Ich Bin Ein Weiner

At least three things are fraught with peril: 1) doing risque things when you are an adult 'who knows better' (allegedly); and 2) when caught, trying to explain these risque behaviors in public with less than full candor; and 3) pretending you can go on with your life and your job and your social network as if nothing has happened.

The Incredulous stand off to the side with jaws agape and ask questions at least as unintelligent as your behavior.

Q: What were you thinking?
A: Thinking ... ?

Q: How could a person of your intelligence and ability have been so stupid?
A: It was actually pretty easy ...

Q: Didn't you know what you were risking?
A: Well, at the time, it was obscured and/or irrelevant.

Q: What the hell does that mean?
A: Next question ...

As a veteran of the Catastrophic Misstep, I can say this much: When the house is on fire, it is best to run back in, throw the essentials in a box, run back out, toss the box in the back of the truck, and drive off as fast as you can. Then stop on the outskirts of town and go through the box, salvaging what you absolutely must have and throwing the rest away.

You will soon discover some things that you only suspected before the fire. You will discover that any attempt to explain what happened, however benign and non-defensive and responsible, will only make you sound guiltier, self-justifying, and an even bigger loser than you already are. Beware digging a bigger hole.

You will discover that, while the curious seem to want answers and to understand, they are actually self-medicating on your demise and your misery. This is really disappointing but, hey, there has to be some way to explain the success of tabloid journalism.

You will discover that you, and everybody else, are actually an AINO - an Adult In Name Only - and that the things that really drive your impulsions and compulsions are embarrassingly infantile, difficult to face even in the safe confines of a therapist's office. What you did wasn't a mistake - a mistake is turning right when you should have turned left because you were distracted by a Hooters billboard. It was a bona fide misdeed. And, in spite of the cliche, it didn't happen because you were 'only human' - it happened because you somehow failed to ackowledge that fact.

You will discover that what others think of you, for better or for worse, is not only not within your control but also is none of your damn business. People will say things about you that are deeply unfair, but, if you want justice, you will find it somewhere between jackass and justification in the dictionary. You should get out of the business of trying to get people to understand once and for all.

You will learn in time that you are not The Worst Person in the World, but that it's going to feel that way for a long time.

You will discover that schadenfreude is more than a cool sounding German word.

You will learn that you will turn loose of the guilt and the self-contempt and the bitterness when you are done with them and not a moment before. Your need to hang on to them should make you curious.

You will learn that it's not the end of the world, although that lesson requires a lengthy time in class.

And, finally, you will learn that you can't go back but you can move on.

Change ... Again

Last week I moved my clothes and my stuff out of my rig and accepted my boss' invitation to come off the road and begin work as a fleet manager for the company. My feelings, to say the least, are mixed.

I have been on the road for over eleven years. A trucker's life has always had its challenges, but the industry has undergone tremendous changes in the last few years which have made this decision much easier than it would have been previously. The chaos in the national economy, the 'de-professionlization' of drivers, the growing, uninformed hostility of the public, and the upcoming onslaught of crushing and hopelessly ineffective safety regulations are causing older and more mature drivers to hang up their keys in droves. We have been living in a world that hates us deeply and needs us badly, and many of us have grown weary of it.

And I am really not getting any younger.

On a more personal level, I feel okay, I guess. I will miss the relatively high degree of independence and autonomy I have enjoyed. I will miss the peacefulness of the long moonlit drives across nighttime deserts. I will miss the serendipity of that stray food cart which serves life-changing tacos and breakfast burritos, and the near-angelic presence of a truckstop waitress. I will miss the satisfaction of tasks completed without ambiguity and uncertainty and loose ends. I will miss the analgesic rhythms of the road. I will miss the solitude I did not afford myself for most of my life.

But, on the other hand, I will be in church on Sundays. I will see family and friends regularly. I will attend sporting events. I will cook and I will go the gym and I will lose the unhealthy extra pounds I put on behind the wheel. I will actually read books instead of just listening to them on the ipod. I will enjoy media on a television set rather than a laptop screen. I will learn to sleep without the hum of a diesel engine in my ears.

There are adjustments ahead, and I am up to them. Details will be faced and handled; furniture will be moved and deposits will be made; decisions will be made when they need to be made.

And I am again filled with gratitude for the grace, the truly amazing grace, that runs in and through and around our seemingly mundane lives - the grace that lets us say "goodbye" and "hello" and "thank you" and "wow!"

Anticlimax

If you were ever curious about the meaning of the term 'anticlimax,' you saw a spectacular illustration of it a couple of days ago when President Obama released incontrovertible proof of his American birth and citizenship.

I wonder why this felt more like a defeat than a victory?

Maybe it didn't feel like a victory because it wasn't - because the real enemy remains as undeterred and virulent as ever. Moments after the long form certificate of live birth - moments - a new line of attack was introduced into the public arena, this one regarding the legitimacy of Obama's academic background. And, rest assured, when this new line of crap is put to bed, something else will immediately be introduced calling the President's credentials into question.

When Obama was elected in 2008, we felt that perhaps the racism so deeply embedded in our culture and social structures was vanishing. And that may still be the case. But its remnants have been recharged and thrown into high relief. It is connected like a cancer to the tissue of the American body.

On a micro level, I find its vestiges in myself which I try to disguise in various ways, just as the Idiot Right has tried to disguise its prejudice as patriotism. I am not proud of it, but the only hope I have of ridding myself of it is in calling it what it is and not deluding myself into think that it is something it's not.

First, You Win

I haven't seen it yet, and might not have the temperament to sit through it when I have the chance. It is a sports documentary produced primarily by Jalen Rose of ESPN, who, along with Chris Weber, Juwan Howard, Jimmy King and Ray Jackson made up Michigan's famous 'Fab 5.' The Fab 5 (self-titled) represented one of the best recruiting classes in the history of NCAA basketball, if not the best.

Their fame came in large part from the way their respective styles influenced the game. They credit themselves with the advent of baggy shorts, trash-talking, shaved heads, black socks, hip-hop music in the locker room, and an air of indifference to their coaching. They were the self-appointed and self-anointed 'bad boys' of college hoops.

Of course, you can't be a bad ass bad boy unless you are calling someone a 'bitch' or an 'Uncle Tom', which is precisely what Rose did in the lead up interviews to the airing of the film. The targets for his assault were, naturally, the Duke players the Fab 5 faced in the early nineties, in particular, Christian Laettner, Bobby Hurley and Grant Hill. I have always had a problem with Duke Haters who know almost nothing about college basketball, but an even bigger problem with those who try to settle athletic contests verbally, as well as those who engage in 'blacker-than-thou' arguments. So Krzyzewski didn't recruit in the urban areas? Wrong again: Coach K does not suffer punks and jerks. If you aren't coachable, you don't get to play at Cameron Indoor Stadium.

Unlike their counterparts from Michigan, the Duke players held their tongues, and proceeded to kick the asses of the Fab 5, not once, not twice, but three times, the sweetest of which was a 71-51 shellacking for the national title in 1992. The following year, Chris Weber (who evidently had the good sense to distance himself from the documentary) committed what was possibly the most bone-headed mistake in March Madness history, costing himself and his team another national title in a contest against North Carolina.

I can't help but wonder about the relationship of the Self-congratulating Bad Boys of Michigan to a more recent image of Lebron James and his teammates weeping in the Miami Heat locker room after a fifth straight loss weeks after they threw themselves a victory celebration before the season began and had even played a game.

Call me old-fashioned but I do miss the days where the rule of thumb was "shut up, play hard, win, and,when you cut down the nets, talk all you want."

Home to Roost at NPR

Despite an occasional ear to Car Talk, Prairie Home Companion, and Fresh Air, I stopped listening to National Public Radio several years ago. I quit because I was ... offended, something not easy to accomplish with me.

I was just south of Washington D.C. in one of Harold Ives' Mack trucks listening to All Things Considered. That day ATC had Janet Huckabee on as a guest when the Huckabees were still the first family of Arkansas. The topic under discussion was the triple-wide trailer placed on the lawn of the Governor's Mansion while renovations where underway inside the house.

I can handle heavy doses of sarcasm and irony, but the preening condescension of the interviewer was too much. Within seconds of the start of the interview, Mrs. Huckabee knew that she had been trapped in a conversation intended to humiliate and embarrass her with the meanest of intentions, as well as to poke fun of Arkansans in general and to depict us as redneck trailerpark trash. The snobbery dripped off the radio. Although no fan of the Huckabees, I thought this was one of cruelest 'gotchas' I had ever witnessed.

For most of my life I wondered why my parents, both natives of rural Arkansas, would let me see James Bond movies but forbid me from watching The Beverly Hillbillies (we lived in Ohio at the time of the show's debut). Their unusual restriction came into clear focus.

Racism is only one face of prejudice in this country.

My sensitivity to this came in large part because through some cataclysmic changes in my life and my circumstances I got to see both sides of a socioeconomic fence that is surprisingly high. I left an insulated white-collar world where I got respect and consideration I perhaps did not deserve and entered a blue-collar world whose minions are treated, for the most parts, as idiots. Those who honored me as a guest in their homes and at their tables and in their pulpits were the same who would now scarcely even notice my existence unless the lettuce at the salad bar was not as fresh as it was last week or the chicken looked a little brownish at Fresh Market.

Juan Williams forsook the narrative for a few moments of candor and got fired from NPR. The great Bob Edwards was dismissed for reasons that perhaps are similar. Ron Schiller got his walking papers when he became the victim of another piece of gotcha journalism for espousing the kind of prejudice NPR is supposed to stand against - he kind of 'outprejudiced the prejudiced.' Vivian Schiller read the tea leaves and skedaddled.

I don't know what energizes the Tea Party although I hear all the talk about personal liberty, smaller government, blah, blah, blah ... . I suspect a great part of their impetus is far more visceral and much less political than it seems - there are a whole bunch of people in our society that are tired of being treated like fools because of their jobs, their neighborhoods and housing, and where (or whether) they went to school.

In spite of my personal problems with it, I am vehemently opposed to defunding National Public Radio. But condescension is a real pisser, and, in this case, the chickens are coming home to roost.

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Narrative, No Service

I rarely join in the Truckers Roundtable. The Truckers Roundtable is the group of drivers who sits at the restaurant counter and systematically go through a series of recitations. It is a narrative ritual with strict guidelines. Far more talking takes place than listening. Next time you're in a truck stop sit close to the counter and listen for a bit.

Often it begins with a story about how the driver cleverly outwitted a state trooper or a 'diesel bear' (a commercial vehicle enforcement officer). In this part of the narrative, the lawman is backed down either by the driver's superior knowledge of transportation law and court procedure or by sheer force of will and an awesome execution of crafty intelligence. Then the narrative moves into how brainless a dispatcher he has, what an asshole his boss is, how he has been cheated out of numerous opportunities and great loads, how hopeless 'the new breed' is (anyone who is starting out in the business), how everything from diesel prices to Boston traffic is Obama's fault, and how wonderful it was back in the day. I'm sure your workplace has similar narratives playing in the background.

I can't join the Roundtable because my narrative is all wrong. I drive for a great guy and have a wonderful dispatcher who does pretty much anything I want or need her to do. The cops with whom I have had dealings were, for the most part, good folks whose interest in the public good outweighed whatever ego issues they had to deal with. I remember what it was like starting out and how scary it was to face down rush hour traffic in Los Angeles for the first few times and how every time I tried to back up that damn trailer it wouldn't go anywhere close to where I wanted it to go. When I can I try to help, and when I can't I can at least shut my mouth and stay out the way. And, yes, I think Obama is a helluva president and a good leader in spite of the hysterical banshee cries from both left and right.

So I sit off to the side and eat my meal in solitude, check email, weather, routing and facebook on the laptop, and chat with Beth on the phone.

The groups we belong to, the churches we join, the parties with which we affiliate, the social networks we are part of - all these are defined and shaped by narratives - stories - which tell us who we are and where we come from and what we stand for and what is right and wrong and up and down, what is worth having and worth losing. Our narratives tell us how we got from there to here and where we may be headed next. Our narratives, although often unidentified, are at the heart of lives as families and persons.

Persons and institutions who can identify and adapt and modify their narratives survive and thrive. The ones who will not or cannot or do not don't. It is really kind of simple, but never easy. Change your story, change your life. The closer our narratives correspond to the real nature of our lives and our world, the better off we are, in the same way that a road map must accurately reflect the terrain to be any good.

Early last week Mike Huckabee went off the reservation for a moment and got off-narrative by saying some very complimentary things about the president and how he has handled the deluge of crises presented to him and his administration in the first two years of his term. But by late in the week, Huck was back on-narrative, that narrative being O.W.N.M.W. (Obama Wrong No Matter What). The president again was a mysterious, exotic 'Other,' somehow different from us real Americans, pro-Mau Mau uprising and anti-Boy Scouts of America. The Guv is no fool - he knows his fortunes as a politician and a broadcaster are tied to OWNMW, a narrative shared, interestingly, by those on both the far right and the far left.

Sticking to the narrative has made some people very powerful and very rich. It has turned the once clever and interesting into cowards and bullies, often with moronic results, including Newt's Patriotic Penis, Michelle Bachman's errie, trancelike recitations about Democratic malfeasance, NPR's bizarre dismissal of Juan Williams for committing the sin of candor, and the strong-armed institution of the right-wing agenda in Wisconsin disguised by the narrative of Budget Control. Say what you want about Boehner and McConnell and Walker - these guys are absolutely on narrative 24/7/365 and are unrelenting.

Before you indignantly remind me there is a similar narrative called O.R.N.M.W. (Obama Right No Matter What), I know... I know ... . Guilty as charged. That's not the point.

The point is this: slavish devotion to the narratives on either side of the spectrum has turned politics in this country into theater in which real discourse has vanished and we are left screaming at each other. The result is stalemate. The public is lost. The dominant narratives become calcified and dogmatic. Politics has always been a contact sport, but now it has become as clownish as WWE. Unfortunately real people with real needs are getting their teeth kicked in as the tangling narratives spill over into budget cutting measures which will accomplish exactly nothing.

Perhaps some new narratives are emerging. After the extremist narratives implode and their heralds make themselves obsolete through sheer ridiculousness (take a look at Glen Beck's declining market share, for example), better and stronger stuff will come out of the ashes. Every time Obama offers up a new narrative that is conciliatory, proactive and forward-looking, the pundits on left and right react like the panicked passengers in the movie 'Airplane!' when the stewardess tells them they have run out of coffee.

Maybe the next chief will get a better ear - maybe not. I sense we are all growing deaf to the dominant narratives, and scanning the landscape, hopefully, for new voices and new narratives, new ways of telling the story and framing our hopes and pointing us toward the future.

Back to the Island: Looking at Lost

I denied it for a long time, but now admit it here, publicly, for the first time: I am a Lostie.

The ABC television show about a group of survivors stranded on an unknown island somewhere in the world (or beyond it) aired its final episode last March. But it still generates a great deal of debate, discussion, speculation and dispute among those who faithfully slogged through the jungle of mysteries, action, time travel, and relationship intrigue with the castaways for six fulfilling years. Books, websites, and Internet forums still thrive with its topics: Who exactly are the Others and what is their mission and reason for existence?' When were the temple and the statue built, and are they related to the fertility issues on the island?; Who was taking potshots at the time travelers from the other outrigger?; Was anyone able to sneak off into the bush to relieve themselves without Kate tracking them down and bringing them back?

And what about the ending?

Maybe I'm not Lostie enough to have gotten really upset about the ending, unlike the guy who (I kid you not) wrote and published his own book about his unhappiness with it. And I won't give it away for the one or two of you out there who will eventually take up the task of watching the entire series on DVD. I didn't dislike it or think it was bad - in fact, I found it endearing. It was 'sweet,' in a way. No matter how popular or engrossing, Lost was, after all, just a television show.

For my two cents: the conclusion was satisfying emotionally, but somewhat unrelated to the stuff that was at the heart of the show. Not totally unrelated, but largely unrelated.

Look, if the writers and producers of Lost were making any claims at all about life on Island Earth though their use of back-story and non-linear time, it was that we live in a web of amazing, intricate interconnections that escape our notice. We participate daily in sublime mysteries of spirit and existence we mistakenly think of as mundane. The things we do, the decisions we make, the courses of action we take are all knitted together in ways that matter, and matter a great deal, extending even into what we might call 'eternity.'

Next time you get snowed in, warm up the DVD player and check it out for yourself.

Lingo

The American public went through a brief period of fascination with citizen band radios in the mid-seventies inspired by a rash of trucker movies and popular music. Many of you had radios in your cars and pickup trucks that have long since been gathering dust on a garage shelf somewhere. The terms and phrases like "good buddy" and "that's a big 10-4" found their way into our everyday speech. Today one would have to spend a long time monitoring channel 19 to hear anyone use this language any more, but the CB community and truckers still use a lingo that is largely unfamiliar to most.

I won't supply a lexicon, but I do have a favorite term: drive-by ass whoopin'. I don't think the Urban Dictionary has picked this one up yet. It refers to the practice among many drivers to use provocative, incendiary and derogatory language to stir up someone else on the road, only to then decline an offer to pull over at the next pickle park or truck stop and discuss matters in a more proximate manner. Many a driver has exhibited unprecedented bravery and panache behind a keyed-down microphone only to disappear when the threat of real confrontation emerges and the bluff is called.

I braced myself and listened to couple of hours of right wing talk radio this morning in the aftermath of the Tuscon massacre that left six dead, many injured, and one of the most promising and exciting young legislators in American politics critically wounded. The megalomania of people like Glen Beck and Andrew Wilkow as well as the whole crop of Limbaughs and Hannitys and Ingrahams is staggering - these guys make rappers look like Benedictine monks. Their intelligence cover a wide bandwidth, ranging from engaging and amusing to pathetic and embarrassing.

But the lack of courage they exhibited in taking any responsibility whatsoever for profiting handsomely from fanning the flames of violent political rhetoric that borders on hate speech ... well, I was amazed. Not surprised as much as astonished. Drive-by ass whoopin' on a global scale.

Interestingly, Beck defended himself in shockingly pious tones while simultaneously claiming innocence, apparently not noticing the self-contradiction. I was put in mind of a high school classmate who, when questioned by police about an act of vandalism in his neighborhood, excitedly responded, "Officer, I have two things to say. First, I didn't do it. And, second, I wasn't the only one!"

I am writing this today in Vero Beach, Florida, a thousand miles away from many of you who sit in sub-freezing weather back in Arkansas looking at snow- and ice-packed covered streets outside your home. When a big area of warm moisture runs headlong into a big area of arctic air, disastrous things happen - things that bring normal life grinding to a halt. When a mass of constitutionally protected discourse of violence collides with the chaotic energy of the growing proliferation of what I call the Three Ss - the Sick, the Scared, the Stupid - bad things happen. Really bad things.

For my part? I know I am given to hyperbole and exaggeration and dramatic language. But, today, I believe I will start being a lot more careful about what I say, how I say it, and to whom I say it.

Please join me in praying for the victims of the Tuscon shooting.