For Father's Day

Groucho Marx once sang a song on television called "Father's Day," by the old tinpan alley man, Harry Ruby. I remember it on the Dick Cavett Show*, but I also recall he sang it on the Tonight Show once too. The Cavett Show rendition was the better of the two, for it had a comic poetry to it, that only Groucho could create – despite the song really being about something a tad ribald. Not Father's Day, but the comedic underline of "I love you dad, even if I might be a bastard."

Now, the song has a secondary punchline concerning my shildhood. No, I'm not a bastard myself... I know that much. But as a Father's Day joke, I found a recording of Groucho singing this song, on an LP – we didn't have the Internet then – and I marked down the lyrics. I drew a cartoon of my Dad, and printed the lyrics on the back of the drawing, folded it, and gave it to him as a Father's Day card. It was one of the few times in my life that I actually made the old man crack a smile – at least a smile in front of me. He really liked it.

It was 1979, and as it turned out, it was the last Father's Day we had him. He passed away less than a year later.

Let me take a paragraph to backtrack... it will help the story. My dad had been a rough-necked athiest all his life. A critical illness caused him to accept conversion, on what would have been his deathbed. His doctors had given him two years to live at most... he was at the finish line. He got up, and lived four more years just to spite them. My dad dove into the church with the same hard-edged tenacity that he'd practiced as a non-believer, but he still did things his own stubborn way, which sometimes made my Mother's eyes roll, and the minister's brow tremble, even though they knew his intentions were in the name of his own calloused-handed attempt at saintliness.

Well, here's the punchline. Bringing us back to Groucho, and the song "Father's Day." My dad liked that joke card so much... during that morning's Sunday service, he got up, asked the minister if he could take the podium, and perching his drug-store generic reading specs on his bumpy old nose like a professor, read those lyrics to the entire congregation.

As my dad, beaming with delight, stepped down, folding my Father's Day card to put it in his pocket, I saw that the lyrics' double meaning wasn't lost on the minister, who stared a hole in me from across the house. I tried to make my expression "I didn't know he'd get up and PREACH IT."

I love you, Dad.

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*Click the blog title to watch the Cavett Show clip.

Pondering randomly upon a Saturday in June

At the bank, at the teller's window next to the one where I stood (are they still called "tellers"?) was a category of person I've noticed a number of times, the Disenfranchised Philosopher. A person who looks exactly like the life he or she leads: disheveledly marching to a distant drum just a beat out of sync with all the other distant drums... a walking solo act... who never speaks but to expound... and whose only topic is inevitably an update on his or her Personal Epic. In epically worded terms. Explained downward.

"Hello... I'm presently searching, along with thirty million others. I'm wading through unfortunate circumstances in the quest for solvency..."

I think he actually just needed to transfer fifty bucks from savings to checking. But why couch his need so mundanely? I agree! Don't let a week-unwashed plaid shirt and grungy cross-trainers lead anyone to believe they see a mere pedestrian before them! Excelsior... snurfff...

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Technology has served one other purpose – to create a whole new higher level of idiot.

A lot is said about the benefits of a sunny day, both emotionally and physically, but a rainy day that is brisk and silvery – as opposed to grey – offers its own brand of beauty and mellow inner reward.

Sitting at home, I think I should get outside and walk, and enjoy the exercise and pleasant freedom. When I do, however, I think I'd rather be at home in my easychair enjoying the downtime and pleasant freedom.

I'm constantly amazed that there are still people who go online, and behave as though the rest of the Internet doesn't exist. "Hey has anyone seen that video of the talking dog that everyone's talking about online? How can I see it??"

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A DREAM FROM 2002

I was a major league baseball pitcher – and I was good. During a game, this loudmouth came up to bat, who thought he'd get me to crack under enough verbal abuse. But he hardly got to put that theory to test, because I had him figured out and beaned him on the first pitch, hard, in the knee. Split his kneecap. He crumpled to the ground in screaming agony – for all intent and purpose innocent, for I had not given him opportunity to provoke what I'd dealt him in preemptive fashion. I walked over, grabbed his bat from the ground and tossed it into the outfield. Then I flipped his team off. The dugouts emptied.

Sound barrier, 1969!: The Apocalypse Begins!

Overheard today:

A rather fetching little siren in tank-top, shorts and way-too-big headphones, chatting up a wifi-laptop dude at the coffeeshop this morning: "See, like my vocabulary is like, awesome, but, you know..."

Methman tweaking at alternate coffeeshop, later same morning, out loud to himself: "If you wanna bring up electroshock... I'm down with that."

ULTIMATE NON-SEQUITUR OF THE YEAR AWARD:
An even stranger, more eccentric old loner than myself, traveling with his world-in-one-backpack, his beanie pulled low over his forehead... completing a journey to the other side of the crosswalk: "Sound barrier, 1969!"

These are certain signs of The Apocalypse, no?

CHURCH LETS OUT

The coffeeshop I frequent was more interesting than usual this Saturday. Lots of young people, formally dressed, marched through casually and kept the baristas from getting bored. The young men all had on ties and expensive shoes. The ladies wore... is this where church-formal has gone? I gotta start attending again. I think I rediscovered how much I love legs. Though I'm sure there were mace-misters attached to each set of swaying hips. At least this dirty old man can fain harmlessness, seated at a far-off table, hugging a coffee mug. There was a run on choco-lattés and espressos – that's what I seemed to hear repeated with every register-ring. I guess the minister had ended the sermon early, so everyone could get home in time for the Big "R," and they were starting their last day on Earth by getting their gourmet caffeine freak on. If the way those parishionettes were dressed was any clue, I'd say there's some serious after-church commandment-breakin' taking place about now. Damn.

Enraptured

There aren't very many days left – less than a week, as I write this. This Saturday, May 21, 2011... 6:00 p.m. on the dot, yet. The Rapture.

Harold Camping, Presbyterian minister, broadcaster, media CEO and degreed engineer, says so. He's read the Bible cover to cover... several times, worked out the math on his calculator... several times, and has leveled his prediction of the exact time of The End. Several times.

First, whether you are a believer or not, there's something you need to hear. He does not speak for all of Christendom, just his little fanatical corner of it. In fact, there's another key figure in Christianity, that you may have heard of, who disagrees with Harold... Jesus Christ.

Saint Matthew records Him saying, "But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven." You can keep reading right up to the last page – He never adds "... except Harold Camping."

Camping's self-styled exemption to Christ's proclamation, is courtesy of his engineering degree. He's the guy who took a slide-rule and, durn it, finally ran the numbers – or at least his own wacked interpretation of them. And even Bible scholars who've based their careers on studies of the main prophetic books – Jeremiah, Daniel, Revelation, et al, are a little unsure where Camping got his numbers from. He may say it's the Bible, but... they don't just mismatch slightly, they swing wider out of sync than a poorly dubbed Godzilla movie.

Without going into Harold Histrionics, suffice it to say that he has made a cottage industry over the years of riding the evangelical merry-go-round and grabbing for the brass ring of the Apocalypse.

When it didn't happen in 1988, as Camping promised, he just shrugged, "whoops, I meant 1989." After 1989 came and went with no Rapture, he reset his watch yet again, always simply claiming "I miscounted... sorry. But next time, for sure!"

Some, astonishingly, never held his feet to the fire regarding any of his loose-cannon apostasies.

He has never, to my knowledge, apologized to the throngs of loyal followers who took him at his provenly fallible word, going as far as to gather in their Sunday formals on each of the appointed "end dates" and patiently stand by for the clouds to part on schedule.

If anyone has seriously studied the actual timeline of "Endtime" prophecy, as presented in the Bible, even a non-believing neophyte can see the disservice Camping has perpetrated – devoutly – upon the rest of Christianity; the millions leading lives of humble ardor and fidelity... some waging silent, noble battle against their inner demons in the endeavor... to follow the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ.

And remember, the Endtime officially began after Christ's ascension, according to Paul. So we've been at the precipice for 2,000+ years now. Perhaps that's a little too open-ended an answer for some. But Jesus warned it would come when it is least expected – when everyone was over-confident that it was just a fairy-tale.

Perhaps to militant-level atheists we look foolish anyway, but Camping is proactively adding a tangible layer of validation to that image with his cockeyed zealotry. Or oily charlatanism, if it's that.

To understand the basic flaw of Camping's claims, it pays to be aware of a few things.

1. The Rapture, and Christ's Second Coming, are not the same event.

The Bible clearly does not indicate that Jesus even makes an Earthly appearance at the Rapture. In fact, the Bible doesn't even refer to it as "The Rapture," which is merely a celebrant nickname bestowed upon it by 19th and 20th century religionists. The primary Bible passage referred to, is in the Book of Thessalonians, which describes a future occurrence that – sorry, I won't sugar-coat it for fence-straddlers and doubters – reads like the world's remaining true believers in Christ being swept up in the blink of an eye, just prior to The Tribulation.

Would it really happen like that? What about some Christian piloting an airliner? Are his atheist and agnostic passengers suddenly on their own, trying to land the plane without him? What about the animals of Christian pet owners? Are they stuck locked in a house with stale water and an empty food dish? Lots of nit-picky technical questions hang like barnacles onto the Rapture's "beam-me-up-God" narrative.

Is the Rapture a physical, spiritual or merely symbolic "departure?" Does it happen in a heart-beat? The Bible says the raptured will be "transformed" in the twinkle of an eye. The Book claims, to paraphrase: We shall not all sleep, but will all be changed. The original word means "caught up," or taken away. A quick cut to the chase, as God decides He is no longer patient to sit back and wait for every last believer to grow old, die off and complete the attendance list for the Big Reunion.

An escalation of an itinerary.

Some atheistic folks have once again offered to, magnanimously, adopt all the doggies, kittahs and birdies left behind to fend for themselves after all the Christians selfishly rapture off the planet. It's an attempt to inject an element of indictment into people for certain beliefs that may be more subconsciously self-serving than spiritual.

It's nice to know the "innocent" will find shelter after all the dispassionate religious jerks ethereally jump ship.

But a person who dies leaves their loved ones to carry-on whether prepared or not. Death is part of life's way. Orphans happen. The counter-logic is just as inconvenient, to assume your survivors are completely lost without you is too the epitome of selfism. So which evil is lesser?

Should the Rapture come about, it would only serve to guarantee what is foretold to follow it. If so, it seems a kibble shortage will be the least of Lucky's problems.

2. Camping ignores the elements of the end-scenario that Jesus and the other Biblical Prophets emphasized.

According to Camping, his earlier 1988 marker wasn't the Rapture after all, but simply the opening note of the Tribulation, which has now lasted 23 years...

The Reader's Digest version of The End: The Rapture is the event that signals the commencement of The Tribulation (mankind's darkest hour, which no historian can doubt we've had many many dress-rehearsals for, over the past few decades). The Tribulation lasts approximately seven years, during which one particular world leader – with amazing magnetism, charisma and apparent acumen – graduates to prominence; the guy who may just have the ultimate answer, the "way out" of humanity's expanding quagmire.

Finally, at the 3.5-year mark, he acknowledges that he is indeed The Chosen One spoken of within the algorithm of all the world's belief systems, including even perhaps the secular Sion that atheists have indirectly suspected was due to appear, somehow. He makes it official by ensconcing himself in the newly built Temple, with its restored rituals of Mosaic Law (after the Rapture, you'll still have the Jews, Catholics and Muslims to put up with), which he suspends, in favor of having everyone aim their new age of enlightened "worship" at himself.

He wins over the staunchest non-believers with miracles that seem to mirror those of Jesus in the first century, including, the Bible says, The Resurrection. Even the Nihilists find it difficult to smirk after that neat trick. Will he really perform these wonders, or have unseen help? What epic-cool stuff did your favorite superhero do in that last movie?

The Bible indicates that the entire planet will be able to witness it all – something physically impossible when that prophecy was written. How many cable channels do you have?

In short, the 7-Year Tribulation doesn't kick-start until after The Rapture... not linger for 23 beforehand, as Camping claims is currently underway.

If The Rapture is The Rapture, that is. Some believe you'll be stuck with us through even The Tribulation – wow, you'll really hate it, then.

And no, The Guy won't ever come out and call himself "The Antichrist." Nothing is that simple.

But Jesus, the Christ-Christ, said that when you see all these things in place – though progressive and heroic they may appear, as opposed to dour or doomsday-ish... bada-bing. You missed The Rapture. You're in the Eye of the Tribulation. The blissful societal awakening is about to turn ugly, in a way that "suddenly" just doesn't quite parcel.

3. Finally, Jesus said the actual "End" would not be pre-announced in TV Guide; the very act which Harold Camping has been trying to excel at repeatedly.

When His disciples asked Him how anyone could possibly spot the Beginning of the End, He said the only clue would be the same that pre-flood folks got. "But as the days of Noah were, so also will the coming of the Son of Man be."

He's not talking about any rapture there, but the actual Second Coming. A completely different ballgame. Everyone carried on as usual, assured that the only one still believing in an "End of the World" was some kook building a big boat out in the desert.

Maybe it's a tad unnerving that Harold Camping sounds a bit like a modern-day Noah, in that light. He plans to float away while the rest of the world parties toward oblivion. But Camping isn't building an ark, he's shoring up his media branding. He's making himself, and his distracted ministry, a top search-engine term on Google. Nothing more. Nothing. More.

Sad part is, there are still alarming numbers of otherwise well-meaning, good-natured, reasonably intelligent people buying into it. No one rises in the morning with the deliberate idea of "I think I'll surrender my awareness to a cult leader today," but it happens. Ask Manson's loyal, Jim Jones's... Hitler's.

As you ramp up your mock-o-meter to eleven this weekend, and in your mind, box the rest of us Christians in with the Camping Camp as targets of your scorn, please ponder this: What has our society become, that some people might consider their only hope of escape to be a mystical occurrence they can neither fully understand nor explain, much less justify beyond potential cultural ridicule?

As a Christian, I sincerely hope that this Saturday serves as a new enlightenment for Camping's congregation – that they will come away from this empty exercise – from being "owned" again, with a fresh look at themselves. Whether they remain Christians with a new outlook, choose another path or decide to abandon the journey all together, at least it will be a birth of self-honesty within them. I would hope they realize they didn't see Christ in Harold Camping, but another opportunist claiming Christ's divine authority – just as Jesus said they would crop up more and more, as time drew near.

Lastly, my hope, and prayer, is for Camping himself. Will this be the splash that sobers you up, Harold? The drop of cologne in that razor cut on the cheek of your soul?

You are a man of intellect and calculation, Mr. Camping. Both descriptives are usually preceded by the same adjective: "cold."

Ultimately, religious people living just for The Rapture may be akin to anyone who, say, dreams of finding a mysterious suitcase on the beach, filled with $1,000 bills. All of their problems and frustrations wiped away, instantly, and without any government paperwork. You don't have to be religious to harbor that far-off hope.

But even a misplaced satchel of dirty loot comes with a list of built-in difficulties if you overthink it. You couldn't just walk into the bank with that suitcase and make an anonymous deposit, without setting off a few security bells and whistles. Or at least branding yourself. The downside of winning the Lotto is that you give up your hiding place, to claim it.

Christians are not called to twiddle their thumbs, watch QVC, have a Slurpee, and wait for The Rapture as some kind of vindictive "Gotcha" moment for the rest of the world. We are to remain diligent in our faith, until our final reward, whether it really is to participate in some incredible worldwide transformation, or simply take the Big Nap, and wait it out like everyone else throughout history.

Jesus condensed the Ten Commandments into One Big One: Love one another. Do that One, and the original Big Ten seem to fall into place anyway. And that's the real story of The End. If it takes one more weekend, or 2,000 more years, it will all fall into place exactly how it is supposed to. All pilotless airliners and housebound cats not withstanding.

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Post-Doomsday Update...

Harold Camping's only real miscalculation may have been his own longevity.

When he first named May 21, 2011 as the new "End," it was the mid-90s, and Camping was already in his mid-70s, agewise. He probably reasoned that that was long enough to keep his followers financing his ministry, and him, until the end of his life. He didn't figure he'd live long enough to have to live it down.

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Funny how the more you ponder something, the more nefarious it can become. Is Harold Camping evil? Probably not in a Darth Vader sort'a way. But his intentions are assuredly self-centered, and his regard for third-party consequences, small.

Think about this: Camping never cared whether or not his prediction materialized. May 21st, 2011 was the date his accountatnt told him he'd have enough cash to retire, thanks to his congregation of loyal donators. Could it be that simple?

Random May, or May Not

I was sitting in a coffeeshop, next to two tables full of people speaking in various languages other than English. Each table sported a hand-written, block-lettered sign, designating which language was to be spoken by that particular gathering. The one closest to me read, "FRANCAIS." So it was a little disconcerting to see the individual leading the discourse at that table to be barking in German. The others stared apprehensively. Someone had become very upset at this otherwise amicable bi-lingual encounter group.

At the next table, the sign read, "ESPAÑOL." At least there they were speaking in the tongue that coincided with their sign. Then a new participant showed up; a woman blinged out beyond comprehension, with big hair and long nails, who greeted everyone in an awkward attempt at Spanish, with her volume knob turned to eleven. To make herself just a tad more insufferable, she liked to accompany her topic points with rhythmic clapping of her metal-bedecked fingers. "Mu-cho-gu-STO!" Whack-whack-whack-whack.

So we had Mega-Lung Bling-a-trix at the Spanish table, and Hermann Goering having a bunker meltdown at the French table. I sipped my coffee as inconspicuously as I imagined possible.

Then something remarkable began to happen... one by one, the non-talkers began to excuse themselves. In about twenty minutes, both squeaky wheels were down to one conversational partner at their respective tables. The loudmouth knocked it down to a respectable decibel level, and began speaking English. Meanwhile, the angry Teuton likewise reverted to The King's, and seemed a degree saner. And both seemed to default to the same topic – the colleges they'd attended, the countries they'd visited, and the advanced degrees they were hoping to earn.

The people who'd begged out of the conversations, were the native speakers of each language, who'd politely indicated they'd had enough.

Never have Americans with advanced educations made this college dropout feel so hopeless. The big-hair lady glanced at me, then smiled. I pretended I was deaf.

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DAMN POETRY CORNER

I had an old dog dumber'n crap
Way too big to get up in my lap
Sniffed on my face when I took a nap
Dang old ugly mutt

When he was a pup I named him Blue
A question-mark stare and breath like glue
His hobby was makin' piles o' poo
Dang old ugly mutt

He died and I dug a garden plot
'Neath his old favorite shady spot
You should see now all the flowers he's got
Dang old ugly mutt

When I move on to my home in the skies
Won't be quite Heaven no matter how it tries
Unless I'm greeted by those vacant brown eyes...
Dang old ugly mutt

April Quickies... Not What You're Thinking

Overheard recently – you supply the context:

"She really likes karaoke, so let's not go there."

"No honey, walking behind you is an endless parade of joy."

"You could go in there, drop a pennie, and fart, and it wouldn't matter."

"It's not like you wanna bite the head off."

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TMI + Vaudeville:

Powder blue, XL too,
Caught some accidental poo –
Some dumpster diver gets my drawers!

Can't go play, it's laundry day,
These doo-doo undies cannot stay –
Some dumpster diver gets my drawers!

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Only a tattoo-sleeved war vet in a wheelchair can get away with saying at Denny's:

"How does a one-eyed turd sniper with false teeth and three toes missing go about getting an order of bacon & pancakes from one of you clap-magnets?"

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From the Banana Split Room high atop the fine Hotel Crystal, it's Red Cherry and his Rainbow Sprinkles, whipping up the cream of yesterday's hits – sweet music with taste! Featuring the treacly vocals of Miss Vanilla Scoops, and laying it on thick is the 'Old Ladler' himself, Sir Upchoc O'Latt! Also singing second layer is Cara Mell, and Pia Nutz!

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It took me 45 years to realize I'm nobody, and the world was dropping hints all along!

You just realized you're an aloof over-acheiver? Well, now you've GONE and DONE IT!

No, You're Not Just Like The Rest Of Us, Mr./Ms. Politician...

Just like the rest of us, huh?

You have guaranteed travel accommodations, that we pay for. We have self-funded travel that we must budget, or even severely limit in order to make our finances stretch the month.

Your paycheck and personal security are locked in for a definite time period, regardless of what the economy does.

You have stipends and monetary allowances above and beyond your salary for additional mundane expenses. We must make one monthly sum suffice for every expenditure that arrises.

You can intentionally abstain from your job without being docked pay, much less dismissed for non-attendance.

You don't have an Employee Union because you don't need one; your "employee rights" and huge benefits are guaranteed, and irrevocable, and should you come under scrutiny for abusing them, you have a guaranteed opportunity to address matters publicly in a national forum, and then vote on them too.

You're paid to argue: to speak out and act on agendas based on your philosophies and opinions – that you can safely claim reflect the views of those who elected you. We form our opinions based on the potential consequences of your actions, speak and argue them in public at risk of alienation or even reprisal, and have to make our living doing something else perhaps unrelated, even possibly contrary to our hopes and ideals.

If your "views" parrot those of middle-management (The House Speaker or Majority Chair) you are granted unspoken permission to bend the company rules, to sabotage accomplishment.

We get the opportunity to affect your future once every two, four or six years. You get to affect our future every day.

You can vote yourself a raise, not just when you need one, but when you think it would be nice – regardless of the cost of living.

You have large, sometimes non-gratis volunteer, staffs to help you accomplish daily mundane tasks.

You have access to networks of contacts to aid you in securing your future once your employment has been terminated, in case you aren't set for life via the diligent efforts of action committees working in your best interests.

You can exempt yourself from the laws you mandate upon the rest of us.

You are given waivers, sometimes mysteriously so, from the so-called "beneficial" government programs you shill.

You get away with accumulating massive debt, then pass the burden onto a non-blood related successor. We're stuck with ours, to the grave if we can't even the balance. Then it's our children's problem.

Corporations seek out mutually beneficial relationships with you. We get sent to collections.

You enjoy guaranteed deferment from any type of duty that would place you in personal danger.

You can successfully argue that your responsibilities are merely symbolic.

The press allows you a broad forum whenever you want to speak out on something that concerns you, and proactively seeks out your opinions on current affairs. And you are taken seriously, no matter how disconnected from reality your views are.

You're the one making our country a hated enemy among the nations, and a laughing stock among their leaders. We're the ones getting shot at.