“Peace, prosperity, liberty and morals
have an intimate connection.”

- Thomas Jefferson

As long as you rub it with rosemary or rosemary extract, that is.

To Block The Carcinogens, Add A Touch Of Rosemary When Grilling Meats
ScienceDaily (May 24, 2008) — Rosemary, a member of the mint family and a popular seasoning on its own, also has benefits as a cancer prevention agent. Apply it to hamburgers and it can break up the potentially cancer-causing compounds that can form when the meat is cooked.

J. Scott Smith found out about rosemary’s strength against the compounds while researching ways to reduce them as part of a long-term Food Safety Consortium project at Kansas State University. Smith, a KSU food science professor, has been looking into the carcinogenic compounds known as HCAs (heterocyclic amines).

“Put a little bit on the surface,” Smith advised grillers. “Rosemary extracts shouldn’t have much of an aroma to them. Most people don’t want a rosemary-flavored burger. So if you get the extract you don’t really know it’s there.”

The full article has details on the research and how and why the natural anti-oxidant properties of rosemary break up the formation of HCAs (heterocyclic amines), thought to be linked to cancer.

Similar studies have shown that marinating steaks with common, high anti-oxidant herbs and spices such as basil, mint, sage, savory, marjoram, oregano and thyme also reduces HCAs. These herbs and spices are on your grocery shelf, while rosemary extract is reportedly available on the internet.

I think this news definitely calls for some grilling this weekend; all in the name of science, of course!

HT: The Evangelical Outpost.

So we're sitting around tonight talking about an upcoming event and I mention that someone we know said he will be there with bells on, and the Reverend Mother says, "I hope he's wearing more than that, because that's not someone I want to see with nothing more than bells on," and I say, "Oh, sounds like you have a list of people you do want to see," and she says, "Yeah, I'll show it to you later," and then Tiger Lilly, who's baking chocolate chip cookies, says, "I know I sure do," and it gets real quiet.

Then the Mall Diva says, "You are soooooo grounded."

Hey, chocolate chip cookies!

Actor and comedian Harvey Korman has passed away at the age of 81. I loved watching him and the gang on the old Carol Burnett Show, where he was recognized with four Emmys and a Golden Globe, and he had a memorable role in the funniest (imho) Mel Brooks film ever, Blazing Saddles as Hedy, I mean Hedley Lamarr.

As much as he could make me laugh, some of his funniest performances were in skits with the great Tim Conway where he did everything he could to keep himself from laughing. When I heard the news while driving home tonight that he had passed away, one classic scene came immediately to mind.



Thanks, Harvey.

Ben has been on a bit of a G.K. Chesterton binge of late, so this is for him, via The Writer's Almanac:

It's the birthday of the novelist and essayist G.K. (Gilbert Keith) Chesterton, (books by this author) born in London, England (1874). He's remembered today for his detective novels about the bumbling, crime-solving priest Father Brown, but during his lifetime he was primarily known as an essayist. He wrote constantly, about politics, society, literature, and religion. He was one of the first critics to argue that Charles Dickens was a great novelist, after the decline of his reputation in the early 20th century. He was one of the first people to argue that the influence of religion on public life would be replaced by the influence of advertisements.

Enjoy.

Boy, that three-day weekend came just in time for me. I didn't crack the laptop for anything work related the entire time and it was refreshing. That doesn't mean that I didn't work; I mowed the lawn, moved a high spot in my side yard to a low spot in my back yard, put up the awnings (with Tiger Lilly and Ben's help) and put a tonneau cover on my truck, plus doing the laundry, which is my usual weekend gig anyway. On top of that I still found time for some other notable moments. Here are the highlights:

Bike Bubba. (me, not him in this instance). I bought a used 10-speed from someone at work earlier this year with the idea that I'd try to get some rides in for exercise. Since then when I've had the time to ride the weather hasn't cooperated. Saturday afternoon, however, even though I'd already "exercised" in my yard I decided to set off for The Black Sheep on my bike when my wife said we were out of coffee. It's a little more than a mile each way, I think, so it's not exactly the Kessel run, but there's a pretty significant hill between here and there, and it's up-hill on the way back.

Of course, that means it's down-hill on the way over, especially if I take Marie Ave. where the slope is particularly steep. I was cruising down the hill at a good clip when I saw a white Mustang pulling onto Marie from a side street. The driver was talking on a cell phone, looking the opposite direction from me (natch) and stuck the nose of his car three-feet into the intersection, right in front of me, still without looking. Not having a horn, I later told my girls I had to resort to speaking Japanese. They gave me puzzled looks, so I elaborated: "AH SO!"

Coming back with the coffee I decided to take Southview Blvd. because, while the slope is longer, it's not quite as steep. It's still not easy, though, especially since it gets much heavier traffic and you don't want to be wavering a lot on your two wheels. I set myself a goal of getting to the top of hill without walking or even standing on the pedals, even if I had to go all the way down to first gear. 100 feet from the top I was wondering if I was going to make it but I kept my momentum and made it up and over, gliding through the stop sign on the other side when there wasn't any traffic because I didn't trust my legs to put them down. Then I had to climb a much smaller hill before rolling back onto my street and finally into my driveway and garage. I got off the bike, went in the kitchen and put the coffee on the counter and headed for the living room to sit down. I got as far as the entry hall before my legs went to jelly, but I managed to get to my recliner before losing control.

Surrender Dorothy. Sunday afternoon my wife and I played golf with some friends visiting from back east. We were playing at Oak Marsh in Oakdale, in the northeast quadrant of the metro area. It was a sunny afternoon, but as we finished the first hole the tornado siren went off. Our friends don't have this phenomenon in Jersey, so that was a bit of a thrill for them. Since the weather still looked nice I called the pro shop on my cell and asked if the siren was for tornadoes or lightning in the area. He said there was a tornado watch but it was up to us if we wanted to keep playing. We did.

A little while later as we were walking toward the fourth hole we could see the sky darkening in front of us. The wind, however, was at our backs and the sky in that direction was clear and sunny so we figured that we were going to stay dry. The fifth and sixth holes run west to east and as we finished the fifth we saw a strange sight: the prevailing wind was still out of the south, where it was still sunny, but looking west we could see low, dark clouds coming out of the north, against the wind as if to flank us. Not good. We kept heading for the sixth tee, where we finally saw some lightning, just as the temperature dropped by about 20 degrees. The clubhouse was about 100 yards in front of us so we started briskly pushing our carts in that direction as the winds got stronger. We made it with about a minute to spare before the rain hit, and then it was all over about 10 minutes later and we were able to go back out and finish our round. Later, of course, we heard that there had been at least one tornado in Hugo, about 15 miles north of where we were and that there was at least one fatality.

So far I've played golf three times in Minnesota this year. The first time I got snowed on, the second time we froze and got rained on, and the third time we dodged a tornado. I don't think our friends from Jersey are going to be relocating here anytime soon.

The Mall Diva's animal magnetism. Monday we decided to drive down to Northfield for a picnic. It was a wise decision because the weather stayed cool and overcast here in the cities but we had sunshine in Northfield (which is actually south of here). We got into town and set up our lunch at a picnic table alongside the Cannon River, after Ben first drove off a surly gang of illegal aliens, i.e., a flock of Canada geese. As we were eating some of the geese became bolder and moved closer. I noticed that a breeze had come up, and so had the goose-bumps on the Mall Diva's arms and neck. "No wonder the geese are coming over here," I said. "They think you're one of them!"

It was mentioned that the Diva was rather pale for that. "They want to worship the Albino Goose Goddess!" I said. Everyone thought that was amusing, so I said they could feel free to use that in one of their blogs. Nobody did, however, so I had to do it.

When brats attack. We came back from Northfield late in the afternoon to grill some odds and ends of meat from the freezer. This included some steak, a large chicken breast and several bratwurst. Tiger Lilly honed in on the steak, saying that brats were fat, greasy and gross. Her convictions could only have been deepened when Ben bit into his brat and a sudden jet of greasy fat shot out of the side of the brat and hit her in the cheek, leading to much commotion.

Yep, it was a great weekend.

Update:

Oh yeah, the Mall Diva asks how I could have forgotten to mention the flashy purple dress she tried on. We've even got pictures! Unfortunately, Ben was working the camera and his hands got so shaky when the Diva first came out of the dressing room that the first shot was all blurry. He calmed down enough to take the second photo.

Bill Clinton: 'Coverup' hiding Hillary Clinton's chances

The Art of Manliness had a post last week in praise of the masculine sanctuary known as the barber shop. It struck a chord with me because of my own experiences, especially at one barber shop in particular.

Growing up, barber shops were something I went to with about as much enthusiasm as going to the dentist. In fact, if I could have gone to the barber shop as often as I went to the dentist (twice a year) I would have been happier. Nevertheless my mother would take me to get my haircut about once a month, dating back to the days when the barber would plop a booster seat in the big swivel chair and my mother would request a "Regular Boy". I think she was referring to the style of haircut and not to me, specifically.

As I got older one of my aunts would often cut my hair in her beauty shop, though once I got to college my desired "twice-a-year-whether-I-need-it-or-not" schedule became more of a reality. Once into the corporate world I visited a succession of walk-in centers ala Cost Cutters or Fantastic Sam's. Then in 1993 we bought a house over on St. Paul's east side and I soon discovered a classic barber shop on Payne Avenue, just a couple of blocks from my house, called Parkway Barbers.

Walking in the first time I knew I was in a real-live, honest-to-goodness barber shop. It had the classic candy-striped rotating pole outside and four barber chairs inside. The barbers were a couple of older guys named George and Ted (who were in charge) and a couple of younger guys. Brick walls, sports magazines and Popular Mechanics defined the waiting area, with some chairs set along the wall in front of the barber chairs so people could sit and join in on the conversations taking place in the big chairs. The smell was a masculine concoction of leather, tonic, shaving soap, pomade and Clubman Pinaud as distinctive in its own way as walking blind-folded into a bakery. It was as comfortable as slipping into a favorite sweatshirt or old leather jacket.

I'd walk in on a Saturday morning, shortly after opening time and if the shop was busy (usually) I'd maybe get a cup of bitter coffee and flip through one of the magazines. More often I could just drop into whatever conversation was going on at the time. Most of the customers were guys my age or older, and it felt as if we knew each other, even if we didn't. Some of the men were in there with young sons, introducing them to the Ways of Men. One time I was in Ted's chair when hockey legend Herb Brooks came in and plopped down in one of the waiting chairs. "Hiya, Herbie," Ted said. Turns out Herbie was another regular.

Most of the men who came in had "their" barber and would wait for him to be available if the shop was busy, but I'd generally take George or Ted, whoever had an open seat first. The thing is, nobody was ever in a hurry. It was a great place to hang out while knowing you were going to be able to check something off your schedule of weekend projects. Once you left the shop it was back to the "honey-do" list. It's not that women weren't welcome; I'm sure that any woman who came in there would have been treated very respectfully. It's just that it was a place where men went to get their hair cut and there was no reason for a woman to poke her head in. Even after we moved out of the neighborhood I'd still drive back every month for my cut (no blow dry).

Both George (first chair by the door) and Ted (second chair) had an amazing ability to remember who you were and what you'd talked about the last time. Sometimes it almost seemed as if they'd pick up the conversation right were it left off in the previous visit, keeping track of kids, jobs and the golf or fishing trip you'd been planning. Some of those conversations inevitably turned to their retirement plans, to cutting down on the number of days in the shop, to moving to Arizona. Being men of their word, that's what they ultimately did. I'm not sure what the transaction was but after they were gone the other two guys stayed on and I continued to stop in. Business may have been dropping off though, because one time when I went in they had converted the back half of the shop to a beauty parlor and a woman was operating a chair and a hair-washing station.

I went back a couple more times out of loyalty, and even had the woman cut my hair once, but it wasn't the same anymore. The constant hum of the hair-dryers and the sound of the women trying to talk over them drowned out other conversation, even if you still really wanted to talk about putting a new front end into an '89 Oldsmobile. The smell of the perming solution similarly overwhelmed the more understated, manly scents from before. You'd see one the regulars come in the door with a smile on his face and almost immediately go quiet, taking a chair to wait and fidgeting uncomfortably, perhaps taking a distracted flip through a magazine.

I'm sorry to say that it no longer seemed worth the drive for me to go back there to get my haircut. I found another barber shop closer to home. Still with some of the old-fashioned feel, though not quite as comfortable. I went there for a few years but never felt like I was part of a club. Eventually the time came around where my daughter started to cut my hair, and now when I get my haircut I just have to go downstairs. It's comfortable all right, with all my stuff and favorite people around, but you know, somehow it's just not the same. Maybe I need to buy some Clubman Pinaud.

It is a cheesecake post. Thank you, Gigi!


Yes, this is a slice of the first cheesecake I have ever made; and it won't be the last!!! It was covered with blackberry topping, and was heavenly.

So it seems that when my friends get involved with photographing my food creations, they go a little insane. First example: Princess Flickerfeather getting all touchy with how the craisins should be sprinkled on the plate, and growling fiercely if anyone got too close.
(Heehee! Just kidding. She didn't really growl, she just glared.)

Next example: Benny is on a quest for "natural light" in which to photogragh his beloved cheesecake, as seen in the picture below.


I humored him for a little while, but when it started raining I grabbed the cheesecake and ran.

What became of this now-famous little slice of cheesecake?

Here's something I wrote and posted a couple of years ago, but it's an appropriate time to re-run it.

June 6th

I’ve felt like this before. The nausea,
simultaneously sweating and shivering,
knowing that something was about to happen
and it wouldn’t be good.
Then it was being crammed into the landing craft,
Pressing toward Omaha Beach,
held in place by the shoulders of the men on either side of me,
eyes fixed on the door at the front,
with death on the other side as the bullets hissed.
Now it’s more than sixty years later
and the tubes and wires
hold me in place as the machines hiss
as I stare at the door with death on the other side.
Maybe this time, too, I’ll be lucky.

Then we advanced like a wave, and death took us
by the handfuls;
Bombs, machine guns, artillery shells leaving
sudden gaps in the line,
friendships and debts disappearing in an instant,
but we still advanced from hedge to hill, from farm to city.
Storming a farm house we found
the German kid with a couple of bullets
(maybe mine)
in him, clutching a religious medallion and
praying “Mein Gott, mein Gott”
as he bled out.
My God.
My God, too.
I knelt and his lips moved as he looked at me,
I put my hand on the side of his face,
“God, have mercy on him,” I prayed as his
face became peaceful and the light left with his blood.
“God, have mercy on us all.”

At reunions we’d regroup and note
the new gaps in the line;
death now a sniper as we fall one by one
and just as inevitably.
Does He see our faces in the scope
as He lines up the head shot,
or only the meat as he selects
heart, lungs, marrow?
Then we advanced because we had to,
We had to win
We had to make our losses mean something.
We thought we had won, at the end,
but it was only the war and not the battle
and the lives were just a down-payment
on peace and breathing room,
until the enemy returns,
with installments paid in different ways
in the days and nights to come.
Sometimes in later years
when I felt the moistness of my wife
I would suddenly think of Steinie,
of pushing his guts back inside him
after he was burst by the 88.
Those were the nights, then,
when I would sit up at the kitchen table, smoking
until you kids came in for breakfast,
keeping watch, remembering the faces,
wondering how many others might also be sitting up
that night, remembering the same faces.
I don’t wonder so much anymore.

Meanwhile, the fat sales director,
who sat out the war In England
in the Quartermaster corps, would say,
“Boys, we’ve got to take that hill” and
we would take that hill, fill that quota,
and make another payment on the Dream
because we had seen Evil and had our fill
and thought it was finished and that
the world had been reborn shiny and new.
Surely it had to have been,
given the cost;
surely evil had to have been driven away,
and we came back to build a new world
for you our children,
a world where you would never have to
face what we faced;
see what we saw,
do what we had done.
We were naive, of course,
but don’t blame us
for wanting it to be so.

Did we do wrong, my children?
Thinking no one would dare open that door again,
did we neglect to prepare you,
to give you valuable perspective?
You´ve seen the pictures,
And heard the words,
but you can´t know the smell
or the taste,
of walking into that concentration camp,
so your Hitlers are effigies and
Nazis are bogeymen,
mere cursing but not a curse.
I´m sorry, I´m sorry, I´m sorry.
There's much I would have you know,
things I should have said and
lessons you'll have to learn on your own.

I don’t know why I’ve lived so long
when so many died around me,
unless it’s because something of their
unused futures was somehow transferred to me
in the spray of their blood.
I’ve tried to use it well.
May you do the same.

New photographic evidence of Reverend Jeremiah Wright's chickens coming home to roost:



HT: KingDavid (now at his new blogging address).

Last week Brett at The Art of Manliness had a post about how to tell if the woman you're interested in is "the one" to marry. They were good questions but they made me think that there should be some good questions a guy should be asking about himself first to see if he, too is marriage material. I've also been thinking lately of developing some discussion topics and exercises for some young men I know on how to become marriageable. My outline for that covers six to eight weeks of classes and exercises, but here are some of the highlights.

A lot of guys hope or assume that they'll be able to sense when it's time to marry, either because they'll find someone they feel they can't live without or they feel it's time to settle down. Both of those feelings are important, and feelings provide valuable momentum, but they don't necessarily indicate that you have the proper outlook or skills to marry. Yes, of course, people do get married in the throes of passion and somehow manage to develop the proper survival skills on the fly when reality sets in. Then again, many people try it this way and fail spectacularly. Ask yourself, would you rather learn to swim by being thrown into the deep end to see if you'll go up or go down, or after you've been able to rehearse a few techniques while still at the side of the pool? Here are a few questions to try out on yourself.

How's your conditioning?
Marriage is a marathon, but most of us spent our single days as sprinters, chasing women and running away from commitment. You get yourself into a distance race, though, and you'll find you may look good for the first couple hundred yards and then you start to seize up. Blisters form from the friction, and just about every part of your body screams, "What were you thinking?" Now I'm not saying that you prepare for marriage by a series of progressively longer relationships; that may "condition" you, but not for marriage. What I am suggesting is that if your objective is to get married that you look to the condition of other things (ideally before you even meet the woman you'd like to marry). For example:

Uncle Ben has finished his gruesome semester, the Mall Diva has the WHOLE weekend off of work, and my brain could stand to dwell on more trivial matters for at least one night so you can expect the three of us at Keegan's for the Thursday Night Pub Quiz. Rumor is that the patio is open as long as it doesn't snow again tomorrow. On top of that Chief reports that Barb Davis White, candidate for Congress in Minnesota's Fifth District, will be there as well. Trivia question: what is the name of the incumbent she will try to beat out?

Hope to see you there.

Well, the so-called "economic stimulus" checks have certainly stimulated some creative thinking. I can't count the number of email and junk-mail offers that have tried to attract my attention lately, each mentioning the imminent tax rebate checks and, of course, suggesting that this particular service or product is the best way to do my patriotic duty. One in particular stood out yesterday; an offer from a carpet company offering a $300 voucher on their product and touting that that amount combined with the average "economic stimulus" check would give lucky me more than "$1500 in buying power!" That's not a match for my brain power, however.

Given the slate of presidential candidates before us, one of whom actually has to win, I think the smart investment is in guns and gold. Interestingly enough, a one-ounce American Gold Eagle bullion coin and a Desert Eagle handgun are both running close to $1,000. Maybe a Sig and some silver are the solution for future home security.

Speaking of opportunists and home security, we also received two visits last night from "advertising directors" offering us a free home security system in return for posting one of their security signs in our "fabulous" front yard for advertising purposes. This is becoming an annual event, though we've never had two different duos (both from the same company) hit us in the same night as they worked our neighborhood. Well, of course, I'd buy a security system from somebody going door-to-door, just to avoid the hassle! Wouldn't you?

Oh, wait - I don't have to buy it, it's free because I'm going to let them put their sign in my yard! But what if my security system somehow keeps Santa Claus from dropping in? You know, sometimes you just know you're being scammed even though it's hard to see exactly what the scam is. Trust your gut and then hit the internet, which is what I did some time back when these offers started to show up at my door. If you fall for it, what happens is that they install some cheap keypad/sensor/siren apparatus (usually hooked up to one window or door; if you want more "protection" it costs extra) and they con you into signing the service agreement for an over-priced monitoring service that adds up to thousands of dollars - and will cost you nearly that much if you try to break the contract once you find out what you actually agreed to (more details here and here).

Anyway, as it stands right now our economic stimulus is still safely in-hand and I've resisted the siren call of the free home security system. Until we decide what to invest the windfall return of our own money into we'll be going with the tried-and-true security system of smearing jello on the floors, even though that means I'll have to venture into the black market for Diazinon for the inevitable ants.

Q: What do these three events have in common:

• Golf on April 28.


• Golf on May 13.


• Softball on May 19.

A: At each event I wore three layers of clothing and gloves that had nothing to do with the sport at hand — and I still froze.

Also, this past weekend I went into Cub for few groceries. They had corn-on-the-cob for sale on a big table. In the past, in high season, you could buy a dozen ears here for $2; last year you could buy 8 for $2. Yesterday the price for bag-your-own, unshucked corn-on-the-cob was 5 ears for $3.

I'd say it's time to cut back on the ethanol and kick-start that global-warming again.

Buffy Holt writes of a childhood memory:

Iaeger, West Virginia. Nineteen seventy nine. The old bus terminal that use to sit somewhere along the river bank. Maybe next to Sears & Roebuck? Maybe not. Maybe Sears & Roebuck came after it was already gone? I can’t remember. But I do remember the terminal; the diner it held. And it’s a memory from this diner that’s running away from me.

I keep trying to get my head around it. To see all the things I can already hear and smell and taste. But all I see is a plate. White. With a blue racing stripe around its edge.

The room smells of beef. The real kind. And of lettuce. It sounds like my grandfather. Loud and laughing. He’s sitting beside me. Telling a story. To men or to the air. I can’t see him; all I see is the plate. But he’s there. Just like the sun. Breaking through the windows, fracturing over hands and faces, lighting up the room.

It takes me back. Another bus terminal, another restaurant. Another childhood, mine. The summer after second grade, so what is that — 1966? My family and my mother's parents live in Indianapolis, but my grandfather, Pawpaw, has taken me on a road trip, just the two of us, back to his hometown — Cuba, Missouri. It's a sunny morning and we are sitting in the most exotic place I have ever been in in my whole life: The Midway.

The Midway is a restaurant, bar, hotel and the bus terminal for Crawford County, right smack in the middle of town. Route 66 runs east and west just outside the door, while Highway 19 intersects the Mother Road going north and south. The interstate is just a couple of miles away. People pass through here on their way to St. Louis or Chicago or to exotic ports of call such as Springfield, Little Rock or Tulsa. They stop here to change buses, get a bite to eat, maybe take a room and sleep. Pawpaw and I are sitting at a table in the middle of the large, green dining room with a group of men, including his brother. It's just us men in there. They are talking and smoking (L&M's for Pawpaw). I'm playing with the paper wrapper from a straw, folding it up like an accordion, then using the straw to drip a drop of water on it so I can watch the wrapper expand. The guys are talking about a bunch of people I don't know.

Some of the tables around us still have upside-down chairs set on top of them. Over on the counter by the cash register several pies are under a glass case. I am intoxicated by the thought that you can go over there and look at each pie, point at the one you like and the woman in the white uniform behind the counter will cut you a slice then and there. It's not just one kind of pie, take it or leave it, but cherry, apple, strawberry and lemon meringue. And you get to choose!

Along the far wall there are several pinball machines. I wander over, cautiously. There is a forbidden aura about them. I look over at the table, and no one is paying any attention to me. Cigarette smoke and dust motes hang in the bright sunlight as they tell their stories. One of the games looks like a baseball stadium. 5¢ is painted on the glass. I oh-so-casually take a nickel out of my pocket, from the handful of change Pawpaw had given me earlier in the day, and stand in front of the machine and push the little silver button. A trap door opens at the pitcher's mound and burps out a pinball. Pushing the big silver button causes an oversized bat to swing at the pinball, redirecting it through the infield toward targets that say "single", "double, "triple" or "out". If you're good enough or lucky enough you can send the ball up a little ramp to a target that says "homerun". If you get a hit, little metal base-runners pop up in the infield and follow a circular track around the bases. I make a lot of outs, but somehow cause a runner to make it all the way around to home plate. The bells on the machine literally ring up a run on the scoreboard, and it's loud. Pawpaw looks over at me and gives me a crooked smile and goes back to the conversation.

I finish the game and cross to the other side of the room to where racks of postcards are for sale. The first stand are all pictures of the Ozarks, or the St. Louis Arch. I move a little deeper in and find brightly colored cartoon cards. On one card a voluptuous women is standing waist-deep in water, wearing a bright yellow, polka-dot bikini top. She has a shocked look on her face. Beside her a hairy, fat man with a dumb look on his face is holding up a piece of bright yellow, polka-dot material and asking, "Did someone lose a hanky?" Oh man, this is hot stuff, and much more entertaining than dropping water on a straw wrapper! I read every card on every rack, laughing at the jokes that I get, trying to act as if I get it on the ones where I don't. Most of the humor is not that sophisticated. One card makes me laugh and I decide to buy it and mail it to my uncle back in Indianapolis. It's a cartoon of a hound-dog lifting his leg on some tobacco plants, with the caption, "Do you cigarettes taste funny lately?" I don't even know if my uncle smokes.

I am a boy in a man's world, trying to guess at context. Cigarette smoke, racy cards, pinball games, pie. It looks to me as if everything one needs is right here, but people are passing through. It's the Midway — they're between where they started and where they're going, neither here nor there yet, just going in stops and starts on their tracks like little metal men in a game. At the table someone tells a joke that I don't hear and everyone laughs.

I'm sorry!! I didn't post cupcakes last Friday because it was much too busy a day, plus I didn't have the camera.

It was last Monday that my cousin Lindsay (that's right, the Queen), came over to bake cupcakes with me. We chose Raspberry Cupcakes with Lemon Marshmallow Frosting from The Clean Plate Club blog. I am quite proud to say that none of them sank. Yay, me and Lindsay!! We had a wonderful time making these cupcakes, and we brought them to our church league softball games, where they were very appreciated.

Unfortunately, there are comlpications with the pictures that were taken, so I will leave with this one until a future date, it's frosting!!!


You will also soon be getting pictures of a wonderfully gorgeous cheesecake that I made for Benny's birthday. My first one ever!!!! It was delicious.

Another great one from Scrappleface yesterday:

Feds to Raid Isolated, Black-Robed California Sect
by Scott Ott for ScrappleFace ·

(2008-05-16) — Federal agents and National Guard troops surrounded the gleaming white temple-like San Francisco enclave of an isolationist sect after the black-robed “high priests” of the group yesterday declared themselves to be above the laws of the state of California.

In a move reminiscent of recent raids on polygamist compounds elsewhere, authorities prepared to seize documents and computers, and to rescue any young interns or clerks who might have fallen victim to the cult’s bizarre, extra-legal rituals.

Yesterday, the “Supreme” leaders of the sect briefly emerged from hiding to issue a declaration overriding two state laws and loosening the definition of marriage to include “any practice or lifestyle the prohibition of which might make one feel discriminated against.”

“We’d like this siege to end peacefully,” said a Justice Department spokesman, “but these people need to know that this is still the United States of America. You can’t set up your own sovereign nation within its borders, and make up your own set of rules that counter the will of the people and violate the law of the land.”

There's a meme going around that somehow or another has missed me so far (as far as I know). The "Message to the World" meme states: You have 150 characters to send a message to the world. Punctuation doesn't count.

Ok, take a memo, Ms. Jones...

TO: World

FROM: The Night Writer

DATE: Today and forever

RE: Need I remind you

"He has shown you, O man, what is good;
And what does the LORD require of you
But to do justly,
To love mercy,
And to walk humbly with your God?"

Micah 6:8

I'm not going to meme anyone else with this, but I will offer this assignment: Try to imagine what the blogosphere, not to mention the daily newspaper, cable news networks and nightly news, would look like if everyone followed this instruction for one day. Submit your descriptions in a comment below, or on your own blog. Extra points for writing sample scripts or articles demonstrating these elements.

A little while ago I got to go out on what will probably be the closest thing to a date that I will ever get. (Or so says my best friend.) I know, you want details...

Two years ago I met a boy named Brent at one of our church league softball games. I saw him a few more times during the summer, and at the end of the softball season, we traded phone numbers and addresses. We proceeded to keep in touch by writing letters (he doesn't have internet at his house, otherwise we'd probably be exchanging emails). I would see him every now and then when he came to drop off letters at my house (he also doesn't have stamps). He came over a couple of times and watched movies at our house (after clearing the movies with his Dad) and once I went over to his house to sword fight, a common interest we have. He has these swords, called L.A.R.P. (Live-Action Role Playing) Swords, and we used those. They are padded poles covered in duct tape, so it doesn't hurt (much) if you get hit by them.

Then my sister organized some dancing lessons a few weeks ago and I invited him to come along, and he surprisingly enjoyed it. Then he invited me to go to this youth thing at his church called "Net". It was a concert/mass for teens, and it goes from October to the first weekend in May.

So I asked my parents, and they (surprisingly enough) agreed. Well, my dad just made this growling noise that sounded affirmative. 4:30 Saturday afternoon rolls around. Brent, his dad, and his sister come pick me up, and my Dad (of course) gives Mr. Howard the run-down of his wishes for proper supervision. Mr. Howard assures Dad that there will be plenty of people around. We leave, and go pick up one of their friends, whose name is Tom.

We get to Net at around 5, an hour before it starts (they like to get there early to get good seats). At 5:30 one of Brent's friends shows up (his name is John Paul. Hmmm, sounds like Ron Paul!). We listen to the band tuning up (the band is called Sonar). Then Net finally starts. There're lots of songs, some by David Crowder, who I like to listen to. Then the preacher comes out (he's really funny), and announces that there will be Communion. Now I'm thinking, 'Carp', because Catholics have closed Communion. So I asked Brent if I could just stay in my seat instead of going up with my arms crossed against my chest, signifying that I'm not Catholic. He told me to come up anyway. So I'm standing there, my arms crossed, thinking, "Yargh, no one else is doing this!!!" I barely stop long enough for one of the preachers to do his thing before following Brent back to the seats. As soon as we sit back down, he says, "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" I just half-smiled, not really agreeing or disagreeing.

After Communion, there were more songs, and then there was a 20 minute break. There were large tubs of snack and drinks, and Brent said that we basically had 20 minutes to grab all the food we wanted. There were Oreos, Rice Krispies, M&Ms, little bags of cookies, all sorts of junk food. The drinks were Capri Sun coolers.

Next was the message, called "The Amazing Race". It was on the race of life, and — what do you know — the preacher was an athlete who had gone through tons of marathons and Iron Mans (Iron Men?). One of the marathons was even in Alaska. He knew what it was like to have to train for months ahead of time for a race. He said that he had cut out every type of junk food and refined sugars from his diet (I looked guiltily down at the packet of Oreos I had liberated from the food basket). He translated that into things like too much television. The preacher was very funny, and had a lot of one-liners. Brent said that the preacher had been on some t.v. show, but he couldn't remember which one.

After the message, there was this thing called "Adoration". During Adoration, they brought out some golden sunburst thing, and everybody was kneeling. Now, I don't want to offend any Catholics out there who are reading this blog, and this is entirely my point of view (and maybe a little bit of my mother's POV), but, yo, the idols and graven images thing kind of creeps me out. So here I'm thinking, 'What am I doing?' while Sonar is playing a few songs. Thankfully, it didn't last too long, and after Adoration there were a couple of pretty lively songs. Net ended when the songs were over. As we made our way out the door, Brent and I lost his dad somewhere along the line (I think he got pulled into a talking trap). Brent and I waited by the truck, kind of high on energy. So we decided to....................................................................................run around the parking lot! (Scared you, didn't I?) It burned off a lot of that energy, but there's a certain kind of energy that just doesn't go away when you're outside on a crisp spring night. Then Brent's dad made his way back to the car with Tom. From there we went to Perkins. At 10:45! I didn't get home until close to 12! :^P

Ciao for now!

The Prickly City strip has been running in my local paper while Gary Trudeau is on vacation. I hope it "sticks" around after he returns!

My body aches all over and I've felt lethargic all day and barely able to keep my eyes open. Not from strong drink, mind you, but as part of the "come down" from the last few days of work. And yes, those days did include both days of the past weekend as I prepared for a sudden request on Friday to do a 30-minute presentation on Monday afternoon. That also happened to be the Monday immediately before one of our big marketing conferences of the year that my assistant and I have been working on for several months. I finished that late last night and came home and basically crashed — but never walked away from the wreck today for some reason or other.

I wanted to write something but found it hard to get motivated, so I decided to just do some browsing tonight for some laughs. Lately that means heading over to Are We Lumberjacks, and Rodger didn't disappoint. First he suggested that polar bears have got it coming after he found proof that they aided the Nazis in WWII.



Then he helped me decide what I want for Father's Day:

Bug Bat Swats Flies With Endless Love, Electricity

The scenario has happened countless times before. A pesky fly interrupts a dinner party. Brad, the club's resident tennis pro and notorious alcoholic, takes to his feet, Prince racket in hand, and smites the beast violently into a wall with a few tottering swings. OK, so it doesn't happen exactly like that, but you get the idea. Fly swatter, tennis racket or bare hands, the end result is the same. Boring. Enter the misnamed, but nevertheless brilliant, Bug Bat.

The Bug Bat is shaped like a tennis racket, but the similarities end there. Anything that touches the strings on the racket face receives a powerful electric shock. Gizmag got their hands on one and said the shock is enough to sting your finger if you touch it, and packs more than enough juice to end the life of an insect. Fittingly, the insect's death is punctuated with the satisfying crack of an electrical discharge. And a smile. Your smile.

The rechargeable Bug Bat retails for about $20 (or $3, if you happen to live in Bangkok).

Man, that's just what I need around the house. Having one of those might even put me in the mood to get another cat!

Ah, I'm feeling lighter. Maybe I'll post more thoughtful stuff tomorrow.

OK, this is more of a Jroosh post even though he's into movies more than automobiles lately, but I have too much integrity to claim to be a real motorhead. Nevertheless, these new VWs will catch your eye.

And they're not electric - they're turbo-diesel.

One thing you can’t question is the unbeatable fuel economy of this new line-up.

We’re talking 74.3mpg for the VW Polo, more than 60mpg for a Golf and more than 55mpg for the Passat, thanks to new aerodynamics and turbo-diesel engines.

The Polo and Golf models escape new London congestion charges this October and are at the bottom of the new road-tax bands.

...

I’ve just had a first drive of the new Passat BlueMotion and the fuel economy is sensational.

Combined economy jumps 5mpg from the standard model to 55.4mpg, giving a maximum range of 851 miles – which means you could drive from London to Glasgow - AND BACK - on only one fill-up of the 70-litre tank.

Engineers have tweaked the 1.9 diesel engine, making the car much cleaner. Carbon dioxide emissions fall 15g/km to 136g/km, which drops the Passat’s company car tax band from 19 per cent to 15 per cent.

And while the Passat’s body is already fairly sleek, it has had some aerodynamic updates, too.

The brake discs and rear suspension components have been covered, while the car has been lowered 15mm at the front and 8mm at the rear, allowing it to cut through the air more cleanly.

Too bad they're only available in the UK for now. Furthermore, having driven on many of the British "Motorways", I can tell you that regardless of mileage, driving 851 miles from London to Glasgow and back will still take you week.

Katie is pulling the plug on Yucky Salad With Bones. Why? Well, like her header says, "for no good reason."

I started this thing what, about 4 years ago, for no other reason than I thought it would be fun. I never paid any attention to how many hits I got, not because I'm some counterculture goth girl or anything, more due to the fact that other issues were more pressing, like the kitchen was on fire or a kid was hanging off a precarious ledge or something. Oh let's see, the other day I got home from a run to find them all out in the front yard, trying to dislodge an arrow from a second story shutter by heaving various heavy objects at it. Hmm. Nothing like coming home to find the troops throwing rocks and footballs at the windows.

But I wanted to make a formal goodbye, so long and thanks for all the fish. Really, I can't tell you how much I appreciated y'all reading.

Stay classy, San Diego.

Obviously the woman has issues, which is what made it such a fun blog to visit anyway, even if the name never made sense. But what did you expect from someone who'd name her kid Finbar? Still she made me laugh. Hard. So hard that peanut butter would come out of my nose, that's how hard. Who now will give us those riveting, streams-of-subconscious reviews and endless paragraphs about the Oscars and American Idol, who will stand Culture Watch and bring back the report? People like me laugh easily in our homes at night because we want people like her on That Wall. There's probably some Irish blessing to use in a time like this, something about 'may the blogs rise up to meet you' or 'may you be in heaven 30 minutes before Technorati knows you're dead' but I'm not Irish, or Katie, so then Adieu and bonne chance to the Salad. Not that I'm French, either, but using those words saves me from having to type what I really want to say but don't usually allow on this blog, which is "Damn."

Cupcakes!



I was volunteered by our very own Princess Flickerfeather to make cupcakes for a special, if sad, occasion. I'm in the praise and worship band at church, and we practice every other Tuesday night. This past Tuesday we had practice, but it was also a going away party for one of our band members...*sniff*. We'll miss you, Mel!

Of course, if there's a party, there has to be food! I decided to make a cupcake that the name of which I'm sure is 50 calories by itself: "Chocolate Cupcakes stuffed with Strawberry Chocolate Ganache and frosted with Chocolate Glaze and Buttercream".

Now that's a mouthful, in more ways than one! From the site that is turning out to be one of my very VERY favorites~ Cupcake Bakeshop! Give Chockylit a hand!



You may be wondering why the hack my cupcakes aren't as pretty as Chickylit's. That's because I'm a novice, and actually, I only made 4 cupcake prototypes. They came out of the oven a little sunken and crumbly and not wanting to be filled. I was distraught until my mother came in and saved the day.

"Why don't you just crumble them in to a cake pan and layer it with all the ganache and frosting?" So I did. I called it "Not quite a cupcake", and it was a huge hit. Yay! What would I do without you, Mom? Well, I'd probably serve cupcakes that were messy and not aesthetically pleasing.

The Nighthens are out for coffee at Cupcake on University W. in Minneapolis.
The coffee is a little bitter, and could be smoother, but its drinkable. According to TL the hot chocolate is watery.
RM: How's your cupcake?
TL: It's nutty and coconutty.
MD I think I want some of those baby cakes.
TL: Hmmmmm. One out of four stars for Speedracer.
MD: All that movie is is special effects.
TL: Well, yeah, but the only reason Angelina and I want to see it is because there is a cute guy with white hair in it. She and I have a thing for cute guys with white hair.

RM: I like that distressed wall. Maybe I should distress the front entry that way.
TL: You just like distressed walls. "Oh, I like that wall, its distressed." You're kind of sick that way.

RM (referring to pastries): This is too rich, I cant eat it all.
MD: Oooo, I'll have another bite.
MD: I want to try every single cupcake.
(going off on a completely different tangent) Actually, I think I'm the best typer.
RM: Of course, we all think we're the best typer, but I'm the only one who actually knows how to type.
MD: Oh, and the rest of us are just banging with our elbows.
TL: Yeah, are we just monkeys with typewriters?
RM: Basically

RM leaves for bathroom.
TL: steals computer.
RM comes back from bathroom
RM: Hey! Give that back!
TL: No!

MD: They don't like our kind here.
RM: Who doesn't like us?
MD: The servers and everyone.
RM: You can tell?
MD: Yeah, by the merchandise.

RM: Tell us about Molly.
MD: Um, yesterday I was telling one of my clients about Benny and how we were going to get married in about 2 1/2 years when he gets done with school. And Molly was saying how I was going to be a pastor's wife and have my little church cookbook and be on Oprah with it. And I told Molly how I want to be a rock star and she said they would have me sing and everyone would be screaming. And then Louise, my client said "You can sing? You can come and sing a song at my funeral." And I asked her how she would be able to enjoy it.

TL: I need money for a swimsuit.
MD: Well, if you'd do your job Mom would pay you for it.
TL: I need the chemical.
MD: Mom, you're not providing her with the chemical? What kind of enabler are you?

TL: Can you imagine someone walking into a room and saying, 'it smells like a laptop in here?'
RM: No, I can't actually imagine that.

MD: Even though, I'm only doing updos today I still wish I didn't have to go to work. It just puts a big wrinkle in my day.
TL: Are you getting points?
MD: Yup, I'm getting 8 points today.
TL: Are you beating Molly?
MD: Yup, beating her like a rented mule.

MD: Look at my long nail, look at my other one. Look at my worst one.
RM: Aaaaaaah!
TL: Look at my long nails. I'm beating you.
MD: Are you beating me like a redheaded stepchild?
TL: Yeah.

TL: So far there's been no need for my knife.
RM: You're just waiting for someone to walk up and attack you so that you can knife them?
TL: Yeah, but you know I'd only use the flat of the blade.Thankfully my knife matches my shirt. It's a grave thing when your knife doesn't match your shirt.
RM: I don't think the world is violent enough for you.
TL: Alas, I fear I shall never reach my violence quota.

RM: Oh my God. Look at that torso hanging from the ceiling.
TL: I saw that. It looks like a Halloween decoration. Why do all the scary words start with M? Macabre, morose.
RM: How about Mom?
MD: Morose isn't scary.
TL: What's it mean?
RM: Sad.

RM grabs newspaper, unaware of cup sitting on top of it. Cup falls over. Hot chocolate spills out on MD's purse
MD: Shi...Mom!
RM: Oops.
Much hastened evacuation of the purse's contents.
MD: Okay, time to go so I can wash my purse.

I found the link to Square America, described as "A gallery of vintage snapshots & vernacular photography", while browsing commenter Charlie's blog, Virile Lit:

I've been loving Square America for some time now and want to urge you to check it out. It's a web site wherein the curator chronicles the history of the U.S. in snapshots he has obtained by combing resale stores, estate sales, and other dusty archives for random, found photographs he then assembles into themed web-based exhibits. The results are simply fascinating. Text doesn't even enter into it, only the images and you.

It's a fabulous site that sucks you in as you browse the casual, even amateurish, old snapshots that still can't help but communicate a sense of time and place. Beyond that, I often found myself thinking, "I almost know these people — and I know I've seen those curtains before." Cruise on over and spend a few minutes going back a few decades.

All across the country tonight, and right here in the state of Minnesota, parents played with their children, tucked them in, listened to their prayers, kissed them, and told them they loved them. And tomorrow they'll do it all over again, even though it never makes the newspapers.

I have to believe that.

I have to because the stuff that does make the papers is enough to make you despair of the madness in this world. A "hunter" father who stocks up on beer and pot for a hunting trip but can't be bothered to buy a hunting license and forgets, apparently, what a turkey looks like, shoots and kills his 8-year-old son. A mother puts her 2-year-old son and 11-month-old daughter in a bathtub full of water and leaves them alone while she shops on-line for new shoes, needing the 2-year-old to come and tell her "something's wrong" as the infant girl drowns. A massive professional football player decides to play a game of "let's see if you can get out of a plastic bag" with his two year old son, who is fortunately rescued by his mother. A couple of weeks ago I read about a mother in Chicago who drowned her baby girl in the bathtub because having to care for the baby was cutting into her partying.

In the first two cases, anyway, the reports are that the so-called adults are devastated by what happened, and some people even suggest that the legal sanctions be limited because the perpetrators are already suffering. And to that a little piece of me deep down inside says, "Good," even though I know I should be compassionate and prayerful.

What I don't know is what happened to the parental wiring in each of these cases to short-circuit certain instincts. I know that kids can be very frustrating and time-consuming and can wreak havoc on your neat little existence. That is not a capital offense, however, even if it seems as if our culture treats being able to do what you want to do as a sacred thing.

You know, I like doing my own thing too, but I knew the first time I held my first-born that I would willingly die for her; literally if called upon and figuratively every day as I adjusted my life in countless ways big and small to make a place for her (and later her sister) in this world. And I don't say that to suggest that I'm exceptional in any way; in fact, I think that that is or should be the norm even though the headlines increasingly suggest that that is not the case.

Every so often, however, another headline proves the opposite.

CHICAGO — Chicago police say a man died as he tried to shield his four-year-old daughter from an auto allegedly driven by a man under the influence of a controlled substance.

Joseph Richardson was walking his daughter Kaniyah to a McDonald's for burgers late Monday when a car jumped the curb. Police say the 39-year-old Richardson grabbed his daughter and held her up out of harm's way just before the car slammed the two into a fence.

Richardson was pronounced dead at the scene. Kaniyah was taken to Comer Children's Hospital in serious condition.

Police say the driver of the car, 32-year-old Angelo Thomas of Chicago, was charged with two felony counts of aggravated DUI. Witnesses say the man was driving erratically before the accident.

Richardson, a church musician, was the father of three, two girls and a boy, all under the age of 10.

Now that's a father, willing to leave himself in the path of danger in an effort to move his child out of harm's way. In fact, he probably didn't even have to think about it, he just did it. The sad irony is that this little girl will grow up without getting to know this man, while in 3 of the other cases the parent is still here and it is the child that is gone.

Tomorrow, do this in their memory, and in honor of Joseph Richardson: play with your children, tuck them in, listen to their prayers, kiss them. Tell them that you love them.

There's been a lot of discussion on the radio the last couple of days about whether NBC should or shouldn't show the video of Eight Belles breaking down after crossing the finish line (and being euthanized right on the track) at the Kentucky Derby. It's almost a quaint discussion in this age of YouTube, which probably had the footage up before the filly's body was moved off of the track.

I hadn't watched the race, but assumed the replay would show the incident in its entirety when I got around to watching SportsCenter that night. I was a little surprised but not disappointed when ESPN didn't show it. In fact, I was a little relieved. Thinking it was coming up had me steeling myself kind of (but not as intensely) in the same way I had prepped myself for the opening moments of Saving Private Ryan the first time I watched that movie. I knew it was an important news story, but I don't typically get a lot of entertainment value out of seeing animals suffer.

The discussions the next day reminded me of 1978 when I was in Journalism School at the University of Missouri. It was right after Karl Wallenda had fallen to his death during a high wire stunt in San Juan. The fall had been taped and the networks showed him falling but cut away before impact. A group of my fellow J-schoolers and I were sitting at the Old Heidelberg, arguing over whether or not they should have stayed with the image all the way down (I was on the side of cutting away). Some argued that it was "news" and therefore legitimate to be shown, no matter how grim. Others of us said the point was made and the story was told without the final moment and that to show the ending was gratuitous and sensational. Yet another person suggested that the whole reason a news camera was there in the first place was because of the chance that he might fall. Nothing was resolved then (do college arguments ever resolve anything?) but I think I could feel myself already withdrawing from what I thought was going to be my profession.

It's not as though I, and my generation of television viewers, hadn't already been sensationalized with a number of startling scenes. Already I'm sure we'd seen Evel Knievel break himself a couple of times on Wide World of Sports, and I also remember living in Indianapolis in 1973, during what was perhaps the grimmest year in the history of the Indy 500. That May we saw Art Pollard crash during practice or time trials, his car flipping and sliding upside down along the back straightaway, killing him. The start of the actual race that year saw another crash in the front rows, with Salt Walther's car driving up over the wheel of another racer and flipping into the air, losing it's nose cone and it, too, landing upside down near the infield with Walther's legs and feet sticking out of the remaining shell of the car (Walther would live, but endured a long and painful rehabilitation). Even more dramatically than that, later in the race, driver Swede Savage crashed off the outside wall then the inside wall and his car literally disintegrated around him leaving him sitting in the middle of the track, beating at the invisible alcohol flames with his arms and hands while rescue workers raced to his side, with one would-be rescuer being hit and run over by an emergency vehicle driving the wrong way out of Pit Row. I remember seeing that man's body laying crumpled in the infield as well. (Savage would ultimately die nearly a month later from complications arising from his injuries). All of these images were brought into our homes, over and over, via the magic box.

Still later in my life I would be watching the night Joe Theisman's leg was snapped on live television, and I've seen things done to Moises Alou's and Robin Ventura's legs that legs aren't supposed to do. I wasn't watching these events in the hopes of seeing these things, but there they were and I couldn't look away.

I suppose there is a percentage (likely a small one) of auto-racing fans that go to races hoping to see a crash, just as there are those who go to (or watch) hockey games hoping to see a fight (or a player nearly be decapitated by a skate such has happened earlier this year). Similarly, I know that "gawker slow-downs" around a traffic accident scene don't have much to do with drivers suddenly becoming very attentive and careful with their driving and there are probably cave paintings somewhere of slow-running hunters being trampled by mammoths, too.

There's just a vicariousness, and sometimes empathy, about us that draws us to the unusual and even painful. Sometimes it can ultimately be helpful. The '73 Indy crashes led to dramatic safety changes in the engineering and fuel capacity of the cars and there's talk that last weekend's events at Churchill Downs will spur greater strides in horse safety ranging from breeding to more use of synthetic track surfaces that are easier on the horses' legs. The one thing that wont change is that we'll still like to look.

The second Manival blog carnival is up and hosted this week by A Good Husband. Following Uncle Ben's advice, I submitted last week's post about the discussion (or lecture) from our last Fundamentals in Film class to the carnival, and it was accepted.

There are some other very interesting-looking posts in this week's collection that I'm looking forward to reading. In particular, "Is It More Important to Be a Good Dad or a Good Husband", "Thou Shalt Get a Job", "7 Reasons Atticus Finch is a True Gentleman" and "Man Up: The Art of Marital Conversation" plus several more.

Check it out, and if you'd like to submit a blog post to next week's Manival you can use this carnival submission form.

I was sitting up late the other night,
not paying much attention to the TV flickering in my face
as I thought about Daughter #1 and the plans
spinning in her life,
all while I waited for Daughter #2 to
come home from a group outing.
Then this video came on, and I knew that sleep
was a long way off,
and that tomorrow was much too soon.

A group of us from church got together this morning for something we consider pretty sacred: target shooting. There were about a dozen of us that showed up over the course of the morning and early afternoon and we rented 3 lanes. I got to shoot my pastor's semi-automatic, my brother-in-law's target pistol and a couple of .22 bolt-actions, one with a scope. I didn't bring my rifle because I was dropping my truck off at Tires Plus for an oil change on the way and I didn't want to wait around in their parking lot holding a gun while waiting for my ride in these oh-so-sensitive days.

I hadn't been shooting for a couple of years so I was looking forward to it. When I first got into a lane today I opened the rifle case and started to load the magazine with longs. I'm always pretty careful and intent when I'm handling live ammunition, especially with a gun I'm not familiar with. I'd carefully thumbed about three shells into the clip when the guy in the lane next to me, unseen behind the partition, suddenly opened up with a Desert Eagle, with about the same feel and effect on me as if I'd had defibulator paddles placed on my chest. After double-checking the status of my peewadding and that I hadn't just blown my hand off, I took a cleansing breath and finished my task, ready to make a little noise of my own. Sure, the little snapping sound of the .22 following the Desert Eagle was like a chihuahua yipping after the mastiff had walked well down the street, but it was still fun.

My first grouping was fairly close together but high and left; after a few adjustments I started working my way into the black. One of the young men in our group had the same rifle, but with a scope on it. "A scope?" I asked. "I suppose you take cream in your coffee, too." Nevertheless, I had to give it a try. I ran the target out to 50 feet and the guy told me I needed to aim just a little left of the bullseye. I did a few of these and saw that the gun actually was shooting true, so I adjusted. After reeling the target back in I was told that the young man was shooting from 25 feet, not 50. Since the pre-printed targets on that sheet were already pretty perforated, we stuck a black dot on the lower part of the sheet between two previous targets. This dot had a yellow film inside that would show up when it was hit. I ran the target out to 25 feet, looked through the scope fired another 10 shots, working the bolt between each. Here's the result:



Their are nine holes in the dot and one down below. (The larger target directly above is the one I shot at from 50 feet). Okay, so it was only 25 feet and with a scope. If someone were to break into my home with malicious intent and stood still 25 feet in front of me, he'd be in trouble.

I moved down to the pistol lanes, and that was a lot of fun. That darn bullseye can be pretty elusive with a handgun, but one of the fathers there and I had a pretty good competition going. I was kind of handicapped while going through one magazine, though. There was a guy in the lane next to me with a 9mm semi-automatic who was practicing for his Conceal and Carry permit, and I kept getting hit in the head with his spent cartridges as they ejected out of his gun. Call it battle conditions, I guess.

It was amazing at how quickly we disposed of about 1000 rounds of ammunition (I bought 200 rounds myself for the people who's guns I used). It was, literally, a blast. I can't wait to get out again. Maybe we'll even challenge another church to a little contest!

Hey there, this is Uncle Ben. Diva is off in the kitchen right now, about to put the frosting on some cupcakes because it is, after all, Cupcake Friday. No word on what kind they are, but I heard some monkey shrieking so I think it might be something like banana or coconut. I'll go check!

Oh for the love of Pete. There are three women in the kitchen doing a photo shoot with cupcakes. "You've got to add some craisins to the plate for color!" "Don't you dare touch that plate or I'll smack you upside the head with this spatula!!!" "Can't we all just get along?"

Hmm, it's a pretty open question as to whether they'll ever get a photo out of this. It might just devolve into a cupcake flinging fight. Hey, now that would be cool! I'll be right back!

Rats.

...

You naughty Ben! Get off my blog! Anyway, these are Coconut Kiss Cupcakes (no, no kissing was actually involved). The recipe is from Couture Cupcakes. Enjoy!

Tonight was "Fundamentals in Film" Night with the teen-age boys and a couple of the dads. We watched a movie, as usual, but first I had to interject some real life — much to the lads' chagrin.

I haven't blogged about our movie nights for awhile but we've been getting together regularly for two years now, cutting back to just once a month since last fall. I've wanted to use the movies we've watched and the discussions afterwards to illustrate proper manly behavior and character. Originally the movies we watched were pretty black and white about good guys and bad guys but since the first of the year I've begun mixing in movies where the "hero" of the story might not really be such a good guy; my purpose being to show the young men how their emotions can be manipulated and their perceptions bent by the prism of the craft. The first such movie was John Wayne's "The Shootist", and since then we've watched "Patton", the remake of "3:10 to Yuma" and some others.

The other day, however, I heard that several of these young men had been together discussing another movie that some of them had seen; a movie with graphic sexuality and they were regaling each other with explicit details. Bad enough that they should be so coarse, but they also happened to be doing so in the presence of my daughter — and without a second thought.

Tonight, before the movie and before I had the food brought in (so I could be sure of having their attention) I stood in front of the room and asked them what they thought the objective was of these sessions. "To teach us morals," one said. "To build our character," said another. "To be gentlemen," said a third. "To show us how to break out of prison," said another, remembering a previous movie.

"No," I said to the last speaker, "but if you pay attention here it just might keep you out of prison in the first place."

"Snap!" said another boy.

Since we all seemed to be on the same page I asked them where on the scale of good and bad, appropriate and inappropriate, would talking about sex fall — and especially in front of women. "Uhhh...real bad?" one offered.

I then told them I had heard of a recent instance where some of them had done exactly that. I also said that since they had felt free to do that in public then I, too, would talk about the incident in public. I added that I hadn't pressed for specific names, so I wouldn't mention specific names, but that I would address them all for the correction of those involved and the edification of those who weren't. The squirm factor in the room was now about 7.5.

Among the things I told them was that people have always misbehaved regarding sex but that there have been times when the culture at least held out an ideal that humans could control themselves, or should at least try to. Today everything — TV, movies, commercials, billboards, radio, you name it — treats us like animals that can be lead about by our appetites and that women get no support from the culture to sustain an ideal of purity. In fact, they get a double whammy: men are encouraged to act like animals without restraint while the message to women is that they are the crazy ones if they don't go along. Then I told the guys that if they didn't get the proper understanding of the value and worth of a woman then their best days were already behind them because nothing they were being "sold" was anything like reality and they would never be satisfied chasing after some pornographic ideal of sex, beauty and what constitutes a relationship.

Sure, they could go along with the system that seems set up all to their advantage, buy into the stereotype that they're just hounds, call each other "Dog" and spend their life running around with their tongues hanging out and sniffing butts. And dog they will be, if they are content to let themselves be led about as if there were a large fish-hook in their gonads. The squirm factor was suddenly up past 9, and I was about to kick it to 11.

The movie we watched last month was "The Shawshank Redemption." It wasn't one that I particularly wanted to teach because of some of its grittier aspects, but it was a favorite of one of the fathers and of his son and they wanted to show the movie and expound upon the lessons they saw in it so I agreed, albeit with some reservation. Afterward we had had a pretty good discussion about justice and injustice, hypocrisy, perseverance and the importance and indomitability of hope, and how systems are designed to steal hope from you. We didn't get into the prison rape scenes then, but as this week went on I saw that those gave me an opportunity to make a point.

Tonight I asked the boys what their reactions had been during those scenes last month. "Gross" and "sick to my stomach" were the responses. "What you need to realize," I said, "is that that is the same reaction God has to any sex outside of marriage." We talked about 1 Corinthians 6 a bit, and I told them that, yes indeed, sex is a fabulous thing, but there's nothing that compares to being with a woman who gives herself to you in total trust and security, knowing that she is loved, respected and honored — and that is what happens in the best marriages. "Just getting married won't make it so," I said, "If you still have the wrong attitude it's not going to be a very happy marriage.

"If you want that, then - even now - you have to be thinking not about how you can get what you want from a woman, but on what it is you have to do to make yourself marriageable." I also suggested that they begin to treat each woman as if she were someone else's wife, even if the woman is single. "Your wife, should you be so lucky, is out there somewhere now. How do you want other guys to be treating her?"

There are other things we talked about along that line, but I won't go into them here. Some of these may show up in another post I've been working on. I only spoke for about 20 minutes, and it was probably the most rapt audience I've ever had but I wasn't going to push it.

It was time to order pizza and start this month's movie, "The Wind and the Lion."This is a great flick, by the way, with the great Sean Connery and a superb performance by Brian Keith as President Teddy Roosevelt. The movie is based fairly closely on a true story from the Middle East in 1904, and features a lot of great action and some very important (and manly) monologues from Connery and Keith that also seemed to fit our discussion topic.

I can't wait to see who shows up for next month's movie!