Page 150: When Your Church is Wrong about Right and Wrong

In 1633, in order to avoid being burnt at the stake, 70 year old Galileo was forced to recant his teaching of the Copernican idea of the earth revolving around the sun. Galileo lived his final years under house arrest, because his view "went against the literal reading of the Bible." As Cardinal Bellarmine said in 1633,

"But to affirm that... the Earth revolves very swiftly around the Sun is a dangerous thing... injuring our holy faith and making the sacred scriptures false." -- Robert Bellarmine, 1633, Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church & a leading Vatican theologian of the 17th century

Almost 400 years later in 1992, Pope John Paul II publicly and graciously acknowledged that the Church had erred. John Paul said the theologians who condemned Galileo did not recognize the formal distinction between the Bible and its interpretation.

There are many other examples where the church used the "literal" interpretation of the Christian Bible in ways we readily see as immoral and wrong today. Much of Christianity opposed medical treatment in the 1600's and 1700's as "against the will of God." Doctors were severely punished if they attempted to lessen a woman's pain in childbirth, since according to a literal reading of Genesis 3:16, such pain was a punishment upon Eve from God.

Mainstream Christianity supported slavery in the 1800's, because numerous places in the Bible endorse and affirm slavery. The Southern Baptist organization itself was formed over the issue of slavery, with the Southern Baptists breaking away to loudly proclaim that slavery was the will of God.

Much of Christianity opposed the right of women to vote in the early 1900's, because both Old and New Testaments are clear in saying that women should be subservient to men. And in recent times, much of Evangelical Christianity including the famed pastor of the First Baptist Church of Dallas, W.A. Criswell, opposed ending segregation in the 1950's because "it went against scripture."

In the time of Jesus, no one talked of reading scripture literally. Jesus and the rabbis of the first century were intent on understanding the meaning of their scripture. Literal readings of scripture -- as Jesus of Nazareth repeatedly tried to show the piously religious of his day -- cannot be used for simple and broad moral judgments. Moral judgments must stand up to scrutiny, to judgment and reason. The guidance and wisdom in the Bible must be carefully considered as a whole before doing something so brash as condemning an entire segment of society, such as women, blacks, or homosexuals -- or non-Christians, or anybody else.

Very few Christians of any group today would believe or agree that medical treatment is wrong, that doctors should be punished for giving anesthesia, that human beings should be owned as property, that women should be second class citizens, or that blacks should drink out of separate water fountains. Or, for that matter, that the sun revolves around the earth. But this WAS the position of the a large part of the devoutly religious of their day. Today, we pretty much take collective offense at such obvious moral misjudgments. What I am telling you is, this "gay is a sin" issue is exactly the same thing. And in a generation, those leaders stamping their feet about it as a "moral issue" will be looked upon like the racial bigots of the 1950's. "The Word of the Lord Never Changes," the popular saying goes.  But for anyone with thinking going on in their head, they can quickly understand that the INTERPRETATION of the Bible HAS changed in major ways over time. Our Evangelical friends who find slavery repugnant and who happily under support women voting are living proof. 

Like millions of other progressive Christians, I believe that the Evangelical churches are making a tremendous moral mistake on today's red hot moral issue of homosexuality, which is of course "against their interpretation of the Bible."  The arguments they employ -- that homosexuality is against the way of God, against nature, and against the Bible -- are identical to the arguments used in the 19th century in the defense of slavery. But what of the few passages that appear to condemn homosexuality in the Bible? 

Well, what of the passages that endorse slavery? What about the passages that dictate that women cannot speak in church? The New Testament is quite clear that "women are to remain silent in the churches." (1 Cor. 14:33-36, among other passages). There are hundreds of other Biblical passages that "literally" tell women to not fix their hair, wear jewels; that allow men to sell their daughters into slavery, that tell you to cut off your hand, handle snakes, and a host of other things. Literal reading of scripture quickly takes Christianity to a nonsensical place. The folks using the Bible so simply are also highly selective. Piece parts are picked out to support specific views while other parts are blatantly ignored. Some parts of the Old Testament Law are claimed to be "God's Truth" while most of it is overlooked. Select verses from the New Testament are often used to support a particular view while many other pieces are ignored. The great irony of folks who are most worried about taking the Bible literally is that they really don't take it literally at all. This is "cafeteria style" Biblical interpretation, where you pick and choose what you want. And in looking for literal truths, you completely miss the point of the message: Jesus taught Love and acceptance. For the literal-minded that need such training wheels, it can be a tremendous stretch to see the forest for the trees.

On the moral issue of homosexuality, using the Bible, there is a compelling case to be made there there is nothing sinful about homosexuality, no more so than eating shellfish and wearing cotton/poly blends (all listed as "abominations" in the Bible.) The teachers of Jesus are pretty clear. He was once asked what the greatest commandment was. He gave the same answer Rabbi Hillel had given.  "Love your neighbor as yourself."  What what Jesus do? He would affirm people loving each other, and we should affirm the rights of gays in our society to commit and love each other.  But like the folks passionately defending the earth as the center of the solar system, punishing doctors who would help a woman's pain in childbirth, fervently arguing that slavery was endorsed by God, doing everything in their power to keep women from voting and blacks drinking from separate fountains and having their children go to separate schools, there are so many well-intentioned folks advancing bigotry toward homosexuals -- "because of the Bible" -- that it almost makes one think that we never learn from the past.

Like the issues of the earth revolving around the sun, modern medicine, slavery, women's rights, and segregation, the issue of the morality of homosexuality will ultimately be a lost cause for the judgmental. In the meantime, Christians should look to history to learn that "right and wrong" has changed across the generations, and that their church's "wrong" of today may well be the historical bigotry of tomorrow.

Page 149: SAMSON'ed -- Slain by the Jawbones of Asses (at 38,000 Feet)

Help from 38,000 feet.  I am in the middle of an absolute Freak Show Circus, and it's become less and less clear if I am on the outside or inside of the cage.

It started out so simple, a Monday night flight from Dallas to Boston.

There I was, sitting in 20A, and right behind me in row 21, in a sure sign of the 2012 Apocalypse, it finally happened. Talking Head Tom, that dreaded traveler who cannot shut his mouth on a flight, sat down next to Blabbermouth Betty, who can talk your brain into a mushpot in mere seconds, and it was a Match.com made in Heav'n.  The fact that he was about 25 and she was about 75 made no difference. They both loved to prattle so much and so loudly, they weren't about to let something like chemistry get in the way of the ultimate yackfest.  There was a boat on the cover of the in-flight magazine, and Betty was practically bursting at the seams to start a conversation. "Oh, look at that BOAT!" she exclaimed. "I just love to see boats.  They just always look so FUN and-"

"I have a boat!" Talking Head Tom interrupted excitedly. "It's a 2004 SkiMan Craftathon Deluxe, in blue -- with the optional fins and a kayak hook and a -"

"I rode in a kayak once!" Better squealed. "Well, I think it was a canoe.  It was on a river, and…! And…! And, and… and!"  She finally took a breath and that was Talking Head Tom's cue to butt in - "My favorite river is one in North Carolina!  So last summer..."   Ohhh, no.  No, no, no.   The volume level was set to just above "jackhammer."

Meanwhile, across the aisle to my right in 20C, The Junkman was getting busy.  I refer to him as "The Junkman" because he was apparently having Junk Problems, as in, problems with his junk, and the only thing that could possibly fix it was frantic scratching, poking, and general rustling around his mid-section.  Unfortunately, all the pawing had caught the attention of my seat partner in 20B, Buddy Seeker, the ultimate seat partner horror who was on high alert patrolling for a new best friend on the flight.  His plans included talking incessantly for the entire flight, prominently projecting his rancid smoker's breath.  "Well, what do you think?" he asked toothily.  I smiled and give him a thumbs-up, briefly thinking of answering in sign language as a diversion.  I realized it was going to be a long, long flight.  But at least, the people in front of me seemed normal. 

Don't get me wrong.  I enjoy talking to people on flights.   In moderation, like all healthy things in life.

The flight attendant walked by, and Buddy literally grabbed his arm. "SCUSE' ME," he rasped in a voice that was reminiscent of Herman Munster, if Herman Munster had smoked a couple cartons of Pal Mal's a day, "IS THERE WI-FI ON THIS FLIGHT?"

"Uh, I don't-" the flight attendant said.

"OKAY.  NOW --  DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE MOVIE IS?  IS THERE A MOVIE?  DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS?"

"Sir, I'll find out for you," the flight attendant said, scurrying away and down the aisle like a moth fleeing a spider.  Me, I was all caught up in the web, right there, sitting next to the man.   All web, but no Wi-Fi.  I couldn't go for my earphones and music because we were still on the ground. 

Ah ha, I thought.  I'll feign sleep.  Please understand, you couldn't put me to sleep on a plane takeoff with Cat Tranquilizer, but I can fake it like the dickens.  Buddy started staring at me, itching for conversation, as my eyes slowly fluttered shut.  "Think, krs, THINK!  You need a sound effect."  I decided to pick one of my "scchhhFCHH" mini-snorts, which I felt sure would be convincing that I had taken a sharp right down Ambien Boulevard.   But Buddy was watching, and he had the perfect antidote for Takeoff Nap.

"DO YOU KNOW HOW FAR THE AIRPORT IS AWAY FROM THE CITY OF DALLAS?" Buddy blasted, and my eyes flew open like goosed window shades.  Behind me, Blabbs and Talking Head were exchanging excited monologues about their favorite pool toys (I am not making this up), having clearly died and gone to Chatterbox Heaven.  I blinked my eyes and gently shook my head at Buddy with a perplexed look, and the fact that I lived in Dallas for over a decade didn't dare escape my mouth.

Flight Attendant Richard returned.  "The movie is, The Muppet Movie," he announced.

"OH MY GAAAAAAWD," Buddy moaned in a raspy, smoker's contra-bass horror.  "THAT WAS THE MOVIE YESTERDAY.  PLEASE SOMEBODY, STICK STEEL SPIKES IN MY EYES!"  No, no, I think.  If there were any on the plane, I wanted them so that I could stab them into my ears.  Repeatedly.  I resume my faux-nap and the plane stretched into the air.  While riveted with Blabbs and Talking Head's conversation, which had now drifted downstream to ocean craft and the salt worthiness of different boats, I could feel Buddy's piercing gaze, just waiting for one of my eyelids to squeak open so that he could make his move.   Suddenly, he gave up on me, and -- I swear to the Universe I am not making this up -- he turned around and started talking to the row across the aisle behind us.   Just then, it was then "safe to use portable electronic devices!"   Wholly Fully Grown Sweet Bejeezuz.

I flew out of my "sleep" and grabbed my tablet, put on my headphones, and turned on my music in a desperate plea for escape.  As everyone knows, MP3 players and headphones are impervious to even the most severe of bores on a flight. Channeling Princess Leia:  "Help me, Obi Wan Gavin DeGraw.  You're my only hope!"  Gavin started rocking, and the din drowned out.  I was sure that Blabs & Tom were talking about water on Mars at that point, having exhausted and evaporated every other water topic on Earth.

This story has a happy ending.  I fell asleep, and when I woke up about 30 minutes from BAWstin, Buddy, Talking Head, and Blabs were all sawing logs, with visions of their Blabberfests dancing in their heads.  Me?  I escaped, and the only thing I lost was my sanity.  Well.  I wasn't using it that much anyway.

Page 148: NOW, Just in Time

When I was a child, the only moment I ever paid attention to was the one I was in...I was eight years old for a lifetime. I was nine years old for a lifetime. I turned ten, and that year lasted a lifetime, too.

But to be a parent is to live in the past-present-future all at once. It is to hug your children and be intensely aware of how much smaller they felt last year. When I hear people say that time moves faster as you get older, I think they have it wrong. It's not that time moves any faster; it's that it collapses altogether.

-- Dr. Youngme Moon, Harvard Business School, Different: Escaping the Competitive Herd

One of the most valuable lessons I ever learned came from Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now. In it, he skillfully articulates the dangers of living in the past - thinking about it, longing for it, or regretting it - as well as the folly of living for the future: worrying about it, fearing it, or just obsessing over it. If you want to maximize your happiness, Tolle argues, "live in the now." The thought is profound. The notion is very close to a foundational thought from Buddhism, that most human worry, or "suffering" as articulated there, comes from our tendency to want to hold on to the present, to make it last. We don't want things to change and experience worry and fear about the future and the changes it might bring.

But change is inevitable. As the Greek philosopher Heraclitus said, "you can never step in the same river twice." The water flowing in the river is constantly moving, swirling, and changing.

Thirty years ago, Philip Brickman studied lottery winners and happiness. He found that while winners were elated at first, afterwards they were no happier than they had been prior to winning. Brickman coined the phrase "hedonistic treadmill" to describe our tendency to set new baselines in life. We humans have a remarkable ability to feel entitled today to what we were so excited about and thankful for yesterday.


What I make out of it is this:

Visit the past to remember valuable lessons and great memories. Don't obsess about the past or it will own you and your future.  Plan for the future, but never obsess over it. To do so wastes valuable time in the now. You'll live so many days worrying about the future, you'll sacrifice the present.

Embrace the inevitable change in life. Kids grow up. Parents age. Find the beauty in the Now and when you let go of anxieties about Past & Future, the Now becomes a much brighter, happier place. Live each day finding the good things in life that over-shadow the bad. The light side of life is always brighter. Always.


I had the pleasure of hearing Don Miguel Ruiz when he was in Austin a couple of years ago. Don is the bestselling author of the The Four Agreements and a modern day philosopher descended from a centuries-old line of ancient Toltec shamans. He is respected around the world as a thinker and modern day mystic philosopher. He said it best:

“Life is like dancing. If we have a big floor, many people will dance. Some will get angry when the rhythm changes. But life is changing all the time... The best path to happiness is learning to change as rapidly as life does."

Page 147: Gettin' Back on the Horse

Well, I haven't been in the blogosphere in many moons. It's like getting back on the horse, krs. Just start writing again! Just step back up into the saddle and -

With "Spot," age 5, 1968

Cowpokes. I grew up on a horse.  Literally been knocked down off a horse on many occasions, by everything from tree branches to the horse itself. In the 6th grade, I was riding a 2 year old spirited filly named Sandy. My dad asked me what I thought about my new cap. "Love it," I said, taking the cap off and waving it for effect. Bad idea. As it turns out, Sandy didn't really like caps being waved above her head -- in fact, Sandy thought that a cap being waved around her head was tantamount to attacking marauders, so microseconds later I found myself airborne, flying through the atmosphere toward my landing pad: a rusty galvanized aluminum watering trough atop a thick pile of corral dirt. As they say where I am from, it "knocked the wind out of me" and for what seemed like life and death seconds that turned into minutes, I was sure I was going to die from suffocation as I struggled to get my breath back. Despite the ample blood and scrapes, nothing was permanently broken. "Doc said I was gonna live."

As my dad tells the story, "Kirk was done with horses after that." My illustrious cowboy career was officially ended, and it was only 1975. I was still an 11 year old kid growing up out in the country in the hills of Central Texas, but I had gotten off that horse the hard way, and to quote my dad, "he never got back on one."

July 1971 -- the horse's name escapes me

But actually, I did. It wasn't that I was scared to get back on a horse. I was just completely disinterested, as the the cowboy life was never my thing -- I was into my telescope, chemistry set, electronics, and books, sort of a country spun original geek. But I DID get back on a horse, and actually do love horses and wish I owned one. When no one is looking when I am at my parents, I go back and hang with the horses, just like the old times. I didn't grow up around other kids; we were in the ranchlands. But I did get to spent a lot of time with these magnificent animals when I was a kid, and to me horses are the most "human" of all animals -- I think they are amazing. So intelligent, so much more so than dogs or cats, and each has such such a distinct personality. I'll own one again someday, but please don't tell my dad. He is a very youthful 70, but if he knew this, such a level of laughter at any age is dangerous and he might die laughing. 

So, this writing business is a lot like that. I haven't been writing for a while, simply because I had nothing to say; there was just no reason to get back in the saddle. I've spent much of the past year thinking instead of talking, about Life and what it all means and where I'm headed. Plus, it's discouraging; everyone is all riled up these days about things like politics and religion. Not me. Silly wabbits. Don't you know that all that angst, whatever fence or side of the fence you straddle, is far from healthy and way beyond your control? You can't even convince your closest non-like minded friends you are right and they are wrong. Why in the world would you expand valuable time and energy railing on these topics? As I like to say, "all that venom is not lengthening your life."

If you are the kind of person that sees things from only one point of view and it's all black and white, find some kindred others and support each other up a storm. You'll be much happier, but I would argue, probably more full of fury than happiness on a regular basis. Brain science has uncovered some surprising fundamental about the way our brains work. None of us are as objective as we think. Our political leanings have everything to do with our particular style of brain chemistry and what lights up our neurological tree. Our religious leanings are similar, and it has little do with what is absolutely Right and Wrong.  Like so many others, I discovered that "Right" was relative many years ago. When you understand this, you can release a lot of angst about all those "others" who are so wrong and clueless about everything, who happen to see politics or religion a different way than you.

This is why I don't hesitate to weed maniacs out of my garden, but instead, cultivate wonderers, thinkers, and the heartfelt tolerant as true prizes. The people in your life either give you energy or subtract it. I cherish the former.

As far as we can prove, we are only here once. I feel a gentle breeze on my back again. There are some things I want to say, and I will steer clear of any semblance of anything too serious. Because it took me half a lifetime to learn that it doesn’t take half a lifetime to learn that you shouldn't take life so seriously.

If you have come this far, thanks for reading. My energy and inspiration comes from the thoughtful people like you who would take the time to consider the thoughts of another. Life itself is a miracle.  To lose touch with that is to miss the entire point. Now, let's have some fun and get the life party going.

Namaste.  

Page 146: Can Baptists Dance/Can Christians Drink? And Other Absurdities

In which, krs summons his hellfire self-righteous evangelical anger of Olde.
Non-religious friends -- move on. Nothing for you here.

My old friend Dr. Stephen J. Lucas, former pastor of Highland Park Baptist Church in Austin, once told this from the pulpit: "And the little old lady came up to the minister and said, 'Pastor, can Baptists dance?' And he replied, 'well, ma'am, it turns out...some can, and some just can't!'"

A Certain Someone Who Is An Old Friend of Mine just posted the most asinine thing on Facebook, stating that "That Would Be Like a Christian Drinking, which is Totally Wrong."

Holy Great Ignoramuses, Batman. My Dear. You didn't really say that, did you? Let me illuminate the darkness in that fog-filled head of yours. But buckle up, because it's going to be a rough ride, as it always is when somebody opens up your mind to a wider world and you realize the door to your little broom closet of thought has been nailed shut for years. I know -- it's happened to me many times.

First things first. I have many friends and family members who do not drink. They are not judgmental people and they could care less if you drink or not. Kudos to them and may their tee-totaling lights shine forever brightly. And others have a religious tradition of not drinking, but wouldn't be so crass to condemn those that do. I am not talking about those people.

No, I am talking about Judgmental Nincompoops who like to publically proclaim on a social medium that "Christians drinking is wrong." If these judgers were apple trees, here in my beloved Texas we would be standing in the middle of a vast orchard knee deep in Granny Smiths. I speak to these folks when I say, we will be educating you today in Three Easy, Smart Alecky Points.

Point One. There are 2.2 BILLION Christians in the world, and all but about 100 million drink, best estimates. This means that over 95% of Christians on this planet drink. Catholics drink. Methodists drink. Presbyterians drink. Episcopalians drink. Lutherans drink (a LOT). They officially drink, blessed by their denomination. Many drink AT CHURCH. So in answer to the question "Do Christians Drink," the answer is unequivocally "yes." I do understand you think they aren't "real Christians" because they don't agree with your Little Official Belief List. But if you are a tee-totaling Christian, you are in the very small minority and might think twice about casting aspersions and judgment on 95% of the rest of us.

Point Two. JESUS DRANK. ALCOHOLIC. BEVERAGES. Generally speaking, when the founder of a religion does something, you can do it too! Isn't it exciting? Yes, Jesus drank full-strength Hebrew wine and beer, staples in their Semitic diet for over 3,000 years, and having spent time in Israel working in the very lands Jesus tread, let me assure you that the old Baptist line I was taught in my youth that it "wasn't fermented" or "wasn't as strong as today" is absolute nonsense. Laughable hogwash. Made up baloney to defend an idea that has no basis in fact. But sadly, people love to believe fibs. Don't fall for it, and remember, "the Son of Man came eating and drinking" and was actually called a drunkard.  Catch that? Jesus said that about himself according to Luke 7. He turned water into wine at a wedding in John 2. He drank wine at the Last Supper in Luke 22. I could go on.  Did He do something "totally wrong?"  That sure would wreck the theology books, so perhaps better to agree that your assertion "drinking is totally wrong" is what is actually totally wrong.

Point Three: GOD LOVES BEER. You think I'm kidding? You don't think the Bible says that? Oh, you should quit reading only your few 'lil favorite parts. The consumption of beer was encouraged, sanctioned, and intimately linked with the religion of the Israelites. They were commanded to offer part of their beer to God -- Yahweh, according to the Old Testament, drank at least half a hin of beer (about 2 liters -- a six-pack), and MORE on the Sabbath and first of the month. That is a LOT of beer consumed by God, but apparently, that is just the way He rolls, according to Numbers 28:7-10. As Benjamin Franklin said, "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."

So, if you don't want to drink, hooray for you. That's more for those of us who do. And YES, excessive drinking is bad. I have friends in recovery, and they all recommend that people with addictions should never, EVER drink. But you do understand, right? Too much of ANYTHING is bad. Too much dessert: flappy flab. Too much talking on your cell-phone: big bill. Even too much religion: fanatic kook. Even Jesus must be consumed in reasonable quantities, or you end up completely cuckoo. Believe me, I know several people who are.

So, go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart, for it is now that God favors what you do. (You just read Ecclesiastes 9:7.)

One of my oldest friends, a Baptist minister, recently emailed me. He had heart issues, and his doctor recommended a glass or two of red wine daily as part of his health-up program. "Can you help teach me how to drink wine?" he asked half-teasingly. Dear Boy -- the doctor is in. Cheers!

Page 145: Raw Topic: The One Sided Burger

in which, krs almost talks about Politics AND Religion...


When you start feeling that all is about to be lost, that we are going to Hell in a handbasket, that the forces that threaten us are so dire that it is time for everybody to wake up and realize it absolutely is going to have to be YOUR way, or the highway…

You just became a giant part of the problem.

This is true in politics. And religion. Our ability to work together is something that makes us uniquely human. When we lose that, we are in truly dangerous territory.

"Who is your 2012 presidential candidate?" I asked Dillon. Dillon is one of Kellen's friends, an Old Soul, and we were talking late one night while everyone else was engaged in a hold-no-hostages Call of Duty shootout.

"What?" Dillon clarified. "I don't think I have one. I mean, I don't think anybody can work together anymore. That's the problem."

Right.

If you are a Righty and *only* watch Fox News -- or you are a Lefty and only watch MSNBC -- it is more than possible you only know half the story. And if you have strong feelings about that half of the story that you know, down to your toes, you might be sort of like a divorce judge who ONLY listens to the husband's (or the wife's) side. What kind of judge is that? On purpose, and to make money by appealing to people with firm opinions, neither Fox or MSNBC are truly "news organizations." They are commentary organizations who write stories from a highly politically partisan point of view. Oh, there is nothing wrong with watching it. Just don't expect to be educated on The Other Half of the Story. And don't be surprised if the news you hear there is constantly upsetting you about "them" -- you know, the Other Side and their outrageous nonsense. The one thing I've learned is that there is a Little Truth on both sides, and always ample bullshit as well -- and it's the latter that frequently riles people up. And sadly, some people seem to thrive on being riled up. Happy Life Hint: all that outrage isn't lengthening your life.

If you only listen to one side of the argument, you are like a burger patty that doesn't get flipped. You end up with a bunch of raw bull. This is true in both politics and religion. In religion, so many times good-intentioned people believe that the only side they have ever heard must be the truth -- without realizing that other people of similar faith have well-grounded, valid, & different ideas on key topics.

I avoid one-sided news sources. I'm more of a Truth-Seeker than a Reinforce-My-Opinions-With-My-Kind-of-Propaganda kind of guy.

"Never argue with an idiot. He will drag you down to his level, then beat you with experience." I am talking about myself. I frankly don't have the depth of knowledge to know exactly how to get ourselves out of the financial predicament the country is in or how to resuscitate the economy, which is why I don't argue about the economy. Economics was the most complex thing I ever studied in college, even beyond Physics. You would be arguing with an idiot if you argued with me, because while I know many of the answers being proposed out there, I have no idea what the real answer is.

As a longtime critic of the federal debt, I am not sure those who just woke up and smelled the coffee (tea?) understand that it may not be possible, unfortunately, to solve both the debt and the economy problems at the same time. That is what the majority of our best economists from across the spectrum are saying.

We'll have plenty of time to talk about this, so let's light up the stove. It's going to be a long economic winter.

Page 144: The LADY ON A CELLPHONE Game

The lady's giant SUV swerved, and it was coming right at us. "She's on a collision course," I shouted. "Number Six -- evasive action!"

"Red Alert! Sound the collision alarm!" Nunzilla bellowed from the passenger seat, and Number Six's klaxon horn blared. The lady swerved back into her lane without even glancing sideways, oblivious to the inches she had come from wrecking us both. As we glared at her, Keaton spoke up from the backseat. "Dad, that's 8! LADY ON A CELLPHONE!"

But more on how to play the game in a moment.

Our dear ladies. How we love you. How we could not live without you. And how you can apparently not live without talking on your cellphone when you drive. We wouldn't notice, really, except for the 25 mph in the 60 zone you're doing, or the cars you sideswipe as you careen all over your "lanes." We don't mind, really. We weren't in any sort of rush at all in the long line of cars behind clueless you.

After all, when one is in control of a 2 ton machine flying down the road, there are some things that MUST be urgently communicated. Highly important, urgent things, such as:

"...then he did this and she said that…"

"...well, SHE said that she didn't, but…"

"...and was wearing this purple thing at least 2 sizes too small…"

"...well, I just talked to her, and she said that he..."

True, sometimes the ladies could wait until they got home to call Her on the cell. But that would be so silly. Because they are going to call Her and Her and Her from home anyway.

Is there a a complete ninny obstructing and slowing traffic ahead of you? ODDS ARE… it's a Lady On a Cellphone!

Oh yes, Men talk on their cellphones, too. Their chatter is even more ridiculous, because the more miles their caller is away, the louder Men yell Because That Helps. Like ladies, they will be totally oblivious to their path of destruction, but instead of driving 20 mph and careening across lanes, their energetic, loud talking will make them blindly aggressive. Like enraged mules. Enraged mules hanging 4 inches off your bumper while braying into their little BellowBoxes.

THE GAME
MINIMUM: TWO PLAYERS, PLAYED WHILE IN YOUR CAR

The object of the game is to find 10 Ladies on Cellphones driving their cars before you find 10 Men.

1. Flip a coin. Heads, you get MEN, tails, you get LADIES. On a cellphone. The goal is to see how quickly you can find 10.
2. Get in your car to go anywhere. Within seconds of entering any major road or street, you will spot the first one, and whoever is LADIES yells "LADY ON A CELLPHONE!!!!!!! THAT'S ONE!"
3. If you have MEN, look for a man on cellphone. They are elusive, but they are dangerous and there. When you spot one, counter with "MAN ON A CELLPHONE! THAT'S X!!" where X is the current count. Try to get out of the way before you are all killed.
4. Continue finding and counting LADIES and MEN ON A CELLPHONE until the first person gets to 10.

99. 99% out of 100 times, you will get to 10 LADIES before MEN. And so when LADIES win, everybody spouts in unison, "LADY ON A CELLPHONE!"

As Little Timmy cried from the backseat of Mommy's swerving Phone-mobile, "God bless us people just trying to get to our destination, every one!!!"

Page 143: Make That to GO!!!

Guilty, Your Honor. It's true. I get freaky at the drive-thru. But let me explain.

A long, long time ago in a Central Texas town in the hills far, far away, there lived a blond headed boy, I'm talking LOTS of blond hair nicely styled and parted down the middle, who slaved away at the local Burger King. And every cretin in town lined up their beat up clunkers for miles and miles at that drive-thru, grinning like bucked toothed buffoons while waiting to mumble their highly specialized orders through the microphone.  After placing that order, they would always say, "Make that To Go!" Really?  You sure you don't want to eat it on a tray right there in the window?  Yes, I was the blond guy with the head FULL of hair.

"I'll have a Double-Meat Whopper with Cheese with MUSTARD, no mayo, double onions, no lettuce, double tomatoes, and four pickles." I am not making that up: that was the exact order one imbecilic lady placed every week. Every order was a nightmare for us booth attendants, as we pushed buttons and pulled levers and yelled back to the kitchen trying to "get it their way." One thing you did NOT have to specify was the ritual stomping the meat patty was going to get on the floor, which was pretty much Standard Operating Procedure by the kitchen staff to reward highly picky customers. Don't ask what happened if you came in close to closing time. And all this while, our cranky, uber-pouty mouthed manager Tammy would run a stop-watch and bark out orders, as policy dictated that drive-thru customers were to spend no more than 3 minutes through the window.

So please understand, I have a LOT of baggage when it comes to drive-thrus, and that baggage is stuffed to the gills with unpleasant memories and gallons of sympathy for the poor kids manning the register for a nickel above Minimum.

So, thus it is when my dear family -- bless their hearts, and make a Catholic sign of the cross here, even if you're Jewish -- gets to the drive-thru and thinks they are the Belles of the Ball, I DO in fact go a little nuts.

"What do you guys want?" I ask, perhaps a bit tensely as we drive into the parking lot.

"Well, I don't know what they have here..." the family says, their voices trailing off.

"It's a Sonic. They have the EXACT same menu they've had since 1957. Not one thing has changed. What would you like -- sweeties??" I ask, forcing a strained smile on the last word. We arrive at the order station in front of the big menu, and I can suddenly hear the clock ticking like a time bomb -- the time bomb attached to my patience level.

The entire family is gawking at the menu board as if it just landed from another planet -- it's some alien thing they could not possibly fathom. Kathy speaks up. "That Number One burger looks pretty good, but I'm not really in the mood for a burger. Now, what is different on that Number Two? Oooh, is that... cheese? Well. I don't want any cheese. I wonder -- do they have a chicken sandwich here? Ewww, I wonder if it's fried. Sigh. Maybe a salad."

I can feel my second molars slowly being pulverized into tooth-dust by my rising industrial-level jaw tension. "IT...IS...THE...NUMBER SIX… GRILLED CHICKEN… NUMBER SIX… WHAT YOU ALWAYS GET HERE…N.U.M.B.E.R.S.I.X."

"Kirk, I don't know the menu here. Now, don't be a butt and rush us! Kids, do you know what want yet?"

Meanwhile, the driver of the car behind us has decomposed into a skeleton and the Order Taker at the drive-thru has gotten engaged -- twice. And maybe voted for the first time (absentee). I have to reset my watch due to a change in Daylight Savings Time. The stars move from Spring to Autumn positioning.

"Guys -- COME ON! WHAT DO YOU WANT?!?!?"

I close my eyes and go to a Happy Place. In my Happy Place, I have a megaphone mounted on my front bumper, one that starts playing a looped recording the very second you drive into the parking lot. "FIVE NUMBERS ONES WITH DIET COKES!!! FIVE NUMBER ONES WITH DIET COKES!" it booms. The window attendant hears it 30 seconds before we even get to the drive-thru, and the sun is shining and there is a redbird.

Back in the real world, The Family has finished reading and re-reading the menu board, so now it is time for some serious thinking.

"GUYS!!!!!!"

"Dad, you get really stressed out at the drive-thru," the kids inform me. I want to place a full order for a French Fried board and beat their little rear ends crimson.

"Kirk, we are deciding!" Mrs. Kathryn says. "Well. I think I'll just have a Number Six, grilled Chicken Sandwich. Now, I don't want cheese on it."

You know what would be damn delicious? FIVE NUMBER ONE'S WITH DIET COKE. Thank you, I'll pull right around. "Make that to GO!!!"

Page 142: "I'll Take Loved Ones for Priceless, Alex"

The soldier was quietly sobbing, and I felt powerless to help him.

I had seen him with his wife and little baby in the line beside me at the airport gate. The little girl looked to be no more than a couple weeks old. He was rocking her car carrier, a giant smile on his face as he stared down at her sweet face and raven dark hair. Going to see family for Thanksgiving, I thought.

About an hour later, I was sitting at the bar working on my laptop when the same soldier sat down next to me. I glanced up at him and he looked pale, his hands a bit shaky. He ordered a shot of tequila. "I ordinarily don't drink like this," he explained, "just have to settle my nerves. Hi, I'm Drew."

"Drew, I'm not your mama. Nice to meet you. Do what you have to do."

"Thank you, sir," he replied. I intended to pay for his drink - these people put their lives on the line for us, and buying their lunch or even tequila shot seems like the least we civilians can do. But I was too distracted and he was too fast. "Have a good day, sir," he said as he hastily left. I wanted to tell him that "sir is my father" but thought better of it. He looked like a kid, maybe a day past 21 if that.

Taking my seat on the plane, I was surprised to see the same soldier headed to the seat beside me. He sat down quietly, and I realized he was crying. No, more than crying, he was quietly sobbing, shaking from head to foot. Oh, his family wasn't traveling with him -- they had been there to tell him goodbye.

After a few minutes, I spoke up. "You okay, buddy? Saw your little baby with you; she is beautiful."

He looked up at me, his eyes red and his face grief-stricken. "I only got to see her for 4 days. She is 17 days old, and I couldn't leave to see her be born. I'm about to be deployed to Afghanistan for a year, and I couldn't leave my training. I just love that little baby and my wife so much… but I've got to do my duty and my job to provide for them. " He put his head down and his entire body was shaking. "I'm sorry, sir…"

I patted him on the shoulder. "It's okay, son. There's nothing to be embarrassed about. You're about to make me cry."

I wanted to do something to help him, but nothing seemed to be the right answer. I quietly looked out the window and thought about how I missed my kids. I hadn't seen them in 3 days. The irony was profound.

After a few minutes, he looked up and recognized me, hastily wiping his eyes. "We meet again, sir."

For the next 3 hours, I did the one thing it seemed Drew needed -- listen. He had been in the army for almost a year. He knew that Afghanistan was a dangerous place and he made sure he saw and said goodbye to all his family back in Georgia, "just in case." He was okay with all of that, he said. And his wife had a strong support network, he told me. But his baby girl. "I...I am just not handling that very well. I started to go to pieces back there and I sure didn't want them to see that. I thought that shot of tequila might steady my nerves but it didn't work."

He went on to tell me why getting to Afghanistan was so important. A lot more money. $1100 more a month in "hazard duty." And, $175 more a month because he was away from his family.

$175. So. That is what your family is worth. Oh, I understand, the country is strapped for money already. We need to cut expenses, not increase them, across the board. We are in no position to pay these brave soldiers what their families are really worth: priceless.

I had the distinct impression that Drew was a young man who had grown up in a hurry. After landing in Dallas, he became quiet, and he quickly exited the plane without a word or a handshake. It seemed clear; he had said all the goodbyes he could for the day.

Us, thankful? You better believe it. For so many things. And thank you, Private Drew. We are the luckiest people in the history of the world. On this day of thinking about thanking, we should hug our loved ones with gusto and mean it like we never have before.

Page 141: Chili Pill!

A cold wind blew in from the north, and Mrs. Kathryn had an excellent idea -- a chili cook-off with a small group at the house. "This is a contest,” she emailed. “Let's get some trash-talkin' going on!"

I was all too happy to Reply All and oblige. "Losers, let's skip the B.S. and just hand me the prize NOW. We can throw your lil' stewpots out back for the feral pigs to root around in... if they'll touch the nasty crap. My Bambi chili will RULE!" I had researched award-winning venison chili recipes to the hilt, discovering the winning secret. Shhhh. Don't tell, but here it is. You start with thick slab bacon, so fresh it's practically oinking, then throw in scraps of Bambi AND his mother. Deelish!

Imagine the horror when I discovered Aylin was also planning on some Doe a Deer Chili herself, and had already procured the meat from one of our hairy, mountain manly neighbors, who probably killed the poor creature with his bare hands, or possibly a tire iron. Rats. I was forced to choose something else.

I poured through the International Chili Cookoff Recipes and studied the Texas Terligua Pride award ingredients. The secret of winning became clear. You start with thick slab bacon, so fresh it's practically oinking, then you throw in other meats (and scraps of their mother, if possible). Deelish!

And thus is was that I concocted Fab Five Chili, with five different meat ingredients, along with a half a cup of Jim Beam, just to get the kidney beans tipsy. Oh ENOUGH of the "Texas chili DOES/DOES NOT have beans" brawls; as an eighth generation Texan and a real self-appointed Texas Colonel, if I say it can have some damn beans, matter settled. Plus, it's patently obvious that kidney beans are good for your kidneys; even a blind man could see that.

The Bad Gene acted up for a moment and I considered the novel idea of finding and adding some Viagra to my recipe to REALLY make it stand up against the competition, but decided not to… didn’t want to make the competition too hard for the judges. My friend Paul also pointed out that nobody wants to eat chili that can take 4 hours to go down.

Never underestimate Bob as a serious competitor. He one-upped the email trash talking early Saturday morning. "Five meats? Hey, just heard Chance has gone missing. Hmmm…" Chance is Rich & Christie's dog next door and our beloved Goddog (that's her laying next to the Batdesk when I was dogsitting one day)… she was clearly fine, but the evil dirty trick was done, planting the subliminal suggestion that my ingredients might not be kosher.

But the final insult came during the presentation & serving, when this sign "mysteriously" showed up attached to my pot.

So amazingly, Bob's "Jived Turkey Chili" won by a single vote, edging out my Fab Five Chili by barely a dog's nose. Rich & Christie’s Green Gobblin' Chili recipe came in third.

After the rigged voting, we retired to the Batcave to watch a horror movie of grand proportions called "2010 VH1 Divas," hosted by a terrifying, plastic-skinned monster character named Paula Abdul, who prissed around the stage doing the scariest lip synching the world has ever seen. Then there were stocky women prancing about -- as a stocky person myself, as a policy I never wear anything more than 3 sizes too small – but these ladies looked like they had been poured into their dresses, “and somebody forgot to say 'when.'" The scariest part was when a hideous corpse came to life halfway through the show – they called it The Liza Minnelli – and screeched like a vulture and staggered around the stage with a giant pink zombie sash. We guys screamed like schoolgirls, and the ladies averted their eyes and just prayed. Horrid! Hey VH1, if you are going to trot out that kind of terror, at least put a warning label on the show. We finally had to turn it off when the ghost of Cindy Lauper appeared dressed like a black refrigerator, and assumed a VERY unlady-like position directly in front of the HD camera. Hey, Cindy's Ghost – nice lady ghouls sit side saddle, not all bustin’ out with their legs flung apart like Hoss Cartwright on a mule. It almost stressed us out. Almost.


You stressed? On Overload? Two words for you: CHILI PILL!!!

SECOND/JILTED PLACE
"FAB FIVE CHILI" by krs

4 slices thick slab bacon
1 pound ground beef (90%-95% lean)
1 pound COURSE ground beef (ask at the butcher counter)
1 pound ground Pork
1 pound ground Buffalo (optional but deelishush)
Sea salt & black peper
1 white onion
1 tablespoon butter
1 cup beef broth; 1/2 cup chicken broth
2 - 28 oz cans of crushed tomatoes
1 - 28 oz Rotel tomatos w/ green chili's -- Rotel is a TEXAS TRADITION!
1 - 6 oz. can tomato paste
1 tablespoon Paprika
3 tablespoons Chili Powder
1 tablespoon Ancho chili powder
2 tablespoons garlic
1/2 tablespoon ground cayenne
1/2 tablespoon cilantro
1/2 tablespoon ground comino
2 - 28 oz can kidney beans, drained
1 tablespoon chopped jalepenos (remove seeds)
1/2 cup Shiner Bock Beer
1/2 cup Jim Beam Whiskey
1 tablespoon molasses

Cook the bacon over medium heat until the oil is extracted. Remove bacon and set aside.
Add all the remaining meats into the bacon drippings along with 2 tablespoons of chili powder, 1 tablespoon of garlic, and a light dusting of sea salt and black pepper. Dice the bacon and add to meat mix as it cooks. Brown all meat thoroughly, then drain but do NOT rinse under water.

Dice onion; melt 1 tablespoon of butter in a skillet and brown onion with a small twist of sea salt.

In a large pot, add beef stock & chicken stock with onions & all tomato cans over medium heat. Add 1 tablespoon chili powder and 1 tablespoon garlic along with remaining spices (cayenne, cilantro, comino). Add beans, then add meat, and when chili comes to a boil, reduce heat to medium low and stir in Shiner Bock, Jim Beam, and molasses. Cook 3-4 hours covered, stirring occasionally, over low heat to keep at low simmering boil. Serves 8-10+.

FIRST PLACE
"JIVED TURKEY CHILI" by the Corbins

* 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
* 1 medium yellow onion, chopped
* 5 cloves garlic, chopped
* 1 tablespoon kosher salt
* 2 teaspoons chili powder
* 1 teaspoon dried oregano
* 1 tablespoon tomato paste
* 1 chipotle chile en adobo, coarsely chopped, with 1 tablespoon sauce
* 1 pound ground turkey
* 1 (12-ounce) Mexican lager-style beer
* 1 (14 1/2-ounce) can whole peeled tomatoes, with their juice
* 1 (15 1/2-ounce) can kidney beans, rinsed and drained
* Sliced scallions, cilantro sprigs, avocado, sour cream, grated Monterey jack cheese, and/or tortilla chips, for garnish, optional

Directions

Heat the olive oil in a large, heavy skillet over medium-high heat. Add the onion, garlic, salt, chili powder, and oregano and cook, stirring, until fragrant, about 3 minutes. Stir in the tomato paste and the chipotle chile and sauce; cook 1 minute more. Add the turkey, breaking it up with a wooden spoon, and cook until the meat loses its raw color, about 3 minutes. Add the beer and simmer until reduced by about half, about 8 minutes. Add the tomatoes--crushing them through your fingers into the skillet--along with their juices and the beans; bring to a boil. Cook, uncovered, stirring occasionally, until thick, about 10 minutes.

Ladle the chili into bowls and serve with the garnishes of your choice.

Cook's Note: A skillet's larger surface area reduces sauces faster than simmering in a saucepan.


BRONZE MEDAL
GREEN GOBBLIN' CHILI by the Griffs
Serves 4

4 medium–size tomatilloes
2 tablespoons olive oil
1½ pounds chicken, boneless, skinless and cut into 1 inch chunks
(dark meat gives a richer flavor)
1 cup chopped onion
6 cloves garlic, minced
1 teaspoon cumin
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 14 ounce can low sodium chicken broth
1 19 ounce can white beans (cannelloni), drained and rinsed
1 fresh jalapeño chili pepper, seeded and diced
1 cup whole green chili peppers (about 4), charred and chopped (if using canned, drain liquid)
1½ teaspoons sea salt
2 tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped
Freshly grated black pepper

1. Preheat oven to 425°F. Place tomatilloes on baking pan lined with foil. Roast 10 minutes or until lightly brown and let cool. When cool, purée or mash. Set aside.
2. In a 6–quart saucepan, sauté onions and garlic over medium heat until soft. Remove from pan and set aside.
3. Add chicken to saucepan and sauté over medium–high heat until sides are lightly browned. Add cumin, oregano, onions, and garlic and stir for one minute.
4. Add chicken broth, white beans, jalapeño and green chili peppers, and roasted tomatilloes. Bring to boil and then simmer partially covered for 1 hour. Chili should have the consistency of a thick stew.
5. Stir in salt and cilantro and season to taste. Serve warm with cornbread.

This recipe can be doubled.

Page 140: Dear Old Mrs. Tucker

Bob sent me this peach of a picture... straight from a Wal*Mart in Texas...

I am including many of the Facebook posts from where I posted "Mrs. Tucker" there; that's what we named her as it seems appropriate.

"This woman is out shopping…in public…with no shirt on. She has her boobs tucked into her pants. INTO HER PANTS!!! I understand that gravity was hard on her but SERIOUSLY!!!"

OH MY SIDES...

Cheryl: one word... YUK!!

Brad: That's funny on steroids!

Jennifer: Was Bob in Canton, Ohio, shopping? That is normal attire at the Walmart in Canton...lol.

Robin: and she's drooling over chicken breasts!

Christy: I can't wait for my boobs to drop like that so I don't have to worry about finding a shirt that matches my pants.

Jeannie: hahahahaha I am laughing sooooo hard. I can't stand it. This is hilarious. I keep picturing what will happen if she bends forward and reaches for a package of "breasts"...

Jonathan: Kirk, your friends had me rollling in the floor. This might start a new fashion trend--the new mini-snuggie. You can actually wear it to the store. It's convenient; you'll never have to buy underwear again.

Mike: STOP talking about my woman!!!!!!

JoLynne: Good grief! is this what i have to look forward to?!

Richard: My eyes are burning!

David Jennings: Please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys...

Todd: I'd hit that.

Eric: I think I have seen this lady at the Brownwood Wal*Mart.

Lynette: LMAO!

krs: This delightful lady finally has a name: "Mrs. Tucker!!!!" Well, in her defense... it may look funny, but it suuure do keep "Perky" and "Dimples" warm...

Page 139, in which, Mrs. Kathryn Explodes

Let's be honest, shouldn't we be? Some people were born to sing, and some were born to sit. When people get confused about which they are, there's gonna be trouble.

The young lady was in trouble, there was no doubt about that. Standing up on the pulpit, her shaky vibrato had just gone flat, and it was time for the high notes. "My… FAAATHER'S EYESSSSSSS!" she warbled. "My… FAAATHER'S EYES!!!" and with that her eyes rolled up in the back of her head as she moved up and down trying to find the right pitch. That is all is took; back in the audience, our pew started shaking violently, and Kathy put her head down with her hand over her mouth. No dice. A volcano of explosive laughter was heading to the surface, leaving my poor Mrs. Kathryn scadoodling out of the pew and out the back of the church to burst into peals of laughter in the sanctity of the parking lot, yet once again.

We were recently recounting stories at dinner of "Mom/Kathy Explosions," about the millions and millions of times she has cracked up in really inappropriate venues, frequently at church or when musical performances go sour. Don't misunderstand. It' s not that she's maybe laughing at you. She is definitely laughing at you. But in a sweet, innocent way, and she in no way wants to hurt your feelings. See?

Mrs. Three Names (let's just call her "Cindy") had been a Pageant Queen. Miss California. And Miss Universe. And a cheerleader for a professional sports team. And. And. You knew all this because she would tell you the second she met you. That is, if she could get a word in edgewise to interrupt herself talking about her gallbladder. Never in the history of gallbladderdom has anyone talked more about theirs. It was Enlarged. It was Aggravated. It was Cranky. It was Better. No, Surly again and much, much Worse! And lucky as we were to sit in a Sunday School class every week with her, she would monopolize the first fifteen minutes of every class talking about Her Gallbladder, even AFTER it was removed. Those of us with poor character (and possibly missing the point of church altogether) described this part of Sunday School as "exasperating." So it was near Easter Sunday, and time to fill out the Easter Lilly dedication form during the Sunday Service. I handed mine to Mrs. Kathryn for her to inspect as the service got quiet. "In Loving Memory of Mrs. Three Names' Gallbladder" I had written. Kathy looked at me with wide eyes, and then I mashed my leg onto hers to seal the deal. Hand over mouth. Head down, as if she was praying. A horrible suppressed gurgle noise. And suddenly, a forceful exit from the pew and Mrs. Kathryn fleeing down the aisle making a beeline for the back door, tears screaming down her face. SCORE! (I can't help it. I have "The Bad Gene.")

But the worst time, I can barely speak of -- and have changed a couple details to protect the truly innocent. One of my college jobs was Music Minister (oh, STOP laughing yourself) and one church near the University of North Texas had a VERY sweet lady with The Biggest Forehead In the Universe (BFITU). And she loved to sing, exactly one song, and that only a capella, and not so much in key. "He Could Have Called… TEN THOUSAND ANGEEEEELLLLS," she would sing. I didn't care if it wasn't good. She was a sweetheart and everybody loved her. Right after we got married back in the 1800's, I had told Mrs. Kathryn about her. Some time later, we had the occasion to visit this church. Seated in the pew during the somber service, I looked down at the bulletin to see who was doing the "Special Music." Oh. No. I tapped Mrs. Kathryn and pointed trying to warn her, but she didn't understand. For the next 20 minutes, I sat in horror waiting. Finally BFITU took the stage. "He could have called…. TEN THOUSAND ANGELS!" she crooned, a capella, and about 1/4 step flat and getting flatter. Kathy turned her head in astonishment, wild eyed, looking at me as recognition registered. No, no, no, no, I thought. If she got up to leave or Lost It, it would be the embarrassment of the century. I have blocked what happened next, but I remember the pew shaking like a '67 Plymouth, and someone, perhaps me, BEGGING Providence to please, please, give the 10,000 angels holding Kathy's mouth shut the strength of Samson. If memory serves, the prayer worked, except for muffled snorting noises, a used-up box of Kleenex, and bewildered stares as people seemed sure she was having a meltdown or in-pew epileptic seizure.

So many other stories could be told. They say laughter is the best medicine -- so that makes my Mrs. Kathryn a world class physician. So if you're up on stage and you see Kathy out in the audience with her head down and pew shaking, remember, it's only medicinal and she's a professional.

Page 138: Hell Hath No FURY Like A Sister...

...Scorned. Especially a Twin Sister.

I found the handwritten letter on Pappy's old desk. Apparently, there had been "drama" around the old Scott place the night before. "Keaton, I take it Kristin was trying to mess with your hair last night?"

He nodded, exasperated. "Uh huh."

"Let me guess -- she wanted to make it look ridiculous, then laugh herself silly at you?"

"Uh huh."

My wish for each of you is that you have a set of Twins, at least one of which is "high spirited." Well, "then again, I wish for alot of things."



"Lord, hear our prayer."

Page 137: Miracles in the Mirror

I try to keep blogs short, under 800 words. I apologize that I have struggled to write this for 2 years and cannot get it under 800 words. Hopefully the heartfelt sincerity of this story will atone for its lack of brevity.

The Age of Miracles is Over.

So says conventional wisdom. But that January in 2008, the Reverend Steve Bolen had a different perspective.

"My goal… my dream, is that each one of you will experience a miracle in 2008," he said, his voice steady and resolute. I sat in the pew, listening. Steve Bolen is no sideshow charlatan; he is the über-discerning overseer of a large flock of thoughtful people. What? Miracles? I listened and tried to tune into his frequency. He said many things, but the way it came home for me was this: to accomplish a miracle, you must allow -- more than allow, truly enable -- a thing to happen that you think is literally impossible.

Immediately, I knew what Kathy's "Miracle" was. To be reconciled with her father, with whom she has not spoken or seen since she was 11 years old.

Thirty five years is a long time without your father. There was a bitter divorce. A mother who remarried and moved her far away from her life in Kentucky down south to Texas. A heart-stricken father who felt that his youngest was slipping away forever. Terrible words were exchanged -- "you will never see me again." Difficult for a child, but also impossibly difficult for a father in pain. When I first met her as student in Denton many years ago she was 22 and had spent half of her life without her father. She is one of the strongest people you will ever meet, but the hole in her heart over her father was palpable. After being married some years, she sought counseling to "get over it. "I’m going to have to let him go, without regrets," she said. Any notion of a reconciliation became a dim memory of lost hope.

But Steve Bolen's inspiration suddenly opened the possibilities wide. Reconciling with her father? Impossible, wasn't it? When we got back home I asked her what she thought of Steve's sermon.

"I thought it was intriguing," she replied.

"I know what your 'Miracle' is," I said quietly. "We are going to Kentucky in September for your grandfather's 95th birthday. Your dad will only be a few hours away. Let’s -- just show up at his door. This is your business and it's up to you, but I have to tell you, it seems like the right thing to do. Well, if we are going to believe in a Miracle."

She stared at me, speechless. The conversation was short. I didn’t bring it up again, but she did about a month before we left for Kentucky. "I think we should do it," she said. She spoke to her sister, who had maintained a relationship with their father, and who agreed. What we didn’t know was that there would be an angel in the middle of this exercise to help bring this Miracle to life -- her father's girlfriend, Karen, a delightful soul who would be let in on this secret and help set the stage.

It’s a great idea to surprise him, she conveyed through Kathy’s sister, putting us all more at ease. She cooked up a feast beforehand and even had the piano tuned so that the Scott kids could show off just a little. And as Karma would have it, the weekend we planned to arrive, her dad’s siblings were visiting, a sort of mini-family reunion setting the table for a much more dramatic one.

It was a long drive there, and when we rolled up the hilly driveway to Ken's house that day, I felt somewhat sick. I can only imagine how Kathy felt. Thirty five years of absence and hurt sets the stage for grand drama and a real case of butterflies. I will never forget walking up to the door and knocking, or the look on Ken's face when he saw the daughter he had not seen in so many years.

Kathy had always said of her father, "we loved each other so much. He was so funny and full of life." The man I met that day, the father-in-law I had never met, was a delight. Keenly intelligent. Funny as hell. And, most importantly, immediately accepting of a long lost daughter and her family. Whatever had caused years of hurt and pain melted away like the cold ice of winter into the green leaves of spring. It was a moment bright with love and redemption, and it was an utter miracle -- for neither Kathy, nor me, nor anyone in her family, probably including Ken -- thought it even remotely possible. Thank you, Steve Bolen. I write with moist eyes to tell you that from your words sprang the realization of an impossible dream. Had we not been there to hear your words that day, this amazing Life Moment would never have happened.


Kathy and her father have stayed in close touch since. There is no dwelling on the past, for as the jazz musician Babatunde Olatunji said, “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today? Today is a gift. That's why we call it the ‘present.’” The joy of living in the midst of a Miracle is that it evaporates old painful memories, leaving the old nostalgic ones in their place as a backdrop to the happiness of a new Today.

"The sun never says to the earth,
'You owe me.'
Look what happens with a love like that.
It lights up the whole sky."
-- the Sufi mystic Hafiz

And even I would not be shortchanged in this year of Miracles. That January day “my” impossible miracle popped into my head, but I quickly dismissed it. My brother Dan, lost to me so many years, far over a decade. Not literally a brother, but more literally a brother than most brothers. We had lost touch, both moved around the country, and I couldn’t find him. I am good at finding people -- I spent years tracking down my Ohio family -- but I could not find Dan despite many, many hours of trying. Finding him seemed impossible, although listening to Steve that day, I thought "I'll find him, eventually." Somewhere in some distant place there was a "click," because sometimes The Universe -- God by any other name -- has surprises in store for us.

About a month later, I received a message on my Batcave site. "Guess who?" it said. No idea. An email came in the next day... “Que Pasa?” from sender “Dan Endres.” I sat staring at the screen. In the midst of my impossibility, it seems that Dan had been looking for me for quite some time. When I started Blogging some years ago, leaving a crumb-trail to be found was definitely one of my reasons why. And as it turned out, this was a critical piece of making it happen. Seeing him and his daughter Alie in Austin that summer was my highlight of the year.

What should you make of all this, Gentle Browser? Perhaps it means that whether you are a hymn-singing Baptist, a loyal Catholic, a mystical possibilities-oriented Unity practitioner, or a confirmed Agnostic, there is a Principle which can affect and change your life. “I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you,” Jesus said. Part of such Faith is the very active act of putting-your-actions-where-your-thoughts are. The Buddha echoes this sentiment: “However many holy words you read, however many you speak, what good will they do you if you do not act on upon them?"

Miracles come to those who Believe. And even more so to those who make it so. Blessings.

With much love and gratitude for my friend Rev. Steve Bolen, a true and sincere light illuminating the path...


Steve on a recent local Fox News 7 segment:

Page 136: TERRY-FIED!!!

It was kiddie's bedtime minus ten, which is a little later than most in our house, and Keaton and I were laying on the batcouch watching a Dave Matthews concert. Suddenly, Kristin piped up from down the hall.

"DAD! There is a big spider in Keaton's room!"
"Well, then step on it or smack it with a shoe," I replied, half-asleep. I could hear some kind of commotion.
"DAD!!! DAD!!!"
"Kristin. You are the bravest girl I know. You catch bugs and lizards. Just smack it."
"DAD! It's… I think it's a TARANTULA! PLEASE come here."

Muttering under my breath, I got off the couch and went into Keaton's room, where all three kids were now assembled, pie-eyed. They looked like they had seen a ghost. I took a look by Keaton's desk.

"Nice try, Kristin. That's fake."
"DAD! It's not fake! It's MOVING its legs!"

She was right.

There was some debate about what to do -- "do NOT step on that" I said, and probably shouldn't have mentioned that tarantulas can jump about 8 feet, which immediately cast a macabre, spooky atmosphere in the room. Kellen argued for trapping it in a "big pot from the kitchen," but we finally decided on a Tupperware cereal container, and when Kellen brought both up from the kitchen, the cereal container was helpfully still full of Strawberry Mini-Wheats.

"Unless you have some Grasshopper Sugar Pops in there, I don't think the tarantula is interested in breakfast right now," I said. "Pour the cereal into the pot." I took a deep breath and used BBQ tongs to coax the tarantula into his new plastic digs, slipping on the cover. The boys stared in wonder at the giant, hairy creature. It was about 5 inches across.

Kristin was gone. "She probably went to tell Mom," Keaton said.

"Mom!!!" Kellen beamed, an evil grin spreading from one side of his face to the other. "Let's go show her!"

"Kellen, behave. We're not going to scare your mom. But I do want her to see it."

We arrived downstairs just as Kristin was trying to lock the master bedroom door. For the record, Kristin is the bravest kid around, but fiercely protective of her mom. But as for her mom, Kathy is probably the most squeamish person in Texas around anything with four or more legs. When it's Kathy vs. the Insect Kingdom, the insects will win every time, even if it's a battle with a lone cricket. To her, they are all vicious, venom dripping, blood-sucking, flesh chomping man-eaters.

We managed to get into the room before Kristin locked the door.
"Kathy, look at this," I said. She looked at the container and immediately screamed like a B horror Movie starlet.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!"

"Honey, honey, it's okay," I said. And suddenly Kellen was behind me, trying to push me closer to her. "Kellen, stop that." Poor thing, but I really had no intention of getting it close to her. I didn't realize it would freak her out this badly. "Kathy, it's okay. It is in this container and it's not getting out. "

"Get it out of here," she yelled. "Now!"

"Kathy! We will -- just wanted you to see it. We're not trying to scare you. Maybe we should keep it as a pet… name it… Terry?" Terry, apparently delighted with his new name, started crawling up the side of the cereal container. "Omigosh -- look at that. It can crawl up the side!"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!"

Now the boys were giggling like maniacs, and Kristin picked up a pillow. "Get any closer..." she threatened.

"Bad choice, my dear. The tarantula will go flying and then be in the room somewhere, maybe on your mom's-"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!"

"Okay boys, I don't think your mother wants us in here. Let's go out." But now Kellen was pushing at full force. He leaned to whisper in my ear, "Dad -- let's just act like we're going to -"

"No, no, we're leaving." But my laughing was weakening me, and he was pushing all the harder. I looked up at Kathy. "Just remember he's misbehaving, not me -- oh dear, I ...I don't think I can hold-"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAK!" she yelled. Mental Note: she could always do voice scream-overs for the movies if times get tight for us. Luckily, her last scream of terror weakened Kellen's stance, so I shoved back with just enough force to get us out without dropping Terry.

So, how did he get in the house? Only thing we can figure is he crawled up a 20 foot rock wall and came in an upstairs balcony door near Keaton's room.

In the meantime, I really wasn't pleased with my oldest son. "Kellen, what you did in there -- that was just terrible. Seriously. Are you happy with yourself? Really, that was just plain wrong. I thought I taught you better than that. So next time, DON'T forget the video camera!"

Page 135: A Boy and His Robot

Not every 10 year boy has a life-size robot at their disposal like Keaton, but not every boy is growing up in my house. In this case, the DaddyBot --pictured at right -- looks quite a bit like his actual Daddy, except for the robot-like movements and the booming voice that is unmistakable -- the voice of The Robot from Lost in Space.

17 year old Kellen was sitting on Keaton, tickling him senseless, amidst screams and peals of forced, painful laughter. Finally, Keaton was able to yell the magic words. "DaddyBot!"

"DADDYBOT ONLINE."

"Save me, DaddyBot!" Keaton howled.

"COMMAND ACCEPTED," DaddyBot boomed. "PROTECT MODE ACTIVATED. DESTROY! DESTROY ATTACKER!!!" And with that, he went into action, grabbing Kellen off Keaton like a ragdoll, pinning him down to the floor, and then robo-tickling him until he was screaming like a little schoolgirl. Except Kellen’s not a little schoolgirl at all (except when he screams like one). Finally, DaddyBot released the hoodlum and he ran for the hills. Keaton lay breathless on the couch.

"DaddyBot, thank you, thank you!"

"YOU ARE WELCOME, KEATON SCOTT."

Yep, it’s swell to be a 10 year old boy with your own personal DaddyBot. Sometimes, however, DaddyBots can malfunction. For example, there Keaton and DaddyBot were in the ginormous pool late at night at Port Royal on the Texas Coast. "The Redneck Riviera," they call it, but it's our coast and our rednecks, and we loves 'em. The beaches are exactly like the beaches in Destin, Florida, except the sand and water are brown and every hotel, motel, and rental house on the beach is a rusted out filthy dump that rents for ridiculous prices. But it's our brown sand, brown water, rusted out dumps, and ridiculous prices, and we loves 'em.

Keaton was cruising around on his dad's back around the pool. Suddenly, the Bad Gene / Mischevious Circuit was activated. "DADDYBOT ONLINE."

"Wha?" Keaton asked.

"ATTACK MODE ENGAGED. SCANNING FOR TARGETS… SCANNING FOR TARGETS...!"

"Oh nooooo," Keaton gulped, but DaddyBot's docking clamps held his legs tight -- Keaton wasn't going anywhere, except exactly where DaddyBot wanted him to go. A middle aged lady in a nice dry flowery muumuu was walking along the edge of the pool. "Oh no, no, no," Keaton moaned.

"ATTACK SEQUENCE COMMENCING...DESTROY!" DaddyBot whispered, perched in the water by the side of the pool, gazing in the opposite direction. Just as Granny Flabs passed by, DaddyBot went into quick action, using his robotic cyberarm to summon an ENORMOUS tidal wave of water -- a pool tsunami -- right over the edge and up through the air. DaddyBot was already underwater and traveling at high speed with Keaton in tow by splashdown time, leaving a Muumuu with a Boo Boo and a bewildered woman looking angrily at all the kids in the vicinity.

"SCANNING FOR TARGETS!" DaddyBot repeated, and his onboard sensors locked onto a group of very dry teenage kids sitting at the table by the edge of the pool, oblivious on their very own Planet Yack & Snack.

“No no no no, DaddyBot, NO!!!” Keaton pleaded, giggling. “Cancel attack sequence and power down!”

“COMMAND *NOT* ACCEPTED,” DaddyBot replied. “VOICE COMMAND INTERFACE *OFFLINE*!!!” Approaching the unsuspecting, dry victims, DaddyBot hovered. “ACTIVATING AQUA CANNON,” he intoned, and a gigantic wall of water went hurling over the edge of the pool, bringing April showers but little in the way of May flowers to the entire table. “DADDY VOICE SIMULATION ENABLED,” DadyBot whispered.

The dripping wet table sat, stunned, looking around to see who dunnit.

“Keaton! What have I told you about splashing people? I mean it. Sorry folks, this boy is a real prankster. Now, young man...I think a good old fashioned spankin’ might just be in your future,” and then the drenched, bewildered table stared as the father headed off down the pool, dragging a red-faced Keaton in hysterics along behind him.

Keaton could not stop giggling, a sort of terrified giggle -- what does one do when one’s DaddyBot goes so beserk? “DaddyBot....oh DaddyBot...”

“TO QUOTE A FAMOUS RABBIT... AIN’T I A STINKUH?” DaddyBot quipped. That was when the stern looking woman in the pantsuit came marching into the pool area.“TARGET ACQUIRED!” DaddyBot purred. And Keaton knew it was going to be long, splashy night.

Keaton & Kristin -- picture by "DaddyBot"