Owning up and Trickle down‏

I had to laugh a few years ago when Paris Hilton was arrested for cocaine possession.  I didn't laugh because she is an annoying parasite living off of her family name.  I laughed because a few years prior,  I watched an interview with her on Larry King.


When Larry asked her if she did drugs or has ever taken drugs, she flat out replied, "NO".  At the time, there were already many pictures of her circulating online that she smoked pot often.  Despite these pictures, she still vehemently denied using drugs habitually or recreationally.

At the time, it was funny to me.  A couple years later and here she was getting arrested for something more dangerous than pot.

I wish people would just own up to their indiscretions.

A few years ago, major league baseball player, Raphael Palmeiro, stood before Congress denying he ever took steroids.

"I have never taken steroids.  Period."  His exact words.

Five months later, he tested positive for steroids and was suspended from baseball.

Once again, somebody not owning up to their sins.

The list of famous people not owning up to things is long:  OJ, Lance Armstrong, and even a President.President Clinton redefined sexual relations after evidence came forward that he indeed had sexual relations with Monica.

The most powerful man in the world claimed that he was unaware that a blowjob could be construed as sexual relations.  It was wishful thinking.  A nation of men waited with bated breath to see if he would be implicated for perjury.

Bill Clinton ALMOST single-handedly made blowjobs no different than hugging a woman.

"Honey, I didn't cheat on you.  She just gave me a blowjob."  That could have been the new unwritten law of adultery IF his lie was believed by Congress. 

The House of Representatives found him guilty of perjury and obstruction.  It was the Senate that acquitted him; democrats voted against impeachment and republicans voted for it.  It was a 55-45 vote that cleared him of all charges.

And then the debate ensued... Is a blowjob sex?

It was a stupid argument for stupid people.  It's another case of people blurring the lines of what is right and what is wrong.


Moral relativity.


My issue with him at the time wasn't that he cheated on Hillary.  I've always believed their marriage was a sham; a well thought out union of two political opportunists.  I don't believe any woman would stay with a man who has reportedly cheated on her for over a decade unless your agenda is greater than growing old with the one you love.

But that's just my opinion.

My issue with Clinton was he should have owned up to his mistake from the beginning.  What a great lesson he could have taught the children of the world by being straightforward and admitting he was a flawed man. 

A whole generation of kids learned the word blowjob thanks to our President.

I do recognize that it is human nature to lie when you have been discovered to be a fraud or when the perception people have of you is entirely wrong.

We all have a difficult time owning up to our faults and shortcomings and even our misdeeds.

While considering President Clinton's ridiculous argument that a blowjob is not synonymous with sexual relations, I was reminded of an interview that Sharon Stone gave back in 2006.

She was asked about her views on AIDS and young people having sex.  Here is her quote:


"Young people talk to me about what to do if they're being pressed for sex? I tell them (what I believe): oral sex is a hundred times safer than vaginal or anal sex. "If you're in a situation where you cannot get out of sex, offer a blow job. I'm not embarrassed to tell them."


Read that again.  I had to read a few times to make sure I wasn't "mishearing" her.

The new morality according to Ms. Stone is offer a blowjob when being pressured to have sex.

What happened to just saying NO?

If my future daughter is with a boy pressuring her to have sex, I wouldn't expect her to compromise with said horny dude.  I would expect her to say NO.

And what is this "if youre in a situation where you cannot get out of sex'?  Wouldn't that situation be called rape?

If you are in a situation where NO will not be taken as an answer, then you are being raped.  End of story.

Ms. Stone wants 15 year olds to offer a blowjob to said rapist.

I blame President Clinton.... because according to him, a blowjob is not sexual relations.

You see what happens when we don't own up to things?

Blind Man

I hate when she cries.  Especially, when it's because of me.

I wish the world knew her like I do. 

Amazing Grace
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.


I bet if you knew a blind man in love he could tell a beautiful love story.  I am certain he would tell us that it was love at first sight.

This whole notion that love is blind is based on superficial and external standards.  It's based on this misconception that love allows us to overlook what some might consider obvious flaws or defects. 

We are wrong.

Love is not blind.  In fact, it allows us to see things more clearly. 
It simply focuses on those things that matter.

I made her cry this morning.  A slightly insensitive but honest ill timed comment; not something that needed to be said first thing in the morning.  I suppose time of day is irrelevant.

On a bed of nails, she makes me wait.  And I wait, without her.

It's a thin line between being an artist and a plagiarist.
Being independent and being selfish.
A thin line between being honest and being cruel.

I don't wonder how a blind man knows when the one he loves is hurting.  Because for those of us in love, when the one we love is hurting, we will be hurting, too.  Automatically.  Instinctively.  Clearly.

I love when she cries.  Especially, because of me.

It reminds me that she still loves me and still cares.

And I suppose I shouldn't. 

I wish the world knew her like I do....

as a blind man.

The Freshmen

It's funny because at the time, we were so strange and so complicated.

All of us.

The Farmer Teds.  The Stifflers.  The McLovins.  The Spicolis.  The Claires.  The Ferris Buellers.  The Heathers.

I graduated in a class of thirty two at a small Christian school in 1989.  A school with roughly 120 students.

It seems like yesterday. 

As an awkward freshman to an overconfident senor, I can tell you, I was no different than anyone else.  At least, when it came to hopes and dreams.

At the age of 18, everything is intact.  Our circle of friends.  Our self-assurance.  Our anxiety. 

Our immortality.

I drank and smoked pot like there was no tomorrow.  Ironically, I overindulged on everything because I believed I had countless tomorrows.


Something happened between then and now. 

The circle of friends is broken. 
The self-assurance is shaky.
The anxiety is high.

And, well, that immortality, two of my classmates have proven, there is no such thing.


We begin as outsiders and then evolve to insiders.
From innocent to experienced.
Thin skinned to layers and layers of skin grown over.
That shining city on a hill to Rome.

Everyone has the same high school story; regardless who we were.

Twenty something years later, those friendships have been reduced to an occasional comment on our Facebook pages.  Old crushes and past love interests are merely profiles to visit when we want to see if we dodged a bullet or if we missed the proverbial boat to happily ever after.

Thank God for yearbooks.  More so, thank God, Facebook didn't exist back then.

Some things are better left intimate.  And high school was just that; an intimate experience.


The two classmates we lost weren't kids I liked.  To a degree, I was one of their tormentors.

But when we lost them, when they left us, I tell you this; it hit me hard.  I suppose when you spend the four most crucial years of your life with a group of people, regardless if you got along at the time, it will hurt.

It hurts because they are a piece of who we are today. 
It hurts because it reminds us of the fragility of our existence.

That window of invincibility is shattered when we lose anyone we knew from that intimate setting during those four challenging years.


It's funny remembering each person I shared that time period with... Those nicely worn labels we slapped on each other.  The battles of wills and wits.  The constant struggles for acceptance.  The dire need to be perceived as someone.  The pettiness and temporary bouts of cruelty.

All of it is funny now.


The first day on campus as a freshman, I was an awkward, skinny kid just hoping I would make a friend or two.

On graduation night four years later, I threw my cap in the air knowing I was now a man; surrounded by life long friends with memories that are so intimate that I will never dare tarnish them by trivializing any single person's impact on my life during that significant yet short time period.

We were so strange and so complicated.  All of us.

So much so, it actually made each of us....

beautiful.

Myopic Thinking‏

AP-  Yesterday, scientists revealed new technology that will be able to determine the sexual orientation of a baby prior to birth.  This new technology is as simple as a sonogram and is capable of determining if a newborn will grow up to be gay or straight with about an 88.5% accuracy rate.

The purpose of this new technology is to give parents additional information about their "potential" child and an opportunity to terminate the pregnancy if they feel raising a homosexual child will cause undue stress and scrutiny in their future lives.

Civil liberty groups are trying to stop the FDA from approving this technology in the marketplace. 
Several organizations such as the Westboro Baptist Church are aiming to get this technology in the marketplace immediately with hopes of aborting the homosexual gene into extinction.



Okay, I made all that up.  Maybe, it's in bad taste, but....
What if this was true?

What if we could find out if our baby was going to be gay?  Would it be okay to abort a child simply because some people can't bear the thought of their own flesh and blood not being straight?

Abortion is done by a few when it is determined their baby will have Down Syndrome.  Abortion is done in cases of rape and incest.  Abortions are performed based on a families lack of financial resources.

Abortions are performed for many personal and unreasonable reasons.

I wonder if the technology existed to determine the sexual orientation of our babies how it would affect abortion statistics or if it would at all.

Would pro-life groups suddenly be a little more open minded on abortion?
Would pro-choice groups suddenly determine that aborting a gay fetus is a hate crime?

I think about this kind of stuff at 2:00 am when I am unable to sleep.


Earlier this evening, I read a blog by a gay guy who recently attended a Tracy Morgan concert.  During his stand-up routine, Mr. Morgan made some disparaging remarks about homosexuals.  I believe he even stated that if he found out his own son was gay he would stab him and kill him.  Then to clarify that he was joking, he added, "If a gay man can take a dick up the ass, he surely can take a joke."

The gentleman who wrote this blog was quite diplomatic in his reaction to the stand up routine.  Rather than walk out or react with anger, he calmly stated that he was simply disappointed in Mr. Morgan's "jokes".

It was an impressive feat of tolerance by the gay blogger.


After reading, I considered my own thoughts on the subject.  Would I have laughed at the "jokes" or would I have been disturbed by them?

Take away the fact that I find Tracy Morgan to be annoying in a Martin Lawrence kind of way, I am certain I would have laughed.  Hey, there was a period in my life where I sat in front of the VCR and laughed my ass off at Andrew Dice Clay so I have not been completely programmed yet to become upset at words said by a man that gets paid millions of dollars to make an audience laugh.

Considering that Tracy Morgan's audience most likely consisted of more black people than white people, I understand his choice of humor.

The black community as a whole is a little less tolerant of homosexuals than other communities.  I suppose hearing gay rights groups compare the civil rights movement to their own cause could be construed as insulting.

There was a period in our history where blacks couldn't use the same bathrooms and eat at the same restaurants as white people, or even enter a stadium to watch a football game.  Hell, if a white man killed a black man, that white man had a good chance of escaping a life sentence.  Then, there's that whole slavery issue.  A black man's life was considered less valuable than a white man's life.

Gays deal with being called bad names and of course, can't legally marry in all 50 states.

It's quite a different struggle so I understand minimally why Tracy Morgan feels how he does.

It doesn't mean I agree with him.


Hey, I'm just a straight white guy.  I don't really understand things I haven't experienced.  I still laugh if I see a black guy at KFC.  My stomach literally turns when my one gay friend discusses making out with another dude.  I roll up my car windows if I'm in a certain part of the city.  I'm okay with lesbians as long as they are hot.

Reprogramming me to be culturally more sensitive is futile but reconditioning me to view the world less myopically is not.

I think abortion is a hate crime regardless if the baby is straight or gay, retarded or not, was conceived from dire circumstances or just because the parents choose to terminate the inconvenience.

I think if black people can use the "N" word, I should be able to as well... without scrutiny. However, I choose not to.

When it comes to words, I am pro-choice.
When it comes to people, I am pro-life.


Earlier today, I stumbled onto the news story about a 15 year old girl named Alice who lives in England and is dying of cancer.  After four long years of battling this disease, it has been determined that nothing can be done to stop the cancer.

She has a blog over on blogspot where she chronicles her life and has written her bucket list.

She might be the most inspiring person I have ever encountered.  She is not seeking our pity or even money.  She simply wants to live out her last days trying to make a difference in everyone's lives.

There isn't even a hint of self-pity in her words.

She is an amazing young girl who is focused on those things that matter in life.

I suppose those of us who aren't staring at the barrel of a gun tend to view the world more myopically than those who know their expiration date is impending.

Check out her blog if you haven't already:

(Update:  I wrote this one year ago.  Alice died 10 days ago.)

http://alicepyne.blogspot.com/

That Place

Valley Hope... I suppose it's like all the other rehab centers.  For some, it's the last refuge before the peaceful sleep inside a body bag.  For others, it really is their only hope.


I'm not the addict.  He is.  I'm here for support.  Funny that I considered saying those words to everyone there.

Fuck ups, low lifes, losers.  But not him.  He just has a small problem.  Funny that I actually believed that.

It's not a disease.  It's a matter of faith.  He will overcome.  He's tough.  Funny that I minimized something I knew nothing about. 

Mr. Know it all.  Mr. Big Shot.

I remember that place all too well.  Cigarette smoke, tobacco spit, FUCK THIS DAMNED PLACE, oh and the shakes; everyone had the shakes.  But not me.  I was there for support.  What a good fucking friend I was.

Mr. Good Samaritan.


One would think that four to eight visits a year over a decade would make one realize the body bag is unzipped.

I think about that word HOPE; the word written on every piece of stationary in that damn place; the word hanging above the threshold of that building.  And I wonder if anyone there actually feels hope.  Maybe the first time they arrive.  But since everyone there has been there before or will be there again, it's feels as hopeful as a Motel Six. 

Oh, but they need to believe in hope.

And I say, "hallejuah, we all do.".

Mr. Holy Roller.

There's a basketball court and a ping pong table.  And a picture of Jesus Christ.  I could draw a picture of that place; inside and out.  But I can't describe the joyless ambiance that is thicker than the smoke filled air.

I don't laugh at the rehab is for quitters quips ladened on a bumper sticker.  Because I'm not sure anyone in rehab actually quit, they just try.  Because they want hope. 

Everyone has a sad tale.  No one is immune to the darkness.  We all know someone with a sad tale.  There are no victims.  Or martyrs.  Or Good Samaritans.  Or Holy Rolllers.  Or Know it Alls.  Or Big Shots.

It's me.  You.  Them.  And our lives.  No happy endings.  No tragic goodbyes.  It's just me.  You.  Them.  And us.  And our lives.

It's what I learned from that place.  That place of hope.


I swore I would never go back.  I made the promise on a Thursday.  After he was buried.  Because I thought the place was a fraud.  A business seeking repeat customers. 

I was as bitter as that taste in my mouth after suffocating on that smoke filled air from that place.  For years, I was angry.  Call it misdirected anger.  Or misguided hope.

I always wondered why such an expensive place to be cured of a disease resides in a low income neighborhood.  Surrounded by addicts selling the very things that are killing those inside that place of hope.  Those damned medicine men in that neighborhood and inside that place. 

I'm too old to be so precocious.
And cynical.
I'm too alive to be so damning.

As dark and as hopeless as it seemed there, love was abound.  Everywhere.  Families supporting their prodigal sons and daughters.  Husbands and wives through sickness and in health, right there attempting to salvage their marriages and their lives.  And friends, guilt ridden friends wearing courageous and phony smiles, saying, "I believe in you".

But it was all love. 

Oh and the faith of everyone.  I will get better.  As the Lord is my witness, I will overcome.  I will not be a statistic.  They all had faith.   The patients and the visitors.

The place is called Valley Hope Rehab.

It chokes of cigarette smoke.  And within that hazy dark filled building where the addict comes willingly or by edict lies something not found in normal places...

faith, hope and love.

An Old Block

Your dad was a fine man.

I will never hear those words. 

It boils down to two factors:  No one knows I am his son.  And he was not a fine man.

I found out my father died April 2009; three months after the fact.  It was strange to be crying over a man I had never met.  It seemed unfair to be overwhelmed with loss for someone I couldn't recognize in an empty room.

It seemed unfair to feel anything for him.I discovered love the day I heard of his death. 

As I attempted to share the news of this man's passing to my girlfriend, she cried.  She cried for me.  As if, I had lost someone close.  Someone important.  Someone significant.  Someone worthy of any of my emotions.

As if I needed comfort.

I discovered just how much she really loved me.

I had a recurring thought as she tried to bring me comfort; comfort I wasn't seeking.  I thought she is a chip off the old block.

As much as I hate cliches, that specific one echoed in my brain.

When you see her or listen to her, her father has his fingerprints all over her.  She resonates kindness.  Love.  Understanding.  She is like her father.

The apple didn't fall far from the tree.  

Maybe my father's obituary was the needle prick I felt.  The dagger in my heart.  Certainly, I knew I didn't mean much to him.  But somewhere deep inside of me, I hoped and believed he thought about me once in awhile.



 

I never wanted a Jerry Springer moment with him.  I didn't even want a postcard.  I just wanted one simple thought every now and then.
Either I was the only child he fathered or there were others he never mentioned or thought of.

According to his obituary, he is only survived by a HALF-brother and some neighbors.

It was strange that a simple sentence like that could make me feel so small. 

I envy those with families.  I always have.

I do not understand those who cannot stand the company of their families.  Those who go years without speaking to certain members.

Then, it strikes me odd when I hear about the guilt some feel when certain family members die...I should have called once in awhile.  Why didn't I, at least, send a Christmas card?  I don't even remember what we were fighting about.  

I don't care what anyone says; there is a huge void left in one's life without a family.

None of us choose our parents but they do choose us.  And maybe, just maybe, that's why my father's passing impacted me in such an indescribable way.

I could look at him in two ways:  He abandoned me or he chose me.

I struggle with those options.

I've always heard that there is a correlation between young girls who are promiscuous and not having a dominant father figure in their life.  It's as if those girls are trying to fill that void with any man.  It's as if they believe that the only way to find love or affection is by giving into any man.

They seem to equate love with sex.

Because they don't know better.

My dad died at the age of 82 which means he was 44 when I was born.  My mom was 23.She did not have a dominant father figure growing up which probably explains why she found herself married to a man twice her age.

For a man, I cannot think of a more important role in life than being a father. 

Or better yet, an old block.

There had to be an Artist‏

Renowned scientist Stephen Hawking released a book with his theory that God did not create the universe; that it is possible the Earth was created out of nothing.


Without even daring to understand all of his scientific "facts", I wanted to know one thing:  Is this renowned scientist an atheist?


According to his bio, he is.

So, let me get this straight... An over intellectualized atheist wrote a book with a THEORY that God did not create the universe?  In other words, a MAN who does not believe in GOD went about figuring out how the universe came into existence without a creator?


Hypothesis:  A tentative explanation for an observation, phenomenon, or scientific problem that can be tested by further investigation.  A theory.  An educated guess based upon observation.


Sounds like this scientist came up with his hypothesis before his observation.


I'm not a scientist.  I will never win a debate with one.


I am not an atheist, either, so I probably will never be convincing enough to change their minds and more importantly, their hearts.


My theory or hypothesis on the existence of God is based upon my own observations.


I believe in God because I personally know God.  I have felt His presence.  I have seen Him turn water to wine in my own life.


I am not merely a number or a statistic.  I believe the very fact that I have my own thumb print which will never be duplicated again is proof of my importance and my significance to my Creator.


I won't dare try to understand something that is impossible for the human mind to grasp. 


I will believe and if I am wrong, I die just like the atheists do.  But if I am right, I am going to a place, they will never see.  I have nothing to lose.  But my faith isn't held together as a safety net.  My faith is what it is because I have seen God's work in my own life.


So, the atheists can over intellectualize all they want.


I have seen a woman give birth.  I know what its like to fall in love.  I have seen a small seed turn into a blossoming flower.  I have watched enough animal documentaries to know that each species on Earth is far too developed and detailed to be just the handiwork of chance.


My observations lead me to the hypothesis that THERE MUST BE A GOD.

Here is one of the world's most famous paintings:

                                                          Starry Night by Van Gogh.


To the naked eye, I suppose it looks rather simple; maybe a little boring.  I know nothing about art.  I have no idea why some pay millions for paintings.  I don't get art. 


I can draw a pig but my pigs always have utters like a cow and a beak like a chicken so maybe I can't draw a pig.  Some people can draw a pig and it looks exactly how pigs were designed.  I don't understand this left brain/right brain thing.  Some are good at art.  Some are good at math.  But rarely both.


Now, I look at this painting and I realize it is pretty detailed considering it was done with a paint brush back in 1888.


I know I couldn't duplicate it or come close.


But what I do know about Starry Night, just like I know of all paintings, there had to be an artist.

                                                           An Actual Starry Night



And when I look at this planet or the universe or the oceans or you or me....


or when I look at an actual starry night...


I think there had to be an artist.