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March 29, 2005
felos: nemo malus felix
Felos lied. Or maybe all this judicial murder was a big oopsie on his part. He assured us Terri Schiavo would feel no pain, that death by starvation and dehydration would be a quiet, painless, peaceful death. Now he hastens to explain why she was given morphine: nurses noticed "light moaning and facial grimacing and tensing of arms." Felos disputed that Terri is being euthanized with the two small doses of morphine she's been given since March 19th; Greer has ordered up a grisly spectacle of starvation and dehydration, and by gum, Felos means to deliver.
Nemo malus felix, Felos.
Posted by joel at 03:29 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 25, 2005
such a time as this
I've known about Terri Schiavo for a few years. I first learned of her through WorldNetDaily. My frustration back then was that the mainstream media was turning a blind eye to her plight. She has had her feeding tube removed before. But the media, at that time, was silent on a story which should've been a reporter's dream: a story with legs, with hooks and some real-live hometown heft with the news consuming masses. But in those days the media was avoiding that story like the plague.
Today the media can no longer ignore the story. And so their position is forced into the light, together with their consistent pattern of mendacity and distortion of the facts. It was somewhat different before the whole country knew about it.
In addition to the unmasking of the media, the judiciary has been forced to reveal their positions, all the way up to the Florida supreme court, and then even to the US Supreme Court. What we now know about these judges is that there are some who seem determined to see Terri dead --like Greer-- and there are others who are reluctant to demur, and have allowed this tragedy by refusing to even so much as consider the evidence that all of us are reading and watching online and on television every day.
The legislative bodies of both Florida and of the United States have also been measured, with mixed and wanting results. Florida failed to pass a bill which would have not only saved Terri, but would have done much to protect others like her in the future. The gap was three votes. That means if only two people had had the character and courage to vote for this bill instead of against it, this catastrophe could have ended.
And finally, the executive branches of these two governments are being measured. I appreciate the statements made by both of the Bush brothers, and I know that Jeb is very concerned and is looking for any way he can save Terri. But I also believe that he needs to recognize that judge Greer has grossly overreached; he has defied the will of the people as expressed by their duly elected representatives in the Florida legislature by summarily striking down the first bill they passed on Terri's behalf, and he has slapped Jeb's hand, literally ordering him to stay out of the issue.
I believe there is a clear and solid case for Jeb to take action in defiance of the Pinellas court. Here is one legally blind judge in one poe-dunk county of the state who has imperiously ordered the elected chief executive of the entire state to back off, stay out. This is tyranny, and it violates the separation of powers doctrine.
The problem for Jeb and for all concerned and interested Americans, especially Christians and supporters of the right to life, is this: at what point do we break with the judiciary element and stand, through disobedience, civil or otherwise, against an evil tyranny? Has that point come? Is it still yet to come?
Those questions are being forced upon us, and this is where the judgment of God ultimately settles on us as a people. There are those who have been arrested for carrying a cup of water over the threshold of the hospice. Whether their effort was successful or not, they, at least, have made it unmistakably clear where they stand. Those of us who blog for Terri, although we have not paid the price of handcuffs and a ride downtown in the paddy wagon, may also claim that we have made our dissent clear. And so it is with anyone in this country who is unafraid to voice his or her opinion in this matter.
Whatever degree of action we resolve to take, of this I am certain: these unjust judges have overstepped their constitutional bounds, and have assumed for themselves broad and tyrannical powers over us. They have, in effect, made kings of themselves. If we speak only in terms of abiding by their rule of law, and never allow for the concept of resistance to their evil, we are acknowledging these judges as our rulers, and in so doing, God's judgment that has been reserved for them will be ours also.
Yesterday Dawn Eden drew a comparison to the story of Esther. I believe Jeb Bush is our "Hadassah." It's now time for Jeb to act decisively, and it's time for us to encourage him to do so, and to pray that he will have the courage to stand up, and to walk into that rare space in history which is occupied by so few and all great. Jeb never asked for it, but the rescue of Terri Schiavo is his destiny.
Posted by joel at 12:13 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
March 24, 2005
i dare you to look
Go here and watch these videos. If you believe Terri Schiavo is in a persistant vegitative state, and are reluctant to watch her, consider how you mendacitous you have become. She is a human being, she is alive, the divine spark is still there.
Perhaps you have not followed her case carefully; you may assume the judges and the doctors and the lawyers must know what they're doing, and they couldn't possibly all be wrong about Terri. They couldn't possibly be allied together for the purpose of taking her life. But don't sell short your own opinion. Do not follow blindly and meekly the word of the mainstream media. Go and look. Judge for yourself. Determine in your own mind, based on what you see, whether it is right to exterminate this woman, to extinguish her life, to callously take from her mother and her father and her brother this daughter, this sister, this woman. Do this for Terri, at the very least, while she is yet alive; give her this dignity of looking at her.
Posted by joel at 01:48 AM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
March 22, 2005
heaven can wait
As Terri Schiavo is slowly and agonizingly losing her life, statements coming from Michael Schiavo, her estranged husband, suggest he's coming unhinged. The St. Petersburg Times quotes him lashing out at lawmakers in Washington. He says,
Have they ever met her? What color are her eyes? What's her middle name? What's her favorite color? They don't have any clue who Terri is. They should all be ashamed of themselves.
Notice the use of the present tense. Terri is, not Terri was. What is her middle name. What color are her eyes. What is her favorite color. So she is still around, and still apparently prefers some color above the others.
Then there is another quote from Mr. Schiavo: "Terri died 15 years ago." Whoa, stop the car, Mike, I thought we just decided Terri is still around for "little slithering snake" Tom Delay to not know her eye color. Sounds like wishful thinking to me, Mikey.
But then comes the real kicker, the coup de grace, the bat in the belfry. Michael Schiavo, not content to have contradicted himself in two adjacent utterances, reaches down deep inside, and delivers this bewildering lode stone of involuted unlogic: "It's time for her to be with the Lord like she wanted to be." Oh my, breathe. Think. Process...begin again: "It's time [meaning now] for her to be with the Lord [ummmmmm, you mean like heaven and stuff? B'cuz, you just said she died fifteen years ago. I mean, we've all heard the jokes about standing in line at heaven's gates, and slipping St. Peter a c-note for a booth with a view, but c'mon, seriously, you gotta wait fifteen years after you die to be with your Lord?] like she wanted to be [oh. How about that. We're back to past tense again. Terri has a favorite color, but somehow does not presently want, but in the past wanted to be with her Lord].
I got a news flash for you, Mick. Terri's Lord is with her now. Your language reveals your own frame of mind with regard to Terri. You don't really think she's dead, but you're trying to kill her. And her Lord is aware of this. So please, leave all this new-found theologicalishiveness talk to people who are better equipped to know what they're saying, such as, for instance, anybody who isn't trying to kill his disabled, helpless wife.
Posted by joel at 01:26 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
March 21, 2005
lonely little badger
I attended a poetry-off with a few family members. The second round's theme was "the [a] lonely little badger." After ten minutes or so of scribbling, I read them this:
Undiminished recessive chin;
A gaze that ends where it b'gin.
Spurs clinking at his waddle,
He's easy on the saddle;
Stands gnawing in the sturrips,
Silver star jumping when he hiccups.
He's the lonely little badger;
The mammal with a badge, or
Affidavit, subpoena, habeas whatever.
His hand [paw?] is on the engine's lever
Of the train of law abidin' men
Which howls across the moonlit svenn.
Oh, fericious, hairy one,
Guarding legal tender with your trusty gun,
Where have you gone? Will you come back?
We need your fearless stripes of white and black.
We long to hear your sniffling inquisition,
Holding the high ground from a low position.
This badger, it seems, is the quintessential lawyer-lawman of the old west. Cut to wide shot: our badger on horseback, his stetson silhoutted against the evening sky, rides toward the sunset. Fade to black (with a white stripe), aaaaaaaaaaand cue credits.
I'm not crying; it's just allergies.
Posted by joel at 08:18 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
March 18, 2005
bravo
"The case of Terri Schiavo raises complex issues. Yet in instances like this one, where there are serious questions and substantial doubts, our society, our laws, and our courts should have a presumption in favor of life. Those who live at the mercy of others deserve our special care and concern. It should be our goal as a nation to build a culture of life, where all Americans are valued, welcomed, and protected - and that culture of life must extend to individuals with disabilities." --President George W. Bush, March 17, 2005
Also, Matt Drudge reports Health, Education, Labor and Pension Committee chairman Mike Enzi (R-Wyoming) has requested Terri Schiavo to testify before his congressional committee, thereby triggering legal and statutory witness protections for Terri.
Bravo, bravo, bravo, gentlemen. If the committee will listen to Terri, they will find she makes an excellent, though ineloquent case for her own life.
Posted by joel at 09:17 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
fight, fight, write
Emailed to my representative in the House, Mike Pence of the 6th district of the State of Indiana:
Dear Mr. Pence,
It was my priviledge to cast my vote for you in the last election, and I'm so proud of our district for sending you to the House of Representatives. May God bless you and give you wisdom, courage and strength.
I want to encourage you to do anything and everything possible on behalf of Terri Schindler Schiavo. I'm certain that you're aware of her situation down in Florida, but I want to add my voice to those who are crying out for our leaders to spare her life.
It is obviously true that you have no more control over the government of the state of Florida than I do, but you are in a high profile position and therefore will have some influence over fellow lawmakers. Please be bold and outspoken on Terri's behalf. This is a pivotal moment in America's history, and I believe our generation will be defined by and remembered for our actions and our arguments on behalf of the helpless and the ineloquent. Please go above and beyond the norm; exert an heroic effort to place yourself on the right side of this watershed moment.
I'm praying for you and for myself. Who knows but that God may connect what little we are able do with some unexpected opportunity to do a remarkable deed for the sake of Terri and all others who are helpless against the culture of death.
May God bless you.
Sincerely,
Joel Helbling
Posted by joel at 01:08 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
re-crossing the cimarron
A friend of mine was reading some of my old posts, and came across this comment I added to my post about pornography entitled A Cimarron Story:
Some of us [men] choose to exalt the metaphysical side of our sexuality, romanticizing the chivalrous poet. But this amazing poet does not exist in any pure form, nor should he. The ones who come closest to being pure poets are often fat, with greasy hair and dirty socks. Furthermore, they excel as poets because they are well practiced at living inside their minds; but they are not complete persons. Ironically, the habit of pornography is quite compatible with a poetic aesthetic sense of sex.
The problem with pornography is not that it connects men to the earth; quite the opposite. There is an old colloquialism: "I wish I were half the man my dog thinks I am." I would add this: "There is no dog more loyal to a man than his own mind." For in his mind, a man may be, consistently and without effort, the paragon of his own ideal. He can be urbane, charismatic, devilishly handsome and hilariously funny. And there is no fitter queen for such an hermetic Camelot than the porn star. She acknowledges her liege-lord in unambiguous terms, reaffirming the transcendence of his exemplary attributes.
It's idolatry, of course. But I have come to believe, contrary to what I'd assumed for years, that it is not the idolatry of woman worship. A man addicted to pornography is a man worshipping a golden image of himself. It's a first rate idol as idols go, for unlike a statue of stone this idol may speak with great charm, wooing a woman with a few well-crafted sentences.
This is where the metaphorical or literal dirty socks and greasy hair enter the picture. A man enthralled with an imagined image of himself cannot long divide his fealty between his inner Camelot and the real world. He must ultimately forsake one and live in the other. If he would be free, if he would be whole, if he would be truly heroic in the Real World, he must cut down the sacred groves which shade his fantasies. He must topple that golden icon of himself, dash it in pieces, grind the pieces into powder and burn the powder into ashes. He must, in short, come to himself.
Thus may begin a journey out of his comfort zone, out of the realm of his own sovereignty, into the Outer World over which he has very limited control. Here he discovers his own courage will be barely adequate if at all. Here he is ravaged from within by self doubt, and encompassed without by a host of accusers. Here his foot may stumble, or may land in his mouth. Here he is clumsy, rough and heedless around women. He is painfully thoughtless, tactless, bumbling, stuttering, awkward and agonizingly shy. But if he endures, the rewards are great.
For it is here, in the Outer World that a man, if he is persistent, humble, brave and cheerful, may lay the foundation for a new Camelot, a real kingdom in the real world. Whether he has a queen or not does not alter the validity of his dominion. For rather than charming only himself, he may now comfort many others. Now he may sortie to defend the helpless instead of strutting upon the wall of his own impregnable pride. Now he may screw up his courage against desperate odds and march against terrible foes instead of insipidly crooning out his exploits by the hearth of his insular heart like a fool with a harp. Now he may be, in some glimmering, faint but arrestingly recognizable way, the Ideal of a Man.
Posted by joel at 12:37 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
March 16, 2005
risible for shizzle
I am pleased to crow that I am currently (and have been for the past week or so) Google's formost expert on the term "risible moniker." I owe this distinction to stealth blog trawler "ConservativesHateAmerica" and his comment on A Personal Question. It is a distinction I am proud to bear.
Posted by joel at 01:59 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 13, 2005
voom with a rue
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Blogger and rugby player JRob has taken up the call to all good lookin' bloggers (that means you!) to join the campaign to annoy Christopher Hanson, an Assistant Professor of Journalism at the U of Maryland, and, I further assert, all stuffy-headed self-anointed guardians of Old Media's Opinionocracy who claim the bloggosphere is irrelevant by virtue of mass self absorption or some such drivel.
To prove that mud and grass stains have their own glamour, JRob offers us a group photo of his rugby team.
The lovely and opinionated bloggress Dawn Eden has turned Dr. Hanson's miscue into a self-absorbing prophesy by posting an honest to golly glamour self-portrait (Les rrrow!).
This "I Blogger" trusts the old adage often attributed to Abraham Lincoln: "You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can't fool all of the people all of the time." But Dr. Hanson and other OM whiners just don't get it. If we "I Bloggers" are to be considered irrelevant, we must all be insular and self-absorbed all of the time. We can easily insure this does not happen by working in shifts. Thus, at any given point in any given day there will always a blogger somewhere who is neither insular, nor self absorbed, and who, in fact, is offering up some excellent counterpoint to Old Media's insular and self-absorbed coverage of the news of the day. I personally commit to not being self-absorbed and insular whenever Dr. Hanson isn't baiting me into posting glamour photos of myself online. Furthermore, I challenge Dan Rather to a walk-off (6mb avi).
Posted by joel at 07:20 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
anatomy of a fairy tale (part 1)
Jan was awake at 7am, despite the wild night before, which wound down around 4am and only with her hoarsely shouted threat to call the cops. Call the cops, she thought as she drew a robe about herself and looked in the mirror, what a joke. She saw, by the morning's thin grey light, what she preferred to forget; the years were marching on. She looked more and more like her mother did in her later years, with broken down eyes which saw through to the end of things, and a mouth which seemed determined to frown. She patted her hair into place, and then turned aside, thrusting her own image out of her mind as she strode to the door. By the time she reached the stair, she again saw herself as the woman she had to be in order to get on with things.
She made coffee, but decided not to call the girls just yet. It was Monday morning, and most of the patrons had doubtless slunk off to their wives, or their jobs. The girls had had a rough night, and deserved to sleep in a while. Jan slid onto a barstool with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. As she raised the cup to her lips, her eyes rose to the front door, and she was startled to see a man standing perfectly still on the pavement outside. He was tall, but stooped slightly. He had a full head of hair, but his face was a roadmap of leathery wrinkles. His simple attire of a black shirt and pants made him look vaguely priest-like, while his beard made him look Amish.
"Jesus, Tom," she muttered as she slid off the stool and headed to unlock the door. "Jesus, Tom," she repeated, as she had rehearsed, "what are you doing here?" She felt awkward, for her tone was scolding although she hadn't meant to sound so.
Tom stood still a moment longer, gazing at Jan, and then looked up at the garish sign suspended on the front of the building before him. The expression on his craggy face was unreadable and yet she understood it perfectly. Suddenly she saw herself in the mirror again, and her eyes grew hot and bleary. She turned her back on him and said, "I'll get you some coffee."
Tom walked through the doorway and paused again, looking around him. The sun had begun to show, and it struck rays through the dust and lingering smoke, illuminating a cluttered landscape of unbussed tables and abandoned poker cards. Jan set another cup of coffee down on the counter next to her seat, and then walked around and sat down. She stared forward, not looking at Tom as he stood by the door. She became acutely aware of the stink of stale cigarettes.
Tom finally sat down beside her. He was looking at her, she knew, but she chose not to acknowledge him. She reached into the pocket of her robe for her cigarettes. She lit one, with feigned nonchalance, took a long pull, and then turned to look at him. He was looking down at his coffee now, with both hands wrapped around the cup, his shoulders hunched in the posture of one long accustomed to taking meals at a bar.
"So, little brother," she said, regarding him through narrowed eyes, "are you in some kind of trouble or what?"
Tom stared down at the coffee in silence for a long time. Finally he began to nod his head. "I'll have a couple of eggs over easy with bacon," he said looking upward as if to regard an angelic waitress who wasn't there, "a side of grits. Whole wheat toast with honey."
Jan turned in her barstool to face forward again, her ears burning. She breathed quickly and loudly through her nose a couple of times, pressing her lips together and stubbing out her new cigarette in the half full ashtray next to her. "Tom, you know we don't do--"
"Two eggs," Tom repeated without altering his tone, and still looking upward, "Bacon. Grits. Whole wheat toast with honey."
Jan just stared at him. Finally she shook her head slightly, a look of disbelief on her face. "Sammy's would be open by now. Go get some breakfast there."
Tom finally dropped his head, and stared down for several seconds like a grade school boy doing arithmetic in his head. Then he looked sidewise over at Jan with a strange, quiet look, and said, "Jan, get me my breakfast."
Jan locked eyes with him for an angry eternity, and then she sighed and shrugged. She slid off her barstool and patted him on the back as she headed back around the counter. "Come in here, orderin' eggs over easy in a place like this. You're a brave man, Tom."
Posted by joel at 12:55 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
March 10, 2005
a weakness for sunshine
Ah, spring, when a young man's thoughts turn to baseball.
Ah, spring, when a young man's thoughts turn to taxes.
Ah, spring, when a young man's thoughts turn to...ah...what were we talking about?
I squeezed past the youth hanging by the door of the narrow gas station kiosk to wait in line behind another motorist paying for his gas.
When my turn came I stepped up and asked the young woman behind the register for $15 dollars on pump five.
"Fifteen dollars?" the asked. There is no other way to describe her tone than to say it was sweet. Her cheer, courtesy and feminine charm charged the room, making we three men pause, suspended for a moment from our busy morning rush.
"Yes," I said, handing her a $20. She took the money, and then smiled out the window for the briefest instant. Then she opened the cash drawer to give me change and said, with a slight Italian accent, "I'm sorry, the sun makes me so happy."
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I replied, noticing that she had freckles on her nose.
"Yes, I'm hoping it might be spring."
I smiled, took my change and stepped past the youth by the door. It is no wonder he seemed to loiter. And as I pumped my gas, I considered that I knew what she meant, with her comment about the sun. A year ago I stepped out of my apartment into the first truly sunny day of spring, and almost felt like weeping with joy and relief.
It is strange to find the spring so welcome. I had always had a special fondness for autumn. Spring, for me, was a time of mud and hayfever. Ah, spring.
Posted by joel at 03:32 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
March 09, 2005
i predict, 2008
If Hillary Clinton clutches the Dems' nomination for president, and if Condoleezza Rice wins the Republicans' backing, then expect liberal and left-wing pundits to huff and harumph with great concern about not evolving the American political process too quickly.
"[Having a single black woman for president will] be a good thing to have happen at the right time," They'll propound gravely. "But," they'll continue, while moving their proverbial foot toward their mouths, "I fear an attempt to effect too much change too fast may tear a political fabric already threadbare from Bush's theft of the 2000 and 2004 elections. It would be much better," they'll mumble while gnawing at their proverbial heel, "to ease into such major change by starting off with a white woman, especially one who [...white house, senate, socialized medicine, sunshine laws, blah, blah, Lewinski blah...] than to try, in a single election, to undo xhundred years of oppression and racism." [*spit* *cough* *gurgle*]
Let them tread upon their own tongues if they must, but heed thou them not! Fellow Americans of all races, let's go for it. Let's make 2008 an historic year by electing the brilliant, balanced and experienced Condoleezza Rice for president.
Posted by joel at 12:30 AM | Comments (10) | TrackBack
March 08, 2005
glamour, shoot
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I've heard it said that there is no such thing as bad coverage, and I'm sure it's true of the coverage the lovely and glamourous Dawn Eden of The Dawn Patrol received from Christopher Hanson in his op-ed in the Baltimore Sun.
 Hanson |
Case in point: "The Dawn Patrol," Manhattanite Dawn Eden's preening report on Dawn Eden, iconoclastic neoconservative "petite powerhouse," illustrated with Dawn Eden glamour photos.
You know, one convenient thing about being part of the Old Media is that it's not necessary to read up on your subject. Case in point: Dawn's blog isn't illustrated with Dawn Eden glamour photos. Oh, wait, Topher, sorry, did you mean this? You need to get out more often.
It brings to mind a memorable scene from Napoleon Dynamite:
[Deb is making a glamour shot of Uncle Rico]
Deb: Okay, turn you head on more of a slant...
[all three turn their heads in a slant]
Deb: Now, make a fist. Slowly ease it up underneath your chin.
[All three slowly ease up fists under their chins]
Deb: This is looking really good.
Kip: You can say that again.
[Uncle Rico acknowledges]
Deb: Kay, hold still right there. Now, just imagine you're weightless, in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by tiny little seahorses.
[Uncle Rico pictures it and give a gleaming look at the camera]
Deb: [takes the picture] That was one that I think is gonna come out really nice.
Uncle Rico: Ah, how you did it... wow... well I felt really relaxed. Thanks Deb.
[Uncle Rico puts his fist down, then swats a fly]
Uncle Rico: You're up Kip.
Kip: Is there some kind of vest that I can wear?
[makes gesture of putting on a vest]
Shine on, you crazy diamonds.
UPDATE: I'm still making love to the camera in Voom With A Rue, and Dustbury gives our movement a home. Viva La Glamourous Revolution!
Posted by joel at 12:04 AM | Comments (5) | TrackBack
March 06, 2005
a weakness for waitresses
Yesterday two young men sat down in a restaraunt. I never did learn their business. They seemed college aged; perhaps they were some committee for a fraternity. I seldom could hear the words of the older, white man as he slouched against the wall. He was tall, but with a softening physique, as if he had begun to abandon the fiery contests of his youth. His eyes and his low voice conveyed an alert competency as he scanned the room.
The younger black man I could not fail to hear. His hoarse voice was the final, eloquent touch on a portrait of the consumate athelete. He was bald, shorter and more muscled than his friend; perhaps he was a football player. He conversed leaning over his paper placemat, forearms pressed forward against the table in the form of a greco-roman wrestler.
Our waitress arrived at their table. She was thin, with a fragile slavic face, like an eastern European immigrant. She had no accent when she spoke. The white man kept his voice low, returning her salutation in a measured, pleasant tone. But the wrestler became the politician, straightening up and leaning back. "Do I know you? You seem familiar somehow," he said to the waitress.
"Oh," she said, somewhat nonplussed. "I'm sorry." She worried for her tip.
"No," he rasped, his voice growing only louder, "You see, that's actually a good thing."
"Ok," she draped her inflection across the quizzical smile growing at the corner of her mouth, as if a question were about to follow. "Do you know what you want to drink?" She pulled out her tablet.
"We'll have coffee," the wrestler affirmed. "He'll have coffee too," he said, gesturing back and forth across the table at his companion. The white man and the waitress glanced at each other, and the white man nodded.
When they ordered their food, the wrestler and the waitress went on together for some time about the details of his meal. "Can I have the omelet, but with hash browns, and maybe a couple of patties of sausage, but no pancakes?"
"Well," she explained, "it comes with hash browns, and with either pancakes or toast."
"So I can't just make a substitution, pancakes for sausage?" he asked.
"No, I'm sorry." her voice was sympathetic, as if he were stranded with a dead car battery and asking to borrow jumper cables. "I can bring you the omelet, and the hash browns," she offered, "and just leave off the pancakes if you want."
He hmmmed for a moment, looking back at his menu. "Alright," he said, decisive again. "Do that, but bring me some sausage too. I don't care what it costs." He spoke with the resolve of a hard-headed movie producer working on his oeuvre, who had just been warned that cost overruns could liquidate all his fortunes.
The waitress carried herself away in the weary, yet resolute posture of a pretty woman long accustomed to serving food to common men. The wrestler, back in his customary pose, craned his neck around to watch her go.
The two men returned to their conversation. The wrestler told, in rueful expression, the story of his weekend drinking binge. My son offered me most of the whipped cream on his hot chocolate. I put it in my recently refilled coffee.
Eventually the waitress came back to the Greeks. She leaned sideways, a large oval tray on her left shoulder casting her frame into the classical posture of the dairy maiden or farm girl. She began setting plates down with quick, steady movements. "Does everything look ok?" she asked as she served the food. I'll never know if the white man made any reply one way or the other.
"Oh!" said the wrestler loudly, "Oh my!" He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his belly in anticipation. "This is incredible! Ooooooo!" he watched her set down the plate of sausage patties, sucking his breath through his teeth, and shaking his head from side to side. "And I'm soooo hungry!"
It was unreserved, unstinting appreciation for a meal of outsized proportions, prepared and served in quiet, friendly efficiency. Suddenly I was transported, in my imagination, to the wrestler's mother's kitchen, for I knew that here was a man who had been loved through the preparation of home cooked food, and who had a sense of the worth of such love.
The wrestler grew philisophical as they ate. "The main thing," he said at length, "is to be happy." The white man murmered something back over his fritata. "I see so many people," the wrestler continued, "running around trying to get ready to be happy someday, and I just want to say, 'Hey! Be happy now!'" He forked at his omelet. "To be happy, that's what it's all about," he concluded. There was a pause as he chewed thoughtfully. "And to make other people happy," he added, as an afterthought.
I thought happily to myself that the most beautiful things in this world are mighty strengths wrapped, encumbered, and confounded by overwhelming weakness. Our frailty covers us like a burial shroud and yet we live. This was not lost on the Creator, who, when he came to talk to the wrestlers, waitresses and white men of this world, "did not count it robbery to be equal with God," but cast his frame in the form of a servant, leaned sideways beneath a cross, and set his life down for his friends. His weakness is for us.
Posted by joel at 10:46 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 05, 2005
a personal question
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I drove past this billboard two or three times before the cynicism of it really sank in. It reeks, first of all, of racism, especially considering Planned Parenthood's eugenicist parentage. It reeks of maternalistic condescension. The woman (Mother? Girlfriend? Wife? Planned Parenthood counselor? Aroma therapist? Psych ward orderly?) offers her comfort and presumably higher wisdom to the vulnerable and confused man. Note the man has a sincere, concerned expression on his face, as if to say, "I'm just the sperm doner. I don't understand reproductive issues. But I'll really try hard if you'll speak slowly and use small words." Frankly, his expression says nothing to me more clearly than, "You did what with my baby?"
As a pro-life man I simply refuse anymore to defer on the subject of abortion to female pro-abortion voices (or to vulnerable and confused male pro-abortion voices, for that matter). I speak from experience and with authority on the subject by virtue of the fact that many of my family members, friends, and aquantances are products of conception. I've talked with them, listened to their hopes and fears, literally sitting at their kitchen tables, eating their wheaties and drinking their coffee. And I also happen to be one of them.
Take a look at the man and woman in this ad. They're good looking people, and they seem warm, caring and intelligent. Imagine what a cute baby they'd have if they were to make a family together. This ad is about killing cute, innocent and helpless unborn black babies. And so I have a "personal" question for Planned Parenthood: Where do you get the cajones to target the African American community in my town for ethnic cleansing?
Posted by joel at 06:04 PM | Comments (11) | TrackBack
March 04, 2005
fit the crime
Martha's back, kinda. She's out of prison and will now be confined to her Katonah estate. By order of the court, America's most famous homemaker will be confined at home.
Welcome back, Martha.
Posted by joel at 07:10 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 03, 2005
the beta cat
I awoke, as usual, with a black cat clambering upon my shoulder and face. The interesting thing to me at that moment was that I had dreamed about this black cat. In the dream he had behaved very much like he does in (my) waking life: he got loose in a church during a sermon. I, my son, and one of my sisters were in hot pursuit.
This is a near perfect reproduction of what happened yesterday morning. I paused at the door before leaving for work to speak with my sister-in-law, and the cat took that opportunity to dart beneath my feet from his basement lair (where we're staying), through the kitchen and off into the livingroom. My son and I gave chase with a will: we were trying to leave early that morning so we could stop at the sledding hill on the way to our respective vocations. But our stomping urgency only banked the fires of the cat's alarm and alacrity. In the end we never did lay a hand on him; he availed himself of the still-open basement door.
So this morning I awoke contemplating my dream, and mumbled to the cat something about "true to form..." It's what I said next which revealed something to me about the way I sometimes think. I sometimes (mentally) make an unusual or startling assertion, and then test it to see how or if it could be true. This morning I said to the cat, "You're an informationist." I then was able to observe, as one often can in the hazy, magical state between dreaming and waking, that I immediately set about pondering this statement. How is the cat an informationist?
If I'd succeeded, in some clever fashion, in explaining that one to myself, I doubt I'd have ever noticed this interesting thing about how I think. But as it happens, I did fail to explain just how my cat is an informationist. If he could be, and you have some idea how, by all means, please comment.
Posted by joel at 06:43 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
March 02, 2005
the alpha wolf
The alpha wolf is out;
with jaws, and throat, and tooth of grout.
He burns a slender track upon the heath
and catches up the foundlings in his teeth.
He passes in a hungry blur
the horse's hoof, the cowboy's boot and spur.
His knotted belly is all hair and reproduction;
a wary glance and growl is his seduction.
His fate is in his glands;
his chartered firth leads forth to barren lands.
He pauses at the ridge's peak
to scent the frigid darkness and to speak.
The elk, the moose, the mountain cat,
startled in their distant habitat,
knuckle to their knees,
moan and gaze white-eyed at the husky trunks of trees.
He haunts the creekbed plans
and harries grizzled claimers at their pans.
They hush their conversation out,
ease to the saddles, seize a bolt of thunder and turn about.
© Joel Helbling, 03/2005 (all rights reserved)
Posted by joel at 09:11 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
March 01, 2005
beer googles
The longer I use Movable Type, the better I'm looking to Google. She sends her Googlebot crawling around the back of my barstool, and says, "Hey, blog-guy, chezJoel or chez moi? Never mind, we'll use my site, its faster." Here are a few of my favorite google pickup lines (and how well they work on me):
- "ALBERT WADA" referencing Sweet Albert (page 1, number 3)
- chez joel referencing Yours Truly (page 1, number 1 --Yes! I finally beat the Chicago restaraunt! At least in Canada.)
- odd tod referencing Odd Tod Tribute (page 1, number 1)
- children of the secret state documentary north korea referencing Two Minutes Love (page 3, number 3)
- blubbers referencing Blogger Bates Behemoth, Behemoth Blandly Blubbers (page 1, number 9. Google.nl helpfully asks, "Bedoelde je: clubbers?")
- lorenz butterfly formula referencing The Kindness of Chaos (was page 3, since fallen to page 5, number 2)
- 2005 stem cell research discoveries referencing Stem Cell Research (page 1, number 1)
- stephen colbert referencing Hiring Stephen Colbert (up to page 6 [from 7], number 7)
Plus, a wink from Yahoo!:
- current stem cell research referencing Stem Cell Research (page 10, result number 93)
Even MSN tried to buy me a drink, but she thought I was someone else:
- george paulsin referencing The "Dawn For A Day" Contest Winners (page 1, fallen to page 2, number 9. This serendipitous link from MSN is due to the "Dawn For a Day" contest's repeated mentions of George Gurley and Lynn Paulsin.)
I mention Movable Type because before I switched, I believe Google balked at crawling my largely cgi-script-driven site. But I should also mention my friends who have been talking me up, like ksra, Dawn Eden, Worldgineer and Diva Drip. Thanks, friends!
Posted by joel at 08:20 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack