I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO GEORGE WALKER BU…

 

I attended a high school graduation ceremony last night.  The festivities began with a color guard marching in and the recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance. I don’t think I have recited the pledge since I was in grade school and I actually got a little choked up.  

 

I tend to be blatantly sentimental about my patriotism. I get emotional watching fireworks displays, and I can’t hear that damn Lee Greenwood song without tearing up either.  Don’t even get me started on the Mark Shultz song “Letters from War.” If I hear it when I’m driving, I have to pull to the side of the road because I know I won’t be able to see well through the clouded eyes that are inevitable when he reaches the final chorus.

 

As I recited the pledge, my mind drifted to an article I had read earlier in the day about the Dixie Chicks. CNN had reported that many country stations were still refusing to play their music because of Natalie Mains’ comments about Bush. They quoted station managers as saying they wouldn’t play music from such an unpatriotic group.  Suddenly, instead of getting misty while I recited the pledge, I began to get angry.

 

When justifications are given for war, the word “freedom” is slathered on as thick as gravy on biscuits on a southern breakfast table.  There is nothing I believe in more strongly than freedom. It is the basic concept behind every political belief I hold. I have nothing but respect, admiration, and sincere gratitude for everyone who has ever died or served our nation in the pursuit of, or defense of, freedom.

 

One of our fundamental freedoms, however, is the right to disagree with our President. When our government is doing something we think is wrong, it is our patriotic duty to voice our outrage.  

 

I personally don’t think we should have invaded Iraq. I think the President lied about the justifications for going to war, and I think he knew he was lying when he sent our troops into harms way. I think that, in retrospect, the invasion of Iraq will go down in history as the greatest foreign policy failure of all time.

 

Yes, like the Dixie Chicks, I disagree with our President. Does this make me unpatriotic?

 

As I recited the Pledge of Allegiance I thought about the new, underlying, meanings it seems to have for many in this age of right-wing ardor and religious fundamentalism. Perhaps the words below more accurately describe America as some see it today:

 

I pledge allegiance to the flag, and to the practice of wrapping it around radical ideas so they cannot be questioned or seen for what they really are; of the United (Red only) States of America, and the Republicans for which it stands. One nation, under a Protestant, religiously fundamental God, wholly divided along partisan lines, with liberty and justice for all; unless, of course, you disagree with the President, or happen to be gay, or female, or Hispanic, or Islamic, or don’t speak English particularly well, etc..etc..etc…

 

Go ahead and call me a liberal. Go ahead and call me a left-wing, godless heathen, if you wish; simply because I refuse to give Dubya my rubber stamp. But don’t you DARE tell me I’m not patriotic or that I don’t love my country.

 

(Thanks to Mapmaker Jenny for the “Letters from War” Link)

You may have seen these before. I’d seen the titles but I’d never seen the illustrated covers…these are priceless.

 

CHILDREN’S BOOKS YOU MIGHT NOT FIND ON AMAZON.COM

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I thought the “Everybody Dies” volume being a pop-up book published by “Suck-it-Up Press” was an especially nice touch.

Warning: Long Photo Blog

YOU STAY CLASSY, SAN DIEGO

 

We are back from our mini vacation in San Diego. Or rather I should say…I’m back. I left my wife out there to attend a dental convention while I’m now back at the office slaving away on an Xanga post.

 

I got a new digital camera just before the trip so I’m going to make you endure the trip in pictures (If you came to my house you’d have to endure a slide show, so feel lucky):

  

We stayed in a hotel that dates back to the mid 1800’s…very cool.

 

 

 

The hotel was in the “Gas Lamp Quarter” of San Diego which is very reminiscent of the French Quarter in New Orleans.

 

 

We had a little beach time.

 

 

And a little museum time.

 

 

We went on a fabulous dinner cruise.

 

 

We also went to see the worlds largest outside organ. I was always under the impression that I had the world’s largest organ, but apparently this isn’t the case.

 

 

You can’t go to San Diego without a trip to the zoo.

 

  

And in conclusion…they sat at the bar and put bread in my jar, and said “Man, what are you doing here?”

 

 

I got this quiz from Primeval Wench

 

Your Political Profile:

Overall: 35% Conservative, 65% Liberal

Social Issues: 50% Conservative, 50% Liberal

Personal Responsibility: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

Fiscal Issues: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

Ethics: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal

Defense and Crime: 75% Conservative, 25% Liberal

ON THE ROAD AGAIN… JUST CAN’T WAIT TO GET ON THE ROAD AGAIN

 

I’m back from my trip to Philadelphia and Washington D.C. I’d like to thank doahsdeer for suggesting I visit the Wyeth exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. My hotel happened to be just two blocks away from the museum district so it was just a short walk over to see paintings in person that I’ve only seen in books.

 

 

On the way in, I ran up the museum steps and danced around with my arms over my head. I was greeted by the rolling eyes of a dozen locals who where bored to see yet another lame tourist do “Rocky”. At least I didn’t sing “Gonna Fly Now” while I was doing the dance.

 

 

 

As I was walking toward the Museum of Art I ran across the Rodin Museum. Rodin has always been my favorite sculptor and I’m embarrassed to admit that I didn’t know there was a Rodin Museum in Philadelphia. The “Gates of Hell” is prominently displayed as you walk in the front doors and I was struck by how much it looks like people trying to get out of my office at closing time.

 

 

I didn’t end up taking a bunch of homeless people to a fancy restaurant on my expense account as I said earlier that I would. Instead, I ended up in the sports bar in my hotel watching a documentary about a guy who gets eaten by a bear. I did end up paying twelve bucks for their chicken caesar salad, however, so it certainly had the price tag of a fancy restaurant.

 

In D.C., one of my meetings was attended by a guy from the F.B.I who’s name was (I swear to God I’m not making this up) Timothy McVey (different spelling). I asked if his name was really Tim McVey and he smiled and said he could neither confirm nor deny his own identity.

 

I’m home today and tomorrow and then my wife and I are headed to San Diego to go play in the sun for a few days, so I won’t get to update for awhile.

 

I would like to say that I’ll be thinking of all my Xanga friends while I’m lying on the beach soaking up the sun and drinking something with an umbrella in it. However, I can neither confirm nor deny the veracity of that statement.

Pick up your copy today of the sensational New York Times bestseller:

 

“THE LAST OF THE LABOUFFS”

 

Ok…so that doesn’t have quite the ring of “The Last of the Mohicans” but at least it alliterates.

 

I’m currently on a flight to Philadelphia, which is the setting for about 8000 historical novels. That, and a trip to see some relatives yesterday that I didn’t know I had until a few years ago, has me thinking about my family history and whether it could be the basis for a titillating novel.

 

Why “The Last of the LaBouffs”?  Well…for a large portion of my life I was told I was the last living “LaBouff” and that if I didn’t dutifully propagate the species, the family name would be lost forever. My father had three brothers, and out of that group, I was the only male offspring. My father was also not aware of any extended family that might bear the LaBouff name. He had been told that his father had several brothers, but he never met them. In fact, he was not allowed to speak of their existence as he was growing up. Apparently, his uncles had a falling-out at some point that rendered them “personas-non-gratis” in the eyes of my grandfather.

 

I was told all of this long before the time you could Google your family name and get 10,000 hits along with numerous pop-up adds for male enhancement products and the chance to play virtual Whack-a-Mole for a free Razr cell phone. Therefore, I grew up believing the survival of the LaBouff name was in my hands, or perhaps more accurately, in my loins. When I got older, I proceeded to propagate away and like a proud Chinese family, had a boy. Having fulfilled my destiny, I was looking forward to passing the propagation responsibilities down to my son.

 

Imagine my surprise when I received an email a few years back from a Sharon LaBouff in California.  The spelling of the name was the same bastardized, American version of “LeBoeuff” as mine, so her email sparked some hope that there were “others” out there (like in the show “LOST” only less prone to mysteriously abduct people).

 

Sharon and I began to compare notes and discovered that we were, in fact, both descendants of this band of feuding brothers. She had been doing genealogy research for some time and had been able to locate many such descendants. She invited all of us to attend a LaBouff family reunion in Laughlin, Nevada in 1999. 109 of us showed up.

  

When I walked into the hotel in Laughlin, I was greeted by a large group of LaBouffs, all wearing those fake “Billy Bob” teeth; making me immediately happy that they all share the same sophomoric, juvenile sense of humor I have.

 

Sharon had traced our family tree all the way back to the early 1600’s and, as the family historian, had many stories to tell. It seems my grandfather and his brothers all lived in St. Joseph, Missouri. As a young man, my grandfather worked on a farm for a farmer and his wife. Apparently, the farmer caught my grandfather “plowing” his wife, and was none too pleased by the discovery. The woman claimed it was rape and my grandfather fled to Oklahoma, either to escape prosecution by the authorities, or to escape being shot by the farmer’s wife.

 

I was told later; that Sharon was hesitant to tell me the story for fear that I would be offended. Nothing could be further from the truth. I love knowing that my grandfather was a nefarious character because I can now claim that my every failing as a human being is not my fault, but is entirely the result of genetic pre-disposition.

 

I don’t know if the rape charge is the cause of the rift between my grandfather and his brothers or not. My father heard it had something to do with a failed bank, numerous affairs, and a crazy family matriarch that may have burned down a Catholic church.

 

I think all of this would make the great basis for a novel. The story needs to be fleshed out, but it already has sex, money, lies, betrayal, insanity, and arson. What more could you want?

 

Mmmm…I wonder if should option the movie rights quickly, or wait until the novel goes to paperback?

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE IN SIX HOURS ON AN EXPENSE ACCOUNT

 

I have to be in Washington D.C. for business this week. Our CEO heard that I was headed out east and called to ask if I wouldn’t mind just “stopping by” Philadelphia for a quick meeting on my way there. Kind of like; “would you mind stopping by the grocery store for some milk on your way to the dry cleaners?”

 

Being a person who isn’t bullied easily simply because of a person’s power and position in the company I replied, “Yes mam, I’d be more than happy to do that.”

 

So…I’m flying into Philadelphia on Sunday and the only flight that is available on short notice leaves at the butt crack of dawn and gets me into Philly about noon.

 

My meeting isn’t until Monday morning which leaves me with half a day to kill in the City of Brotherly Love. I haven’t been to Philly in a very long time, so I need your help. Those of you, who are familiar with the city, please tell me what a tourist absolutely needs to go see with only half a day to see it in.  

 

Also, please let me know what the single most expensive restaurant in the city is. If I’m going to “stop by” Philadelphia on short notice on the company’s expense account, I’m thinking I should treat about 20 homeless people to an nice steak dinner.

I OUGHTA BE IN PICTURES!

 

I recently stopped by Handicap 13’s site. Rick was talking about a website where you upload your photo and it tells you what celebrity you look like.

 

Rick put his photo in and it came back saying he looked like George Clooney, Hugh Jackman, Michael Crichton, and Matthew Perry. Not bad!

 

Needing a little ego boost, I went to the site and uploaded my photo, eager to see what dashing stars I resemble. Here are the actual results:

 

 

 

 

Whoppi Goldberg, Tim Curry, Ariel Sharon, and Faye Dunaway

 

I’m not amused.

REMEMBERING NOSTALGIA

 

I saw an article yesterday entitled “A nostalgic look at the 90’s.”  The 90’s were yesterday. I still write 1998 when I make out checks. How the hell am I supposed to be nostalgic about a decade most of my wardrobe is still from?

 

I understand that nostalgia is big business. I also understand that it’s fun to reminisce about what the world was like when you were young. I think, however, that a law should be passed that you must be older than 16 to wax philosophical about the “good old days.”

 

I ran across one of those “Do you remember when” lists on someone’s blog a couple of weeks ago. This one was apparently written by a toddler because it actually had the following entries: “Do you remember when computers had floppy drives?” and “Do you remember when people rented VHS tapes instead of DVD’s?”  I still have a rented VHS copy of the movie “Office Space” that I haven’t gotten around to taking back to the video store yet.  

 

If you talk about where you were when you heard that Jennifer Anniston and Brad Pitt were breaking up instead of where you were when Kennedy was assassinated, please keep your nostalgic musings to yourself; you’re making the rest of us feel old.

 

I think I’ve earned the right to be nostalgic. I entered Jr. High in the fall of 1969 and I graduated from college in the spring of 1980, so the 70’s are “my” decade. And no…I don’t think Aston Kutcher is an accurate representation of those of us who actually grew up with print polyester shirts, the Vietnam War, and Credence Clearwater Revival.

 

As a child of the 70’s, I was buying records when James Taylor first sang “Fire and Rain.” I was watching TV when Saturday Night Live first aired and Dan Ackroyd uttered the immortal words; “Jane, you ignorant slut.” I put up a “Disco Sucks” poster in my dorm room window, and I voted for Jimmy Carter for president the year I turned 18. 

 

Of course, even if I have earned the right to be nostalgic, I have to be careful about becoming one of those crotchety old men who play checkers at the Elk’s lodge and talk about the bad winter of ’23.

 

I don’t think I ever told my son that I had to walk ten miles to school in the snow in the middle of July, but I do think I told him the story about our family not owning a color TV until I was in High School each and every time he asked me to purchase something electronic for him.

 

What can I say…those were the good old days.

SPRINGTIME IN OKLAHOMA

 

Sing it with me: “OOOOOOOOklahoma! Where the wind comes sweeping down the plain. The waving wheat can sure smell sweet when the wind comes right behind the rain!!!”

 

 

(Picture of tornado in El Reno, Oklahoma yesterday)

 

Ah…spring time in Oklahoma has now arrived. We may have had record temperatures in the 90’s for weeks now but springtime doesn’t become official here in Grapes of Wrath Ville until at least 30 mobile homes and a car dealership are carried into Missouri or Kansas on the winds of a tornado. If several thousand cars are beaten into salvage yard fodder by tennis ball sized hail…well, that just makes the arrival of spring even more special.

 

I was conducting choir rehearsal at church last night when we heard the first tornado sirens of the year go off. We immediately stopped rehearsing, proceeded to the middle of the building, laid down flat on the floor, and covered our heads with cushions from nearby furniture.

 

HA!  If you believe that, you’re obviously not from Oklahoma. I continued rehearsing the group until the sirens got so loud we couldn’t hear the piano any more. Then we scattered outside the sanctuary where half of the choir gathered in our all-glass atrium to look up at the sky and the other half went out into the parking lot so they could experience any tornadoes coming over up close and personal. A few of us gathered around a TV and found out the center of the storm was going to pass about two miles north of us. So…we did what any choir in Oklahoma would do under such dire circumstances…we went back to rehearsing.

 

Yes, we are a little jaded when it comes to Tornadoes in Oklahoma. Thousand of people lose property and are injured (or even killed) each year, so ignoring them is our folly. However, we have so many of them that people tend to be pretty nonchalant about it unless the tornado is actually knocking on their front door like an Amway salesman.   

 

Oklahoma television weather men are not nonchalant about tornadoes, however. Being a weather man in Oklahoma must be weather man Nirvana because when these guys are reporting on tornadoes they look like they are on the verge of having an orgasm.  They report for six or seven hours straight without breaking for commercials, standing in front of green-screens, droning on and on about how their Triple-Double-Doppler radar is TWICE as accurate as the one those hacks at Channel Eight have.  They fly helicopters over the tornadoes, and guys named Bubba chase them in their pick up trucks. If you saw the movie “Twister” and you thought Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton were stupid for getting so close to a tornado, they have nothing on how crazy the people are that actually do this for a living. If you don’t believe me, watch this video from yesterday:

 

Sneaking up on a twister
	watch this Meteorologist David Payne and Photojournalist Kevin Josefy snuck up on a tornado and captured this F1 or F2 from about 100 yards away.
(If the video doesn’t start – scroll down the page to “Stories in Video” and click on “Sneaking up on a Twister”)

I’d better get off the computer.  The sky is turning that familiar green color, it’s starting to rain, and I think I just saw a cow fly by my office window. Maybe that means that Helen Hunt will be by soon in that white tank top she wore in the movie. We can only hope.

EDIT:  In the post below I said that if I was wrong, I would admit it.

 

I’m admitting it.

 

(My wife should probably mark this day in her calendar)

 

After several thoughtful responses, emails, and being pointed to online research documenting horrific cases of cyber-stalking and cyber-bullying, I’m changing my stance on this issue.

 

From what I’m reading, cyber-bullying (especially among teens) has become a frightening phenomenon.  It seems that whispering being each other’s backs between classes is small potatoes if you have the World Wide Web to post your acidic comments on. I read of numerous instances of teens committing suicide after their peers had posted inflammatory messages or, in some cases, pictures of them in compromising situations.

 

Apparently the problem doesn’t stop there. There are literally thousands upon thousands of middle aged perverts out there cruising sites like Xanga, My Space, Fotki, and Buddy Pic, looking for prey. I was certainly aware this was happening, but I didn’t realize on what scale. There are literally hundreds of reported cases of horrible things happening to people after being stalked or preyed upon online on almost a daily basis.

 

I now suggest that everyone block your sites, build a moat around your computer, and cover it with a giant cyber-condom,  because there are all sorts of wackos out there waiting to do you harm.

 

On a related note, I put a counter on my site when I began posting, but I used it only to see how many people had stopped by. I had never really played with it. I spent about an hour this morning looking at all the features. I didn’t realize that it tracked IP addresses and gave me a full map of the world with little dots pointing out the geographical locations of those who have visited my site. It also gives me the birth date, address, and social security number of every visitor. Ok, I’m kidding about those last three, but it does give an amazing amount of information, and I found it fascinating to see where everyone was from. I have a feeling I’m going to become obsessed with these features now that I know I have them.

 

So… I extend my sincere apologies to anyone who has their site blocked or who is using tracking software. Block and track away!

XANGA STALKERS!!!  RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!

 

 

 

I need someone to explain something to me. I’m noticing more and more Xanga sites that are blocking everyone who is not signed in. Apparently these individuals wish to be able to track every person who visits their site. Many of these folks mention that they want to ward off “stalkers,” and they define “stalker” as anyone who visits the site and does not leave a comment.

 

Are these people nuts?

 

I would define “stalker” as anyone who is like that psycho chic I dumped in college who continually painted broken hearts in red fingernail polish on my car for the next three years.

 

A person who reads your post and does not leave a comment is not a stalker. They are a surfer. A person who leaves dead cats on your lawn is a stalker.

 

I surf from Xanga site to Xanga site if something catches my fancy, but I don’t always leave comments. If I don’t leave a comment, it’s probably because I’m busy, or it might be because you spent four pages detailing your grocery shopping list and you bored the hell out of me. This does not make me a stalker.

 

According to the little counter at the bottom of my site, I’ve had 18,674 visitors since I began posting just over a year ago. I’m very grateful to the people who take the time to stop by, and I’m even more grateful to those who are kind enough to take the time to leave a thoughtful comment. But I thank God that all 18,674 people who have visited this site have not left comments.

 

Why would I feel that way? Have you read the comments on The Theologian’s Café site? The first 20 comments on each post are people who are patting their backs because they were one of the first 20 to comment! This is not exciting reading!

 

If I’m not mistaken, the internet is a public forum. If you must know who every person is who reads your posts I suggest getting a diary so that you can be certain that only your parents, spouses, or significant others are breaking into it to read your innermost thoughts.

 

I understand that from time to time you may want to limit your audience to a select few and that “protecting” a post is appropriate, but if you must know the identity of every individual who visits your site, perhaps you need some heavy couch time to work on those control issues.

 

I’m grateful for my Xanga experiences, because I’ve “met” some of the brightest, wittiest, and most talented people I could ever hope to meet; folks I would have never met in “real life.”  Even though I’ve enjoyed getting to know so many of you, I just don’t feel the need to know who everyone is who stops by.

 

Perhaps I do not understand the situation. Perhaps these people have motivations that I’m not picking up on. I’ll be the first to admit when I’m wrong about something. If you are a person who blocks “stalkers” I’d love to hear why. However, if you read this and don’t feel like leaving a comment, I don’t mind at all.

 

But you might want to watch and see if I’m hiding in the bushes outside your house for awhile.