Obama's foreign policy . . . of denial and misdirection

So, our President's foreign policy (is there one?) gets slapped around like a trollup in Kiev, and in addition to anemic "sanctions" and brave words, his response to Russia's expansion into Ukraine is to dismiss them as a weak "regional" power? 

A regional power still with enough nukes to turn America into a glass desert, and one devoting more and more of its resources to modernizing and building its military; a regional power that is actively thwarting peace efforts in the Middle East.

No wonder, then, that as I watched this president, for whom I once voted, give Putin the raspberry in his news conference Wednesday, I thought of the crazy Emperor Caligula.

He took an army to the English Channel to invade Britain, only to declare victory and telling the troops to collect sea shells as their spoils of war.

I would have a lot more respect if The President just said, "Hey, our military is exhausted by war, and public won't support any new adventures, and frankly, we just don't much care about Ukraine."

What's in a name? Consider rock bands Led Zeppelin, Rolling Stones . . . and Electric Prunes?

In 1967, I was 14 and had just gotten a "portable" stereo system for Christmas (a 50-pound suitcase thing with a flip out turntable for LPs, and speakers that detached from the sides).

Along with "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" and every Steppenwolf album that came out, I bought the first (and arguably only "real") Electric Prunes album.

EP was a an experimental "psychedelic" band, and their song "I had too much to Dream (Last Night)" ended at No. 11 on the top 40, despite the band's laughable  name.

EP kind of disappeared in the U.S. after than, going through a lot of attrition and wild creative swings before disbanding about '69. There is a current EP, reformed from geezers who comprised one of the last rosters of the band -- none of them original members -- that "reunited" in '99 and began touring Europe (they were big in Sweden).

But for about two weeks in '67, after an American Bandstand appearance, the original EP was considered groundbreaking in the so-called "acid rock" movement.

But come on, Electric Prunes? (What? They give you static regularity?) Not quite the literary props of Steppenwolf, or the poetic quality of Rolling Stones,  cool imagery of Led Zeppelin or the dark metaphor of Black Sabbath. The other bands went on to greatness on a path that followed, and eventually overtook/succeeded the Beatles. 

So, time travel with me a bit. It's a hot eastern Washington summer afternoon, humid, the windows of a 14-year-old kid's upstairs bedroom open to a limp, ineffective breeze.

You lie on the linoleum floor, sweating, stripped down to an old pair of cutoffs, forgetting for a moment that the longer you try to grow your hair and bushier and curlier it gets, a sort of celtic version of an afro.

The needle drops into the groove, a bit of static erupts from the speakers, one inches from each ear, and this is what you hear.

Exoplanets: New places to dwell, or do we have neighbors out there?

According to a Slate.com article, prospects for finding intelligent life other than our own (?) has gotten markedly better . . . or at least, we have a lot more places other than Earth to screw up once we figure out how to travel through intersteller space.

I don't know. But I'll bet that some day, when we meet the denizens of some of these new worlds, we are going to feel pretty silly (i.e. ashamed) about how we've treated our planet, and each other.

I'll wager a galactic credit or two that we get blackballed from the Galactic Lodge.

For a Christian, this all presents something of a conundrum. I think back to when I read C.S. Lewis' space trilogy, in which he suggests Earth is a planet in rebellion and other abodes of intelligent life didn't mess up their Garden of Eden-esque debuts.

 Whatever. Our view of ourselves and our petty concerns should be getting markedly smaller, though . . . even as our perceptions of God and the Universe explode into something truly eternal and humbling individually, and as a species.

Some of the findings Slate.com reports the Kepler space telescope has made of late includes confirmation of an additional 700-plus "exoplanets" orbiting 300 other stars.

Of those, 95 percent are smaller than Neptune and 100 are about the same size as our Earth. . . and four of those planets reside in their stars' "habitable zones,"in other words, they are in the right range to sustain liquid water, perhaps oxygen-rich atmospheres and conditions we humans might find familiar.

What may have arisen in those places? People, like us? Beings sentient, but dramatically different in shape? Angels? Demons?

Or, just new places for us to dwell?

Alzheimer's: For loved ones, it's not 'misery loves company,' it's need for compassion

While recently commiserating with a colleague who also was lamenting, and enduring the long death of Alzheimer's in a loved one, I remembered the old idiom, "Misery loves company."

The concept has been around as long as human suffering, though it usually is credited to the 16th century play "Doctor Faustus."

Mephistropheles tries to discourage Fautus from visiting hell (which he ignores), by reciting the Latin phrase, "Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris." 

(Literally, that translates "to the unhappy it is a comfort to have had company in misery." But typically, we humans have truncated that over the centuries to "misery loves company."

But, as I admittedly love to do, I digress.

In the referenced conversation above, it is NOT comfort taken from the pain of others . . . but understanding of those others, a selfish desire for compassion and, yes, affirmation. . . .

. . . To not only receive those emotional drinks of cool water in a desert wilderness of Alzheimer's hell, but to offer them as well.

We need each other. No one should walk alone through the sloughs of despair.

Russian Winter Games: Reasons to whine, or are we just pampered Americans?

OK, speaking of the Russian Winter Games accommodations, I'd whine, too . . .

If there was no water (or what there was was dirty).

If the toilet's plumbing didn't work.

If I had no privacy to do the doodoo (even if there was toilet paper), because the stall walls were removed for "security" reasons.

If my room was wired for video and sound by the Russian security folks.

That said, these things we take for granted in the U.S. -- clean water, privacy to poo, being (somewhat) free of prying eyes and ears, etc. -- are exceptions on most of the rest of the world. 

Maybe we are, in retrospect, pampered Americans, after all?

Click on this link, read and consider.

Super Bowl: Don't forget, Seahawks, it all began with Jim Zorn and Steve Largent

It was sweet.

Surrounded by Broncos fans, proudly displaying their orange jerseys at an after-church Super Bowl party, the long-awaited breakthrough for this Seahawks fan came true.

I kept my cheering subdued. But my smile was big.

I had to wait until I was 60 years old to see this -- a long way removed from a summer back in 1976, on the campus of my alma mater, Eastern Washington University, when the NFL's newest expansion team arrived for its inaugural training camp.


Jack Patera was the first coach, a big, profane and somewhat arrogant man who presided over a bunch of pros past their prime and second-tier rookies. But there were a couple players who stood out right away, both for their enthusiasm and skills . . . and quiet faith.

Jim Zorn, who had briefly been on the Dallas Cowboys roster the season before as an undrafted free agent,  was (is) an unapologetic, born again Christian, and his favorite target, Steve Largent, also was a believer. Along with other Christians on the team, they held prayer meetings and Bible studies together -- but there was no preaching or grandstanding, as some later would accuse Tim Tebow of doing (fairly, or not).

Zorn was outgoing, positive, and a scrambler who could zip a left-handed bullet off a rollout like no one I had ever seen then, or since. He ran the Seattle backfield for seven seasons before his star declined, but he never seemed to let it get him down.

I interviewed him again a few years ago, while he was an assistant coach at a small college (later, he would coach quarterbacks for Seattle, briefly, and make a bid as head coach for the ill-fated Redskins).

Largent went on to be a Hall of Fame receiver. He and Zorn would be the first two inductees to Seattle's "Ring of Honor."

For that first season and the next two, I worked with and for the Seahawks as a stringer. I'd do feature articles on players for small dailies who could not afford sending staff of their own. After each practice, I would gather injury reports and quotes on standouts, etc., from Patera and his assistants and call them in to the PR department.

For a 21-year-old small town weekly newspaper editor, the money was good -- and the experience gave me a taste of what I would experience a few years later as an AP sportswriter.

That first season, 2-12 for the 'Hawks, was a tough one. A lot of routs, some spells showing the future brilliance of the Zorn-to-Largent connection.
So, this past Sunday, I'll bet Zorn was smiling. A fellow believer, Russell Wilson, was holding the Lombardi Trophy.

It took nearly 40 years for the dream to come true, but Jim had to be happy for the team where a kid from Cal Poly-Pomona, initially dismissed by the sports experts of his time, became an NFL star.

What both of these quarterback will share, long after the Super Bowl memories fade, will be their faith and humility.

Those qualities are eternal.

On a melancholy day, Jupiter provides perspective -- and a cure for the blues

Some days, you just feel like you flop out of bed in the predawn darkness only to painfully crawl into the day.

It's "Hump Day." That mid-week marker of futility that reminds you that Life has settled into a routine of work that, thank God, pays the bills, but has long since ceased to challenge.

There was a time when in-depth reporting, well-crafted writing and meaning imbued your job -- but with the decline of the long-form narrative in newspapers in favor of the quick-hit, short digital briefs posted to the Web, those days are pretty much gone.

And, occasionally, on days like this one, you mourn the meaningful past and lament the shadow your journalistic career has become.

You reach out, freelancing editing and writing. For a while, that works. An up-and-coming media company gives you three years of steady work; it's fun and it pays well.

But success leads to larger staff. The need for freelancers disappears with more full-timers on board. Progress for them; back to the drawing board for you.

And on this morning, trudging through the dark and cold and snow to the train, you realize that THIS has become the "now." And, it sucks.

Yes, you have a job when many do not. Gratitude is expressed to the heavens. And yet . . . melancholy.

Suddenly, the mist puffing from his scarf-wrapped mouth, a fellow smiles and asks: "Do you know what that star is, just to the right of the moon?"

You look up. The moon is nearly full. Next to it is a sparkling, aqua-to-bluish light twinkling. It is cold, distance and . . . amazing.

"Actually, that's not a start at all," the man continues. He points to the light. "That's Jupiter!"

He continues, his enthusiasm infectious. Jupiter has 40 moons, and counting. Jupiter has two and a half times the mass of all the other planets of the solar system, combined. 

 

Jupiter is . . . huge. You could fit, roughly, 1,400 Earths within the gas giant's mass.

"You can tell I'm an astronomy buff," he finally says.

I look up and smile. The moon is a shimmering silver orb, Jupiter hanging off its shoulder like a cosmic broach.

No only are we on this planet not at the center of the Universe, but our lives are both infinitesimally small and uniquely precious and fragile, all at the same time.

Perspective.

Life.

Not so bad, after all.

An old cassette tape discovered, a father's musical legacy saved

When my dad was 57 (roughly my age now, plus a few years), he was at the peak of his musical abilities, playing his plectrum, four-string long-neck banjo is ways the likes of Eddie Peabody and a few others of the greats in this form applauded.

Dad was so good that he was repeatedly turning down professional gigs. As a preacher, he believed at the time that he should limit is playing to the "Lord's venues." Playing for the "world" would almost be akin to intentional backsliding, a sin. So, he smiled, treasured the compliments of the pros, and pastored small churches in small towns throughout the Northwest.

Today, almost 92 and slowly losing his sight and musical memory, he struggles to play a few songs on a banjo-tuned ukelele.

He told me a few weeks back that he wished he could hear how he used to play. Well, in the mail last week came a package from an uncle with some documents we needed for our POA roles, and wrapped in plastic was an old cassette tape.

On it, 60 minutes of my Dad playing his old gold-plated, pear-inlaid Gibson, one song after another, including original arrangements and medleys of decidedly old but classic secular hits.

From 1979, he navigated through complicated notes, chords, runs and riffs that reminded me just how good he was.

I was able to transfer the cassette's contents and burn some CDs for him and my kids.

Already, I have a happy new year.

Click here to listen to a sampler of my Dad, one of the best banjo artists, ever.

How my children, their spouses and grandkids saved Christmas

Children and grandkids save the holidays.

Without them, my Christmas 2013 would have gone down as one of the most dismal, personally, in my six decades on this planet.

Approaching 92, my father is frail and just plain tired; his telephone conversations with me from an assisted care center in Spokane, Washington, have degenerated over the past year.

Where once he showed interest in our lives in Utah, and told me corny jokes, now he dwells in the negative.

I don't mean it as a criticism. I understand, and in his shoes, would likely share the sentiment.

But when you are trying everything you can think of to provide care and security from 800 miles away, the dark conversations can wear one down.

For me, the doses of old age depression come twice a week: that's how often I call, usually once early in the week and again on the weekend.

I've grown to dread these calls. Sometimes, it takes me several hours to work up to the 15-20 minutes of complaints, confusion, anger I hear. 

By this Christmas, I'm afraid, the weight of being upbeat and encouraging had morphed from being a loving gift to an emotionally draining act fueled by guilt and duty.

Again, I don't for a second forget it is worse for my father and mother. He is still alert, albeit depressed (I have asked the nursing staff to explore antidepressants for him); my 86-year-old mother, with her rapidly worsening Alzheimer's disease, is forgetting everything and everyone -- except frustrations over her confusion and the paranoia of dementia.

My heart breaks for them, and the tears do come.

But it is not just my parents. There has always been, overshadowing our lives as a family, my sister. Cerebral Palsy and brain damage in the womb left her the eternally crippled 5 year old. . . three years older than me, yet always the little sister.

The wild mood swings, from giddy happiness to rage in the blink of an eye, finally made it impossible for my parents to care for her. When I was 11, she entered institutional residency, and now lives in a group home.

I have always called the folks and her for the holidays though. Merry Christmas? My father, understandably, wasn't feeling it this year. Mom, who can no longer communicate in anything but gibberish, would not even take the phone. I admit, part of me was relieved.

When I called my sister, the irony hit me: For the first time I could remember, she not only could communicate better than my mother, but seemed the only one in our nuclear family to be happy.

So, there is the overly long prelude to my opening statement.

Suffice it to say, I was feeling especially down, worn out, spiritually depleted when my wife, Barbara, and I went over for a Christmas dinner at my son Rob's house. Our daughter-in-law, Rachel, had prepared a vegetarian feast. Warm hugs, conversation, and playing with their two dogs was a welcome respite, along with a group phone call from our grandson, Josh.

Then, we Skyped with our daughter, Brenda, and son-in-law Idal, granddaughter Lela and new grandson Gabriel. Seeing and hearing the joy of the children, Lela, at 6, opening our presents; Gabriel taking a bottle from his parents, cooing and smiling -- and crying a bit, too -- provided perspective, and not a little joy.

Belatedly, it reminded me of my own childhood Christmases. More than a few of them were magical, I now recall. 

I remembered the smiles, when they were witty and happy and healthy, of my parents; my sister's always childlike laughter with a new doll or stuffed animal; my own gifts from the folks, with the realization that they sacrificed much to make the moments happen . . . that they loved me, and that we were -- however unique -- a family.

For me, the best part as a child would be Christmas Eves. I would sneak out of my bedroom after the folks and sis were asleep, curl up on the couch and just watch the lights blink and shine on the tinsel of the Christmas tree.

The pine scent filled the house, and the essence of peace, love and safety would eventually send me, yawning, back beneath the covers.

Thanks, kids, and grandkids, for reminding me.

Marital Sea Change: Same-sex, polygamous rulings death knell for dominance of 'traditional' secular marriages?

So, is the cultural and legal sea change toward same-sex marriage a portent for unraveling of traditional marriage as we have known it?

Of course it is. You must decide yourself, according to your own beliefs and conscience, whether that is a bad thing or some sort of societal leap forward.

I can hear the cries of "hater!" and "bigot!" now, but hear me out: my opening statement is rational and, to my mind, irrefutably logical.

In the past two weeks in the state of Utah, arguably the bastion of all things conservative and where voters overwhelmingly voted to limit marriage legally to one man and one woman, not less than TWO court decisions have turned the world on its head, marriage-wise.

Both came from the federal courts. First, a judge gutted Utah's long-time law banning polygamous marriages (a historical move that cleared the way for statehood more than a century ago, when the Mormon prophet gave up the doctrine of plural marriage).

Equal protection under the law, and the inability of the state to argue the harm to society, et al, were keys to that decision.

Ditto for another federal judge's decision late last week striking down the state's ban on same-sex marriage.

Monday morning, hundreds of gays and lesbians lined up at courthouses to get their licenses, where clerks were under orders to comply with the ruling.

Of course, the state of Utah is appealing both decisions. But the historical course is inevitable. Both decisions, sooner or later, will be upheld. 

This fight may not be over, but it is decided.  

The next battleground could, and likely will be whether, and to what extent, business owners and churches can exercise their faith-based resistance to the morphing definition of marriage.

Talking whether a bakery or caterer can legally bow out of a same-sex event, or whether a church can keep its tax-exempt status, or ability to perform "legal" marriages, if it does not conform to the politically correct tides.

Same-sex marriage/rights advocates argue that will never happen . . . just as they did that approving same-sex marriage rights would not have a slippery slope effect where polygamy would benefit from the same arguments.

What IS marriage, legally? It IS, regardless the apologists' who insist the LGBT Pandora's Box has not been toppled, a definition that is now wide open . . . if not in actuality now, inevitably later.

If same-sex marriage is legal, and if polygamy is legal, where are the restrictions for anyone, other than minors, engaging in this particular legal contract, etc.? 

 

Why not, then, a bisexual/polygamous marriage or any other variation of genders and numbers of partners? 

Any attempt to place limits on marriage, by any definition, will be mortally wounded by the same arguments that got us to this point.

Decades ago, I read a science fiction series where in marriages varied by gender, number and even the definition of what was "human."

One "family" consisted of a man who had cloned himself multiple times, at various ages, and married him-selves as well as other men and women and artificial intelligences.

Then, I thought: What an imagination!

Now? Not so much.

I don't have the answers to this whole thing. And I refuse to be the judge of others. Not my job.

But as an historian, and a believer, I have to observe that when spiritually informed morality is removed from the societal equation, as we seem to have done with our secular society, the very fabric of its institutions can become, certainly, unrecognizable, and perhaps unraveled . . . if not in present fact, then possibly in future reality.