make the next presidential election much more unpredictable.

Here's to hoping.

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In related news, the Christian Science Monitor has noticed what my friend Evil Bender has observed in a recent post: There's been a lot of talk about religion and politics in recent days, especially as we approach the Fourth of July holiday.

The article raises some interesting points:

230 years after the first Independence Day, Americans of varied political and religious stripes are determined to prove that the Founders' beliefs are similar to their own. Helped by a spate of new books this year, skeptics and believers alike have fresh intellectual gunpowder this July 4 for claiming the framers as members of their respective camps.

For a nation torn over what role religion should have in the public square, the stakes are high. Both religionists and secularists say they're under attack in the public domain and want America's first patriots on their side to maintain legitimacy.

Each side has its favorites. Patrick Henry's frequent references to Jesus Christ help make him a darling of Christian conservatives, some of whom opened a Virginia college named after him in 2000. Secularists prefer to invoke Thomas Paine, whose "Age of Reason" treatise mocking Christianity earned him a badge of scorn in his day.

Side note: the aforementioned Virginia College accepts only the retarded or certifiably insane. No, I'm joking. But it was founded by and for homeschooling families, and that's no joke. I know people who went there. It's like the perfect way to ensure that you will never actually have to meet anyone with ideological views different from your own. It's splendid.

It's fascinating to me that Americans feel like they need some kind of "original" authority in order to validate their views of religion and government. This trend was started by historical revisionists like the late Puritan Cotton Mather, and it was then picked up by all manner of "thinkers" who felt an overpowering helplessness to come up with their own rationale for their belief systems.

I am an Evangelical Christian. Nevertheless, I believe firmly in separation of church and state. I also believe that America's independence was not a gift from God; I think the Revolution was a rebellious, treasonous, reactionary, and biblically unjustifiable event.

So there ya go.