Tuesday, May 31, 2005

It's My Blog...

... and I'll post old poems if I want to!
I'm back in upstate New York this week - just checked out a farm that's coming up for auction. It wasn't the one - the bones of the house weren't right. The land, though...the barn, the hill, the stream, the trees... ah, well.

The Evening Comes

The evening comes
Everywhere and all at once
Rushing out of the sunset
Like Lucifer from the lake of fire
And there is everywhere
And all at once
An evening of things.

The morning comes
streaming slanted slats of gold
Showing me, once again,
Light and shadow
It leaves me
Mourning the difference.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

The Sincerest Form of Flattery...

David Horowitz has written a new book entitled The End of Time. Check out the cover here.

Gosh, but that's a familiar looking cover. Hmm. Where have I seen something like that before?

Ah, well. I guess it means the good people at Loyola Press are doing something right.

Friday, May 27, 2005

You'll Go Blind Doing That.

Okay, so it should be, "You'll go blind taking that." I know, I know - it's too easy a shot. Forgive me.

The Liberal Media

Kidding. Half-kidding. From the May 21 Washington Post religion book roundup:

SWIMMING WITH SCAPULARS: TRUE CONFESSIONS OF A YOUNG CATHOLIC, by Matthew Lickona (Loyola Press, $19.95). Lickona, 32, is a writer for an alternative newspaper in San Diego, a devotee of the Onion Web site and a wine connoisseur. This Gen-Xer is also a traditional Catholic who wears a scapular, a sacramental object worn around the neck to protect the wearer from damnation, and he believes that sex is primarily for procreation. In this small book, Lickona tells of periods of doubt but ultimate adherence to the faith.

"He believes sex is primarily for procreation." Hm. From page 105: "But in my experience of marriage, the unitive end rightfully stands beside the procreative. The joy of heaven comes from union with God, the supreme union of lover and beloved. Until that union - pray God - comes to pass, I have a foretaste of that joy in marriage, an echo of heaven on earth."

Someone want to tell me how anyone could get "sex is primarily for procreation" out of that? As I say, the "liberal media" bit is a joke. It's probably more sloppy reading than a bias against anyone who draws an essential connection between sex and childbearing. But gosh all golly, that's an annoying claim.

And I won't be 32 for another month. Hmph.

ADDENDUM: I should note that I'm still very grateful to be mentioned, whatever my petulant reaction to this or that detail.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Oh, Wow. Oh, Wow. Oh, Wow.

The Elusive Scotsman was kind enough to post this in my comments:

From the June/July 2005 issue of First Things:

An engaging case study is now on offer in Matthew Lickona's Swimming with Scapulars: True Confessions of a Young Catholic(Loyola, 278 pp., $19.95). I will not be surprised if this becomes something of a niche classic. Lickona and his wife Deirdre are graduates of Thomas Aquinas College in California and live with their four (as of this writing) children in La Mesa, California, where he is staff writer for the San Diego Reader, an alternative newspaper. "Alternative" is the word for the ever-ancient, ever-new way of life they are striving to live, a life of self-discipline and spiritual struggles joined to the hilarity and high adventure of Catholic fidelity. (Four days into the honeymoon they were still virgins because, being committed to Natural Family Planning, the time was not right for Deirdre.) Thomas Aquinas is among the more prominent of alternative Catholic colleges established in recent decades, and this charming and frequently crazy book serves as a report card on what such schools are producing. If the Lickonas are representative, a rigorous (they would say vigorous) orthodoxy results in a way of being Catholic that has left behind the stale liberal-vs-conservative squabbles about what went wrong and what went right after the Second Vatican Council and has moved on to living the life of the faith in all its fullness. Theirs is not a return to the Catholic "ghetto" or "subculture," nor are they part of an angry counter-culture. Rather, Lickona provides a delightfully high-spirited and candid account of living Catholicism as though it were true, scapulars included. The author is in lively engagement with the surrounding culture and the problems encountered by those who have chosen another way. "Let's be open and clean," he writes. "Let's drag this out into the light and discuss. Let's not be shocked and resentful; let's love the lonely. Perhaps, coming from a fanatic, the message of God's love will regain some of its wonderful outrageousness. 'Listen. I have a secret. I eat God, and I have His life in me. It's the best thing in the world; it leads to everlasting life. But first, you have to die to yourself.'"

There is a good deal of Matthew Lickona's self in Swimming with Scapulars, but with the guidance of St. Augustine, C.s. Lewis, and the Catechism of the Catholic Church a new man is manifestly a-bornin. This book may not be a portent of the Catholic future, but it is a compelling account of the Catholic present as experienced by a growing number of young people who have dared to accept Christ's invitation to "put out into the deep and let down your nets for a catch." In catching, Matthew Lickona has been caught, and with winsome enthusiasm he recommends the experiment to others. The times they are a'changin.

Great googly-moogly, but that's a nice review. I'm amazed and grateful.

Yes.

Nooooooooo!

Did I say that was my last Star Wars post down there? I was misinformed. I lied. I'm weak. This is the best thing since DeanGoesNuts.com.

(Via PinkIsTheNewBlog.com)

Habemus Papam? You don't say.

Apparently, we have a new pope. Apparently, we've had him for a while now - which makes the following inexcusably tardy. But here at Godsbody, that's never stopped us before. We were shuffling through old email, muttering to ourselves about deadlines we weren't meeting, when we found this, from sis-in-law Lisa, and thought we'd share:

Today Cardinal Ratzinger was elected Benedict XVI. I feel relief, excitement, joy, anticipation. The media portrays him as a hardline conservative. This is so far from the way I perceive him. The very first theology book I ever read was in my required sophomore intro course: Ratzinger’s Introduction to Christianity. I didn’t know anything about Ratzinger then or even anything about Catholic theology. But I guess that at some level I perceived it as dusty, dry and stodgy--because I remember my surprise when, after reading about 10 pages, I was enchanted, intrigued, challenged. Ratzinger’s writing was and is fresh and re-freshing. His prose is anything but plodding, his insights anything but predictable. Yesterday my theologian-friend Margie and I were talking about him. “He has no system of his own,” she said, with an air of respect, “He seems simply to be always contemplating the mystery.” Reading Introduction to Christianity was the first time I touched the mystery in a book of “theology.” Two years later, Michael Waldstein, a devotee of Ratzinger, taught the course that convinced me to study theology in graduate school. I was hooked.

At the John Paul II Institute I became acquainted with a German Dominican seminarian who had studied under Ratzinger at the university. Ratzinger, he told me, had a giant intellect. He could speak and the sentences rolled off his tongue as fully formed thoughts--“as though you were reading them in a book,” the seminarian added. Ratzinger has a great mind. But when I think back to that first reading of Introduction to Christianity, now that I have more theology under my belt and more Ratzinger books in my library, what I remember are not his arguments, but his stories, his images. One that stuck with me was in his discussion of the characteristics of God--one of which he termed “superfluity,” that is, overabundance, a gift that overwhelms the receiver. It is the characteristic of a God who spills his own blood for his pitiful creatures. Isn’t this superfluity, this overabundance, Ratzinger reasons, visible throughout the universe--from the thousands of seeds that are produced so that one flower may grow to the millions of stars strewn simply for our pleasure and amazement. This is vintage Ratzinger: turning a well known argument against the existence of God--after all, what is the measly earth but a speck in a quasi infinite universe--on its head. This is what comes from contemplating the mystery: the Love that created all that is, that beckons us in the person of Jesus Christ.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

We Can Explain

We think we might have an explanation for this, besides the perhaps more obvious "The man is unhinged." Tom Cruise is still smarting from the impression Ben Stiller did of him way back when on the Ben Stiller Show. The skit where he had Tom turning his most famous movie roles into a Broadway revue. This is Tom doing his best Ben Stiller, when Stiller is in his angry, helpless, freaking-out mode. Now all we need to complete the circle is for Ben to riff on Tom's impression...

Radio Radio

If anyone out there happened to be up early enough to hear me on Relevant Radio this morning (5 a.m. my time), I'd like to make a clarification. When I talk about reconnecting to tradition, it's more than dusting off this or that pious devotion that had passed out of style/use. It's an attempt to embrace the Faith in all its fullness, richness, and mystery, to treat what has come before as a guide and an inheritance. Scapulars and such are part of that, but only part.

Yes, I referred to Lord Marchmain as Lord Brideshead. It was 5 in the morning. I had to attend a wine dinner last night (oh, the perils of the day job). Sue me.

My attempt at a joke didn't fly, either. The promise of the scapular is, "Whosoever dies wearing this scapular shall not suffer eternal fire." Without getting into a deep discussion of the sacramental, I always thought the idea that there's a deep-freezer in hell full of damned scapular-wearers was pretty funny, a bit of Catholic inside baseball. Ah, well.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

I'll Never Get To BlogHeaven...

...that magical land where religion blogs go when they're good - but I got reviewed by someone who did: Kathy Shaidle, founder of Relapsed Catholic and Contributing Editor/Columnist for Canada's Catholic Register. Huzzah!

Monday, May 23, 2005

Episode III, Part III

I am trying to imagine a scenario in which it would be possible to produce a MST3K-style treatment of Episode III without ending up in the clutches of Darth Lucas... If only there were some mode for the rapid dissemination of digital information among users without the involvement of some legally pursuable entity...

Not that I would ever recommend any kind of illegal activity. But dang if I didn't spend a delightful half-hour on the phone last night listening to a friend perform scene-by-scene rips. Imagine the script conference, he began (I'm paraphrasing and adding a bit here): "Dude, pass me a hit. So there's these robots that get on the wings of the spacecraft, and they're kind of like flies, and Anakin has to scrape them off - he's all like, 'Dude, get these things off!' I mean, we've all been there, right? You're driving along, and there are these flies in the car, and you're trying to wave them out of the window, get them off the winshield, you know what I mean? Dude, this is the kind."
"But the scene opens with the one guy saying, 'General Grievous' ship, dead ahead.'"
"Dude, that's the beauty of it. They're supposed to be thinking about this super-important mission, and they're having to take fifteen minutes to deal with these damn flies!"
"Grievous. Heh heh. Grievous. That's hilarious, man."

Okay, enough. It feels good to vent, because I cared about those first three, enough not to notice the deep sillliness of the Ewoks. But I'll stop now.

Episode III, Part II

(I suppose there are more spoilers ahead, so again, consider yourself warned.)

My favorite account of second (first)-trilogy Lucas came from my friend Joseph: "It's clear he's lost something, and not the way a pitcher loses a live fastball. Rather, the way a farmer loses an arm to a combine." My general response to the first trilogy: it was good for Episode IV to have those first three episodes as a backstory. It's not at all clear to me that it's a backstory that needed telling. But even if you were dying to see that first showdown between Vader and Obi-Wan (and I was), and so were willing to put up with Jar-Jar, trade federations, etc., there's still the matter of his ability to direct a scene. When the newly quadriplegic Vader is being fitted with his robotic limbs prior to being locked inside his black suit, it should be the most heart-rending scene in the film - the man is becoming "more machine than man, now." This is Oedipus pulling out his eyes - the awful consequences are playing out. Imagine a close shot of a metal leg being fitted onto a ruined stump; the slow, precise movements of the robot surgeon... Instead, we get one ridiculously quick overhead shot of the operating table, during which all I could think was, "Wow, that robot is moving quickly." R2-D2 got more loving treatment. And then, when the Emporer tells him that Padme is dead, we get Vader spreading is arms and crying "Nooooooooo" to the heavens. The Star Wars mythos is powerful, but it ain't powerful enough to rescue that reaction from the abyss of cliche.

Sunday, May 22, 2005

Episode III, Part I

(Um, big ol' spoilers ahead - consider yourself warned.)

You see what happens when you allow a married priesthood? Love is forbidden to the Jedi. Anakin disobeys, falls in love, gets married, conceives a child with his wife, has premonitions of her death in childbirth, and ultimately turns to the dark side to preserve her life. You see? You see?! Married love clouds the mind! A Jedi must learn to let go of that which he loves! He must be detached! NO MARRIED PRIESTS!

Kidding. Now and then, it may be tempting to compare the Jedi to the priesthood. (Dave Chapelle did it in his Jedi-padawan (sp?) sex-scandal skit. "Transferred you are," chuckles Yoda to a naughty Jedi as they snort whatever passed for cocaine a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.) A secretive order with special powers, etc. But Lucas undermines the comparison right away. There is no calling, no vocation for the Jedi; they can't even use the Force to determine whether Anakin is meant to join them (though it does raise suspicions). They've got to resort to something in his bloodstream, some little bits of stuff.

The Force is a skill - a person can learn its ways, provided he's got enough mitochlorians. What the priest can do is not in virtue of some special knowledge or physical trait, but a special charism, a special relation to God.

Why am I posting about this? I don't know, exactly. But Star Wars seems to matter, at least enough to warrant comment. More in a bit. Bear with me.

Saturday, May 21, 2005

My Father the Hipster

I grew up making fun of Zamfir, King of the Pan Flute. I made fun of most music I saw advertised in mini-infomercials, the sort that scrolled a list of song titles across shots of the artist gazing somewhere just above the camera, then gave you a number to call at the end and asked you to have your credit card ready. Zamfir actually came into my home - Dad bought a tape - and so he received special scorn. Listening to him, I felt knee-deep in melted cheese.

So imagine my chagrin when, while watching Kill Bill Vol. 2 (a movie I enjoyed much more than some), I heard them. The unmistakable, shimmering tones of Zamfir, which had poured forth so many times from the tiny tape deck on the shelf above the radiator in the kitchen of my childhood home. Who knew that Dad knew what Tarantino knew?

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

Pause

Ah, my second sorry-for-not-posting post. Things have bogged down a bit here at Godsbody. I'll try to get back on track asap. Patience, my young Jedi. (Did I just write that?)

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown...

...and so you will suffer.
Much has already been said about the theological worldview that underlies Peanuts - those year-by-year editions are entering the Early Genius period now - so I won't expound overmuch. But it struck me tonight what a world of meaning is poured into Charlie Brown's favorite epithet: "Good grief!" I grew up with it, and never noticed the oddity of it - since when is grief good? But now it resounds and resonates.

Ecstasy, Ex-Stasis, Self-Gift, Etc.

Naturally (oh, I pun), this has nothing to do with any kind of intention on the part of a Creator. It's an accident, it's for fun, it's a diagnostic tool - but it's not a physical event with a metaphysical meaning.

Dr. Tom More in Love in the Ruins: "Metaphysics is a word, Bob."

Local Boy Gets Reviewed

Thanks to the miracle of the World Wide Interweb, I just discovered that I got reviewed in the in the San Diego Union Tribune last Sunday. Huzzah! I only wish that I had made it clearer in the book that the Shania Twain hip-thrusts did in fact take place at an elementary school talent show.

No, Seriously, Check Me Out

Way back when, when the wife was a saucy freshman in college (instead of the saucy wife she is today), she was fond of referring to the "pear-shaped boys" at our alma mater. Back then, I was 19, the vereran of a half-dozen high-school sports, and still in something approaching good shape.

Things have changed. Oh Paul Simon, why am I soft in the middle now? The rest of my life is so hard!

Driving to the beach in Coronado on Sunday, passed a couple of shirtless young men who had just come from their Abercrombie & Fitch's House of Narcissism and Abs(TM) workout. "They may be cut," I reminded my wife, "but neither of them is wearing this."

"Right you are," she replied.

Bookmark

The Greek myths, like the Old Testament, do have the virtue of describing the way people actually behave.

- John Lanchester, The Debt to Pleasure

Monday, May 16, 2005

God the Hedonist...

... a la the Bookmark post below.
Back in my heady college days - ah, they were heady days - the food in the cafeteria was occasionally less than transporting. (I'm told it's better now.) Days when the tomato sauce for the spaghetti contained chunks of whatever vegetables had not been eaten while they resided in the salad bar, etc. Hot dog day was particularly unfortunate - the hot dogs had a way of staying with a body, of holding two-day intestinal conferences.

A key element in my courtship with the wife was her ability to turn out shrimp linguini with basil and sun-dried tomatoes using only the hot plate in her dorm commons. I wasn't allowed inside - the dorms were strictly single-sex - but I spent many a night being fed on the porch of St. Katherine's. When I was sick, she brought a massive batch of chicken soup down to where I languished. Omelets and fresh-squeezed OJ (she had just picked the oranges from the campus grove) started many a Saturday. She was, she is, the nonpariel. I ate like a god. I remain utterly devoted to her cooking.

Last night, and I feasted on another helping of center-cut pork chops in blue-cheese sauce and Russet Burbank potatoes cubed and fried in the morning's bacon grease, I thought, 'Would a saint hold back from thirds for the Lord's sake, eschewing even this licit good out of love? On a Sunday? It's possible, but it's not clear to me. On!"

Saturday, May 14, 2005

Welcome

If you're arriving based on this interview at Godspy, welcome! If you're arriving here via some other avenue, why not go check it out? And while you're there, check out the rest of the site...

Friday, May 13, 2005

God the Father

Third Son is about 18 months old. He goes to sleep nursing almost every night. But last night, the wife was at a kitchenwarming for a friend who had just finished a badly need home addition. At 8:30, Third Son and I went to war on the bed. He was exhausted, but he never stopped fighting me. He got off the bed, collapsed on the floor, then climbed back on. He grabbed the flesh of my neck and arms and squeezed for all he was worth. He flung himself away, then flung himself against me, headfirst. When he was too tired to crawl, he flopped - away and back, away and back. He screamed when I tried to stroke his back or his belly to calm him. He flailed at the baby bottle full of apple juice, a bottle he usually loves. Rage had consumed him, good things were bad to him, Dad - normally the favorite - was the enemy. I couldn't snap him out of it, the way I do with my older kids, with a stern look and a raised voice. All I could do was watch and keep at him; keep singing lullabies; keep offering the bottle; keep trying to draw him close.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Bookmark

"He's a hedonist at heart. All those fasts and vigils and stakes and crosses are only a facade. Or only like foam on the sea shore. Out at sea, out in His sea, there is pleasure, and more pleasure. He makes no secret of it; at His right hand are 'pleasures for evermore.' Ugh! I don't think He has the least inkling of that high and austere mystery to which we rise in the Miserific Vision. He's vulgar, Wormwood. He has a bourgeois mind. He has filled His world full of pleasures. There are things for humans to do all day long without His minding the least - sleeping, washing, eating, drinking, making love, playing, praying, working. Everything has to be twisted before it's any use to us...

We are certain (it is a matter of first principles) that each member of the family must in some way be making capital out of the others - but we can't find out how. They guard as jealously as the Enemy Himself the secret of what really lies behind His pretence of disinterested love."

- Screwtape to Wormwood, The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis

I especially love that last bit, the way it gets at the notion that while good can comprehend evil, evil cannot comprehend good. It can only suppose good to be somehow evil like itself.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

More moviechat

Everybody knows Oscar loves a gimmick - the blind Pacino in Scent of a Woman, the autistic Hoffman in Rain Man, the crippled Day-Lewis in My Left Foot, etc. etc. So why they didn't give the statue to Bob Hoskins after Who Framed Roger Rabbit? is beyond me. The man played opposite a toon, for heaven's sake. Plus, he was brilliant.

On an unrelated note, the bourbonophile in me couldn't help notice his poison of choice... when he pours out the pint on the ground before heading back into Toontown, you can just see the Wild Turkey's tailfeathers poking out from beneath his fingers.

Which allows me to bring this post full circle - I believe Sean Penn did win the Oscar for Dead Man Walking, and in that film, when he relates the first time his daddy took him to a bar and told him to pick a bottle, he recalls asking for the one with the Turkey on it...

UPDATE: I may be chronically behind the times, but I was right in the zeitgeist with this one. Shortly after I posted, I stopped over at Amy Welborn's blog, and what did I find? Bourbon!

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Moviechat

The wife likes her movies harsh. The night after we watched Midnight Cowboy, she was asking about seeing it again - soon. I assured her that it would be at least a couple of years before I was ready to go through something like that again. The unremitting stench of desperation was murder on me. Gimme a screwball comedy anyday.

But I was excited about Closer. I had read the criticisms - too stagey, too boxed-off and antiseptic, despite its dirty talk. I was willing to risk it from some real honesty about modern sexual mores, and more importantly, for a two-couple movie from director Mike Nichols. Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? was harsh, but so brilliant that I was mesmerized. Hard to avoid the comparison and consequent anticipation.

I was let down. Closer had sex talk, but it didn't even sound as real as the over-the-top horrors in Your Friends and Neighbors. And more importantly, I never for a second believed that there was any real love between the couples. (The closest things got was Clive Owen's scene with Natalie Portman in the strip club, and they weren't even a couple. With George and Martha in Who's Afraid, you knew immediately that here were two people who loathed each other, but who were at the same time locked forever in a lover's embrace. Right away, you saw tenderness trying to break through, only to be squelched by the wrong word at the wrong time.

Who's Afraid may have left me chilled, but Closer left me cold.

Trent 'n Me

(Heads up: allusions to profanity and violence ahead. Reader discretion is advised.)

Swimming with Scapulars has been out for over a month now, and Amazon still won't post the Publisher's Weekly or Library Journal reviews on my book page. What they *will* post is the publisher's promo copy, which includes this interesting tidbit: "For a wine connoisseur and fan of Nine Inch Nails, 30-year-old Matthew Lickona lives an unusual inner life."

"A fan of Nine Inch Nails" is based upon a line from the book in which I say I'm capable of discussing the merits of Trent Reznor's music. "A fan" is a bit of a stretch.

*****

"I don't listen to Nine Inch Nails," said my friend. "That's devil music."

He was kidding about the devil music part, but it got at his response to the whole industrial nightmare sound that NIN (how the heck do you make your keyboard type a backwards N?) does so very well.

"I know what you mean," I answered, "but the lyrics are pretty remarkable. Ever hear Johnny Cash do "Hurt"?

"I love that song!"

I think maybe it helps to have a certain amount of rage inside you to match up to the sound that Nine Inch Nails makes. Dipping back into college for an analogy, rage prepares the matter to receive the form. If you're already agitated, an agitated music won't seem quite so jarring. I'm often frustrated, but I usually lack rage. The lyrics, on the other hand, you can stand back and admire no matter what your interior. And with "Hurt," as much as I love the Man in Black, I still give my nod to Reznor's original version - the throbbing piano, the plaintive howl:

The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything...

And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt.

*****

And then, of course, there's "Closer." There I am in Tile Club, looking for something to line the upstairs shower (we bought a house with three ruined bathrooms). As I peruse the six-inch tiles for something muted enough for the wife (no burnt orange!), I hear Trent's insistent whisper over the store's sound-system:

You let me violate you
You let me desecrate you
You let me penetrate you
You let me complicate you

Welcome to the shopping experience, circa 2003. The last line saves it from being simply violent, I think, but it's still not great for ambience.

The chorus is what made the song famous/infamous. After begging his listener, "Help me get away from myself" - a fine encapsulation of the reason behind any number of behaviors - he croons (and here it gets ugly):

I want to f*ck you like an animal
I want to feel you from the inside
I want to f*ck you like an animal
My whole existence is flawed
You get me closer to God.

Well, now. That's offensive, but so was the violence in The Passion. Is there a point to the violence, the offensiveness? I think so. The singer's whole existence is flawed - he's fallen, corrupted by sin. The object of the song is purer, less twisted, and consequently, more human (she is something that can be desecrated, a la the opening lines). He wants to violate that purity - it offends him. But can it be that, despite his violating her, she still retains something pure, something he cannot stain? Something that remains good, and what's more, remains attractive, even to the fallen? "You get me closer to God..." I don't know if this is what Trent was getting at, but I was never able to simply dismiss those lyrics as an Ugly Parade, the sort of thing Marilyn Manson might trot out.

Of course, that doesn't mean the song is fit for everyone, or that it should be played in Tile Club on a Saturday morning. Sometimes, George Michael singing "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" is the better choice. (Now there's a line that may come to haunt me. Did I just write that?)

Of course, "Closer" came out, what, six years ago? Godsbody - yesterday's lyrics, today!

Monday, May 09, 2005

Now We Are Seven

Here's the difficult thing (or rather, here's one of the difficult things) about NFP: it ain't black and white. If my understanding is correct, you don't get to make a hard-and-fast rule like, "No conceptions for three years after baby number four is born." In a way, a hard-and-fast rule would make it easier, perhaps especially for a guy. "Rules is rules; you wanna play the game, you follow the rules."

But no. Instead, you have to discuss, weigh particular circumstances, try to discern God's will (that pesky thing) - in short, exercise prudence and remain open. That makes things fuzzy, and it may tempt a guy (me) to think along the lines of, "You mean there's no hard-and-fast rule against spitballs? Here comes the spitter!" And THEN, if in the course of your discussion, the wife indicates that she's been thinking positively about baby number five... your chances of conception improve considerably.

Baby number four was a boy, leaving baby number three (our daughter) adrift in a sea of testosterone. Watching our little girl light up whenever a girl (of any age, right up through the early sixties) came into the house may have had something to do with the wife's interest in conceiving again. Number four is a tough one, the toughest yet, so she thought she'd maybe like to hold off a while, and we did. But now... now we have finally filled our minivan. Now we have a basketball team.

If I ever write a novel about this strange little subculture of mine, I'm thinking of having the kids refer to big families by the size of an athletic team they could fill. Five kids: "Hoops." Seven: "Rugby." Nine: "Hardball."

Sunday, May 08, 2005

Someone tell Michael Stipe...

...youth will be shackled by irony no longer!
Think I'm gonna get me on one of these. You see a Williamsburg hipster bar-hopping his way around Brooklyn while wearing this T-shirt, it's funny. You see me dragging four little monsters hopped up on Choco-mallow Blast out of a Baskin Robbins while wearing this T-shirt, it's hilarious.

Saturday, May 07, 2005

In Utero

Why the buzz about Brit Brit's baby? Before that, why the buzz about whether or not she was pregnant? Why the buzz about any celebrity pregnancy?
Why was it his ex-wife's pregnancy that finally convinced Miles in Sideways that she was forever out of his reach? (It was only after receiving that news that he finally went and uncorked his '61 Cheval Blanc.) Yes, I know I'm feasting on Sideways like a turkey vulture on a particularly ripe Wildebeest.
But what is it about that blob of cells in the uterus?

Friday, May 06, 2005

Jack Chick, Behind the Times

According to this, the Jesuits "have captured and broken nations. They have started wars and murdered kings and presidents, including Abraham Lincoln." They formed the communist party in Russia, and coached Marx and Engels. They orchestrated the Holocaust. And they're the real power behind the papacy!

Of course, that was all written in '82. If Chick would only read the papers, he'd know that these days, it's all about Opus Dei.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

Speaking of Spider-Man...

...or rather, of comics in general (a la the tail end of the Hodgepodge post):

First son is eight tomorrow, and has of late been on a comic book jag. We bought him a few of the Marvel Age titles, the ones that are aimed at younger readers (i.e. less cleavage, etc.). Things have changed.

We bought a Fantastic Four anthology, one that reworked the first issues from the series. The FF came to be when Reed Richards & Co. ventured into space in the name of exploration - Reed is an intellectual giant - and were exposed to cosmic rays. But in the retelling, there's a wrinkle thrown in - viz the scene where Reed convinces Ben Grimm (who will be tragically transformed into the Thing) to pilot the spacecraft (edited for length):

Reed: I don't need to tell you that the people currently running the White House aren't all that fond of spending billions on space research. We so close to finishing the craft, but... they cut the funding, Ben.

Ben: Whoa, whoa! Hold on there, zippy! Yer askin' me ta sneak into a government facility wit'chu an' steal a rocketship?

Sue (Reed's fiancee): You know how long this has been a dream of Reed's. It's just not fair!

Reed: Think about it, Ben. Think of all we could learn -- think of the good it could do for all mankind!

Ben: Aw, cripes...

Evil? Evil is governments that cut funding and crush Reed's dream, which just isn't fair. Good? Good is scientific advancement. Evil certainly isn't theft, or at least, it's not so evil that the ends fail to justifty the means. Ben, as you can tell from his slang, isn't so bright - that's why he's hung up on the whole stealing thing. But when Reed explains that ends justify means - that the potential good outweighs the actual evil - even Ben comes around.

In a later issue, we get it again. The Black Panther is marveling that Reed will help him, even after the Panther kidnapped the Human Torch as a way of getting the FF to his homeland.

Reed: To protect my own family, I would do whatever I had to. No one here can hold that against you.

Whatever you had to, Reed? That's not the Reed Richards I know. The old Mister Fantastic was a moral giant as well as an intellectual one. Case in point: Galactus is a cosmic giant who eats entire worlds to survive. While the family was back in my childhood manse, we dug up a bunch of my brother's old comics for First Son, including FF 243, which featured a battle royal against Galactus, who once again was gearing up to devour the earth's energy. Joining the FF in the fight to stop Galactus were Thor, Captain America, Iron Man, Doctor Strange - the biggies.

First, a preamble to admire the writing (it aint' just the art that's gone simple):

Reed: Galactus, please! I beg you! There are four billion souls upon this earth! In the name of humanity, you cannot do this!

Galactus: Speak not to me of humanity, Reed Richards! You talk of color to one struck blind. My humanity is lost in the swirling mists of time. Yes, once even Galactus was a man, a mere mortal such as you, though memories of that life are but a dim and dying pain within my heart. The past is done and gone, and mourn it though we may, it cannot be retrieved. So do not speak to me of four billion lives. Galactus has seen the end of forty times four billion worlds! Must we know grief for each of these? Had he but tears to cry, Galactus could weep oceans in their memory, and in the end, they would still be dead, and madness would at last have claimed me. So do I turn my thoughts ever from that path, for one foot set upon it, and is a journey begun from which no creature ever could return. Now.. let the final switch be thrown...

Thor (hurling a thunderbolt): I say thee NAY!

Even Galactus, the world-eater, exists in a moral universe. Even he must tremble in the face of what he has done, and keep his foot off the path of remembrance, lest he go mad. What follows is a magnificent battle, one that, incredibly, sees the defeat of Galactus. A key moment in that battle comes when Doctor Strange reaches into the "darkest corners of Galactus' mind to confront him with the ghosts of all those he has slain."

Reed: No wonder he collapsed. His mind must have closed completely to escape madness!

Once the dust settles, our heroes discover that Galactus, starved and unconscious, is "only moments from death."

The Human Torch: Well, I hate to sound hard-hearted, but that will solve everything, won't it?

Reed: No, Johnny, it won't. And if you'll think for a moment, you'll realize our problems have only begun!

Captain America: I know what you're going to say, Reed, and I concur. Galactus may be the greatest menace we've ever faced, but he is also a living being.

The Thing: Stretch, ya don't mean...

Reed: We have no choice, old friend. We have to save Galactus!

Here, the Thing is once again a step slow on the uptake, but when Reed corrects him, it's not to encourage him to break the rules, but to uphold them absolutely. As I said, things have changed. The old Reed Richards is not the sort of man who would do anything to protect his family. In fact, in order to do what he believes is right, he is willing to put his family - and the lives of everyone on earth - in danger. To save Galactus, after all, means renewing the threat he poses to earth.

Now I know this is a comic book. And I know there are arguments to be made, subtleties of moral reasoning to be teased out. But here's my general objection: once you remove the moral universe, once the ends justify the means, what really separates the heroes from the villains? And which Reed Richards would you rather introduce your children to?

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Eyes Front

This late thing is getting pathological. National Poetry month ended on April 30; today is May 4, and I’m just getting this post up. Lightning-quick, up to the minute blogger I ain’t. There’s a reason for this parchment background, it seems – here at Godsbody, it’s yesterday’s news today!

Poetry Daily sent out a poem of the day during National Poetry month, complete with commentary from some lucky poet. The 29th featured this one:

"God's Grandeur"
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights of the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

“God’s Grandeur” is one of the few poems I know (almost) by heart, one of the few that creeps out of my long-term memory now and then and makes itself heard. The reason is that it hung, framed, on the downstairs bathroom wall of my childhood home. At certain times, I found myself standing before that wall, gazing forward with little to do except read what was in front of me. It is not, perhaps, the way a poet dreams of being read, but it was effective. The poem had my complete attention.

I was in the Philly airport recently, and found myself in a similar situation. But instead of a poem, I found myself looking in a wall-to-wall mirror – as did the gentlemen to my right and left. Disastrous. Even if you kept your eyes fixed straight ahead as good manners required in such a situation, your peripheral vision would pick up your neighbors’ reflected faces. It’s not a time when guys are especially interested in looking at one another.

Here’s a better idea – a tickertape newsline running the length of the wall. Or bring in Madison Avenue and put ads in there. Few other venues could so effectively garner a man’s undivided attention. Imagine it in the bars – “When you get back out there, try a Grey Goose martini!” Your viewer will be thinking about that Grey Goose martini the whole time he’s in there.

As for me, I’m thinking about framing a poem or two.

Monday, May 02, 2005

Hodgepodge

...in which we reference a whole bunch of stuff and see if it hangs together...
Still reading C. Vann Woodward's The Burden of Southern History, enjoying it immensely. In his essay, The Historical Dimension, in which he considers the Southern novelists and their significance for historians, he writes, "In the work of some later writers the historical perspective is even more flat. Hemingway's characters appear to live completely in the present. To emphasize their historical rootlessness they are invariably pictured as expatriates, as wanderers, as soldiers or adventurers. They are temporarily in Italy or Spain, in France or Africa, in Cuba or the Florida Keys. A Hemingway hero with a grandfather is inconceivable, and he is apparently quite as bereft of uncles, aunts, cousins, and in-laws, not to mention neighbors and poor relations." The Southern novelist, on the other hand, welcomes the past into the present, including those who have gone before.

I recently purchased DVD's of both the Tyrone Power Zorro and the Errol Flynn Robin Hood for my kids. I love both movies, and they share much - outlaws fighting corrupt governments for the sake of the people, great feats of derring-do, charming doses of wit, lovely maidens trapped in corrupt aristocratic worlds and longing for the adventure of love, even the splended villainy of Basil Rathbone and the portly piety of Eugene Pallette. But what struck me about Zorro was that it opened with an act of filial piety. Don Diego is living happily in Spain, dueling and courting and cutting a fine figure. Then his father calls him home to what he fears will be boring, provincial California. But he obeys without protest; his father has called him.

When he gets back to California, he finds his father has been deposed, and a tyrant placed in his stead. His mission is to restore justice, but it is also to restore his father. In the course of his efforts, he must deceive his father into thinking he is a spineless fop - a painful sacrifice. Robin Hood is a Hemingway hero; Zorro has a family to think of, a father to obey and love. Robin Hood may be a more fantabulous movie in the end, but I love that familial dimension in Zorro.

Spider-Man is the same way. Batman is an orphan. Superman is an orphan AND an alien. But Spider-Man has Aunt May to consider. And Uncle Ben, whose murder he could have prevented. There's no guilt like family guilt.

Howdy

If anyone happens upon this blog as a result of this piece in US News & World Report or this review in Image, welcome! And please feel free to share your thoughts on the pieces. I'll be back to blog more a little later in the day. Right now, my youngest is letting me know that attention must be paid.

Sunday, May 01, 2005

The Consolation of Faith

Friend Joseph the Poet brought a sheaf of his stuff from Wisconsin when he came visiting - I read the opening line of "The Reader" this morning as I munched an omelet (poet-fashioned) stuffed with the shredded remains of last night's braised short-ribs:

In the chore of reading - each unread page that spills before me
Is part of heaven's impossible body of knowledge, by sheaf and ream
Full of language's drifting constellations (the intrigue of texture)...

I liked "heaven's impossible body of knowledge" very much, especially when it was invoked with regard to books. There is a kind of despair I am tempted toward every time I enter a bookstore - there is just. so. much. there. The blogosphere? Same thing. The Interweb in general? Impossible. Only heaven could encompass all this. But there is a genuine consolation, however minor, in the belief in a provident God. If there is providence in the fall of a sparrow, I needn't be anxious about what I have read and what I have failed to read. I can wander and sample without anxiety, read what comes to me through conversation and curiosity. I will, I fear, never be really well-read; but I will continue to read and try not to fret. I don't have to worry about missing something as wonderful and funny as this, though if there is anyone out there who has not yet seen it, you really should take a look.