“Among those whom I like or admire,
             I can find no common denominator,
but among those whom I love,                          
I can: all of them make me laugh.”
                                         W. H. Auden, “Notes on the Comic”

First, let me apologize for my lack of posting since the $170M coronation inauguration of Barack Obama. I’ve been especially busy at work and the long hours have left me neither time nor energy for blogging. Besides, I’m still a little numb from the whole Obama thing.

But that’s not really the subject of this post. What I want to share with you today, even before I’ve read it, is a memoir by Kelly Corrigan titled The Middle Place. I already have several books in various stages of being read, so it’s not as though I need another. But this one sounds like one for the reading list.

I often choose books based on the writing style of the author. I enjoy the artful twist of a phrase, the perfectly connected words that so vividly paint a picture, as much — and sometimes more — than the story they weave. When I begin such a work, it’s hard for me to put it down, yet it may take me longer to finish simply because I pause often to digest, reread and sometimes marvel at the way something or someone is described. For me, what makes a story is how it’s told.

So as Dawn and I leafed through The Middle Place, we were at once taken by Corrigan’s writing style. We know little, if anything, about the story, yet we’re fairly certain we’ll enjoy the read. If you’re like us and appreciate the writing as much as the story it tells, read this excerpt and see what you think. We want to read more; you may as well.

I don’t know how we missed this Timothy Egan book in 2006 when it was first published, but after starting it last night, we’re hooked. The Worst Hard Time is the epic story of the dust storms that terrorized America’s High Plains in the darkest years of the Depression and the families who stayed and survived the choking dust of our nation’s greatest natural disaster, the “dirty thirties”. From the Introduction:

On those days when the wind stops blowing across the face of the southern plains, the land falls into a silence that scares people in the way that a big house can haunt after the lights go out and no one else is there. It scares them because the land is too much, too empty, claustrophobic in its immensity. It scares them because they feel lost, with nothing to cling to, disoriented. Not a tree, anywhere. Not a slice of shade. Not a river dancing away, life in its blood. Not a bump of high ground to break the horizon, give some perspective, spell the monotone of flatness. It scares them because they wonder what is next. It scared Coronado, looking for cities of gold in 1541. It scared the Anglo traders who cut a trail from Independence to Santa Fe, after they dared let go of the lifeline of the Cimarron River in hopes of shaving a few days off a seven-week trek. It even scared some of the Comanche as they chased bison over the grass. It scared the Germans from Russia and the Scots-Irish from Alabama — the Last Chancers, exiled twice over, looking to build a hovel from overturned sod, even if that dirt house was crawling with centipedes and snakes, and leaked mud on the children when thunderheads broke.

It still scares people driving cars named Expedition and Outlander. It scares them because of the forced intimacy with a place that gives nothing back to a stranger…

History, delivered as though in a novel you don’t want to put down. I find myself stopping to re-read paragraphs, to draw in a melodic phrase or colorful description, marveling at the perfect choice of words and hoping to remember how they were woven, all the while discovering how little I really knew about this part of our history and the very real people who lived it.

I don’t usually recommend a book before finishing it, but this may well be the exception.

Pulpbard is an open project on wikispaces I know at least a couple of you won’t be able to resist. Of course, if you haven’t seen the film classic Pulp Fiction, none of what follows will make any sense to you…

“Welcome to the Pulp Shakespeare Project, devoted to the reconstruction of William Shakespeare’s play A Slurry Tale, which curiously resembles Quentin Tarantino’s film Pulp Fiction. There is no way to stop this from happening, so this wiki exists to ensure that it is done well, or as well as it can be.”

Forsooth, two memorable scenes originating, as near as I can tell, on Kevin Pease’s LiveJournal, written as the Bard himself might have written them (were he the screenwriter which, of course, he wasn’t, but I’m just sayin’…):

ACT I SCENE 2. A road, morning. Enter JULES and VINCENT, murderers.

Vincent:  And know’st thou what the French name cottage pie?
Julius:     Say they not cottage pie, in their own tongue?
Vincent:  But nay, their tongues, for speech and taste alike
                 Are strange to ours, with their own history:
                 Gaul knoweth not a cottage from a house.
Julius:     What say they then, pray?
Vincent:  Hachis Parmentier.
Julius:     Hachis Parmentier! What name they cream?
Vincent:  Cream is but cream, only they say la crème.
Julius:     What do they name black pudding?
Vincent:  I know not;
                 I visited no inn where’t could be bought.

ACT 1 SCENE 8.2. Your pardon; did I break thy concentration?

Of all their long experience, National Geographic Explorers-in-Residence Dereck and Beverly Joubert consider their two years with the lions of Duba the most exciting, important research they have done. The internationally acclaimed naturalists and cinematographers produced Relentless Enemies: Lions and Buffalo, a companion volume to their National Geographic film, providing an unforgettable once-in-a-lifetime glimpse of the world’s most awe-inspiring hunters, the lethal and beautiful lions of Duba.

The rich surroundings and unique environment of the Okavango River Delta have morphed these lions into huge, thick-necked beasts. Far more aggressive and dangerous than their cousins on the Serengeti, they defy what we thought we knew about big cats. They are larger, more fearsome and more innovative than your typical lion, and of necessity they have learned to hunt places big cats normally avoid.

Trapped on an island only five years old with these giant killers are thousands of cape buffalo, forced to develop their own strategies for survival.

The book is illustrated with 100 amazing photographs of the lions in Botswana’s Duba Plains and their long, lethal relationship with the region’s buffalo. “The back-and-forth interplay between two of Africa’s giants is eternal, harsh, and at the same time quite beautiful and essential,” writes Dereck Joubert, who provided the text for the book. Beverly contributed the 100 vivid, gripping images.

A great read for wildlife photographers and enthusiasts. Truth be told, if I could have my “dream job,” this would be it.

Looking for a children’s book as a last minute stocking stuffer for conservative little Billy this Christmas? Well, here’s a novel idea: Help! Mom! There are Liberals Under My Bed! Yes, it’s a real children’s book apparently aimed at teaching youngsters the value of hard work and the evil of taxes. I’m serious. No, really.

Steve Imbesi, one of my scuba diving buddies, sent me this Christmas poem a year or two ago. It circulates via email around this time every year, usually incorrectly attributed. It’s a wonderful poem by Michael Marks that deserves another read by us all.

A SOLDIER’S CHRISTMAS by Michael Marks

The embers glowed softly and, in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
my daughter beside me, angelic in rest.

Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white
transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree, I believe,
completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.

My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
secure and surrounded by love I would sleep
in perfect contentment, or so it would seem.
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream. …

Continue reading

I‘ve been under a lot of stress these past several months, more than the level I normally carry, and it’s taken its toll on me. One of the bi-products of too much added stress is greater difficulty managing it. As a result, my muscles have become more tense (and stay that way to the point of pain and fatigue), I can’t relax or sleep, and I’ve become my “other” self, the serious, brooding one even I don’t enjoy.

Last evening I was reminded of something Dr. Theodore Rubin once wrote:

“I must learn to love the fool in me — the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled, masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility, and dignity but for my fool.”

Stress is exhausting and deadly. I need to become reacquainted with my inner fool.

The Betrothed

A Poem by Rudyard Kipling

- Breach of Promise Case, Circa 1885 -

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
 For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarrelled about Havanas—we fought o’er a good cheroot,
 And I knew she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a space;
 In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie’s face.

Maggie is pretty to look at—Maggie’s a loving lass,
 But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.

There’s peace in a Larranaga, there’s calm in a Henry Clay;
 But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away—

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown—
 But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o’ the talk o’ the town!

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… that have impressed me and why, and determined that, while I enjoy a wide variety of literature, the works I remember, that leave an indelible mark, have one thing in common, a single ingredient that, at least for me, makes reading them pure joy. It’s an almost melodic play with words, the unique turn of a phrase, that makes me want to stop and bask in the magic, often rereading a passage and marveling that anyone could so eloquently string words.

The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold comes to mind. If you’re looking for a delightful read, beautifully crafted from a unique perspective, I highly recommend it. I won’t go into the story line but you can read it here if you’re interested.

I read an recent article in which Sebold discusses faith as it relates to her ability to get past occasional writer’s block and maintain the discipline required to be a successful writer. Somewhere near the middle I found another example of her “way with words” and wrote it down for periodic inspiration:

“…A difficult lesson, which I fought at every turn, is that what often must substitute for faith is discipline. Faith has a lovely ease about it, an ethereal ring. Discipline is the rod, the staff, your insecurities internalized and spouting rules and limits on your life. Why can’t I just have faith that books will be completed? Why isn’t faith enough? I hear my southern roots respond. Faith doesn’t dig ditches, they say; faith doesn’t scrape the burn from the bottom of the pot. Ultimately, faith gives freedom, and discipline, its sister, makes sure the job gets done. …”

I particularly like the last two sentences.

Her new novel, The Almost Moon, will be published in October. I ‘m looking  forward to another good read.

In The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, the character Arthur Dent says, “This must be Thursday. I could never get the hang of Thursdays”. A few minutes later the planet Earth is destroyed.

Uh oh…

Yesterday wrapped up the month of May for us at the office so the next few days will be somewhat consumed with the work of  “Month End.” Posts may become a little more sporadic these next few days…

So for today’s “Patriot’s Journey” entry, I’m sharing an article excerpted from Zig Ziglar’s Life Lifters (© 2003 Broadman & Holman Publishers, Nashville, Tennessee). I couldn’t possibly have said it more eloquently!

I love America because we are a compassionate land. If there is an earthquake in India or Turkey, Americans are the first there with the most aid. If there is a typhoon in the Philippines, Americans are there first to render aid. If there is a famine in Afghanistan, even as we bombed that land in response to the terrorist attacks, we were also flying in food to the starving. Even before the war started, America gave more aid to Afghanistan than did any other nation. If there is a drought in Africa, floods in Central America, poverty in Haiti or Somalia, or ethnic cleansing in the Balkans, America and Americans are there to help.

We are a haven for asylum seekers from all over the world. Millions of immigrants apply every year to enter our land. Once they become citizens, these immigrants, regardless of where they come from, are four times as likely to become millionaires as are those who are born here. In short, they take advantage of the opportunities America offers. I love America because it’s not where you start that counts.

I love America because despite what some say, historical evidence is absolutely irrefutable that we were founded as a Christian nation, although we have strayed away from those roots…In the early part of the nineteenth century, Alexis de Tocqueville from France said he had seen everything America has to offer, but it wasn’t until he went into the churches that he discovered America’s greatness. His conclusion was that America is great because America is good, and America will be great as long as it is good.

I love America because of what it has permitted me to do and become. I was the tenth of twelve children. My dad died when I was five; my mother had a fifth-grade education. But because of the concern and help so many people have given me throughout my life, I count twenty-six men and women whose photos appear on my “Wall of Gratitude.” Their help, love, and encouragement have enabled me to become successful in my chosen career and in my personal and family life beyond what anyone could reasonably expect.

I love America because of people like Oprah Winfrey, who was born to a single mother, raised in poverty in Mississippi, sexually abused by relatives, gave birth as a young girl, and overcame all of these things to positively influence people all over the world. Mary Kay Ash started her great company on a shoestring and built it on the philosophy that God comes first, family second, and Mary Kay Cosmetics third in the lives of her representatives. Her pink Cadillacs, won by literally thousands of her directors all over the world, are shining lights of opportunity. Mary Crowley founded Home Interiors and Gifts and gave opportunities to countless people through her charitable efforts, literally rescued several Christian colleges, and provided scholarships for thousands of deserving young men and women. These three women have enriched the lives of millions of people and been responsible for billions of dollars in our economy.

I love America because we are a nation of laws.

I love America because a black lady, Rosa Parks, refused to leave her seat in the front of a bus and move to the back with the simple statement, “My feet hurt.” As a result, the boycott in Montgomery, Alabama was on and Martin Luther King’s crusade for civil rights caught fire. When Rosa Parks refused to stand up and move back, an entire people stood up and moved forward – that’s America.

Most of all, I love America because of the freedom she offers. This is not to say that America is perfect. But of all the nations on the face of this earth, this is the one that offers the most opportunity to those who are willing to obey the laws, go to work, and do their best.

Yes, I love America because I can tell a thousand stories of men and women of every race, creed, and color, with every physical handicap you can possibly imagine who have taken the resources they had and, because of their faith, friends, families, and freedom, have accomplished great things and made a difference in the lives of countless other people. Yes, I love America because it truly is the “land of the free and the home of the brave,” the land where any man or woman has an opportunity to do great things, and most of all to enjoy the privilege of freedom.

It really is “America the beautiful,” and I hope you will do your part to help keep her that way.

I‘ve started reading Dinesh D’Souza’s best-selling book What’s So Great About America and find it hard to put down. And before you ask, the title isn’t a question but a statement. “America is the greatest, freest, and most decent society in existence,” writes D’Souza. “American life as it is lived today [is] the best life that our world has to offer.” A central theme seems to be that the freedoms of America offer too much to immigrants, which is why there have been so many. He argues that the success of immigrants historically has been due to their assimilation of American values while keeping their heritage, i.e. the “melting pot”.

This may be his most personal book, with parts written in the first person as India-born D’Souza describes his encounter with the United States, first as an immigrant and now as a citizen. He’s perhaps better at explaining why America’s critics are wrong than explaining why America’s celebrants are right - but he’s very good at both, using a mix of feisty arguments and sharp humor. “I am constantly surprised by how much I hear racism talked about and how little I actually see it” is just one of myriad topics he skillfully filets.

“Only now [following 9/11] are those Americans who grew up during the 1960s coming to appreciate the virtues…of this older, sturdier culture of courage, nobility and sacrifice,” D’Souza writes. “It is this culture that will protect the liberties of all Americans.”

We live in an amazingly  wonderful country, complete with the freedom to help shape, mold and improve her. We are free to complain about those things about her we find less than virtuous and praise those things we find filled with virtue. No other country on earth offers such a challenging opportunity.

“To make us love our country,” Edmund Burke once said, “our country ought to be lovely.” Burke’s point is that we should love our country, not just because it is ours, but also because it is good. America is far from perfect, and there is lots of room for improvement. In spite of its flaws, however, the American life as it is lived today is the best life that our world has to offer. Ultimately, America is worthy of our love and sacrifice because, more than any other society, it makes possible the good life…and the life that is good.

For my “Patriot’s Journey” post today, I’m taking an excerpt from Inga Muscio’s Autobiography of a Blue-Eyed Devil, from the “Eenie, Meenie Miney, Mo, Catch a Cracker by the Toe” chapter. Often criticized for “making things up” and for selectively moderating history to conform to her sometimes extreme views, the author nonetheless expresses, at least in this excerpt, an interesting, provocative and amusing expression of why she loves our country.  Enjoy!

I love America because Malcolm X is from here.

I love America because Malcolm X, Audre Lorde, Paul Robeson, Diamanda Galás, Robin D.G. Kelley, Noam Chomsky, Howard Zinn, Paris, my Grammy, Missy Elliott, Yuri Kochiyama, Oscar the Grouch, Ho Che Anderson, Janeane Garofalo, Cookie Monster, Maxine Waters, Cynthia McKinney, Jan Schakowsky, and Gore Vidal are all from here.

They all grew up in America, just like me.

I love America because it’s where I’ve had Iranian rosewater syrup ice cream and Indian cardamom ginger ice cream too. America feeds me veggie kung pao chicken, rich Ethiopian stews, and Boca Burgers with organic tomato slices, fat and juicy and salt-and-peppered. I love the food of America. It is the best of the whole wide world.

I love America because there are so many voices here. There is Neil Diamond and Talib Kweli. Ann Coulter and Lisa Tiger. Bill Cosby and Louis Farrakhan. Colonel David Hackworth and General Tommy Franks. When I think of all the voices in America, I almost lose consciousness with the breathtaking whirling in my mind.

I love America because each state is a different country and when I am all bundled up in “Minnesota” when it is a bone-numbing forty-six degrees outside, total strangers chide me and tell me to take off my hat, and in “Ohio,” a group of young Amish people told me I was English, and I said, “No, I am Irish and Italian,” and they laughed at my ignorance, because to them, everyone who is non-Amish—including Neil Diamond, Talib Kweli, Ann Coulter, Lisa Tiger, Bill Cosby, Louis Farrakhan, Colonel David Hackworth, and General Tommy Franks—is “English,” and in “New York” it is totally against the law to dance in a bar and you can get in big trouble, and if you tell people in “Louisiana” that you don’t eat meat, they will feel sorry for you and express their sincerest condolences. One of my favorites, I think, is when I am in “Michigan” and if I ask someone where they are from, they will hold up their right hand and point somewhere on it.

I love America because almost everyone I hold dear to my heart and share memories and history with lives here.

I love America because it offered a home to my immigrant mother, gave her a place to raise her children.

I love America because there is a festival here for every conceivable occasion, celebrating the strawberry harvest, the antique motorcycle, the first day the mall opened, the most poised six-year-old girl in a specific geographic region, and the go-cart. There are Greek Orthodox festivals, hippies run amuck festivals, black nationalism hiphop festivals, Sun Dance Warrior festivals, Japanese cherry blossom festivals, lunar new year festivals, gang truce festivals, and Mennonite quilting festivals here in America.

If I did not love America, I would do what the bumper sticker says and leave it in a heartbeat, but I cannot imagine how sad I would be living somewhere that is not America. How could I survive without radical cheerleaders and Dave Chappelle, without loud-mouthed assholes like Howard Stern, without pampered doggies in cashmere sweaters, without Margaret Cho and Alix Olson, without deep plush golden velvet interiored lowriders and flamboyant homos prancing down the street in ball gowns aglow with little white lights in the tulle?

I love America because it describes every aspect of my identity, humanity, and complex ideology.

It is a beautiful place and I am deeply honored to have been born here.

I love America.

Those of you who know me know of my passion for adventure scuba diving and underwater photography/videography. So when I was offered the opportunity a few years ago to deep dive in a small exploration submarine, I jumped in with both feet! I found it exhilarating, educational and will definitely do it again should I get the chance.

The Deep: The Extraordinary Creatures of the Abyss is a new book by Claire Nouvian who was so inspired by what she saw in the deep ocean that she set about raising awareness of all that we don’t know about the estimated 20 million undiscovered species living there. She worked with various research organizations to curate 220 stunning images, many of creatures never before captured on film. 160 of them are published in the book that Sylvia Earle (National Geographic Society) calls “…the most stunningly beautiful book about the sea ever produced.” I can’t wait to get my hands on a copy!