New Orleans is under water. Biloxi is trashed. Gulfport is gone. Scores of people are dead, tens of thousands homeless as a result of Hurricane Katrina. And where is our president? Here in San Diego, rehearsing a speech he plans to give at North Island Naval Base. His topic? Not the unprecedented destruction and human misery ongoing in the Gulf of Mexico, but a rallying cry for his increasingly unpopular jihad in the Gulf of Arabia. Advance reports indicate he actually plans to compare the "global war on terrorism" to World War II.
This development has reminded me of a pithy quote, which I think offers particular insight into our current national climate:
"Naturally, the common people don't want war, but they can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. Tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and endangering the country. It works the same in every country."
Herman Goering
Reichsmarschall, Third Reich
At the Nuremberg Trials
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Monday, August 29, 2005
You Can Go Home Again, But Why Would You Want To?
Part I: Flying the Friendly Skies
August and summer's last hurrah, a trip to North Carolina to see my father and his wife, Weyburn. EK met me en route, accompanied by her adorable Cavalier King Charles spaniel, Rory, and the three of us flew together from Chicago to Raleigh.
When Bob travels on business, and I ask him how his flight went, he usually answers with a single word. Uneventful. Let me just begin by saying my trip to North Carolina was not uneventful.
The first clue came before we’d even left the gate in San Diego when the pilot announced that storms were rolling through the Chicago area, causing a “ground stop” at O’Hare. As a result, we wouldn’t be leaving San Diego for another hour. I wondered if EK had already taken off from Sacramento, but within a few minutes she text-messaged me to say her departure also had been delayed. So I kicked back and struck up a conversation with my seatmate, a vacationing Italian accountant. Eventually, we took off and everyone settled in with their books and headphones.
About an hour later, a woman a few rows in front of us suddenly broke into our quiet flight routines. “Sir!" she began shouting. "Wake up, sir!” She was standing in the aisle, next to her empty seat, and bending over a man in the middle seat. “Sir! Sir!” And then, looking around at row after row of startled faces. “Is there a doctor on the plane?”
For the next 15 minutes or so, my new Italian friend and I watched in stunned silence as a full-blown medical emergency unfolded around us. “I need some oxygen here,” the woman was broadcasting to the flight attendants, who started bustling up and down the aisle, opening overhead compartments and breaking out a series of navy blue medical bags. The woman in the aisle kept shouting. “I can’t find a pulse. I think we’re going to have to defib him. Let’s go, people, we need to move.”
The unconscious passenger must have heard this even through his stupor, because he came around just for a moment, prompting his rescuer to change tactics. “We need to start an i.v.,” she announced. “I’m a nurse. I can do it.”
By this time, another woman had come to her aid, presumably answering the call for a doctor. But unlike the nurse she didn't seem to have a clue what to do for the patient beyond re-checking his pulse and looking worried. Fortunately a second doctor came rushing up from first class and took over, much to the visible relief of the pulse-checker. "I'm a dermatologist," she apologized and then hurried back to her seat.
"Let's move him so we can lay him down," the first-class doc suggested. The nurse agreed. “I need some men here,” she shouted. Several guys jumped up to help, but the aisle was so narrow and our victim so wide that only a couple of them could really get hold of him, which made it all the harder for them to squeeze his considerable dead weight to the back of the plane where they laid him out on the floor between the lavatories and the food service units. Within seconds, the doctor, the nurse and at least three flight attendants were swarming around the poor guy, opening his shirt, unzipping his pants, pulling out medical equipment and making phone calls. Soon, one of the pilots came back to check out the situation.
My new Italian friend and I conferred. Both of us expected we’d have to land somewhere short of Chicago to offload the patient. Instead, the pilot returned to the cockpit, acknowledged a medical emergency on board but noted that "things are looking positive for our customer," making it possible for us to continue on to Chicago. He then thanked us for our patience and signed off with a cheery, “You hang on back there, Jesse!”
By the time we landed in Chicago, the doctor had returned to first class, and Jesse was propped up in a back-row seat, a la Weekend at Bernie’s, conscious but tethered to an i.v. bag hanging from the overhead compartment, his personal Florence Nightingale still by his side.
Let this be a lesson to us all. If ever you feel the need to lapse into unconsciousness at 35,000 feet, do be sure there’s a crackerjack nurse seated right next to you. Or at least someone who plays one on t.v.
Next: Korean kids and Raleigh rednecks
August and summer's last hurrah, a trip to North Carolina to see my father and his wife, Weyburn. EK met me en route, accompanied by her adorable Cavalier King Charles spaniel, Rory, and the three of us flew together from Chicago to Raleigh.
When Bob travels on business, and I ask him how his flight went, he usually answers with a single word. Uneventful. Let me just begin by saying my trip to North Carolina was not uneventful.
The first clue came before we’d even left the gate in San Diego when the pilot announced that storms were rolling through the Chicago area, causing a “ground stop” at O’Hare. As a result, we wouldn’t be leaving San Diego for another hour. I wondered if EK had already taken off from Sacramento, but within a few minutes she text-messaged me to say her departure also had been delayed. So I kicked back and struck up a conversation with my seatmate, a vacationing Italian accountant. Eventually, we took off and everyone settled in with their books and headphones.
About an hour later, a woman a few rows in front of us suddenly broke into our quiet flight routines. “Sir!" she began shouting. "Wake up, sir!” She was standing in the aisle, next to her empty seat, and bending over a man in the middle seat. “Sir! Sir!” And then, looking around at row after row of startled faces. “Is there a doctor on the plane?”
For the next 15 minutes or so, my new Italian friend and I watched in stunned silence as a full-blown medical emergency unfolded around us. “I need some oxygen here,” the woman was broadcasting to the flight attendants, who started bustling up and down the aisle, opening overhead compartments and breaking out a series of navy blue medical bags. The woman in the aisle kept shouting. “I can’t find a pulse. I think we’re going to have to defib him. Let’s go, people, we need to move.”
The unconscious passenger must have heard this even through his stupor, because he came around just for a moment, prompting his rescuer to change tactics. “We need to start an i.v.,” she announced. “I’m a nurse. I can do it.”
By this time, another woman had come to her aid, presumably answering the call for a doctor. But unlike the nurse she didn't seem to have a clue what to do for the patient beyond re-checking his pulse and looking worried. Fortunately a second doctor came rushing up from first class and took over, much to the visible relief of the pulse-checker. "I'm a dermatologist," she apologized and then hurried back to her seat.
"Let's move him so we can lay him down," the first-class doc suggested. The nurse agreed. “I need some men here,” she shouted. Several guys jumped up to help, but the aisle was so narrow and our victim so wide that only a couple of them could really get hold of him, which made it all the harder for them to squeeze his considerable dead weight to the back of the plane where they laid him out on the floor between the lavatories and the food service units. Within seconds, the doctor, the nurse and at least three flight attendants were swarming around the poor guy, opening his shirt, unzipping his pants, pulling out medical equipment and making phone calls. Soon, one of the pilots came back to check out the situation.
My new Italian friend and I conferred. Both of us expected we’d have to land somewhere short of Chicago to offload the patient. Instead, the pilot returned to the cockpit, acknowledged a medical emergency on board but noted that "things are looking positive for our customer," making it possible for us to continue on to Chicago. He then thanked us for our patience and signed off with a cheery, “You hang on back there, Jesse!”
By the time we landed in Chicago, the doctor had returned to first class, and Jesse was propped up in a back-row seat, a la Weekend at Bernie’s, conscious but tethered to an i.v. bag hanging from the overhead compartment, his personal Florence Nightingale still by his side.
Let this be a lesson to us all. If ever you feel the need to lapse into unconsciousness at 35,000 feet, do be sure there’s a crackerjack nurse seated right next to you. Or at least someone who plays one on t.v.
Next: Korean kids and Raleigh rednecks
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Another Tiny Tragedy
I'm just not sure I have the emotional stamina to handle much more frog drama. And yet the saga continues. This evening I was on the back patio, repotting some herbs Bob brought home yesterday. They'd been sitting outside in an open plastic bag since. The sage went well. Nothing unusual with the oregano either. But when I turned the peppermint out of its plastic pot, a frog came with it.
"What are you doing in there?" I asked it. "You should be in the front-porch fountain with your friends." The frog didn't answer of course, but I think it understood, because it allowed me to catch it and deposit it in the fountain, where it took a quick dip, then climbed up on the rim and sat there, breathing very fast.
I left it to recover from its adventure, went back to my pots and stuffed the empties in the plastic bag they'd come in. Just as I started to toss the whole wad into the trash, I felt the bag move in my hand. It couldn't be! But yes, there was a frog in the bag. I tried to get a fix on him and discovered he had a friend! A little incredulous now, I made a second trip to the fountain and dumped in both of the bagged frogs. One seemed happy enough in the water; the other immediately leaped out onto the porch wall and stuck there. To each his own.
Back again to the patio, where the herbs were now nicely bunched in two big, heavy pots, which I thought needed a little rearranging. As I pulled one in front of the other, a fourth frog flipped out from somewhere underneath and landed on its back, one tiny front leg mangled and dangling. Even after managing to right itself, it looked a little crumpled. This struck me as a horrific development, even worse than finding a flattened frog in the hinge of the front door Saturday morning. That frog at least went instantly. This frog was irreparably wounded and probably dying a miserable death. That is, if frogs experience pain.
I wasn't sure about this. I tried to think back to college zoology class, which unfortunately involved the dissection of quite a few frogs, mostly pre-deceased and pickled. But in one lab session, we were supposed to take a pair of scissors and cut off the top of a living frog's head, right through the hinge of its jaw. I couldn't do it of course; my lab partner had to take over. Afterwards, the poor creature continued to hop around, apparently oblivious to its mortal injury. This barbaric exercise was intended to demonstrate something unusual and, I think, primitive about the way a frog's brain works, something I forgot immediately after finals and never really needed to know anyway. Until now, 34 years later.
Frogs do have nerves; I was sure of that much. We had to find them in our pickled projects, woven in amongst other inner frog parts. But did our hapless, headless frog victim feel pain? It didn't seem like it. The whole point of the experiment was that the frog continued to act fairly normally, at least until it died, which, blessedly, happened fairly quickly.
I could only hope now that my tiny victim didn't feel as bad as he looked. I briefly entertained the thought of taking him to a veterinarian, but in all seriousness couldn't think of anything to do for him except carry him to the fountain and slip him gently into the water. But he couldn't swim very well, and I was afraid he was going to drown, so I skimmed him out and left him sitting on the porch, looking almost okay except for that one sad little leg. I tried to convince myself that he was going to recover, that his bad leg would simply dry up and fall off, that a three-legged frog could still have a good life. But the truth is I feel rotten.
I remember finding that first little frog in our fountain. Was it only last week? Such a happy, innocent moment. Since then, despite all my warm, fuzzy feelings toward the frogs, I have managed to taint the entire experience by mindlessly causing the death of one little friend and the mutilation of another. Now I'm hesitant to close a door, move heavy objects or even take an unstudied step for fear of smushing someone else. Just imagine how paranoid the frogs must be.
"What are you doing in there?" I asked it. "You should be in the front-porch fountain with your friends." The frog didn't answer of course, but I think it understood, because it allowed me to catch it and deposit it in the fountain, where it took a quick dip, then climbed up on the rim and sat there, breathing very fast.
I left it to recover from its adventure, went back to my pots and stuffed the empties in the plastic bag they'd come in. Just as I started to toss the whole wad into the trash, I felt the bag move in my hand. It couldn't be! But yes, there was a frog in the bag. I tried to get a fix on him and discovered he had a friend! A little incredulous now, I made a second trip to the fountain and dumped in both of the bagged frogs. One seemed happy enough in the water; the other immediately leaped out onto the porch wall and stuck there. To each his own.
Back again to the patio, where the herbs were now nicely bunched in two big, heavy pots, which I thought needed a little rearranging. As I pulled one in front of the other, a fourth frog flipped out from somewhere underneath and landed on its back, one tiny front leg mangled and dangling. Even after managing to right itself, it looked a little crumpled. This struck me as a horrific development, even worse than finding a flattened frog in the hinge of the front door Saturday morning. That frog at least went instantly. This frog was irreparably wounded and probably dying a miserable death. That is, if frogs experience pain.
I wasn't sure about this. I tried to think back to college zoology class, which unfortunately involved the dissection of quite a few frogs, mostly pre-deceased and pickled. But in one lab session, we were supposed to take a pair of scissors and cut off the top of a living frog's head, right through the hinge of its jaw. I couldn't do it of course; my lab partner had to take over. Afterwards, the poor creature continued to hop around, apparently oblivious to its mortal injury. This barbaric exercise was intended to demonstrate something unusual and, I think, primitive about the way a frog's brain works, something I forgot immediately after finals and never really needed to know anyway. Until now, 34 years later.
Frogs do have nerves; I was sure of that much. We had to find them in our pickled projects, woven in amongst other inner frog parts. But did our hapless, headless frog victim feel pain? It didn't seem like it. The whole point of the experiment was that the frog continued to act fairly normally, at least until it died, which, blessedly, happened fairly quickly.
I could only hope now that my tiny victim didn't feel as bad as he looked. I briefly entertained the thought of taking him to a veterinarian, but in all seriousness couldn't think of anything to do for him except carry him to the fountain and slip him gently into the water. But he couldn't swim very well, and I was afraid he was going to drown, so I skimmed him out and left him sitting on the porch, looking almost okay except for that one sad little leg. I tried to convince myself that he was going to recover, that his bad leg would simply dry up and fall off, that a three-legged frog could still have a good life. But the truth is I feel rotten.
I remember finding that first little frog in our fountain. Was it only last week? Such a happy, innocent moment. Since then, despite all my warm, fuzzy feelings toward the frogs, I have managed to taint the entire experience by mindlessly causing the death of one little friend and the mutilation of another. Now I'm hesitant to close a door, move heavy objects or even take an unstudied step for fear of smushing someone else. Just imagine how paranoid the frogs must be.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Three Frog Night
As of tonight, we have three frogs in the fountain. Did I mention it's a small fountain? Stay tuned. This could get interesting.
Update 8/6/05: I regret to report that the frog population fell by one last night. It was a tragic incident, and I'm still too traumatized to talk about it. On the positive side, by this afternoon another tiny tenant had already filled the vacancy, which cheered me up quite a bit.
Politics and Religion
O.K. Let's get down to it. Let's get controversial. Thus far, although these blog entries have, I hope, reflected my faith, I've purposely been fairly oblique about it. No specifics. No sermons. But, in fact, re-evaluating my beliefs in the wake of a life-altering, near-death experience like the fire has been an ongoing inner pursuit these past 21 months.
Actually, it's a journey that began well before that, accelerated by external issues in the church and society--the narrowing of evangelical Christian thinking to a few hot-button topics and the trend toward the merger of politics and religion. If I remember my U.S. history correctly, the Pilgrims would see this latter shift as alarming.
The pendulum swing hits me personally when people assume that my Christianity implies I am also a right-wing Republican. Which I'm not. (I'm not a Democrat either, by the way.) Other Christians, for example, have been surprised to learn I'm not a Bush/Cheney fan. From my perspective, I'm surprised they can support a man who claims to be a Christian while waging vengeful, unwarranted war. I'm pretty sure this is not what Jesus would do.
But I've felt a little lonely out here on the left bank of Christianity, so I've been searching for other Christians who believe the concept of an omnipotent, yet personal God is just too big, too radical to cram into tiny red or blue boxes. I've discovered a few brave forerunners. One is Jim Wallis, editor of Sojourners magazine and author of "God's Politics: Why the Right Gets It Wrong and the Left Doesn't Get It."
Today, the New York Times published an op-ed piece by Wallis, which struck me as hugely encouraging. Here's an excerpt:
"Because the Republicans, with the help of the religious right, have captured the language of values and religion (narrowly conceived as only abortion and gay marriage), the Democrats have also been asking how to 'take back the faith.' But that means far more than throwing a few Bible verses into policy discussions, offering candidates some good lines from famous hymns, or teaching them how to clap at the right times in black churches. Democrats need to focus on the content of religious convictions and the values that underlie them.
"The discussion that shapes our political future should be one about moral values, but the questions to ask are these: Whose values? Which values? And how broadly and deeply will our political values be defined? Democrats must offer new ideas and a fresh agenda, rather than linguistic strategies to sell an old set of ideologies and interest group demands."
Wallis goes on to suggest five planks of a new Democratic platform, which right away tells you he's come up with at least three important issues other than abortion and homosexuality. If you'd like to read the entire Wallis piece, you can find it on The New York Times Web site: http://www.nytimes.com/2005/08/04/opinion/04wallis.html.
Actually, it's a journey that began well before that, accelerated by external issues in the church and society--the narrowing of evangelical Christian thinking to a few hot-button topics and the trend toward the merger of politics and religion. If I remember my U.S. history correctly, the Pilgrims would see this latter shift as alarming.
The pendulum swing hits me personally when people assume that my Christianity implies I am also a right-wing Republican. Which I'm not. (I'm not a Democrat either, by the way.) Other Christians, for example, have been surprised to learn I'm not a Bush/Cheney fan. From my perspective, I'm surprised they can support a man who claims to be a Christian while waging vengeful, unwarranted war. I'm pretty sure this is not what Jesus would do.
But I've felt a little lonely out here on the left bank of Christianity, so I've been searching for other Christians who believe the concept of an omnipotent, yet personal God is just too big, too radical to cram into tiny red or blue boxes. I've discovered a few brave forerunners. One is Jim Wallis, editor of Sojourners magazine and author of "God's Politics: Why the Right Gets It Wrong and the Left Doesn't Get It."
Today, the New York Times published an op-ed piece by Wallis, which struck me as hugely encouraging. Here's an excerpt:
"Because the Republicans, with the help of the religious right, have captured the language of values and religion (narrowly conceived as only abortion and gay marriage), the Democrats have also been asking how to 'take back the faith.' But that means far more than throwing a few Bible verses into policy discussions, offering candidates some good lines from famous hymns, or teaching them how to clap at the right times in black churches. Democrats need to focus on the content of religious convictions and the values that underlie them.
"The discussion that shapes our political future should be one about moral values, but the questions to ask are these: Whose values? Which values? And how broadly and deeply will our political values be defined? Democrats must offer new ideas and a fresh agenda, rather than linguistic strategies to sell an old set of ideologies and interest group demands."
Wallis goes on to suggest five planks of a new Democratic platform, which right away tells you he's come up with at least three important issues other than abortion and homosexuality. If you'd like to read the entire Wallis piece, you can find it on The New York Times Web site: http://www.nytimes.com/2005/08/04/opinion/04wallis.html.
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