Bust Wide Open

The poop's been dry cleaned, see you in '06...

2005-12-28T14:47:00.000-05:00

If you saw me walking down the steet today, you'd have no idea what happened to my jacket a short ten days ago... Bust Wide Open is taking a holiday break, back in '06 with a New Year's resolution to start in again on the Bible. In my defense, the Book could use some cutting... Why is it so long? Didn't these guys have editors? Didn't anyone say, OK, the Flood is already pushing us over budget, so let's nix some of Exodus, eh? With the disgusting length and unnecessary subplots, you'd think Peter Jackson created this thing. Have a jovial New Year...

The subway is running but the shit still hit the fan (and by the fan I mean me)

2005-12-16T21:21:00.000-05:00

The New York Transport Workers Union was threatening to strike Thursday evening, but even though they decided to hold off till later in the week, some of us still had to deal with shit on the subway that night.

A warning: this isn't a tale for the weak of heart, the sensitive of nose, or the civilized. Bodily function has been cheerily absent from these posts since Bust Wide Open's humble beginnings in September. That's about to change in a big, disgusting way.

*

It's about 11:05 on Thursday evening and I'm eating dinner in Stuyvesant Town at my friend Sarah's apartment. The transit workers, if they strike, could start as early as 12:01 Friday morning. I feel a bit like Cinderella -- jovial, wining and dining (though I doubt Cindy and Prince Charming were feasting on sausages from Fresh Direct -- Sarah makes a killer pasta with sausage), but cognizant of the fact that come midnight, the subway could turn into a pumpkin and I could be stuck in Manhattan for at least the rest of the night. I don't want to cut it too close so I excuse myself, head out of Stuyvesant Town toward the L.

Outside, it's pouring and cold, so I make the decision to find a cab. I realize this is a decision I will regret in the morning when I see my wallet is empty, but at the time it seems not only logical, but necessary. Cabs can be hard to come by on a rainy winter night in New York, and for a few minutes, I don't see any available ones. Then, finally, in the distance, an empty cab appears, but it's a couple blocks away. I know I'll have to run to catch it.

I'm on some sort of cobblestone sidewalk on First Avenue running at full speed in the pouring rain when I feel something slick at my feet. Suddenly, I'm in the air, then realize I've fallen flat on my face. An icy patch, I assume. My finger is cut, but I pick myself up and hail the cab.

*

"To Brooklyn," I say. I've been in some strange cabs in my day, but never one that smells so much like feces.

The cabbie shakes his head. "New driver. Don't know how to get to Brooklyn."

"You don't know how to go to Brooklyn?" I could direct him, but something doesn't feel right. The cab smells a bit too much like ass.

"Drop me off in Union Square."

I start considering the possibilities: did the passenger before crap himself? Did the cabbie? And why isn't the cabbie aware of the smell? Is he humiliated? Is this a practical joke? I consider telling him about my experience in second grade, accidentally pooping in a sleeping bag during an overnight party. Maybe it will make him feel better.

Restrain yourself, Lucas. Get to Union Square and bolt.

*

As we pull over, a man on the street looking for a taxi approaches. As I exit, he enters. "Good luck in there," I say.

*

It isn't until I'm in the station when I realize what's happened. My gloves are soaked so I go to take them off when I see they are covered, covered, in you-know-what. I don't mean there's a speck of feces. We're talking about a Nalgene full of shit. Not only that, but my jeans are covered too. I used my gloves to take off my hat so it's been contaminated. Even my jacket has drops of the stuff.

Is it possible that when I slipped on that ice I fell body first into dog doo and didn't even know it? Suddenly, everything becomes so clear: it wasn't the cab driver who smelled, it was me. No wonder the guy didn't want to schlep me to Brooklyn... I'm lucky he didn't turn me over to social services.

The questions are building. This is a substantial amount of crap we're dealing with; is it dog waste or did it come from a human? I'm sure I touched my face at some point in the cab. Is there poop on my nose?

I throw out my gloves and hat and start rubbing at my face frantically. What if there is poop on my nose? Will I break out? E. coli poisoning? Will I die?

*

Waiting for the subway, I don't even notice when I start talking to myself. "I can't believe I'm covered in shit," I'm saying. "Feces is drooling off my body." I notice a girl about my age, staring at me with a skeptical look on her face. I suddenly realize what I'm doing. "Excuse me," I say. "Am I talking to myself?"

The girl smiles. "Just a little."

Just a little. Well, that's not so bad. "Rough night." I think about explaining the situation, but know it probably would make things more awkward.

*

Once in the subway car, I realize I'm that subway guy, that crazy guy who talks to himself and smells like a bowel movement. I'm what everyone hopes they can avoid late at night on the subway to Brooklyn.

When I first get on, people move to the other end of the car! Mothers cover their children's eyes! A crazy guy with lots of big plastic garbage bags muttering to himself even gives me a mean look.

*

The girl who told me I was talking to myself is sitting across from me. Somehow, she hasn't managed to escape me (or my stench). I find it hard to believe she doesn't see that I'm covered in poop.

"I had a rough night too," she says. Then she starts to do what New Yorkers do best. She is happy the transit workers aren't on strike but... she's sure they will be soon and she has the day off tomorrow and she didn't have a good day today and if the train starts running express in Brooklyn she's getting off at Pacific Street and getting a cab because she's not going to go to 36th Street just to turn around and it's raining and it's the holidays and doesn't life just suck sometimes? She's complaining. At full speed.

I smile.

I think to myself, This feels right. I'm comfortable around this level of self-absorption.

I think to myself, Maybe one day I too can stand next to a poop-covered man and complain about my own life.

For the first time in a while, I'm happy to be in New York.

Have your stamp and eat it too

2005-12-08T18:34:00.000-05:00

I try not to use this space to complain about petty annoyances. You don't see me ranting about the absurd so-called "War on Christmas" (a clever distraction from the actual war we're engaged in), or the cold temperature, or the people I encounter from 2-4 PM each day while writing at Starbucks in Park Slope (think camp for autistic people + loads of caffeine... the other day a toddler, as usual, was crying hysterically in there and, from across the room, a guy in all leather stands up and yells, "Hey, kid: someone needs a spanking..."). Yes, I've tried to stay away from the Seinfeldian minutiae. That said, I have to comment on the cookie stamp.

See, I go to the post office every day. Usually I'm carrying a bunch of T-shirts in manila envelopes. Sometimes I even have a few caps in boxes. I don't mind the post office. The people who work there are friendly. Yes, the lines are long, but there are a lot of customers and a limited number of employees, and everyone is doing the best they can. Sometimes I stand there for five minutes. Sometimes ten. Once in a while fifteen. I can deal with it. I read the paper while I wait. No biggie.

That is, I could deal with it until the debut, sometime in the last few weeks, of these cookie stamps (above). I admit, they're kind of cute and festive. They certainly beat Madonna With Child, though I personally prefer the Robert Penn Warrens or the ones with the cars from the 50's. As stamps go, they're colorful and season-appropriate.

I first noticed the peculiar Cookie Stamp Phenomenon right after Thanksgiving. The line was a bit longer than usual. I heard a guy say to the woman in front of me, "Guess the shopping season has really started." The woman responded, "Well, they have the cookie stamps now." Indeed, people were actually standing in line, instead of using the automated stamp machine, just so they could get these cookie stamps. I kept hearing the same dialouge over and over:

Post Officer: Can I help you?
Eager Customer: Book of cookie stamps please!
Post Officer: People love those cookie stamps!!
Eager Customer: I sure do!!!

Oy.

In the last week, it's gotten unbearable. A few days ago I heard the woman behind the counter suggest to a customer that she wait twenty or thirty minutes because a new batch was coming in after lunch. I've seen people practically in tears because they had to settle for Arthur Ashe or Famous Constellations. It's one thing if you're sending some certified mail or a couple of packages and, oh, while I'm here, may as well get some cookie stamps. But these people come especially for the cookies.

Today I'm sending off a few shirts when I realize I really do need a new book of stamps. "I have great news!" says the post officer. "We've got cookie stamps!" Well mazel tov to Con Ed, Time Warner, Empire Healthcare, and my landlord: I'm sure you'll all be cheerier when you receive my electric and cable bills, health insurance and rent check next month because there's a cookie in the shape of an elf on the envelope.

C'mon people. It's not the Beatles, or Elvis, or even Ryan Cabrera. It's not even a real cookie! It's the 37 cent fee you pay to the United States Postal Service so your mail goes from Point A to Point B.

John Gibson and Bill O'Reilly say Christmas is under attack. Well here's a kernel of truth in the real spirit of Christmas: no one cares about what's on the outside of the envelope. They just want the gift card to Best Buy inside.

Goodbye Uterus, Hello Peace and Quiet

2005-12-05T17:55:00.000-05:00

It's been weeks, I admit. My excuses are good ones: Gobble Day, the Newton South High School fifth year reunion, the humbling of Her Highness Beverly (more on that in a minute). That said, I'm happy to report an entry on nothing less than the circumcision of Abraham will be landing here by week's end. I don't want to offer any advance thoughts on old Abe's discarded foreskin, but I promise it will be an in-depth examination. Speaking of removing sensitive body parts, the big news of the last weeks has been the spaying of Beverly. I don't think I've ever heard any words greater than those uttered by the receptionist at the 5th Avenue Cat Clinic in Park Slope on a brisk November morning last week: "Ozzie Adkins, we're ready for you." Yes, Oz, the moral of the story is this: Those whose owners can give them a hysterectomy shouldn't throw stones. They said she'd be a little less mischievous and a little more lethargic after the big day, and they were right. We have taken Bev Miers down a serious notch. Still cute? Yes. Rambunctious? At times. Worthy of an insane asylum? No longer. Cat, interrupted.

Genesis 9: Ham Saw Daddy Kissing... Ham?

2005-11-17T18:02:00.000-05:00

NOTE: For those of you just tuning in, I'm reading the Bible cover-to-cover. For my first posting on Genesis, click here.

*

So, a few of my millions of loyal fans have pointed out that taking almost 2 weeks to get through the first 10 pages of Genesis is not exactly a stellar beginning. Well, haven't any of you fools read "The Tortoise and Hare"? Slow and steady wins the race, bitch.

In semi-seriousness, I was out of town last week for Fine By Me and, I don't know if this is a sign, but the hotel did not supply my room with the Good Book (nor those fun little soaps, for that matter) and I didn't bring mine (it's not a light addition). (Note to The Gideons: you may want to stop by the Executive Inns on Embarcadero in Oakland, CA pronto). In my last post I had mentioned some confusion over the story of Noah's sons, so that's where we'll start...

*

When we last left righteous Noah, the Flood was over, the waters had just receded, and Noah and the rest of the petting zoo had landed around (where else?) the border between eastern Turkey and Armenia. God blesses Noah and his sons, and "from each man" demands "an accounting for the life of his fellow man...

"Whoever sheds the blood of man,
by man shall his blood be shed;
for in the image of God
has God man made" (Genesis 9:5)

(Write that one down, folks. It's gonna be important down the line).

God continues to Noah: "As for you, be fruitful and increase in number; multiply on the earth and increase it." He then establishes his covenant with Noah and Noah's descendants (read: us). "Never again will all life be cut off by the waters of a flood; never again will there be a flood to destroy the earth." (You didn't see Pat Robertson and his back-up singers rolling out that one after Katrina). God then creates a rainbow as a sign of the new covenant.

Fast forward a bit: righteous Noah, on whose shoulders all of humanity now rests, plants a vineyard and, in no time, becomes drunk off his own wine and starts stumbling around naked in his tent. Ham, Noah's youngest son and the father of Canaan, goes in the tent, sees Naked Noah, and goes outside to tell his brothers, Shem and Japheth. The two older boys go into the tent with their faces turned so "they would not see their father's nakedness" and cover him up. When Noah wakes up and finds out "what his youngest son has done," he cries, "Cursed be Canaan! The lowest of slaves/will he be to his brothers." He continues on to bless the other two boys, asks God to give Japheth some land, and again orders Canaan to be slave to both of them.

*

In "Precalculus for Christian Schools," a textbook published by Bob Jones University, the authors assert: "If you are given the length of two sides and the angle measure opposite one of those sides, you can use the law of sines to solve the triangle. However, this does not always determine a unique triangle. As a result, it is called the ambiguous case. Ambiguous means open to multiple interpretations. Some people say that you can interpret the Bible in any way that you want. However, there is no ambiguity in the Bible."

Well, not to be rude to the book's authors but: make like Noah and sober up. If we're to take this thing literally, are we to assume that a guy's son (in this case Canaan) should be punished for his father's (Ham) bad ways? And what, exactly, did Ham do wrong? Did he get in trouble for seeing his dad naked? Or for not covering him up? Isn't Noah, um, overreacting just a wee bit? And what's God doing during all of this? Laughing?

I seem to have misplaced my Dummies book, so, for some answers, I consulted... where else? Google.

*

"One morning before breakfast, Beth came to her mother all embarrassed. 'I was getting ready for church,' Beth said, 'and I needed help tying my shoes so I went to get Father to help me. But when I found him in the bedroom, he was naked! Am I going to get in trouble for seeing him naked?'" So begins "The Story of Ham and Noah" on the very funny www.alltruebible.com. (The site, I pray, is parody, though I've misjudged these things before). The story continues: "Mother frowned down at the sausage links she was frying. 'The Bible has something to say about that, Dear One,' she said.'" After Beth reads her daughter the passage about Ham, she tells her, "'So, Beth, the Bible says that your children will be cursed because you saw your father naked'... Beth thought about this for a moment, and although the thought of her children being her brother's slaves bothered her, she smiled and hugged her mother. The story had answered all her questions."

Apparently, I'm not the only one who finds this tale a little bizarre. "Does this story teach the need for clothing, for privacy or for respect?" asks another site, though I'm not sure I totally agree with the author's subsequent interpretation:

"The story of Noah's drunkenness demonstrates that, as more people came into the world, the role of clothing in creating a zone of privacy protected from other people became more important. Indeed, it became so important to Noah and his family that, when Noah learned that Ham had seen him naked and told his brothers about it, Noah placed a curse on one of Ham's sons. Ham had entered the zone of his father's privacy unbidden and had disrespected his father by telling his brothers about it to his father's shame. Shem and Japheth, by contrast, had shown proper respect by doing what they could to help their father preserve his privacy and maintain the covering of his guilt and sinfulness before them. This story is not about Noah's nakedness and the passage nowhere calls it sinful (remember that he was only naked in his own tent!). Rather, it is about respect for parents and respecting the privacy of others."

A site from the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Canada quotes Martti Nissinen, author of "Homoeroticism in the Biblical World," who apparently (I haven't read the book, clearly) suggests that because Ham's misdeed "seems so harmless," it is obviously a "euphemism" for "homosexual incest." But, before Jerry Falwell uses this as fodder for his next wet dream: "Nissinen thinks that Ham acted not on the basis of a sexual orientation, nor out of lust, but out of a hunger for power. If this is so, then the story really does not contribute anything to a discussion of a gay relationship characterized by love, respect, commitment, and devotion."

On the subject of why Canann gets in trouble instead of Ham, another site quotes the pastor and scholar James Montgomery Boice, who explains:

"Noah's prophecy contains an outline sketch of history, focused in a general way on the descendants of Noah's three sons. As such it has three parts: 1) a curse on Canaan, the son of Ham, and blessings upon 2) Shem and 3) Japheth.

"The curse on Canaan is the most difficult to understand because, as we suggested in an earlier question, it is hard to see why he should be cursed rather than his father, who actually did the wrong. But we note the following. First, it is a biblical principle (whether liked by us or not) that the sins of the fathers are visited on the children even to the third and fourth generations (Exod. 20:5). Second, the punishment, though inflicted on Canaan, was appropriate to Ham since he reaped exactly as he had sown. He sinned as a son and was punished in his son. Third, the assigning of the punishment to Canaan may have been (as is so often the case in God's judgments) a function of the mercy of God, who could have cursed Ham and all his descendants but instead restricted the punishment to only this fourth part, Canaan being only one of Ham's four sons."

*

Obviously, you can take any Bible verse and, if you play with it long enough and dissect all of the words, make it seem a little weird and incoherent. But the story of Noah's sons isn't just any Bible verse: for years (as in, hundreds) it was used as a rationale for slavery. Like, forcing black people into bondage and splitting apart their families and beating and whipping and raping and sometimes killing them? Yeah, that slavery.

A Google search of "ham as justification for slavery" eventually led me to this page, with quotations from Jefferson Davis and others justifying slavery using Genesis, and here, to a sample chapter from David M. Goldenberg's The Curse of Ham: Race and Slavery in Early Judaism, Christianity and Islam (Princeton University Press). Writes Goldenberg:

The story of Noah's sons "has been the single greatest justification for Black slavery for more than a thousand years. It is a strange justification indeed, for there is no reference in it to Blacks at all. And yet just about everyone, especially in the antebellum American South, understood that in this story God meant to curse black Africans with eternal slavery, the so-called Curse of Ham. As one proslavery author wrote in 1838, 'The blacks were originally designed to vassalage by the Patriarch Noah.'"

An old story in New York Times by Felicia Lee goes over some of the theories about how this all started, with thoughts from Goldbenberg and others:

"...Goldenberg, a historian and a visiting scholar at the University of Pennsylvania, spent 13 years investigating every reference to blacks in Jewish literature up to about the seventh century. He is publishing the results of his research next month... Among his surprising findings, he said, is evidence that a misreading of Hebrew and other Semitic languages led to the mistaken belief that the word 'Ham' meant 'dark, black or heat.'

"He concludes that in biblical and post-biblical Judaism there are no anti-black or racist sentiments, a finding that some scholars dispute. He also contends that the notion of black inferiority developed later, as blacks were enslaved across cultures. His findings, he said, dovetail with those of other scholars who have not found anti-black sentiment in ancient Greece, Rome or Arabia.

"'The main methodological point of the book is to see the nexus between history and biblical interpretation,' Mr. Goldenberg said. 'Biblical interpretation is not static.'"

Later, Lee quotes George M. Fredrickson, the author of "Racism: A Short History" (Princeton University Press, 2002): "'As for Ham,' he said, 'It's been a flexible curse — Jews, peasants, Tatars, have been considered cursed over the years.'"

Stephen Haynes, a professor of religion at Rhodes College in Tennessee, tells the Times that the story "appealed to racial slavery because Ham acted like you expected a black man to act. Slavery was necessary in the white Southern mind to control the ungovernable black. Slavery is the response to Ham's rebellious behavior." Come again?

Haynes continues: "The reason the text was so valued by 19th-century people was that it was about honor. Ham acted dishonorably, and slavery was life without honor." In his book, "Noah's Curse: The Biblical Justification of American Slavery," he writes: "Scholars of history and religion alike have failed to comprehend that pro-slavery Southerners were drawn to Genesis 9:20-27 because it resonated with their deepest cultural values."

*

Oftentimes when I'm decrying one outrageous thing (it usually involves something that has exited W.'s mouth) or another and wondering why the world is as it is, my dad will remind me that we've always been fucked up. "We had the Holocaust! And segregation! And slavery!" We have a track record, people.

Well, all I can say is that if this particular story--this weird, mildly incoherent tale that no one can seem to agree on--was the one we used to justify slavery, the next time someone--anyone!--justifies their actions with a Bible verse, everyone else would be well-advised to pick the Bible up, read the verse in question, and see just how "not ambiguous" it actually is.

Deuteronomy 30:19 v. Exodus 21: Whoever wins... we lose.

2005-11-14T18:29:00.000-05:00

I've been out of town at the Creating Change conference in Oakland, and haven't been able to Bible it up for a few days. In the meantime, Sara Hudson passed along a good article from the NY Times on abortion and the Bible. It highlights the problem when different groups use different Bible verses to back up their conclusions about specific policy issues.

And God Said Watch Your Back: Genesis 1:1 through Genesis 9:17

2005-11-07T14:00:00.000-05:00

NOTE: For those of you just tuning in, I'm reading the Bible cover-to-cover, and while I'll continue to post plenty of non-Good Book-related entries here as well, you can anticipate somewhat frequent reflections on "the #1 bestseller of all time," as my New International Version calls it.

*

In August, I was at a bar in Ypsilanti with a couple of students from Eastern Michigan University and the Bible came up. I had already been served a Maker's Mark and ginger ale with a cockroach floating at the bottom, so somehow it didn't surprise me when the conversation got a little heated.

"Are you saying you don't believe in the Bible?" said one of the students, a stocky character with a smirk worthy of W.

"I'm saying my views of right and wrong have much more to do with what my parents taught me and what I learned growing up than with religion," I responded.

"Must be nice not having to follow any rules," said W.

"Actually, I'd imagine it's much easier to have all the answers given to you in a book," said I.

W. rolled his eyes. "The Bible has more questions than answers in it. Anyone who's read it knows that."

*

Well, I still think that kid was a fuckwad, but, I have to hand it to him: the Bible does not offer easy answers. From my days in Sunday school, I had always thought the stories in the Bible were kind of like Aesop's fables--quick, obvious and with clear-cut morals (come to think it, I don't even know if Aesop's fables are quick, obvious and clear-cut). Silly me. This book is about as straightforward as Scott McClellan at a White House press briefing. I mean, there are large swaths of the thing that I just don't get. What exactly is Ham's crime against Noah? Why would Eve trust a talking serpent? And what is the obsession with nudity? I've read 10 pages of Genesis and already nakedness has led to both the enslavement of one guy and the Lord's declaration that husbands "will rule over" their wives for the rest of eternity! Let's just say I don't think all of this increases Robert Opal's chances of reaching the pearly gates.

As soon as I got past the first seven days I knew I was going to need some help getting through this. First step: a trip to Barnes & Noble to get this bad boy--The Bible for Dummies by Drs. Jeffrey Geoghegan and Michael Homan. Because I don't want the Dummies book to influence my first impressions, I've decided only to use it to clear up particularly confusing passages, and never to read about a verse in the CliffsNotes version before I read the actual verse.

I've also set up a new e-mail account especially for Bible-related activities. If you have thoughts, questions, answers, or if I'm totally off on something, let me know (click here or write to AreYouThereGodItsMeLucas@yahoo.com). I need as much help as I can get.

*

Even a lightweight like me knows the gist of the most basic stories in the Bible, and I was relieved to find many of these in the first pages of Genesis: Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, Noah and the Flood. Much like the warm-up tests in a Kaplan SAT prep book, the stories start out simply enough and gradually become more convoluted and ambiguous. Right off the bat, though, one thing is abundantly clear: the God of the Old Testament doesn't mess around. Serpent decieves Eve: "You will crawl on your belly and eat dust all the days of your life!" Eve eats from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil: "With pain you will give birth to children!" Cain kills Abel: "You will be a restless wanderer on the earth!" If you really believe all of this stuff, I don't blame you for protesting so vigorously to "keep God in the public square." I would kiss-ass as much as possible. I'm not painfully toiling on cursed ground the rest of my life.

Despite God's intense wrath, though, I was interested to learn, with some exceptions, that when someone does something wrong, he or she isn't just punished personally, but the punishment usually affects many more than the offender. After Cain kills Abel, God turns him into a "restless wanderer," and then, after Cain says he wants to kill himself, vows to to make anyone who kills Cain "suffer vengeance seven times over." (As an aside, this seems like a convincing argument against the death penalty--which is worse punishment: dying or being stuck on Earth but incapable of accomplishing anything?) Adam and Eve aren't the only ones who get in trouble for their sins, the rest of us get screwed too.

So obviously, doing wrong gets you and your brethren in big-time trouble. Most of my confusion, though, arose not over how people are punished, but over why they are punished like they are and what constitutes wrong. And no where was I more confused than in the stories of Noah and his sons (particularly the sons, who we'll get to next time).

A quick summary of Noah and the Flood: Humans become increasingly evil, God decides it's time to wipe 'em out, chooses "righteous" Noah as the man to carry on humanity. Noah builds ark, piles on his fam plus "seven pairs of every kind of clean animal, and one pair of every kind of unclean animal" (I always imagined just two pigs, two zebras, etc., etc., but apparently they really squeezed them in there), the rain pours down for forty days and forty nights, over a year later the waters recede, and the whole crew disembarks at Mout Ararat, which, according to the Dummies book, is on the border of eastern Turkey and Armenia. God vows never again to "curse the ground because of man, even though every inclination of his heart is evil from childhood" (Genesis 8:20).

This begs the question: wasn't the point of wiping out everyone but the Swiss Family Noah to start fresh with a clean and righteous slate? And if so, why is man still evil, even after the Flood? The Dummies offer this:

"By sending the Flood, God not only judges humankind for its wrongdoings, He cleanses the soil of its pollution. In short, God is being presented as the great Cosmic Ecologist, who cleans up the earth from the damage caused by human sin. This motive for the Flood also explains the commandment or mandate, God gives to Noah after the Flood: Whoever sheds the blood of a human, by a human shall his blood be shed."

At first this interpretation seemed like a bit of a stretch (Cosmic Ecologist? Cleansing the soil?) but in the grand scheme of things it doesn't seem so implausible. I mean, if you accept the basic premise of the Flood, God acting as some sort of Cosmic Ecologist is hardly the most difficult part of the story to believe.

I also found an interesting interpretation online from Dr. George Sinclair, a pastor in Mobile, AL, that seemed fairly reasonable to me. Dr. Sinclair writes that humans didn't so much learn from the Flood. Rather, God did. "Someone asked if I thought God learned a lesson in the story of the flood," writes Sinclair. "I’m not sure that’s exactly how I’d put it, but it does appear that God decided on a different approach, a new way of regarding and treating creation." He continues later on in the sermon:

"Corruption does not end with the flood. It continues to this day. The real change the story suggests is God’s way toward his creation: 'Never again will I destroy.'

"Think about raising your children. When they’re two, maybe three, oh, I suppose until they are four or five, a pop on the bottom might do them some good. You can corral a three year old by spanking, but the effectiveness of that approach is lost by the time they’re eight or nine or ten. I mean, think about it, can you whip a 16-year-old into submission? You might want to whip a 35-year-old with a drug problem, but it’s not going to do any good. More likely, you’re going to suffer with your lost son or daughter. You’re going to feel their pain. You will trust that patience, forbearance, justice, and kindness will win the day. Should we expect any less of the God who made us and who according to the gospel story suffers and dies for us?

"God shows us the way. And the way is not destruction. The way is not violence. God has hung up his bow, vowing never again to destroy the earth. It is a promise worthy to build a life upon, a vow that will stand until the end of time. 'This is the sign of the covenant that I have established between me and all flesh that is on the earth.' Amen."

Amen, indeed. I'll take that one!

(Incidentally, Googling "Why did God send the Flood?" brings up all sorts of fun stuff, including a page discussing whether or not Noah took dinosaurs aboard, and, my personal favorite,"Lessons from Noah's Ark," which reminds you that "Speed isn't always an advantage. The snails were on board with the cheetahs" and "Remember that woodpeckers inside are a larger threat than the storm outside").

*

OK, so I think I understand the basic premise behind why the Flood happened. What happens next, though, is where I feel especially clueless and particularly confused about what on Earth God is so pissed off about... In Episode 2 we'll deal with the confounding story of Noah's sons and some thoughts on gender in the Good Book.

A note on religion and politics

2005-11-03T10:00:00.000-05:00

In response to my last post a reader pointed out that there's a difference between saying the Bible has no place in public political discourse and saying 'Because the Bible says so' is not an appropriate rationale for policy decisions. Reader is right. I overstated my case. Of course everyone relies on their moral code to inform their decisions--whether those decisions affect policy, relationships, etc. For many practicing Christians and Jews, the Bible is their moral code, and it would be ludicrous (and undemocratic and authoritarian) to tell a person of faith he can't use the Bible to help him shape his views on the major questions of our time.

What I'm reacting against, really, is this Jim Wallis/Michael Lerner inclination to frame everything in grand moral terms. Wallis is always talking about honesty and poverty as moral issues, about budgets as "moral documents." Yes, poverty is a moral issue. Yes, when Bush is dishonest with the American people it is immoral as well as unhelpful. Yes, when you're shaping a budget, how you prioritize what money goes where is not just about what's pragmatic but also about what's right. But right and wrong are not always so clear-cut, which is why while your religious views may shape what you believe, when it comes to the difficult issues of crafting effective policy, you need more than a good moral code. You need competence. And I think it's silly to think that we win back the country by re-framing everything in hyper-moral terms. It assumes people are stupid, and will only believe in something if you can back it up with a Bible verse. Obviously use your moral code, your understanding of right and wrong, to guide how you make decisions. And when the right wing goes off preaching about "moral values," highlight their hypocrisy, show the ways in which their policies aren't moral and how yours would differ. But at the end of the day, most people, even the ones I strongly disagree with, believe what they are doing is moral. Instead of spending all of this time framing every debate in terms of what's right, let's spend a little time figuring out how to do something right. The Bible didn't get us into Iraq, or into debt, and the Bible won't get us out. Of course our morals, our religious and spiritual beliefs, should play a (large) part in what we believe and how we act. But look around. The country's a mess. We need heart to fix it, of course. But a brain or two wouldn't hurt either.

*

There is a good, reasonable op-ed in today's Washington Post on some of these very issues ("Why Jesus Is Welcome In The Public Square"). Jennifer Moses nails it with this: "If one common mistake liberals make is assuming that the great majority of Bible-thumping (or tapping) comes from the right, a second -- and to my mind, more important -- mistake is equating this style of religiosity with something as simple as narrow-minded ignorance. Rather, bringing God and his word as expressed in the Bible into the debate points to a profound lack of meaning and vision in our public discourse, and a searing pessimism that anyone, or any institution, in public life might put things right."

A project of Biblical proportions or, Seth lived for 912 years, so isn't that sort of a clue in the whole "should we interpret this literally" debate?

2005-11-02T19:43:00.000-05:00

I'm reading the Bible. Cover to cover. Starting today. My progress will be charted here, though I'm promising no consistency in when or what I post, I'm setting no time table for finishing, and I can't guarantee this won't end at, like, Deuteronomy, if I enter into a long-term relationship, win the lottery, or decide that long nights with Mahalalel and Methuselah just aren't for me. (I don't want to make it seem like I'm the guy who joins the gym on Jan. 2 and quits on Jan. 4, but, well, it's happened before, OK?).

I've decided to use the New International Version because it's here. On my bookshelf. It appeared during my freshman year of college, outside my door, courtesy of the Duke Campus Crusade for Christ. As far as I remember, I wasn't personally targeted and the entire dorm received the Good Book--published by the International Bible Society with "cover design and auxilary materials" provided by Campus Crusade. I appreciated the gift, and also the sense of humor of the folks at Cru. On the cover: "The Bible" in big blue letters, followed by "God" where the author's name goes, and, across the top, "The #1 International Bestseller of All Time." The book even includes an "About the Author" section. "GOD has been known and recognized as the supreme expert on such issues as life, death, forgiveness and truth," it begins. "He works as a teacher, theologian, physician, father, son, counselor and many other things -- all simultaneously without taking a break."

*

Why read the Bible?

First, I can assure you I'm not reading it so that when Fred Phelps comes waving a Bible in my face shouting about Leviticus 20:13 I can counter it with some other verse about God striking down crazy old Kansans. Many liberal people of faith seem to spend a great deal of time arguing that the Bible, especially the New Testament, is more an argument for progressive causes than conservative ones. I don't play that game. To me, the Bible should not be part of our public political discourse. Period. "Because the Bible says so" is not a reasonable argument when discussing American policy, and I don't care which side uses it. That said, I realize it very much is part of our political discourse, whether I like it or not, and that it can't hurt to know what's going on in the damn thing. But I don't intend to use any newfound knowledge to jump into the mix, arguing against the repeal of the Davis-Bacon Act by quoting Jesus Christ.

Mostly, I'm curious what all the hype is about. I mean, people respond to this book. And as a writer, that makes me eager to read it. My only real Bible-reading experiences come from a couple of years of Sunday school (of the Jewish variety), a semester of "Bible-as-literature" sophomore year of high school, and insights from my dad, who skims through the Old Testament during other kids' bar mitzvahs. (He talks about it a bit like teenage boys might discuss a Tony Scott movie. "This thing is gruesome! Look at this! There are specific warnings about what what God does to you if you eat blood!") I figure some self-education might be a good idea.

*

The intro to the New Interational Version is written in the hyper-casual tone of someone trying so hard to appear "cool" he comes across just the opposite. You know the type. The guy who wears Hawaiian shirts and drinks O'Doul's and thinks he's gaining "street cred" by occasionally deeming a "chick" "hot" but in reality is just pretending to be interested in talking about whether Manny will be traded because what he really wants to do is bring you closer to Christ. (Last February, I went to a conference in D.C. loaded with anarchists, and they have some similar qualities. They call themselves "anti-authoritarian" but have created so many rules on how to be appropriately anarchistic that upon not-very-close observation it becomes strikingly clear that what they really want is total authority. The boy at the booth next to me was selling, for ten dollars, a book on how to shoplift).

"The Bible was written over many centuries by more than forty people," the intro begins. "The writers include a couple of kings, a fisherman, a tax collector, a physician and a rabbi." From the start, the message is: we're not wild-eyed members of the Cult of Prude, we're just like you. "And then there's the story about a sheperd who became king, slept with another guy's wife, got her pregnant, and murdered her husband so he could marry her." Murder! Sex! See, friends, we know what you want to hear! Come with us...

The intro also includes personal questions for readers to ponder ("On a scale of 1-10, how would you rate your current desire to know God personally? Ten is the highest" "Why is life so messed up? Why am I messed up?") and an 800 number to call after you recite John 5: 11-13 ("This number is not in service at this time. No further information is available").

But my personal favorite part of the intro comes on Page 1, and I can assure you we didn't learn this at the Brandeis Jewish Education Program on Sunday mornings in 1991 (italics added for effect):

"One of the stories told most often is the one about the innocent man who was falsely accused and died a horrible death by hanging on a cross. Though he didn't have to die, his love for people motivated him to do it. His name was Jesus Christ. He's really the main character of the entire book. Miss his story and you'll miss the entire point of the book."

The authors go on to suggest that if you're unsure if God's story is true, read the Bible but "start with the section called John." Well, nice try guys. But I think I'll start, you know... in the beginning...

Bev Miers: Up Close and Personal

2005-10-30T21:02:00.000-05:00

Though she has not reared her fuzzy, mischievous head on these pages in some time, Beverly (who I've lately been addressing as "Harriet Miers" due to her inexplicable enthusiasm for life, grating loyalty and nonexistent writing ability) is thriving in the Slope. And now that I learned how to post pictures in this space, here is a glimpse of Bev from her earliest days.

Scenes from the Ween '05

2005-10-30T10:18:00.000-05:00

Last night on the subway, the people in costume congregated on one end of the car. I don't know how we all ended up sitting together, but I found myself scrunched next to the Hamburgler and a human-sized Tootsie Roll. I was the captain of the high school football team, though I had not yet applied the dark lines under my eyes to "protect me from the glare." Part of the joyful weirdness of Halloween in New York is that it's not always easy to tell who is in costume and who isn't. To my right was a priest, and for the first half of the ride it never occurred to me he wasn't a priest. But when was the last time I saw a priest on the subway? And why did he seem so happy? Would a priest actually be carrying a Bible? Isn't that kind of trite?

*

Walking through Union Square last night only confirmed my feelings about this joyful weirdness. Costumed vagrants mingled with actual vagrants, a fake subway conductor passed by a real one. Is that guy actually a UPS deliveryman or pretending? Isn't that crazy guy always wearing a clown suit, or is that just a guy dressed as a clown? Maybe it's a guy pretending to be the crazy guy always wearing the clown suit. Why are there so many men in bunny outfits? Is this normal? I was with my friend Sarah, who was dressed as a Russian peasant, though she was quick to point out that each piece of her costume was actually clothing she had bought and worn in high school.

*

Coming home around 2, I had an uneasy feeling hit me when I realized I was the only costumed person waiting for the N train. Finally, a couple covered in fake blood and extremely intense gore make-up trotted down the steps to the platform. From their voices, I recognized them as Maggie and Kyle, Sarah's friends who live down the street from me. Once again I found myself in the costumed section of the subway car. And just like in Tallahassee, given the circumstances, it didn't feel particularly out of the ordinary.

Tallahassee, FL: Ween '04

2005-10-30T09:02:00.000-05:00

This is my first Halloween in New York. Last year, despite living here, I was in Tallahassee for the four weeks before the election. Somehow, in the chaos of those final seventy-two hours of canvassing and phone calls and Beat Bush pep rallies, Halloween got missed. Not just Halloween, but all of the preparation that goes along with Halloween. I don't remember a single pumpkin being carved, a single costume being worn, a single piece of candy corn entering my body or anyone else's.

It's strange, because I have very vivid memories of the rest of my time in Tallahassee. I remember our living conditions most clearly, on the top floor of a large, mostly abandoned building, which was also, conveniently enough, the location of our office. A local community organizer had managed to rent out a bunch of the rooms in the space to local progressive organizations, including ours, for practically nothing. He hoped to renovate the building into a progressive center for the community. We had been offered some alternative housing in the city, but there was something about living in the office that was vaguely appealing, sort of like the vaguely appealing idea of being locked in a mall after it closes.

For the most part, the entire second floor of the complex was empty. Three of us, Sam, Liz and I, bunked on air mattresses. At first we confined ourselves to one room, each living in old cubicles, but slowly we spread out. There was a kitchen and a shower. It was fairly comfortable. After about 11PM each night, later as the election neared, the last organizers would go home, and we'd take a deep breath and roam the empty halls.

One night, late, I heard noises coming from the kitchen. Inside, I found a woman eating a pizza and a little boy in his underpants. Given the fact that I was living in an old office building in the middle of Tallahassee, at that moment I don't think it struck me as particularly out of the ordinary. Later, I heard that a homeless woman had invented a fake "progressive organization" addressing homelessness, secured space in the building for the absurdly low rent, and promptly moved her family in.

Other memories: Getting a motel room with a TV so we could watch the Red Sox in the playoffs. A quick overnight trip to Biloxi, where Sam won $1,200 playing video poker (the money was spent quickly, and the casino was destroyed by Katrina). Driving through all of Florida's esteemed capital, counting the number of Wendy's restaurants in the city proper (I remember ten, but apparently it's just nine). If you're wondering what I was doing in the days before the election watching baseball, gambling, and counting the number of this or that fast food chain, I'd like to remind that you we lost and, in Florida, badly.

*

On a happy note, the Tallahassee Progressive Center now seems to be thriving, with 22 tenants and a comprehensive website, surely in large part due to the determination of the community organizer who started it.

Gay? Fine By Pennsylvania

2005-10-23T17:31:00.000-04:00

Pennsylvania may have Rick Santorum, but it also has a striking number of gay? fine by me. T-shirt drives going on this fall. Early in October at Lebanon Valley College, students handed out 288 shirts in only a couple of hours. Organizers at Susquehanna University had similar success. Meanwhile, at Bucknell University in Lewisburg, students again participated in the T-shirt Project (they have in the past as well), bringing their total to about 1,600 participants.

Rosemary's Kitten and a Fung Alternative

2005-10-16T17:22:00.000-04:00

I had no intention of writing about--even mentioning!--Beverly today, what with provocative movies out (A History of Violence, Grizzly Man) and a typically absurd set of Tim Russert interviews this morning (including one with former FBI director Louis Freeh, going after Bill Clinton, because, well, with DeLay indicted, Frist in trouble, and George losing what little credibility remains, Monica is still the real problem). But when I sat down at my laptop, I noticed something initially funny and now irritating: the Y key on my keyboard was gone. Is gone. Disappeared. Vanished. Now, as I write, I hit the little black stump where the Y key once lived.

Beverly is our kitten. She is also now the proud owner of a scratched up Y key from a relatively young Compaq. In previous posts, I've referred to her as Ozzie, her birth name. Soon after we named her, though, a variety of sources pointed out that Ozzie is a boy's name. If she was human, Ozzie would be a fast-talking, hard-smoking secretary--butting heads with her superiors, never entering a room quietly, a gravelly-voiced Erin Brockovich, often shrill but at the end of the day ruthlessly effective. Thus Beverly was born. We now alternate between the two.

(When I say "our kitten" and "we now alternate," I refer to myself and my roommate, Madkins. Though technically I did agree to co-adopt Beverly, it is clear to all parties involved that when Madkins and I part ways, I'll be parting with BevOz as well).

Bottom line: Bev is insane. There's not much more to say on the matter. Just as journalists often don't report bomb threats so as not to empower the culprit, I see no need to give bin Kitten more attention that she already gets. (In addition, writing without a Y key and only a stump is a time-consuming process and I just assume get our Sometimes Vowel reattached as quickly as possible).

"It's a kitten," you say. "This is what they do." Nonsense. I don't believe this is normal kitten behavior. Running full speed up and down the hallway 15 hours a day? Maybe. Eating substantial portions of my cell phone charger? Perhaps. Forcing me to lock the bathroom door because when I pee she thinks the stream of urine is some sort of string for her to catch and run with? God help us.

*

For those of you mentally drained or physically charred due to your most recent Fung Wah experience, forget Greyhound or the Amtrak Acela. Molly has pointed me toward an astonishing new choice: meet the LimoLiner, whisking "you in style between the Hilton Back Bay to the Hilton New York." If you can go Chinatown to Chinatown, why not Hilton to Hilton? And unlike with Fung Wah, where most of one's trip is consumed listening to the often excruciating conversation of one's not-quite-autistic-but-atypical-nonetheless-neighbor...

"LimoLiner offers mobile professionals high-quality, personal business services that enable you to be productive en route for your entire trip. It’s the only travel alternative between Boston and New York with seatside power outlets, unlimited wireless Internet access, clear and constant cell phone reception, an onboard attendant, and worktables for meetings.

For business travelers who must make the trip on a regular basis, LimoLiner is the perfect way to make use of every minute of your trip. With each seat a mini-workstation you can easily turn all of your time into billable time."

What a charming thought. The next time you call your accountant, he may just be sitting on the can in "a sparkling clean washroom" in the back of a bus on I-84 in Connecticut, cheerfully helping you with your tax return, dutifully recording the length of the call, shitting, reading, and moving all at the same time.

I'm booking my Thanksgiving ticket home pronto.

Fung Wahpalooza

2005-10-09T08:32:00.000-04:00

Yesterday on the subway, amidst the latest terror warning, I sat next to a nun wearing a habit and a pink velour running suit. The presence of bizarrely outfitted characters on public transportation is always a comfort to me. I often find myself thinking: If something terrible did happen while I was on the subway, what would the CNN coverage look like afterwards? Somehow, I couldn't imagine shots of our stylish sister covered in ash, running in her cheap velvet suit from an exploded subway.

*

At the time of my encounter with the fuschian nun, I was on the R train, on my way to Canal Street, to the Fung Wah bus stop. The Fung Wah is the largest of the Chinatown-based New York-to-Boston bus companies. For a mere 15 dollars the folks at Fung Wah will transport you from Chinatown in New York to South Station in Boston, or the other way around. While unarguably a steal, the Fung Wah does have some drawbacks. As a reporter at the Tufts Daily recently put it: "A ride on the Chinatown bus to New York is cheap, convenient and sometimes explosive."

It seems on Aug. 16, one of the buses "burst into flames" just after 45 passengers evacuated on the interstate in Connecticut. According to the Boston Globe, the bus, "part of the low-fare passenger line fleet from Boston to New York, erupted in flames... sending frightened passengers scrambling off the bus just moments before it became a 'charred mess,' police and passengers said." Another Chinatown bus, operated by a different company, Travel Pak, exploded in March. No one was hurt in either incident.

Riding on the subway to the Fung Wah bus, I started to wonder: Is it more likely I'll be exploded here or there?

*

The answer, without a doubt, is there.

I've probably had 10 Fung Wah experiences in the last 2 years, and I've never come anywhere close to death. But I can tell you that the experience can be mentally exhausting. While no Fung Wah I've been on has ever spontaneously combusted, if one did I can't say I'd be overwhelmed with surprise.

It's not anything about the buses themselves. They're all fairly clean, somewhat comfortable, equipped with a bathroom and TV monitors. (Unlike the superior Vamoose bus from New York to DC, though, they generally don't show movies on the FW. The Vamoose, whose motto is "More Bang For Your Buck--No Bull," is the Hasidic version of the Chinatown, with a slightly more limited schedule, and no buses on Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur, Sukot or Simchat Torah. They boast not only quick service but also "newly released" DVDs. In my experience, these have included Million Dollar Baby, Ray, and, on an afternoon bus filled with a more elderly crowd, Casablanca at full volume, twice).

It's not the management of the Fung Wah that's a problem, either. While a trip on the FW invariably involves being yelled at in Chinese, the buses leave on time, and the staff is always efficient and effective, if not exactly polite. Unlike with Greyhound, which departs from Port Authority, the Fung Wah "station" is the sidewalk at 139 Canal St., and boarding the bus at peak times can sometimes require a bit of defensive manuevering, with the Fung Wah staff person acting as ticket-taker, luggage-loader and referee. First-time passengers are always somewhat confused trying to figure out exactly where they are supposed to be and when, someone in line is always too close to where the bus is supposed to park, etc., etc.

No, the real problem, my friends, is the people. Oh, the people. Where do they find them? Riding the Fung Wah is like attending an Asperger's conference on wheels. You have your close-talkers, your loud-talkers, your bad breathers, your spit-when-exicted-ers, your too frequent pee-ers, your fidgeters, your messy eaters, men-too-old-for-sweatpants, the indigent and insane.

The combinations are toxic. High school theater kids still high off the Les Miz matinee knee-to-knee with drunken Red Sox or Yankees fans, just in from catching a game at the opposing stadium (and losing, always losing). Wealthy older women "seeing how the other half lives," homeless people switching cities. They pack so many idiosyncracies and eccentricities onto these buses, it's amazing they can even move.

Sometimes, it can be fun. Sometimes, not. There are fun wacky people, interesting wacky people, and sometimes wacky wacky people who you don't really want to be in an enclosed space with for too long. This time (Madkins and I are were headed to Newton to watch Meatloaf while my parents are out of town) we got the wacky wacky, and while I've tried a couple of times to recount our ride next to one of the most fidgety human beings I've ever met and three 19 year olds of the self-consciously-dirty-and-live-in-Williamsburg variety, I've decided to spare readers the extremely loud, at times vulgar dialogue (including a 45 minute conversation about what type of people various cigarrette brands would be "if they were human").

All in all: it's no wonder these buses occasionally burst into flames. By the end of this latest go-round, I was ready to explode.

Notes from the Hot Yoga Playoffs

2005-10-02T23:19:00.000-04:00

For months, my roommate Mary has been taking Bikram yoga classes. Bikram is casually known as "hot yoga"--it's like run-of-the-mill yoga except that the studio is sweltering (recommended temperature is 105 degrees, 40% humidity). Students move through 26 difficult poses and sweat their brains out. Bikram Choudhury, who started Bikram yoga, founded the Yoga College of Beverly Hills in 1974. Bikram yoga studios have now popped up all over New York.

I once saw a piece about Bikram on TV. From what I remember, he came off as half yoga genius, half Ron Popeil. Yes, it's about working muscles and balancing emotions ("Bikram Yoga cultivates the mental faculties of faith, self-control, concentration, determination, and patience"), but Bikram Yoga is also a product, and a lucrative one.

Regardless, Mary loves it, and always comes home from Bikram in a good mood.

*

When she first started, Mary tried to get me to come with her. Promises were made: Your mind will be opened. Your body will be freed. There will be cute boys there, maybe you will date them.

I never had any of it. For starters, yoga at room temperature didn't strike me as all that appealing. The whole deal seemed a little too touchy-feely and spiritual for my tastes, and if I have to get touchy-feely and spiritual, I'd rather not do it in skimpy Lycra shorts in a simulated Mojave in the middle of Park Slope.

And let's get real. I don't like making eye contact on the treadmill at the gym. A room full of people watching me do a "toe stand" or a "full locust" did not seem energizing and affirming.

No, no, Mary assured me. Yoga isn't a competition. No one will judge you. It's all about process, not finished product. It's all about you.

*

Mary calls a few days ago from work. She is buying tickets to the 3rd Annual NYC Regional Yoga Asana Championship, do I want to come. It's a competition. There will be judges, winners.

"Sure," I tell her. "Hey, I thought yoga was all about the process."

"Well, it is," she replies. "But... well... I guess we'll find out."

*

The competition is at the Triad Theater on 72nd Street. When we arrive, there is already a line out the door. The crowd is eclectic. A heavily tattooed man, who also owns a few of the studios, sells raffle tickets. A girl with a thick Minnesota accent is in front us us. Behind us, a man who bears a striking resemblance to Keanu Reeves.

While we're waiting, a woman approaches and asks why everyone is standing around. "Yoga competition," says someone in the line. "Bikram."

"I thought maybe a new club was opening." The woman is intrigued. "So isn't yoga sort of like not about competition?"

"Class isn't," says someone else. "But some people want to take it to the next level."

A few minutes later, a young man dressed in gym shorts approaches Keanu. "You ready?" asks Reeves.

"Little nervous but I think so," says the young man.

"You'll do great," says Keanu. "We're here for you bro."

*

Inside, the place is packed. According to the program, the NYC regional is one of 30 such events leading up to the World Yoga Asana Championship, held in LA in 2006. 5 men and 13 women will compete. Two men and two women will receive a free trip to the Finals in LA and a six-month supply of Zico. Zico is the main sponsor of the event. They sell coconut water in little juice boxes. When they say "coconut water" they mean coconut water. The free samples are heinous.

The MC for the evening, Mark Nadler ("one of New York's top cabaret performers"), makes a few jokes about the irony of a yoga contest. Bikram's wife, Rajashree, is there as a judge, and she makes some remarks explaining why it's OK to have a yoga competition. She makes her comments with a smile and throws in some one-liners, but she's clearly had the issue come up before. Not everything makes sense to me. At one point, she seems to make the case that so many other physical activities have an element of competition, why not yoga. Why yoga, I think to myself. Later, she points out that in other sports, competitors scheme against one another, sometimes even resorting to murder! She assured us this was not the case with competing yogis.

*

Mary and I stayed for the first half--we saw all the men and a few of the women. These people could bend. One guy basically made himself into a wheel. While Mary and I had debated beforehand about whether the theater would be heated, it wasn't. I was relieved.

The atmosphere was friendly. Yes, it was a competition, but it did seem unlikely that a yogi-version of Tonya Harding would beat down a competitor in "tree pose." Though the crowd was warm, the event had some slightly corporate elements that felt strange to me. The cover of the program was an illustration of the Statue of Liberty in one of the Bikram poses, holding her leg in one hand a bottle of Zico in the other. Zico, in fact, was everywhere. On the program, in people's hands, on the van outside the Triad. On this night, at least, Zico was the Halliburton of energy drinks.

*

We left at intermission, yogaed out. Mary says the competition looked fun and expressed interest in training for it next year. For the moment, I'll stick to watching CNN on the treadmill. But you never know. With some spiked Zico, I could see myself in a "Floor Bow Pulling Pose" no problem.

An alternative to banning military recruiters from college campuses

2005-09-28T16:29:00.000-04:00

Both supporters and opponents of the Pentagon's Don't Ask Don't Tell policy seem to be spending a great deal of time and brain power on the issue of whether or not military recruiters should be banned from college campuses.

Harvard Law School, for example, has been going back-and-forth on this for a while. Last week, HLS agreed to allow military recruiters back on campus, reversing a previous decision to ban the Pentagon from recruiting there. The quick (and incomplete) history of the controversy is this:

Many law schools believe the military's Don't Ask Don't Tell policy conflicts with their own non-discrimination policies. As a result, schools have banned military recruiters from their campuses. The 1996 Solomon Amendment, meanwhile, dictates that the government can deny federal funding to universities that ban military recruiters or limit their activities on campus. So when it became clear Harvard would lose some serious research money if they didn't comply with the Pentagon, they allowed the recruiters on campus.

In an editorial in the Harvard Crimson in May, the newspaper offered a convincing argument for banning the recruiters:

"Harvard Law School requires all recruiters to sign a non-discrimination pledge to participate in on-campus activities, yet the military has refused to sign the pledge due to its explicit discrimination against the employment of homosexuals. Currently, their Dont Ask, Dont Tell policy prohibits openly gay individuals from serving in the military. Given the explicit contradiction with Harvard's anti-discrimination policies, the military has no right to recruit on campus."

On almost all points, I agree. While I won't here go into all the proof behind the following statements, I've linked to some sites that offer the basic arguments: The reasoning behind banning gays from the military is absurd. The Don't Ask Don't Tell policy is clearly discriminatory and ineffectual. The military would be better off, national security would be better off, if the Pentagon recruited the most qualified candidates and not just the most qualified heterosexual ones.

But there's a difference between being right and making change, and while banning recruiters may seem like the "right" thing to do, it doesn't seem to me to be the effectual thing to do. Why?

First, it seems to me this boycott won't work if loss of major money for the participants is involved: the purpose of a boycott is to force the boycotted company to change whatever policy has led to the boycott in the first place. This only works if a sizable number of consumers participate, or if a few powerful consumers do. Right now it seems as if there aren't enough schools boycotting to make a difference, and the direction of the Harvard case isn't a good sign. At the end of the day, money talks, and if the Feds can withhold it, I think the chances of major boycotts are unlikely. (This is not an argument against banning recruiters, rather simply my feeling as to why I don't think a ban would have much effect. I recognize that oftentimes there are things you have to do even if everyone else is doing the opposite, and in those cases, you may be able to persuade those in the majority to change their mind if you lead by example).

But even if a ban won't change the policy, defenders will say, it's a matter of principle. Why should I allow people to recruit on my campus who don't share my values of inclusion and non-discrimination?

Here's why: When it comes to gay rights, engagement is almost always more effective than disengagement. Having the representatives of a bigoted policy present on your campus, even recruiting on your campus, is an opportunity. Instead of banning the recruiters from campus, why not welcome them, and use their every visit as an occasion for an all-out assault on a dumb and homophobic policy?

The best way to fight homophobia is for more people to come out of the closet. If your cousin or your sister or your child is gay, you're less likely to be homophobic. This is not a controversial statement. Our most effective tool in stopping homophobia is ourselves; telling our stories, showing who we are.

Imagine this: Each time recruiters were scheduled to come to a given campus, all of the students, gay or not, who find Don't Ask Don't Tell morally reprehensible or just plain silly could organize themselves together. They could figure out which five or ten among them--gay and straight--are probably the most qualified to serve in whatever positions the recruiters are recruiting for. The object then would be to figure out a way to disseminate these students' stories in the most effective way possible (ads in the newspaper, press releases, exhibits on campus, etc.), with the underlying message being: These students (and students like them) are integral to our national security and our national interests. Read their stories and imagine what they could do for the country. They are refusing to join up because they are gay or because they don't believe sexual orientation has anything to do with whether one should be able to serve. What's more important: appeasing a small minority of powerful right wing homophobes or protecting the country?

Obviously, the idea isn't fully formed. The stories would need to be told in a visually appealing format and in clear, crisp writing. But the point is that each time a recruiter visited campus, it would be another chance to call attention to an unjust policy and work to get rid of it.

At the end of the day it seems to me more important to fight Don't Ask Don't Tell than the Solomon Amendment. Flooding a community with stories about real people who are really not serving, in opposition to a policy that is bigoted and detrimental to our national security, might be a viable alternative to a ban on recruiters that the (current) government seems intent on ending.

Princeton, NJ? Fine By Me

2005-09-21T10:39:00.000-04:00

25 students at Princeton Theological Seminary wore "gay? fine by me" shirts yesterday. According to the blog of one of the student organizers, the T-shirt drive was a success. One interesting note: Al Mohler, president of the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, had some thoughts on Fine By Me on his own blog (hint: gay is not fine by him). While Dr. Mohler and I differ on many points, I think we both agree: writers should stay away from using the word disambiguate.

Analogize This!

2005-09-21T10:00:00.000-04:00

Here's an idea to cut down on incendiary rhetoric: politicians and pundits who insist on making false historical analogies should be forced to live in the historical moment they have alluded to for 24 hours, then come back and decide whether their analogy was helpful and true.

Take one of my favorites, Sen. Rick Santorum, for example. According to the AP, in his new book It Takes a Family, Rick "makes the case that abortion puts the liberty rights of the mother before those of her child, just as the rights of slave owners were put before those of slaves. 'This was tried once before in America,' Santorum writes. 'But unlike abortion today, in most states even the slaveholder did not have the unlimited right to kill his slave.'"

Yes, abortion is not only like slavery, it is actually worse.

Fair enough, Senator. You've made your case. Now why don't we send you to, I don't know, South Carolina circa 1800? You can spend the day working in the field, being beaten and whipped sporadically, and at some point before nightfall let's sell off your children, each to different masters. Then you can come back to the floor of the Senate and tell women who have had abortions that they are just like slave owners.

The Analogy Law wouldn't just make politicians think before they made incendiary and unconstructive comparisons... It could also have a positive effect on public policy. President Bush loves making comparisons between our current adventure in Iraq and two other wars: the American Revolution and World War II. As I've mentioned before, it seems to me real war veterans, like John McCain, are consistently more thoughtful and sane when it comes to war and torture than others, because for them it isn't just theoretical. (Rick Santorum, unlike a McCain or a Hagel or a Cleland, seems like a guy who has been through nothing in his life, because guys who have been through something usually don't drop words like "slavery" and "war" so nonchalantly).

Can you imagine W. spending a day fighting in the American Revolution? He wouldn't be dropping bombs out of aircrafts, either. We're talking bayonets, people. A trip to late eighteenth century America would certainly prove the analogy with Iraq (and the Iraqi constitution) false. But perhaps it could also make our seemingly oblivious president more cognizant to the costs of war.

Of course, no analogy is used more often or more bizarrely than the H-bomb. Remember when Santorum compared Hitler with, isn't it obvious?, Democrats opposing the filibuster? Or when Sheri Drew, who opened the 2004 Republican National Convention, said: “'those who support gay and lesbian families are no different from those who supported Adolf Hitler in the years preceding World War II." Or when Sean Penn compared Bill O'Reilly (a first class moron, but no AH) to the Hit? No way to set off a furor like comparing your enemies to the Fuhrer. (For a complete list, look here).

I have a feeling a day trip to Auschwitz might cut down on that some.

An Idea for Homeless People (or, My Days as a Professional Panhandler)

2005-09-19T09:02:00.000-04:00

On Thursday, outside of Penn Station, a young guy approaches me for a donation in support of some animal rights group. Thinking about Ozzie, I immediately decline, but as a former canvasser myself, I force a sympathetic smile before I push onward.

*

When I first moved to New York, in August '04, I got a job working for Grassroots Campaigns Inc., a for-profit "progressive" corporation, founded, at least in part, to help defeat George Bush that November. GCI hires and trains large numbers of people to fundraise and organize for liberal or progressive organizations. When I was working for them, they were partnered with the Democratic National Committee and MoveOnPAC.

GCI lured me in with what sounded like a great deal: if you work as an "assistant director" (read: glorified canvasser) in our New York City office for a couple months, hiring canvassers to raise money for the DNC and doing some canvassing yourself (read: 5 hours/day), when it gets closer to the election we'll make you a field organizer in a swing state for MoveOn PAC's get-out-the-vote campaign.

Thus began my career going door-to-door in New York City, asking, over and over and over again: "Do you want to help defeat George Bush?"

Truth is, despite working 14, 15, 18 hours a day, six days a week, the job had a certain flavor to it that I enjoyed. In Columbus Circle one man spit on me. In Park Slope, a guy who looked like Newman from Seinfeld screamed at me to get a real job. On a scorching hot afternoon in Montclair, NJ, a man opened the door with his board shorts completely undone and no underwear. "I'm a little busy, dude," he told me. "And I'm a Republican." In Forest Hills, Queens, an elderly couple invited me into their backyard for lemonade and complained that they'd always voted Democrat but couldn't vote for Kerry because he was so pro-choice. "He likes aborting a lot more than Clinton, you know."

Though I was on the "door" team, during the Republican National Convention everyone in the office worked for "street." We fanned out to sidewalks across the city, and as it got closer and closer to the day of President Bush's speech, more and more people would throw money at us. Women wrote 500 dollar checks and spoke in gleeful tones usually reserved for old friends. Credit card numbers were handed over like bread crumbs to ducks at the park. Pats on the back were commonplace. Hugs were not unknown.

I liked "working the street." On door duty you had to present yourself as trustworthy and professional (no one wants a creep knocking on his door, which is why all of our more Asperger-ish canvassers were placed on street the second they were hired). Street canvassing, on the other hand, allowed for more creativity. Theatrics were encouraged. And whereas knocking on a Bush supporter's door could always lead to uncomfortable moments, on the street, those people would avoid you, unless they had saliva to unleash.

One night I was assigned to prowl Lafayette Street and it started pouring. It was a cold rain, windy, and an older woman moved briskly down the street, clutching her umbrella in one hand and a young girl, who I took to be her granddaughter, in the other. While she was still a few yards away I smiled and yelled, "Would you like to help defeat George Bush?" Rain beat down on me.

She scowled. "It's pouring rain," she yelled back.

"I know," I answered, as she walked closer.

"I hate you fucking people," she said. She gave me 200 dollars and continued on her way.

*

A mix of Jewish holidays and other events in the city forced us "door" types to spend more time on "street" duty. Occasionally, I found myself embroiled in turf wars with others soliciting money on the street. There were, generally speaking, two types of potential rivals: other recent college grads, working for groups like Human Rights Campaign or Amnesty International, and homeless people.

Of the first group, my favorite were the representatives from Children's International, a Save the Children-style outfit, who encouraged passerby to "adopt" impoverished foreign children for "an easy eighteen dollars a month." The CI folks carried clipboards with pictures and profiles of the various available kids, and on a few occasions I encountered CI reps debating which child to put on the front of their clipboards. ("The Indian boy has such a sad story, but the cleft lip might be a little much for some people.")

All of these organizations require their reps to "make quota" each day. At GCI, canvassers were generally supposed to bring in between 200-300 dollars a day; the exact quota depended on the averages from the previous week and other factors. While us "assistant directors" were safe even if we had a couple of slow days, the regular canvassers risked dismissal if they couldn't bring in the dough. Outside of Hunter College one day, I found myself stuck on the same street corner with a girl from Children's International. Bored, I tried to strike up conversation.

"So what's your quota?" I asked her suavely.

"What's yours?" she responded, cautious.

"About 200 dollars," I said.

She shrugged. "Three kids."

*

The homeless people were a different matter entirely.

To be clear, when I refer to "homeless people" I am not including those who I will from here on out call The Crazy And Unorganized. These are the people your parents told you not to make eye contact with when you were eight and visiting your grandparents in Manhattan. Typical symptoms of The Crazy And Unorganized include speaking in gibberish, talking to one's self, and inordinate amount of loud discussion about Christ Jesus. Rarely in my experience do The Crazy And Unorganized explicitly ask for money, though it's not totally out of the ordinary for passerby to give them change or a sandwich anyway. (Side note: The insane, like cats and small children, seem particularly attracted to those who are most skittish around them, which is why I am taunted by them with some frequency).

The Sane And Unorganized didn't provide us with much competition either. The Sane And Unorganized include the wide variety of fully (or mostly) competent people who, for one reason or another, have ended up on the street.

No, our only real competition among the homeless came from The Sane And Organized. If you've spent even a day in New York, you've seen them. They stand behind tables. On the tables are large water bubbler bottles to hold change. They often have hand-outs. Their monologues always features certain catchphrases: "I am a homeless person... Small change means big change... Every penny counts." They are part of an official organization. This is their job.

The message is clear: yes, we're homeless, but we're also official. Your money is going to good things. And hey, at least we're being upfront about it and we're out here trying to change the situation.

*

Outside the Silver Center at NYU one day I was handing out fliers; GCI had new canvassing positions available ASAP. I was in close proximity with an "official" homeless woman on the corner. "Small change is big change!" she sang. I watched her for a few hours and she probably collected 20 dollars by the end of the afternoon. I figured if one of our canvassers was in that same spot for the DNC, he or she would have left with about 400.

*

Americans are strange about giving.

While on the street for GCI, my only identification was a DNC T-shirt and a name-tag. When donors paid by credit card they received a "receipt," but it was handwritten... by me. In hindsight, it would be incredibly easy for just about anyone to claim to be a canvasser representing the DNC.

Of course, I did have certain advantages when it came to looking "legitimate." I'm white, and Americans are, at least subconsciously, white supremacist. I have no doubt if I was black I would have had a much more difficult time soliciting funds. I look around college-age, and the vast majority of "real" canvassers are college students or recent college grads. And I can hold down a conversation about politics.

While it's quite concievable that I (or someone like me) could have pretended to be a canvasser for the DNC in order to get money for other purposes, with the homeless, well... If you give money to a homeless person, you know for sure where the money is going. True, you can't guarantee a man begging for, say, food, will use your money to buy food. But he will, without a doubt, use your money.

Of course, giving is never about who the giver is giving to, but how it makes the giver feel. A liberal (or conservative) can write a 100 dollar check to a favorite liberal (or conservative) cause, and feel as if he or she is somehow helping push forward the cause, without actually lifting a finger. Do I believe most of the money we collected in August '04 went to the DNC? Of course (some, obviously, went to GCI to pay our salaries). Do I think the money was used effectively? Well, I don't know, but given the outcome of the election, probably not. Do I have the foggiest idea where, exactly, a single dime I collected ended up? Nope.

Bottom line: Giving to a peppy, idealistic college grad, invested in the same cause you're invested in, well, that feels good. Giving to an unkempt person on the street? Not so much. Is one more constructive than the other? Depends on the case, of course, but in DNC v. The Homeless: I strongly doubt it.

*

Which leads me to an idea for The Sane And Organized: Instead of being upfront about your homelessness, invest your first week's earnings in khakis and a button down shirt. Then, instead of standing on the corner yelling "I am a homeless person...," stand on the corner and yell, "I am trying to help the homeless." When prospective donors come your way, make up the name of an official-sounding do-gooder organization (People For The Ethical Treatment of Homeless People, etc.), say you're a student at one of the local colleges, and that all donations will go straight toward helping the homeless. You must present yourself as if you know as little about actually being homeless as possible. Sympathetic stories about yourself must always be told in the third person. Smile--but not too much! these are sad, tragic stories you're telling. If an actual homeless person walks by don't make eye contact. And if you feel yourself starting to sound self-righteous, well... keep going.

Good News On The Home Front

2005-09-15T12:00:00.000-04:00

Now here's an interesting concept: 55 politicans change their minds on an issue based on the evidence. Yes, the Massachusetts Legislature overwhelmingly defeated the proposed constitutional ban on same-sex marriage after--you don't hear this every day--"a dramatic change of heart by dozens of moderate lawmakers." 55 politicians who had last year supported the amendment "flip-flopped" and now don't. Why? After the Massachusetts Supreme Court ruled a ban on gay marriage unconsitutional, gay people got hitched, the sky didn't fall, heterosexual husbands didn't leave their wives for other men, heterosexual women didn't leave their husbands for other women. Yesterday's measure failed 39-157.

Of course, in the name of "balance," the Boston Globe is quick to point out that this has energized "both sides" and that it signals "a new strategy by stauch opponents of legalized gay marriage." The new strategy? Had the bill passed, marriage would have been banned but civil unions permitted, so "many of the Legislature's most ardent opponents of gay marriage... abandoned the compromise measure, preferring another proposed amendment that seeks an outright ban on same-sex marriage." This is not a new strategy, folks. They were going to lose and they needed a way to spin it. There's a difference. If you can't pass a measure banning gay marriage but permitting civil unions, it's pretty unlikely you're going to pass a measure just banning gay marriage. But maybe there's part of this "new strategy" I'm not understanding.

Bottom line: Mass. lawmakers did the right thing, people do change their minds, and Mitt Romney should've done everyone a favor and run for governor of Utah instead. There's probably never been more convincing evidence presented that the success or failure of the gay rights movement depends, in large part, on our ability to humanize the issue--to puts our names and stories ahead of the rhetoric (check out Republican Brian Lees' comments).

Strangest comment in the Globe story comes from Senate President Robert Travaglini, a sponsor of the defeated amendment and apparently a graduate of the Jose Canseco School of Competition: "''For me, it's never been about winning and losing,' Travaglini told reporters shortly after the roll call concluded. 'It's always been about fairness.'"

Rigggght.

Three Massive Days of Nothing

2005-09-14T11:36:00.000-04:00

Is there a place in 2005 America for marching as a constructive and effective form of protest?

We're fast approaching the "new" March on Washington, a three day anti-war march and rally in DC next weekend, which includes a "Peace and Justice Festival," "Operation Ceasefire Concert," and "Training for Mass Nonviolent Civil Disobedience." The event is primarily organized by two anti-war groups, United for Peace & Justice and A.N.S.W.E.R. (Act Now To Stop War and End Racism), though many other organizations are involved. On the UPJ website, the event is billed as "Three Massive Days of Action."

While the March is intended primarily to send the message that the U.S. needs to get out of Iraq, in classic progressive fashion, there appears to be no real effort to "stay on" said message, or to even stick with one message. Thus while the overriding "demand" of the demonstration is to withdraw immediately from Iraq, A.N.S.W.E.R. lists a series of other "demands" as well, including: "Stop the threats against Iran," "U.S. out of the Phillipines," and "bring all troops home now."

Rigggght. Why don't they just add "Invite Kanye West to the White House" and "Make Tom Coburn Perform an Abortion" for good measure?

Let's deal with this event first, and then with some broader thoughts on "marches":

This whole Peaceapalooza seems like a pretty cynical affair to me. My hunch is that the organizers believe, at least subconsciously, that they have no power to create any kind of change or persuade anybody who doesn't already agree with them, so instead of staging an event whose major goal is to shift public opinion, they're mostly just venting and showing off their "anti-authoritarian" muscle. (Quotes because usually people who pride themselves on being anti-authoritarian are about as authoritarian as they come. "We don't like those in power and you must do exactly as we say to get them out!").

There is a sizable portion of America right now that feels we should either withdraw from Iraq or at least set a goal for withdrawl. Mobilizing those people is a worthy and necessary goal. If that was the sole purpose of the event--to get the American troops in Iraq home safely and now--it seems the organizers might have the potential for support from a large cross-section of Americans. Instead, these additional "demands" alienate anyone who doesn't agree with all of them.

It's not that those who want "all troops home now" shouldn't express their beliefs. And A.N.S.W.E.R. is right to make connections between the U.S. government's adventure in Iraq and other misguided foreign policies. But there are sizable numbers of Americans who aren't normally politically active who very much dislike this war. The goal should be to bring those people into the dialogue. America is, after all, kind of a democracy. Strength really does come in numbers.

Of course, as with many events like this, part of the purpose is for progressive groups to show just how progressive they really are. But just as real veterans, like Chuck Hagel and John McCain, don't need to run around in a flight suit to show how "tough" they are, real "radicals," those with truly revolutionary ideas about re-making society, don't need to wear their radicalism on their sleeves.

So is there ever a reason to stage a "march" in America today? I doubt it. Much of what was effective about the protests, sit-ins, etc. of the civil rights movement was that the people who were being oppressed were also the people doing the marching, sitting at the lunch counters, speaking at the rallies. Cindy Sheehan's August protest in Crawford resonated with people for that reason. As Maureen Dowd wrote at the time: "the moral authority of parents who bury children killed in Iraq is absolute." This woman was directly affected by Bush's crazy policies. And yes, her voice carries more weight than yours.

Look, if you're not allowed to sit at a lunch counter because you're black, and then you do it, it's a bold, political act. There is risk involved. If you are allowed to protest your government and then you do it, well, so what? Bottom line: these organizers aren't taking any real risks. If they get rowdy, maybe some tear gas, maybe some arrests. Their eyes will recover and they'll get bailed out.

A first step would be thinking about some proposed solutions to the problems critics assert will form if we leave Iraq in the immediate future. A real risk would be engaging with people who don't agree with everything you have to say, building coalitions with people who don't look like you, and don't always think like you.

But, let's face it, being loud and irrelevant and never having to create good ideas, only destroy bad ones, is so much more fun.

*

Speaking of marches, the UPJ/A.N.S.W.E.R. event comes on the heels of another superb creation, the America Supports You Freedom Walk, a pro-troop (who is anti-troop?) event in DC last weekend, staged on September 11. For a play-by-play, I turn you to Mr. Pike and Co.

Lake Junaluska, NC: Klanfusion

2005-09-13T09:23:00.000-04:00

Over Labor Day, I convince Cousin Ben to come with me to Lake Junaluska, NC, just outside of Asheville. The Reconciling Ministries Network, a grassroots organization dedicated to enabling the existence of people of all sexual orientations in "the life of the United Methodist Church," is hosting a conference. Seems like the perfect place to promote the T-shirt Project, and, in fact, it was a great venue for us.

I knew beforehand that the event at Junaluska had created a bit of controversy. Two warnings before our departure, though, seemed particularly ominous. The first was an e-mail from one of the conference organizers:

"For those of you who are driving to Lake Junaluska, please be aware that there could be sporadic problems due to Hurricane Katrina. On Wed, Aug. 31, there has been difficulty in getting gasoline delivered to filling stations in western North Carolina... Please take opportunities to fill your gas tank whenever possible."

The second was from my aunt, who found a curious news story when she signed onto AOL, minutes before we left the house. Began the article: "A volatile mix of gay Christians, anti-gay Christians and white supremacists has law enforcement officials in Haywood County concerned about public safety on Labor Day weekend."

Gay Christians and anti-gay Christians seem pretty par for this course. But white supremacists? Great, I'm thinking. At least if we run out of gas in Asheville, we can bum a ride from the KKK.

*

North Carolina is apparently one of over a dozen states with anti-mask laws. In short, members of the Ku Klux Klan aren't allowed to wear their masks and hoods as they march and rally. The idea, at least in part, is that since the group has a long and violent history of hurting and intimidating minorities and those who disagree with them, the general public has the right to know who is behind the masks.

On its face, the law seems reasonable (I mean, who other than the Klan is really sympathetic to the Klan?), but I had two immediate concerns when I heard about it. First, as a writer at the Southern Poverty Law Center's Intelligence Report offers:

"Many people gave their lives in the civil rights struggle, battling against forces like the Ku Klux Klan, to establish the principle that the Constitution applies equally to all of us. The question today is: does the Constitution apply equally to the Ku Klux Klan?"

But second, even if you don't know exactly who is behind each mask, isn't it sort of helpful to know, more generally, who is a total wack job v. who is just hanging out at Lake Junaluska for the day? I see a guy in a white robe and mask coming toward me with a burning cross, I think to myself, "This fellow might be trouble." I see a guy in the dining hall with a mullet and a scowl, is he out to kill me or is the dude just having a rough day?

*

A "resource room" is set up at the conference for Fine By Me and the other exhibitors, and Cousin Ben (who has started going by "Schaefer," his middle name, which gets confusing as we introduce ourselves as Schaefer Abram and Lucas Schaefer) helps me set up our table with T-shirts and materials. Most of the other tables in the room are filled with books, all gay-themed--a history of Bayard Rustin, a mother's story of her son coming out. About an hour into the day, a guy comes into the resource room and starts browsing through the books.

Now, as a total disbeliever in the Red State/Blue State narrative, I try my best not to be judgmental when I see people who, on the face of it, conform to certain stereotypes. But folks, if this guy wasn't a white supremacist, I just don't know who could be. He had a smirk about him, a crooked sort of smile that suggested he easily could've been cast as an extra in A Time to Kill.

Well, don't judge a book by its cover, right? A few minutes later, a second character comes into the resource room, and embraces my crooked smiling friend. OK, embrace might be too strong a word. It wasn't a hug but it wasn't a hand shake, either. The men were happy to see each other. Fellow #2 is smoother looking than his counterpart, wearing a collared shirt and blazer. I thought I saw a rainbow flag on his lapel, too.

So I feel like an idiot. I start thinking about a (very well-done) National Geographic documentary I watched about 9/11 a few days before. The airline worker who checked in Mohammed Atta says he knew the guy was trouble, but for various reasons, he held back. What if he hadn't held back? What if he had stopped them from boarding? Or what if Atta had turned out not to be a terrorist, but a student or a businessman? Can we spot these things? The airline worker was on-target in his assessment, even though he didn't stop the planes from being hijacked. It seemed my instincts weren't as good.

The men look around for a while, browsing through the books, and I start chatting with Fellow #1 as he goes from table to table. He's from the area, so I tell him I went to school in Durham, and he quickly decries the Duke basketball team. "I'm a Tar Heel." No crooked smile, just a friendly grin.

I'm relieved. So the guy doesn't hate Jews and blacks after all, just Coach K. I can deal with that.

Fellow #2 asks the woman responsible for selling the books what their best-selling text has been so far. They go back and forth for a while, Fellow #1 tells me it was nice talking, and the two go off. There's a Bible study happening in the auditorium. Maybe they're headed that way, I think.

A few minutes later, a woman approaches looking distraught. "I was browsing through this children's book and look what I found inside." She shows me a small ten-page booklet, a diatribe in comic book form, going after those wicked homos and their Sodom-loving ways.

"What's the most popular book you're selling here?" That's what the man had asked. Why would he want to know that? And why weren't they wearing badges identifying themselves as conference participants? Could they have disguised themselves as a gay couple to infiltrate the resource room? They don't wear masks anymore, you'd think maybe they'd just come out and say whatever they were thinking.

I don't know, of course. Maybe those two really were from the area and just interested in checking the conference out. Maybe some other thug had come in earlier in the day to slip the comics into the books, and no one noticed till much later. And even if they did do the deed, these two may have just been run-of-the-mill bigots. No evidence they were Klan.

*

Later in the day, I recount this story to an elderly man, clearly at the conference for the "correct" reasons. "Don't worry about it," he tells me. "You know, they think they're so innovative. We were going into right-wing Christian book shops and inserting gay comic books in there before these clowns were even born."

I smile weakly. "Great tactic."

*

Before the Klan had announced they were coming to the conference, I had heard that a whole bunch of other protestors were expected. But after the Ks said they were coming, I think even the most hard-line Gary Bauer-type conservative realized he wasn't going to join a protest with these guys. Pat Robertson would even know to sit this one out. By the time we left, there had been a couple of sightings of protestors, but no evidence of what groups, if any, they represented.

When all is said and done, I'm still skeptical of these anti-masking laws. By denying the KKK the right to wear their gear, it seems we're just playing into their crazy assertion that somehow, if we give everyone equal rights, they will lose their rights in the process. And this is America. You can't ban what people wear. And even if you do ban masks, they'll find new ways to intimidate and harrass while covering up their identities.

Meanwhile, I'm left to wonder, Were those guys out to cause trouble? Or did they just look a little different and act a little different? Maybe they were gay, and just behaved strangely because of anxiety. Maybe this was their first time publicly coming out together. Or maybe they were white supremacists.

Oy.

Cat Tales: Meatloaf & Ozzie

2005-09-13T01:13:00.000-04:00

I have a history with cats.

First, there was Meatloaf. We got Meatloaf when I was 12 or 13 and my brother was 9 or 10. Both of us, for reasons that I cannot even begin to now comprehend, desperately wanted a cat (a cat!), my mom didn't object too much, and my dad agreed on the condition we name the little rascal Meatloaf, as in "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." My dad seemed to think he could stop this train wreck before it started by agreeing to the demand for the cat (thus looking reasonable) while countering with his own demand that we would surely refuse (after all, what self-respecting kids would want to name their cat after Marvin Lee Aday?). We didn't refuse, and Meatloaf became part of the family. I think we all had an image of a lethargic fuzzball to pet and cry into on stressful days, a dopey fool to join the suburban circus.

Turns out, Meatloaf, while, yes, lethargic, doesn't like being pet much and "crying into him" only works if you're also interested in losing an eye. About two weeks into Meatloaf's tenure as a Schaefer, the cat starts throwing up. We're not talking a little spit up here or there. Big chunks, OK? Solid chunks. The thing can barely walk.

The vet is called, Meatloaf is ambulanced over in the Honda, and the verdict is handed down: He's swallowed something, it's wrapped around his small intestine, and Marvin Lee has only one chance of surviving. "We have to operate," the vet tells my mom over the phone. The upside, we learn, is that Meatloaf has some small chance of living through the surgery. (After school, tears in my eyes, mom tells me "he might just make it"). The downside, Meatloaf is one of the millions (read: all) of uninsured cats, scraping by without an HMO. In other words, saving M.L. will cost about forty times what we paid for him.

My brother and I are adamant about the surgery, though having spent 10 days or so with biting, scratching, cranky Meatloaf, I admit I may have been sub-consciously gunning for early termination. Mom is firmly in our court, and Dad puts up a fight for about a second, partially tongue-in-cheek, fully aware that killing off the creature won't go over well with the troops on the ground, even if it's the obvious course of action.

It's a tough night. By morning, the Schaefers reek of anxiety. Will we ever touch his soft fur or pet his racoon tail or feel his teeth biting through our flesh again?

Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Yes, we will. Meatloaf, we learn, had swallowed a foot and a half of carpet. How? Unclear. Why? Hard to say. All we know is that the docs performed admirably, the cat performed admirably, he'd be home by 5 o'clock. Where the carpet came from is anyone's guess.

Over the years, Meatloaf, now 10 or 11, has continued on this course, dominating our lives. A near drowning led to mandatory closed toilet seats. An unfortunate incident involving our long-haired feline, his feces, and a pair of scissors trying to cut said feces off said long-haired feline's ass resulted in bi-monthly trips to the vet for butt-shaving. Yes, a professional is paid to cut the hair off the area around our cat's anus.

I say all of this because a couple of weeks ago, my roommate, Mary, comes home to tell me I've just got to see the cute little character at the shelter across the street. She'll be adopted any second, the vet at the shelter tell us. If you want to act, act now.

Needless to say, Ozzie has been with us for just over 2 weeks. She runs full-speed up and down the hallway for hours at a time. Her claws are sharp. The other day I saw a cockroach on the floor and thought, "At least we have her for this." I pointed to the roach. She ignored it and bit my hand. If the PATRIOT Act is good for anything, maybe it can be used to detain this terrorist for the rest of her life.

For a few days I tried to gently suggest to Mary that maybe Ozzie isn't the right fit for us at this point. "If Ozzie lives to her full life expectancy, she'll be dead when we're FORTY." It wasn't received well. Ozzie, it seems, is now a member of our Brooklyn family. I'm going home next weekend to see the parents, and I'm strangely eager to see old Loaf. He's older now, still dumb but mellow, and while he doesn't kill bugs either, at least he has a little perspective on life. He's been through a few things, and, I have a feeling, Ozzie will follow in his footsteps.

Ypsilanti, MI: Shuttle Fun

2005-09-12T23:59:00.000-04:00

This red state/blue state stuff is absurd. The American people are too interesting and bizarre for this nonsense. Story:

Early in August, in my day-to-day role as a non-profiteer, I attend this Together in Faith conference in Ypsilanti, MI. It's sponsored by the American Friends Service Committee and billed as "A National Multiracial, Multigenerational Conference for People of all Religions and Spiritualities Creating Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender-Affirming Communities."

Read: it's a conference for people who are both religious/spiritual and gay-friendly.

Turns out, despite the kind-of-nutty title, the conference is well-done and a mind-opener. TIF is on the campus of Eastern Michigan University, and the organizers hired a shuttle service for the weekend, to move all the speakers and attendants from the airport to the dorms to the conference rooms, etc. The crowd is eclectic, to say the least, including a bunch of gay and lesbian activists and thinkers, a sizable number of transgendered ministers and writers, and a man who bills himself as a "Neo-Pegan Northern-Tradition shaman, astrologer, homesteader, FTM transgendered intersexual activist."

On the last day, I find myself alone in one of the shuttles on the way to the airport. In the back of my mind, I've been wondering through the weekend what the shuttle drivers think of all this. I assume they don't normally shuttle around a crowd quite like us. Sure enough, after some small talk about the expolits of Detroit's mayor, the shuttle driver, a youngish guy in a white button down shirt, confides, "I'll be honest. I'm happy I was here this weekend, but this whole thing made me a little uncomfortable."

I pause for a sec. "Well, at least you're keeping an open mind."

Driver says something like: "I don't know. The whole religion thing just sort of freaks me out. Me and my boyfriend are thinking about leaving for South America to go somewhere a little more, you know, secular."