This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time.

[Reposted from December 25, 2006]

* Caution! The following blog contains the mundane scratchings of the criminally insomniaed (yes, I just verbed insomnia. And verb. Deal with it) and may cause drowsiness. Do not read while driving or operating heavy machinery. *

Well, it's Christmas morning. About 5:30. I'd like to say that I'm up early because I'm excited. But that's just not true. I already know Santa didn't bring me anything. In fact, he didn't come at all. I know. I was up. All. Night.

Now, I could tell you that I was unable to get to sleep. But that just wouldn't be true. No, I came home from a delightful Christmas Eve party and sat on my couch for about six hours. Watching Scrubs.

There are worse ways to spend an evening. Anything involving any combination of the words grandmother and pornography, for instance. Although, I have a story...

But that's for another time. The truth is, I'm not an insomniac. I could have gone to bed and drifted off into the sandman's lair with relative ease. But I was just too lazy tonight.

Yes. You heard me right. I've finally arrived at that point of laziness achieved only by the occasional stoner and politician. I'm now too lazy to sleep.

Where's my trophy?

I'm not too worried about it, because 1.) Today's Christmas! and 2.) I'm on vacation anyway. I tend to get this way when I'm not actively employed. Besides, I've got a 30-some-odd hour bus trip ahead of me tomorrow, and Greyhound buses are some of the most comfortable places to sleep in the world. Inevitably, you get stuck next to a 500 pound behemoth whose girth is comparable to the actual circumference of the bus, and once you get used to the smell of unwashed belly flab, the rolls make for a nice, warm pillow.

When I tell people I'm taking a Greyhound bus trip, their responses usually fit into one of three categories:

1. Indifference--
"Who are you, and why are you telling me about your life? And for god's sake, where are your clothes? I'm calling the police!"

2. Shock, Disbelief and Inquisitiveness
"OH! MY! GOD! I can't believe you are going to sit on a bus for 36 hours! How can you stand that? Why would you want to? Why don't you just fly? Or drive? Or walk? And where are your clothes?"

3. Support
"Awesome! Can I go?"

Of course they raise some valid points. Why would I take a bus across the country when a plane is so much more convenient and faster and cleaner and less likely to give me tetanus? The answer, I think, was most eloquently voiced by Scrubs special guest star Colin Farrell in the season four DVD (episode 14--"My Lucky Charm"), in his crusty Irish brogue:

You'll sleep enough when you're dead and buried. You have to get out in the streets. You have to talk to a stranger. Drink a beer with breakfast. Take the ugliest girl home at the party. Go travelin' to Texas, ya know? Go line dancing with the married women who wish they weren't married. You never know what life will put in your lap, when you open your arms and embrace it.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the reason I'd rather take a bus across the country than drive or fly. If I could, I'd hitchhike. Unfortunately, it's moderately illegal and strictly prohibited on my leave chit. Bummer.

See, exciting things happen on a greyhound bus that you'd never see on an airplane. For instance, I've never seen anyone get thrown off an airplane for being drunk. If anything, it's encouraged, so that people will relax while hurtling through space at 600 miles per hour, thirty-thousand feet above the ground. I've yet to take a Greyhound trip where I didn't' see some drunk fool getting the old boot in the ass as he stumbles down those three steps and out into the night in the bad part of town.

When you fly, you wait in line at security, deal with testy ticketing agents, overly friendly and overly made-up (and overly medicated, most likely) flight attendants, pre-flight checks, take-off clearances, final checks, checked baggage, tiny bags of pretzels, seat-belt signs, beverage carts, and, of course, that nagging threat of terrorism. On an airline, you always know what you're going to get. You'll sit next to some annoying passenger who demands the window seat, only to get up three times on an hour-long flight to use the bathroom. Any conversation you hoped to have struck up with the attractive traveler on your right will be shut down by their iPod, which will probably be blasting that Top 40 garbage loud enough for the entire cabin to hear. You'll pick up your magazine or whip out your laptop, intent on ignoring the cacophony spearing you in the ear from your right, while your neighbor on your left sits trying to make inane conversation about his girlfriend's dog or how he's the vice president in charge of investor relations of his daddy's firm until you want to shove his head into the airsick bag (remember when they were called barf bags? I'm bringing that back) into the barf bag to get him to shut up.

But on a Greyhound, it's different. For one thing--no barf bags. But also, it's the excitement of the unknown; the open road that draws me toward this method of travel. Will I sit next to that Hispanic man and his two children? Perhaps, although that boy looks to be foaming at the mouth, so maybe I'll find another seat (you have that freedom on a Greyhound). Maybe that moderately attractive transvestite desires a traveling buddy. But the way he (she?) is looking at me with an odd combination of murderous rage and unbridled lust is somewhat unsettling, so I'll move on. Ah! Here we go. The sweet-looking elderly lady with the bluish-gray hair and the Oxygen breathing apparatus. Now that's my seatmate. However, after 400 miles, her emphysematous hacking and constant mistaking me for her dead, philandering husband is grating on my last nerve. I fear I'll wake up with a knitting needle in my brain. So I calmly switch seats.

You see, on a Greyhound, you meet a completely different slice of humanity. The people for whom a plane ticket is, at best, an unnecessary indulgence, and, at worst, an unattainable luxury. They are at once the foundation and the forgotten majority of America. The woman being interviewed on the local news in her purple spotted mu-mu and bright pink curlers. The homeless man you pass every day on the street, who just found out his son has passed away. The single mother bringing her children to Grandma's for the holidays. The smart-ass twenty-something insomniac who thinks he's too hip to fly (commercially). This is the America that you don't see in People. This is the America that Democrats ridicule and Republicans court reluctantly. This is where the good stories are.

And I'll tell them to you when I get back.

Response From Bill Nelson

My responses are in blue.

Dear Mr. Moore:

Thank you for contacting me regarding the proposed bailout of the auto industry.

Great, this is going to be a canned response.

In my judgment, the Big Three auto makers have arrived at this point through their own poor management. The fact that so many American manufacturing jobs are at risk is the only reason these companies deserve any taxpayer assistance. In order to avoid digging ourselves into a deeper economic hole, we must take action. But we cannot simply have another bailout. Any assistance from the government must come in the form of a loan with significant strings attached to force these companies to restructure the way they do business.

Just because these three companies employ large amounts of people, they deserve taxpayer assistance? Why is that my concern? I don't want my money going to bail out the union workers who can't be fired, who have a better benefit and retirement package than the majority of Americans, and who make a sub-standard product. The American people have spoken out on this issue already. If they wanted to bail out the Big Three, they would have been buying their cars.

Further, I have a real problem with the federal government getting into the business of lending money to companies. I don't want the government telling companies how to do business.

First, we must insist that the Big Three increase their average fuel economy to 50 miles per gallon by 2020. Automakers must also increase production of flex-fuel, electric, and plug-in hybrid vehicles. Foreign car companies have been building fuel efficient cars for years, and now in this era of volatile gas prices, the American manufacturers find themselves at a disadvantage.

They don't "find" themselves at a disadvantage. They put themselves at a disadvantage. They manufactured and set themselves into a market niche, and when that market dried up, they screwed themselves. They aren't victims. They're stupid. And I don't want my money subsidizing stupid (though it does pay Senators' salaries, so...).

We must also ensure that no taxpayer money goes to reward the people who got us in this situation in the first place. Shareholders in these companies should not receive dividends until they return to financial health. We must place limits on executive compensation and eliminate golden parachutes. Finally, we must insist that these companies replace their senior management. We need new leadership and fresh ideas to get us out of this mess.

Sounds like tough talk. I just doubt it'll happen. I'd also love to see them get rid of the unions. I'd also like to have a solid gold toilet seat, but it's just not in the cards.

I appreciate the time you've taken to contact me about this important issue. I am committed to keeping America on the leading edge of manufacturing and technological innovation. Please do not hesitate to share your views with me in the future.

So I can ignore them.

To The Honorable Ander Crenshaw,

I wanted to write in reference to the proposed bailout of the "Big Three" automakers that has been in the news. As one of your constituents, I wanted to voice my opposition to this bailout. Florida taxpayers have enough to worry about just trying to make ends meet; they can't afford to support the short-sightedness of the auto executives and leaders of the auto workers' unions. If anyone deserves a bailout, it is the taxpayers, who spend one-quarter of the year working just to pay their taxes.

I don't know all of the details of the proposal, though I am encouraged by the news that congress is thus far frowning upon the groveling auto execs. Please continue this cynicism of their motives and methods, as you continue to cogitate the issue with your fellow Representatives.

As a Sailor, I also must thank your for all the support for the military you've provided to the Navy families in Jacksonville over the years. I believe strongly in the values upon which this country was founded--that's why I've dedicated my life to serving it. One of those values is responsibility. If Congress won't hold these automakers accountable, who will? I trust you'll do the right thing.

Thank you for your time.

Respectfully,
Christopher Moore
ENS, USN


I sent a similar letter to Senator Bill Nelson. Let's see what they say.

Fuck theives

Darius was robbed.

Darius is my nine year old son. He's been saving up his allowance. He had almost $50 saved. He counted it last Saturday night when he got to my house. Every time we've gone anywhere for the last week, he's surreptitiously grabbed his wallet when he thought I wasn't looking, in hopes of finding a spiffy new toy on which to spend it. He didn't want me to see because he knows I'd urge him to save his money, and really, where's the fun in that?

So each time we went anywhere, he'd leave his wallet sitting in my car. Why he didn't put it in his back pocket like every other man on the planet, I don't know. I guess I hadn't taught him that yet. Also, it's hard to buy something at the store, when your wallet is still in the car. Luckily, I have a habit of religiously locking my doors--owing to an incident whereupon a Jacksonville Public Library DVD was stolen from my unlocked car. Those assholes tried to tell me I owed $70 to replace it. So now I can't check out books from the library. But I digress.

Thursday afternoon, on our way to Thanksgiving dinner at my girlfriend's house, we stopped at the Great Blue Monster to buy some dessert. Darius, as always, asked if he could look at the toys. Being the pushover that I am, I agreed and he found one he liked. Grabbing it, we headed to the checkout counter (which had surprisingly short lines for 3 p.m. on Thanksgiving). As I was paying for the desserts, Darius looked in his wallet to pay for his toy. It was empty.

Now, I know the feeling of expecting to see money where there is none. I know how his stomach dropped. I could see the chin pucker and the tears crowding at the eyelids, waiting to fall. Forty-six dollars, to a nine year old, is like, well, a lot. As we pieced it together, we discovered that the only time that the wallet has been out of his sight or on his person in the last week, it was either in my locked automobile, or on his dresser. I counted all the windows in my car and noticed nothing amiss.

Turns out, the day before, Darius brought a friend over to play. I was cooking dinner when in walked Darius with Andy, who's a year younger, and Andy's big brother Tony, who looks to be about 13. I thought it was weird that a 13 year old would want to hang out with his little brother and his friend, but I didn't think too much of it. They played for about an hour and then went home.

When Darius discovered his money missing, he remembered seeing Tony "messing" with his wallet, which was sitting on his dresser. So what's a dad supposed to do? If a teenager is seen "messing" with a wallet that contains money, and then the wallet contains no money, common sense suggests that said teenager took the money. In the absence of any other plausible explanation for the disappearance of the money, Occam's Razor says that Tony must have taken it. If it walks like a duck...

So I had Darius scour every inch of his room. I looked through my car. We made sure that the money is not here before I went to do what I knew I had to do. Darius, of course, was devastated. I tried to use his disappointment to teach an object lesson: take care of your shit. Also, don't trust teenagers. Just kidding.

Besides the DVD, I've had other stuff stolen from me. In high school, I had $60 taken from my backpack that was in my friend's room. That was at a time when sixty dollars was almost a week's salary at Taco Bell. Thievery was rampant when I was on the JFK. My Navy Peacoat , a nice inner-frame hiking backpack (come to think of it, the same one that had $60 taken out of it in H.S.), and a small granite pyramid I bought in Cairo: all stolen. Those three were probably the worst, since they were all stolen from my shop. It was a secure space, so the only people who could have stolen them were people I worked with and considered friends. The point is, I knew exactly how Darius was feeling.

If losing all that stuff did anything for me, it made me more honest. I loathe theives, and I'm rarely tempted to take something that doesn't belong to me. I tried to use this episode to instill the same thing in Darius. And to teach him to keep his wallet in his pocket.

Finally, I saw no way out of going to talk to Tony's parents. Since we didn't get back home from Raquel's folks' house until late, I had to wait until Friday to talk to them. When I went over there, they were at work, and I spoke to Tony's grandfather. Well, I spoke at him. And he spoke at me. I, in English, he in Vietnamese. We didn't get very far.

Luckily I saw Andy later and he told me his parents worked until pretty late. So this morning after breakfast, I went over there and spoke with his mom. She speaks English, though it's often hard to understand her with her thick accent. I explained the situation, as delicately as I could (I suppose there is still a chance that Tony didn't take the money). She said Tony was staying over at a neighbor's house, so she sent Andy to get him. While we waited on her front porch, we made awkward small talk. She asked which house I lived in, and I pointed out my place three houses down. I mentioned how much I like the neighborhood--how I like that there are so many kids for Darius to play with--and asked her how long they'd lived here (three years). She mentioned how much she likes it, mostly because (and I wish I were joking about this) there are so few black people in the neighborhood. Wow.

Finally, Tony walked over, groggy-eyed, having just woken up. I explained why I was there. I told him Darius saw him messing with the wallet and asked if he knew anything about it. He assured me that he didn't. He didn't even look inside, he said. Great. Now what.

If he did take the money, then he'd have no compunction lying about it. If he didn't take the money, then he's telling the truth. Either way, we're really no closer to getting the money back. I looked at his mom who said something to him in Vietnamese, and she seemed unlikely to help. I tried to put myself in her shoes. If someone came to me accusing Darius of stealing something from their kid, how would I react?

First, I'd find out it Darius actually did it. I would ask him. If he said yes, his punishment would be less harsh. We'd give back whatever was taken and figure out some sort of restitution. Maybe he would wash their car or something. If he said no, I'd tear his room apart and make sure that he was telling the truth. If I found out he stole, and then lied about it, the punishment would be so harsh that he would never dream of stealing again. I think giving away his three or four favorite toys (especially the ones he saved to buy himself) to the kid he stole from would be a good start.

But that's my kid. I can't dictate how someone else deals with their delinquent. But Tony will never come in my house again. Darius can still play with Andy, and Andy can come over. I hope Darius learns to take better care of his stuff. I hope Tony goes to jail--I'm sorry, that's not fair. I truly hope Tony didn't do it. If I find out he didn't, I will march over and apologize to the entire family. But honestly, I don't have any other explanation. If, somehow, I find out he did, I'll march back over and demand the money back, lest I press charges. I know, $46 hardly seems worth it, but fuck I hate thieves.

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I Can't Help...

Falling in love, it turns out, can happen quickly, or it can happen slowly. For me, it was both. I knew within just a few weeks of meeting Raquel that I was in love with her. Now, for the record, I maintain no bullshit Hollywood ideas of love. I don’t think that love is something that happens to you, nor does it happen outside of our ability to control it. When I say I fell in love with Raquel, I mean that I knew that I wanted to be with her forever (or until she turned out to be crazy). I could foresee the possibility of a day when my feelings toward her would change, but I couldn’t (and still can’t) imagine a scenario where I would want to let my feelings dictate my actions (unless she did turn out to be crazy, though I think we’re beyond that point now). But I’m just now realizing that, although I discovered what I believe to be the closest thing to love at first sight, I didn’t realize that you can fall in love with the same person again and again.

I just remembered a day she came to see me while I was living in Pensacola. For some reason, we bought a gigantic bottle of bubbles. It had one of those economy sized wands with four or five rings on it, for maximum bubble capacity in a single dip. We discovered, driving around that day, that 25 miles per hour is the perfect speed to drive to maximize bubble production while holding this wand out the window. We drove all over Pensacola—a trail of bubbles following my SUV all over town.

That afternoon we went to the beach—found our own little corner on the western end of the island—and stayed until the sun began to set. We had a package of sour fish candy, and Raquel would suck all the sugar off of them, and then feed me the sticky, naked gummies. I remember being annoyed by it, but I didn’t want to spoil the moment by bringing it up. I’ll always remember the way she looked in the black and red bikini I helped her pick out—radiant in the golden light of the evening. We soaked up the sun and the salty air and watched as the breeze carried our bubbles over the white sand.

And laughed.

My God, I’ve laughed more in the last 23 months than in the previous 23 years. I used to be truly afraid that I’d never meet someone who could hold my attention for longer than a few months. I truly believed that after a certain amount of time, all relationships just get routine and monotonous—that this is simply a fact of life, like gravity or the inanity of televised dance competitions. How wrong I was. No, Dancing with the Stars is simply a delight; and every day with Raquel is more interesting than the last. She made me remember how great it feels to laugh.

As I lay in bed remembering that day, it occurred to me that, although I was madly in love with her long before we blew bubbles on the beach, I was falling in love with her again on that day—and again as I remembered it tonight. The great thing about love is that it isn’t beyond our control. We can choose to experience it again and again, as often as we desire.

Why I Believe

Today I asked myself exactly why I believe. I've spent the last decade or so trying to figure out what I believe, and that's a question that I'm still not entirely certain of. But I realized in the midst of a rather heated internet argument (is there any other kind?) that I'd never taken the time, at least not lately, to ask myself why I believe at all. It only took a moment to realize that I didn't know why—I just do. I thought of my psychology classes—Freud's idea that our Superego is formed before our Ego; that our basic ideas of religion and morality are based upon subconscious fears of castration and a desire to take the place of our fathers—and other such gobbledygook. We'll inherit all of our parents' beliefs before our brains have developed enough to decide whether we even want to. It made me uncomfortable to think that maybe the only reason I still believe—even now after years of questioning, thinking and reasoning—was because my parents believed.

For many years, I feared that if I didn't "feel" god, then I wasn't a true believer. If I didn't feel Christ's love, then my faith must not be strong enough. Jesus said, "Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed." I think (I hope) the same could be said for those who believe without feeling. It's easy to believe something you feel, deep within. But a relationship with God, much like any other relationship, must be based upon something more than feelings. For many years I relied solely upon emotional response to define my relationship with God. I could work myself into a tear-stained frenzy at church thinking about Jesus's sacrifice. But when I'd go home, the feelings would recede, and I'd feel lost. Turns out, emotion alone wasn’t enough to sustain my faith.

So I tried to logically defend my faith. I've been unable to do so, other than to say that it just seems the more "logical" explanation to me. I understand that Newton's Law of Conservation of Energy states that energy can neither be created nor destroyed. Same for matter. Ultimately, all this stuff had to come from somewhere, and for whatever reason, I've not heard a compelling enough explanation from science as to how you go from nothing to stuff that can be neither created nor destroyed, all in a fraction of a second. Now, it's very possible that science has an explanation that could satisfy me, and I'm simply not scientifically adept enough to understand it. Or possibly, I've just never been introduced to such an explanation (though, with the abundance of "science worshipers" I’ve discovered online, I'd think that such a theory would be rampant). But, in my own admittedly limited understanding, the idea of an intelligent creator is no more far-fetched than science glossing over two of it's most basic laws, simply for the sake of being able to call itself the most logical explanation. But none of that is evidence. It’s not proof. It’s speculation—the ramblings of an amateur philosopher. So it turns out, the part of my brain that processes emotions isn't enough to keep my faith strong, and I certainly can't reason my faith into existence. And then it hit me: I want to believe. Is it possible simple desire is sufficient to sustain my faith?

My brain can give me hundreds of reasons that the bible is improbable. My "heart" can gaze upon the cross and feel no twinge of emotion. But when I think—rationally—about what that cross represents I realize that despite all my doubts, despite my hardened heart, I desperately want to believe that it's true. Why?

Am I afraid of the consequences of unbelief? I think I used to be. But that ship has sailed. Since I left my church four years ago, I've spent a lot of time ignoring my faith, or, at times, my lack of faith. At first, I felt uncomfortable ignoring it. Then, I started to realize that even if God is everything I once feared He was, I don't want to worship or serve a God who doesn't show Himself, yet refuses to allow my mind to question. Did He not give me a mind with which to ponder? Then why would He be angry and condemn me for doubt?

No, I realized that I want to believe the Gospel because it is such a good story. Certainly, my literary side appreciates the story line—the hook, rising action leading to a climax and resolution, only to learn that there’s more yet to come. But I also hope that it’s true. I want to meet the author of this story. Sure, it sounds naïve, but I’m a sucker for great book.

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate all that science is capable of doing. In fact, I believe that there is almost nothing science couldn't do, given enough time and ingenuity. I'd even like to believe that one day we could prove (or disprove) God's existence. I also don't believe that science is mutually exclusive from God. Perhaps we are closer to Him—scientifically—than we imagine. Perhaps the Big Bang theory is as close as we've come to describing the physics behind God creating all this. Who knows? The more whacked out theories I hear (did you know that Einstein proved that time travel is possible? That's incredible!), the more I believe that we are coming ever closer to describing those things which we once thought were magic.

Hell, we've been doing that for years. Thousands of years ago, we thought the sun, and rain, and moon and thunder were gods. Perhaps one day, the entity that I call God will be proven to be a simple scientific process. I'm sure some people I sit next to in Church would call that line of thought blasphemous, but it excites me. I've always believed that the typical view of God among believers was far, far too narrow. What if He created us without limits? What if He created us with the power to surpass even Himself? If we are His children, doesn’t it make sense? Isn’t that what parents want for their children—to do greater things than they’ve done? The bible says God destroyed the tower of Babel and confused man's language because, working together, there was nothing mankind couldn't accomplish. Hearing that, I’m inclined to believe that we could one day scientifically describe every force in the universe. There’s nothing we can’t do. Perhaps our history was (and continues to be) a narrative of mankind coming back together, responsible enough to finally wield the awesome power with which we’ve been entrusted.

That’s a story worth reading. That’s a story worth hoping for.

Random Shifts of Viewpoints

Every once in a while, you have one of those “Aha!” moments that make you stop and consider how your perspective differs from reality. Or at least you should, if you’re paying attention. Stephen Covey called them paradigm shifts.

I’ve never agreed with the statement “Perception is reality.” In fact, it makes me cringe. Perception isn’t reality. Reality is reality. Show me a perception-is-reality-ite, and I’ll show you someone whose mind is closed too tightly, and whose mouth, chances are, is opened too loosely. The good thing about paradigm shifts, or changes in how we perceive the world, is they indicate we’re paying attention to what’s happening around us. When the world we see doesn’t look or behave as we expect it to, we are faced with a decision: we can change our mind, or we can ignore the new info. We can grow, or we can remain stagnant.

I had a recent change in my perspective, and it was more than just a little humbling. I recently went back to Jacksonville to visit my girlfriend, Raquel. She asked me to drive her to confession on Saturday, where her priest, as priests are wont to do, assigned her a penance. She was to perform an act of charity. We mused over the vagueness of the assignment for a few minutes before turning to other matters, assuming that God, in His own Good Time, would provide an opportunity to carry out her mission.

The opportunity didn’t materialize as we expected it would, and as we were heading home after closing down the bar that night, we passed a man sleeping on a bus-stop bench, flanked by two shopping carts piled head-high with, presumably, all of his worldly possessions. I half-seriously suggested that we stop and offer him a bag of chips that Raquel had inexplicably saved from lunch. After a bit of discussion, we decided that waking up a homeless man at two a.m. to offer him an eight ounce bag of potato chips was probably not entirely safe, much less charitable.

The next day at church, one of the scripture readings was the parable of the Good Samaritan. You know the one—the Jewish guy is walking down the road when he’s attacked by bandits, left beaten, naked and half-dead by the (cue the ironic coincidence) side of the road. A priest walks by, sees the man and crosses to the opposite side of the road. A Levite (a member of the tribe of Israel charged with upholding the religious traditions and rites of the nation) also avoids the man. Finally a Samaritan walking by sees the man and, ignoring the long-standing animosity between the two men’s countries, tends to his wounds, loads him onto his cart and takes him into town. He takes him to an inn where he pays the innkeeper to care for him, saying if he needs more money, he’ll pay him when he comes back through.

Raquel and I looked at each other, the parallel between the story and the homeless man from the night before was too great to ignore. After church we went back to the place we saw him the night before. His shopping carts still stood watch on either side of the bench, but the man was nowhere to be seen. I suggested we go have lunch, and come back afterward. When we returned, the man was pushing his carts down the sidewalk. I approached him, told him that we’d seen him sleeping there and asked if there was anything he needed.

“Money,” he promptly replied. I have a bit of an aversion to giving homeless people cash, assuming that there’s probably a reason they are homeless, and, more often than not, it has something to do with some form of addiction. This man had some obvious problem—he was unsteady on his feet and shaking, and the only word out of his mouth I had been able to clearly understand was asking me for something which could, presumably, be used to fuel an addiction.

I asked him if he was hungry, and told him we wanted to get him some food. He said he was, and tried to tell me where he was going. I had to ask him to repeat himself several times, and finally understood his gesturing up the road and mumbling something that I thought sounded an awful lot like “bar” meant he was going to be somewhere to the south when we got the food.

At this point, I knew there was something wrong with him. His shaking and general unsteadiness, combined with his almost total incoherence did little to dispel my alcohol or drug problem stereotype. Even though I thought it unlikely that he was drunk—it would take a lot of booze to become so smashed that one could barely walk or talk, and I smelled not a hint of liquor on him—I didn’t dismiss the idea. In hindsight however, his mannerisms were probably more likely caused by some neural disorder. He kind of reminded me of Ali lighting the Olympic torch a few years back.

Raquel and I drove to the grocery store nearby and spent about 20 or 30 minutes picking out non-perishable, easy to cart items that we thought he might enjoy. We also threw in a gallon of water because we figured that it isn’t that easy to find clean water when you live on the street. Then we drove back to where we last saw him and started south. I told Raquel that I thought he said he was going to be at a bar in the direction he had pointed, but admitted that I probably had some unfair preconceptions that might have led me to hear what my mind expected to hear. We headed in the direction he pointed, looking for two looming shopping carts.

Raquel saw them first. “There they are. In front of that bar.”

“Are you kidding me?” I asked, incredulous. As I found a place to turn around, I was simultaneously amused and annoyed to be helping someone who obviously didn’t want to help himself. Here we’re spending the time and money to try and give him even a little help, and he only wants to drown his troubles in alcohol. The more I thought about it, the more irritated I became. By the time I pulled up beside the sidewalk in front of the bar where he’d parked his shopping carts, I had talked myself out of even walking inside to get him.

You see, I didn’t like the idea of the other bar patrons judging me for helping out a drunk. I considered just driving by and not even bothering with the food, but I reasoned that whatever the cause of this man’s current situation—disease, drugs or bad luck—God calls us to help others, regardless. It isn’t up to us to make the distinction between those who deserve our help and those who don’t. Just as the Samaritan probably didn’t think that an Israelite deserved his mercy, compassion or, for that matter, money, but helped him out anyway, so we should help out those we see in need, so long as it is within our ability. No matter their worth.

All this was going through my head as I pulled alongside his carts. But I still didn’t see a need to go into the bar to get him. “I’m just going to leave the bags beside his carts,” I told Raquel.

“Do you think we should go in?” she asked.

“Nah. Who’s going to steal food from a homeless guy’s shopping cart?” I asked. Besides, I reasoned to myself, there’re windows in the front of the bar. He can probably see me dropping the food off. And, come to think of it, do I really care if someone steals it?

As I was getting back into the car, the apprehensive look on Raquel’s face told me that she wasn’t satisfied. “Do you want to go in?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Stay here. I’ll go,” I said. As I came back around my car, I could see a man leaning out the front door of the bar, checking out my car and the donation we’d left. He saw me coming and asked if I knew David, whom I presumed was the object of our philanthropy. “I was talking to him earlier, up the road,” I replied. “We just wanted to help him out a little with some food.”

The man introduced himself as the owner of the bar. “I watch out for David, and anytime I see someone messing with his stuff I get a little concerned.” I told him I understood and asked if David was inside. As I walked in I found him relaxing by himself at a table in the middle of the bar—drinking a Pepsi.

My immediate reaction was nothing more than to think, hmm, I guess I was wrong about him. But the longer I dwell on it, the more uncomfortable I am with my previous assumptions about the man. I realize now that I wasn’t helping David, so much as he was helping me. Sure, I’ve seen my share of homeless people uninterested in honest assistance out of their predicament, but it’s as unfair of me to assume that every person who lives on the street is a junkie or alcoholic as it is for those whom I choose not to throw money at that I’m a heartless, greedy bastard.

I don’t know what ails David, though I’m guessing he suffers from Parkinson’s disease. He was genuinely appreciative of the food we gave him, though it ultimately won’t change his situation. It would have been too easy to assume the worst, based on my bias, and write him off as someone who “deserves what he gets.” It would have been too easy to drop off the food, and driven off without learning the whole story—and in the process, to become a little more cynical.

Kudos to Raquel for being genuine enough about her religion to believe that we are put on this planet to serve God and serve others—and for making me believe that’s a good thing. Her generosity is a product of a genuine love for God, rather than a fear of hell, or a pursuit of veneration. Her generosity lacks the ulterior motive of forcing its recipients to conform to her views. It is generosity for generosity’s sake.

Kudos to the bar owner (whose name I have unfortunately forgotten, and whose establishment’s name I never knew) for walking the walk that he talks. As I dropped the bags under David’s cart, I noticed something written on one of his bar windows: “Enjoying your freedom? Thank a veteran.” As this bar is about two miles from the front gate of a rather large naval activity, I wasn’t surprised to see this sentiment stenciled on the front of his business. But I was surprised, I’m ashamed to admit, to see him acting out a similar attitude by offering David an air-conditioned retreat from the steamy Florida July, and a cool Pepsi to sooth his parched throat. They say you can judge someone’s character by how they treat people who have nothing to offer them in return. If that’s true (and I think it is) then this man’s character is beyond reproach.

I guess God truly works in mysterious ways. Raquel assumed that her penance would involve an act of charity that would ultimately help out David. As we were leaving, she wondered if her penance was fulfilled, as she felt I did all the work. I assured her that it was, since I certainly wouldn’t have done any of that on my own. We’re a great team, after all. But her act of charity wasn’t for David. It was for me.

Miss USA

I don't know what to think of the whole immigration issue. I don't have enough knowledge of the issue to venture an educated opinion (though that doesn't stop most people, I've noticed). But watching Miss USA get booed on YouTube, I have to say, I'm less and less inclined to take Mexico's side.

Now, I'm not going to get into a debate about, or discuss the immigration issue, except to point out that no one seems to be asking what the Constitution has to say about the issue. Come to think of it, I don't even know when the last time I heard the Constitution mentioned on cable news. Or any other news source for that matter, in regards to this or any other issue. Am I the only one who's even slightly concerned about this?

Whether we throw open the door to this country or shut down our borders tighter than a whale's vagina is irrelevant to me. But judging by the antics of the Mexico City crowd at last night's Miss Universe contest, we should be less inclined to export our illegal Mexicans, and more inclined to export some of Rachel Smith's grace and decorum to Mexico's teeming masses.

Bunch of worthless lowlifes.

Mediocrity

It just occurred to me that I'm going to die. No, probably not anytime in the near future, and I didn't just come to the conclusion that I'm not invincible.

I was considering my future as a biker. I just bought a GSX-R 750, which, for the uninitiated (as I was up until about a month ago), is a really, really fast motorcycle. It was pretty much a spur-of-the-moment decision to buy it, and one that I've yet to start regretting (aside from the cosmetic/mechanical issues that the dealer should have caught and fixed prior to selling, and for which I'm going to shoot an email over to the BBB. Other than that, I love the bike). But just a few moments ago, I was considering the idea of motorcycling.

You see, the longer you ride, statistically, the better your chances of being in some sort of accident. Most everyone I know who's ridden for any significant length of time has been in one. The same could be said for driving an automobile. However, your chances of survival are considerably higher in an automobile accident. And those odds are only going up, with car companies constantly competing to build the safest cars. Motorcycles, ultimately, haven't changed that much in a hundred years. It's still basically a bicycle with a motor. If anything, the massive increases in the power to weight ratios of the average sports bike have made them much more dangerous. Of course, there is the argument that just because you have the power, doesn't mean you have to use it. At least in an unsafe manner.

My epiphany came when I realized that the longer I ride a motorcycle, the greater my chances of dying on a motorcycle. I then started to imagine what the lives of those around me might look like if I did. It was an uncomfortably small stretch for me to imagine this statement said of me after my untimely demise:

"He had his whole life ahead of him."

Or something to that effect. Once that thought had entered my brain, I couldn't seem to shake the image of my life as that of the tragic hero--the good guy who had everything going for him, who lost it all in one fateful moment, leaving a trail of mourning behind him. Or the minor hero (think Goose) whose death inspires the protagonist to achieve his dreams. Of course, the self-doubt that I will ever live up to my potential, even if I live until age robs me of that potential, makes this scenario all the more plausible. At least in my own brain.

Maybe I'm being somewhat egotistical to think of myself as a hero--tragic or otherwise. Perhaps I'm not even a good guy (though I'm not prepared for a discussion on the differences between good or bad in the nature of Man). Though I think the fact that I imagine myself as a sidekick in the little drama that is my life belies something quite the opposite of egotism.

Either way, I'm just going to keep riding safe. I can't see giving up something I love for fear of death. That'd be worse than death.

War! What isn't it Good For?

I just got done reading an article in last week's Navy Times about exactly how a war with Iran would go down. It contained info from the top military brass answering the questions about the "contingency plans" that the military is putting together regarding a possible war with Iran. What does their military look like? What does our military look like? How many casualties could we expect? What would our attack look like? According to the article, "the Defense Department has [contingency] plans for an attack on Iran."

"Contingency."

Throughout this article, the reporter was very careful to point out (or rather, "officials" were very careful to point out to the reporter) that these plans are only the preliminary plans for a retaliatory attack on Iran. And then, in the last several paragraphs, we get these two gems, the first from the new Secretary of Defense, Robert Gates:

The President has made clear, the secretary of state has made clear, I've made clear...we are not planning for a war with Iran.

Huh? Not planning? Then what were those 2500 words about the plans for attacking Iran? They aren't planning for a war with Iran, they're merely planning a war with Iran. In other words, they aren't planning to go to war with Iran, they're merely planning what they'd do if they went to war with Iran.

The second quote that caught my attention was from national security advisor Stephen J. Hadley:

We face no greater challenge from a single country than from Iran...The doctrine of pre-emption remains sound...we do not rule out the use of force before an attack occurs.

So even though we aren't planning to go to war with Iran, we are making plans for a war with Iran, and we haven't ruled out the possibility to go to war with Iran. Understand?

"The Defense Department has plans for an attack on Iran."

"We are not planning for a war with Iran."

"We do not rule out the use of force before and attack occurs."

I'm glad we cleared that up.