Author Archive for Murder of Ravens

17
Jul

Time for some campaignin’!!

Yeah, okay, I know I said I was busy, but a friend sent me this, and three things immediately crossed my mind. The first was, out of over 300 million people in this country, our choices for president add up to two. And when you get right down to it, it’s really a question of which bozo you thinks represents the lesser of the two evils.

The second thing was that I’m grateful to live in a country where this sort of thing can be created and viewed without fear of reprisal from the government.  Freedom of speech is a beautiful thing.  Even with all its problems, this country is still a far better place to live than most.

The third thing? Cheat post! But it’s a pretty funny cheat post, so I hope you enjoy it. I certainly got a few chuckles out of it.

For what it’s worth, this is also the very first time I’ve ever embedded a video here on MOR. Yeah, I know, big whoop.

-Smith

15
Jul

not a whole lotta bloggin’ goin’ on

For once I have a legitimate excuse.  I’m working late every night this week, and by the time I get home, I’m just too darn tired to do much blogging.  Things are a little crazy these days around the old cigar store.

Without going into details, all I can say is thank God for Murphy.

Be back soon.

-Smith

03
Jul

The shakedown begins today

Normally, I don’t like to let other people speak for me, but today I read this column by Howie Carr of the Boston Herald, and it’s as if he had read my mind. This is one of those rare times when I can honestly say that I absolutely, positively agree with everything he says here.

But before I hand it off to Howie, I want to make a few points of my own. First, I am not trying to defend cigarettes. Anyone who hasn’t lived under a rock for the last forty years knows that cigarettes are bad for you. But it’s unfair and just plain wrong to keep picking the pockets of smokers simply because they have become a politically impotent minority. Funny how you never see anyone suggest an increase in the tax on booze.

It simply amazes me how proponents of this tax manage to say–with a straight face–that this increase will simultaneously decrease smoking and increase revenue. Those who think they can tax tobacco out of existence are sadly deluded on two counts. First, there are three things that humans have always done: drink, smoke, and gamble. They have always been willing to spend money to do these things, and they have always been willing to break the law to do these things. Laws prohibiting these things have never actually stopped them, merely driven them underground and into the hands of criminals.

Secondly, they are truly deluded if they think the government really wants to eliminate smoking. Tobacco taxes are an integral part of any state’s budget. Without tobacco taxes, there would be a serious shortfall that would have to be made up with–guess what?–more taxes.

But there is such a thing as killing the proverbial goose that lays the golden egg. You can push people too far, and, judging from conversations I’ve had with people, we in Taxachusetts may very well be at that point. Governor Tailpipe tells us that it will raise $1.74 million in new tax revenue. Yeah, for New Hampshire. Live Free or Die? Well, New Hampshire may not be free, but they’re a hell of a lot cheaper than Massachusetts.

Howie mentions that the vote was 93-52, with 33 Democrats joining the 19 lonely Republicans in our state House. Had there been a Republican governor in the Corner Office instead of Governor Tailpipe, a veto could have been sustained.

Where have you gone, William Weld? Our Commonwealth turns it’s lonely eyes to you.

-Smith

01
Jul

More things that are pissing me off

One of the great things about living in Massachusetts is that it is impossible for me to pick up a newspaper and not find something that winds me up so much I want to blog about it. Unfortunately, I don’t always find the time to do so. So much insanity, so little time. And so, tonight I’m just going to wind up and let it fly. Here are a few things that are pissing me off right now:

Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick: Don’t blame me, I voted for Kerry Healy. Unfortunately, the majority of people in this notoriously liberal state were sucked in by this fast talkin’ salesman. Where do I begin with this guy?

For starters, Governor Tailpipe is once again pushing legislation that would grant illegal immigrants the right to attend state colleges here at the substantially reduced, in-state tuition rate. He calls it a matter of “simple justice”. He really doesn’t seem to understand that the citizens of a state with one of the highest tax burdens in the country simply don’t want their tax dollars to provide free or reduced college tuition to someone who shouldn’t even be here in the first place. Of course, this should come as no surprise from a governor who also favors giving illegal immigrants drivers’ licenses.

With the exception of the Indigenous American Tribes (and even their ancestors originally came from Asia), everyone living in the United States is either an immigrant, or the descendant of immigrants. I am the descendant of immigrants. The difference is my ancestors did it legally. They got jobs, learned the English language, and became citizens. So the operative word here is not “immigrant”. The operative word is “illegal”. An illegal immigrant is, by definition, breaking the law. When you’re breaking the law you have few rights; at best you have privileges. You certainly don’t have the right to make demands.

Truth be told, I consider myself a moderate on this issue. I really don’t blame anyone for wanting to live here instead of a shit hole like Mexico. I’m all in favor of devising a system that can help foreigners become citizens, and thereby encourage others to do it the right way as well. But all that said, I don’t believe in rewarding people for breaking the law. Apparently Governor Tailpipe does.

Moving right long, the Governor is just giddy at the prospect of signing a bill that would increase the tax on a pack of cigarettes to $2.51 per pack, making Massachusetts number two in the nation in this regard, behind only New Jersey. Cigarette taxes are like crack to the politicians on Beacon Hill. The eternal problem for politicians is how to raise taxes without getting themselves booted out of office. Raising taxes makes the voters mad, and voters can send them back to the Dreaded Private Sector quite easily if they get mad enough. Enter the tobacco tax. For your typical rapacious politician, it’s like a gift from God: they get to stick their grubby hands even deeper into someone’s pocket and still look like heroes to the soccer moms, since it’s usually not the soccer moms’ pocket that’s being picked. Really, it’s almost too good to be true if you’re a politician.

There’s only one problem with this gutless, cynical bullshit: it doesn’t work. Politicians breathlessly tell us “It’s for the children”. But the money doesn’t go towards education, at least not in Massachusetts. It just goes into the general fund to balance the budget. But it sure makes the soccer moms happy to believe that “it’s for the children”.

They tell us that the goal is to raise revenue, and to encourage people to quit smoking. Sadly, the liberal lemmings in this state actually buy this argument. What seems to elude them is the simple fact you can’t raise revenue AND reduce smoking. It’s one or the other. You can’t have both.

And in fact, it’s probably going to be neither. People aren’t going to quit, nor will the state raise the revenue it’s hoping to, since people are just going to buy cigarettes in New Hampshire or over the Internet. God forbid they should raise the tax on booze a few cents, but they won’t: that would actually take some guts.

The sheer hypocrisy of all this lies in the fact that a few months ago, Governor Tailpipe, Senate President Therese Murray, and House Speaker Sal DiMasi held a joint press conference to announce that there would be no new broad based taxes in Massachusetts this year. Of course, they were careful to mention that the cigarette tax is not broad based. Apparently they’re not aware that in this country there are still over 150 millions smokers. Sounds pretty broad based to me.

Further bear in mind that most (although by no means all) cigarette smokers come from the lower end of the economic spectrum. I find it supremely ironic that while the Democratic Party in this state loves to trumpet itself as the liberal, compassionate hero of the poor and working class, compassion for the poor evidently goes out the window when they smell a fast buck.

Next, we come to James Fagan, the Democratic State Rep. from Taunton. Having evidently decided that lawyers and politicians aren’t despised enough, Rep. Fagan apparently decided to fix all that. In a bizarre speech delivered from the State House floor, Fagan argued against a mandatory 20 year sentence for the rape of a child under twelve. I’m not even going to try to paraphrase what this nitwit said. Click here and listen for yourself.

Now, in fairness to Rep. Fagan, the video that is circulating around the internet does rather conveniently cut in at just the right point to make him look as bad as possible. What the clip doesn’t show is Fagan setting up his remarks by stating that he is talking about a hypothetical defense attorney, not necessarily himself (although I rather suspect that Fagan, a defense attorney, would not shrink from those tactics).

But even if we allow for that, he still showed remarkably poor judgment in the way he presented his argument. Beyond that, there are still some rather disturbing issues here. First and foremost, Rep. Fagan feels that a twenty year sentence for raping a child under 12 is “draconian”. All sarcasm aside for a moment, when I first read this story, my first reaction was, “only 20 years for child rape? That’s pretty lenient.” Now perhaps this was just Fagan’s defense attorney instincts kicking in, but that leads me to the inescapable conclusion that Fagan is really just another lawyer/legislator, bending the rules to suit his trade simply because he can.

As tempting as it is to think otherwise, even a child molester in entitled to a fair trial. More importantly, the rights of those falsely accused must be protected. But the other issue is, what do we do with an eight year old victim/witness? Should she even be on the stand at all? While there is certainly room for debate here, I think most people would agree that a child who has already been violently traumatized once should be spared the further trauma of what would await her if her attacker ever had James Fagan for a defense attorney. This was, in fact Fagan’s point. But the fear of further traumatizing a child is a compelling argument for changing the way that child would give evidence, not for giving a child molester a cushy plea bargain to avoid a trial

Ironically, Fagan was the solon who proposed legislation to lower the blood alcohol limit from .08 to .02, which could put drivers who have even one beer or glass of wine during dinner over the limit. Luckily, this bit of nonsense never made it off the ground. I guess in the world of James Fagan, having a beer after work is off limits, but throwing a child rapist in jail for twenty years? Draconian!

Well, that’s all for now, but rest assured, in Massachusetts, there’s always more where this came from.

-Smith

18
Jun

Faith Affirmed

Last October, while I was in California on vacation, I was going through a crisis of faith, as many believers occasionally do. Maybe it was all that time I spent debating the atheists, but for whatever reason, I began to question my own beliefs. And so, on a chilly October night, while I was standing on a beach contemplating the sun setting over the Pacific Ocean,  I prayed, like many millions of believers before me. I asked God to give me a sign, a small sign, any sign at all, that He exists.

A few nights later, the Red Sox rallied from a 3-1 deficit in the American League Championship series to beat the Cleveland Indians, and went on to steamroll the Colorodo Rockies and win their second World Series in four years. Later, the New England Patriots ran off a perfect, first-in-history, 16-0 perfect season. Two Red Sox rookie pitchers have thrown no-hitters, one in just his second major league start, and another after battling back from cancer. And last night, after 22 years in the wilderness, the Boston Celtics won their 17th NBA Championship.

God is not only going out of his way to show me He exists, but He is clearly revealing himself to be a big Boston fan.

“But wait a minute”, you object, “the Patriots LOST the Super Bowl, remember? Where was your God then?”

Like all men of faith, I never let an inconvenient fact get in the way of my dearly held beliefs. To my mind, the fact that they lost simply validates the theology of Manichaeism.

“Hold on, not so fast”, you say. “What about the Bruins? They haven’t won anything in years! What’s your God doing for them?”

Oh, that’s easy, I scoff, secure in my faith: God, like all sentient beings with an IQ higher than the room temperature, doesn’t give a shit about hockey.

Finally you trot out your last, and seemingly most devastating argument: “Surely Lakers fans were praying for their team. Wasn’t God listening to them?”

The True Believer will already know the answer to this question:

No.

Obviously.

Ok, moving off this rather dubious metaphysical plane, I realize it may be difficult for some to realize just how big this is for the Boston sports fan. Bostonians, in all frankness, have suffered from a collective inferiority complex for a long, long time. The Patriots (or as they were formerly known, the Patsies) were, for years, the doormats of the NFL.

The Red Sox were like that girl in college who teased the hell out of you, but always ultimately left you high and dry. The Sox always played second fiddle to the New York Yankees. New York got Joe DiMaggio, Boston got Dom DiMaggio. New York got Babe Ruth. Boston got “No, No, Nanette”. The Yankees won 26 World Series. The Red Sox won two pennants.

And on top of all that, New York and L. A. are just bigger, glitzier, and occupy a more prominent place on the world stage. The really, really rich and famous don’t live in Boston. They live in New York or L. A.

But the one thing we Bostonians always had was the Celtics. “Celtics Pride” translated into Boston Pride. They perennially gave us a reason to hold our heads up. In 13 seasons between 1957 and 1969, the Celtics won the NBA Championship an astounding 11 times, including a mind boggling 8 consecutive championships between 1959 and 1966. They beat the Lakers in the finals seven times (eight, if you count the 1959 finals when the Lakers were still in Minneapolis). It was an unparalleled record of success that even the Yankees couldn’t match. No matter how bad the Patsies were, no matter how many times the Red Sox disappointed us, no matter how out of control our collective inferiority complex got, we always had the Celtics.

The Celtics remained a force to be reckoned with and a source of regional pride throughout the ’70’s and ’80’s, winning four more championships, including one more over the Lakers. But after their 1986 Championship over the Houston Rockets, the famous Celtics “luck of the Irish” began to run out.

The first ominous sign that the Leprechaun had deserted them was the unexpected death of their first round draft pick, Len Bias. Touted as the successor to Larry Bird, he died of a cocaine induced heart attack, ironically while at a party celebrating his being drafted by the Celtics.

A few years later, in July of 1993, Reggie Lewis, another rising young star, died of a heart attack brought on by hypertrophic cardiomyopathy at the age of 27.

What followed from then on were years in which the Celtics occasionally enjoyed periods of mediocrity, but more often just plain stunk. The glory years of the past seemed like the stuff of mythology. The Celtics were just one more basketball team, nothing special.

But today, that’s all changed. Boston is now home to arguably the best baseball, football, and basketball teams in the world. Boston is second best to no one. Sometimes God does answer prayers.

Sometimes He even says “yes”.

-smith

09
Jun

life is good in california

I’ve probably drunk more rum and tequila in the last week than I have in the previous ten years. Must be something in the California air that makes me crave strange, fruity drinks. I remember one rum soaked afternoon where I told the waiter that I didn’t care what he brought me as long as it was blue. I have a vague memory of it tasting like banana. Blue Banana? Who knows?

I have made one hell of a lot of candles.

Haven’t been near a computer much. Right now I’m stealing time on my little sister’s office computer (naughty, naughty Smith) to write this. I know I have quite a few comments to respond to, and I will get to them, but right now the candles are calling.

I’ll be home on Wednesday. It occurred to me that writing a post about my fear of flying might have been bad Karma, but what’s done is done. If you never see another post from me, you can draw your own conclusions.

-Smith

03
Jun

Fear of Flying

It’s not really a fear of flying.  It’s a fear of crashing.  At maximum takeoff weight, a jetliner can weigh up to 750,000 pounds, and the only things keeping it in the air are two thin pieces of aluminum and the theory of aerodynamics.  Somehow the idea of ending my life in a ball of fire and twisted metal with my arms and legs and entrails spewed all over the side of a mountain gets into my already over active imagination and does its worst. 

Of course, the worst part wouldn’t be the crash itself.  Chances are I wouldn’t even feel a thing.  It’s the anticipation that would be so awful.  The airlplane hurtling out of control.  The engines screaming.  The passengers sreaming.  G forces crushing you against your seat.  And worst of all, you have several long seconds, maybe even minutes, to be truly, truly terrified at the horrible death that you will soon be experiencing.

Yup, that’s me.  Steve Smith: afraid–no, make that terrified–to fly. 

By now my family has gotten used to the unpleasant change in my personality the day before I have to fly and they just stay the hell away from me.  The night before I fly I always have one of two recurring nightmares.  One is where the plane is jockeying down the highway, dodging cars and trying to find an opportune time to take off.  Once it does, it always attempts to fly under a bridge, but I always wake up just before the plane hits the bridge.  In the other dream, I am sitting on TOP of the plane as it’s cruising at 37,000 feet, desperately looking for something to hang on to.  It’s always one or the other, and to this day I have no way of knowing which one it will be, or why.

But I do not let my fear of flying prevent me from flying.  I would simply miss out on too much.  And, if the truth be told, I’ve gotten better about this as I’ve gotten older.  Now I’m only afraid of the takeoffs and landings.  The bit in between I’ve more or less learned to be ok with.  Usually.

Not this time.  For some reason, the plane hit an unusual amount of turbulence soon after takeoff and for the next hour I sat clutching the arms of my seat.  I did notice that none of the other passengers seemed terribly concerned about the extreme danger they were in, but I attributed this to the fact that they were simply too stupid to realize that they were all about to die the aforementioned fiery death.  As the plane bounced around the airpockets like a ping pong ball in a lottery machine, my mind was simply singing with fear.

Then a happy thought found its way into my terror stricken brain: alcohol.  They don’t serve Bushmill’s on Jet Blue, sadly.  But desperate situations call for drastic measures, so I settled for Glenlivet.  The flight attendant also seemed blissfully ignorant of our shared peril.  He beamed a perfect toothpaste commercial smile at me as he brought my drink.  “Does this happen a lot?”, I asked.  “Oh, sure, just some turbulence.  Nothing to worry about.  Happens all the time”.  Another megawatt smile, followed by a curiously knowing look. “I’ll keep your tab open.  We’ll settle up just before we land.” 

By the fifth Glenlivet, I noticed that the pilot’s flying skills had improved considerably, and the airplane was cruising along quite nicely now, thank you very much.  I had Thomas Tallis on the headphones, and Arthur Conan Doyle in my hands, and a newfound serenity about flying.  I think I’m on to something here.

While Googling for pictures for this post, I came upon this rather interesting article, which in fact puts the whole fear of flying thing into perspective.  I agree with almost everything the author writes. 

Except for the part about alcohol.  Maybe they’ll even serve Bushmill’s on the next flight.

-Smith

02
Jun

California redux

I’m off to California for ten days. I may or may not blog, depending on my mood, and whether or not I can browbeat my little sister into letting me use her computer.

I will probably make a lot of candles by day, and party my ass off by night.

For those of you who care, I have responded to just about everyone’s comments. As always, please know that I am always thrilled when someone leaves one, even if I am at times slow to respond.

One notable exception is the Be Afraid post. This is mainly because I honestly and respectfully differ with some of the comments. This is not to say they’re not valid or well put; they are. Nor is this to say that I don’t welcome differing opinions, I certainly do. As many of you know, I love debate.

But I do feel as though I need to think this issue through a little more before I respond. The comments were obviously well thought out, so I feel I owe it to those who commented to leave equally well thought out responses. So I’m going to ponder this issue a bit more, probably while lounging on some California beach, before I return and run logical circles around all of you. ;)

Assuming, of course, I ever return at all. 8)

-Smith

24
May

In memorium: Gene Clark

Today, May 24th, is an important one in the history of rock ‘n roll. Not only is today Bob Dylan’s birthday, but it is also the day of the passing of someone who was often compared to him, Gene Clark.

Gene who, you ask? It is amazing to me how obscure this immensely talented songwriter has become. He is, perhaps, the greatest songwriter no one has ever heard of.

You have, of course, heard him sing. When you listen to The Byrds’ “Turn! Turn! Turn!”, the voice you’re hearing is Gene Clark, double tracked. Oh, you say, HIM! Sure, I know him. That was his name?

Gene Clark’s all too short life ended on May 24th, 1991, from a bleeding ulcer brought on by a lifetime of alcohol abuse. During his life he was overshadowed by bandmates David Crosby and Roger McGuinn. But in a 27 year career, first with The Byrds, and later as a solo artist, he gifted the world with some of it’s finest songs.

His best songs were marked by a mournful beauty. Here is a list of some of my favorites. For those of you with an iTunes account, every one of them is well worth the price of the download.

To begin with some of his work with The Byrds:

“Feel a Whole Lot Better”: Easily his most famous song. Gene didn’t write love songs, he wrote breakup songs, and no one did it better. David Crosby once quipped that every time Clark broke up with a girlfriend The Byrds got a new song out of it. Ironically, it was Tom Petty’s cover of this song in 1989, and the subsequent royalties it generated for Clark, that ultimately led to an acceleration in his bad habits which contributed to his untimely death.

The World Turns All Around Her: An early, far more obscure Byrds tune. What makes this song interesting is how Clark deftly changes keys, entering into a moody, almost modal minor key by the third line. One of his early gems.

My Love Don’t Care About Time: A classic. One of the hallmarks of the Byrds style at that time was their strong vocals. Unlike many rock ‘n roll bands, these guys could sing, and they harmonized like a church choir. It’s all here: interesting lyrics (he was often compared to Dylan as a lyricist), gorgeous instrumentals, and very strong vocals. One blogger has called it “the perfect song”.

“Set You Free This Time”: One of my all time favorites. By the time he wrote this, he was already showing signs of moving beyond the archetypal Byrds sound, and creating something uniquely his. Once again demonstrating that the comparison to Dylan was justified, the biting lyrics provide an interesting twist on the classic breakup song.

“Changing Heart”: The Byrds did a reunion album in 1973. While most critics found the album disappointing, they agreed that Clark’s two songs, “Full Circle”, and “Changing Heart”, were easily the album’s high points. “Changing Heart” is a catchy, rock/country fusion number that shows Clark’s melodic gifts at their best.

His solo career was marked by critical acclaim, but not a whole lot of commercial success, largely due to his reluctance to tour due to a fear of flying. Here are some of my favorites:

“Lady of the North”: The solo album “No Other” was neither a critical nor a commercial success. This had a crushing effect on him, as he (rightly, as it turned out) regarded it as his magnum opus. Ironically, nowadays it is regarded as a lost masterpiece. “Lady of the North”, while perhaps a little over produced, is still one of his finest songs, with its soaring vocals and poetic lyrics. On his gravestone, the words “No Other” form his only epitaph.

“Gypsy Rider”: Late in life he teamed with Carla Olson to record an album entitled “So Rebellious a Lover”, which turned out to be his best selling album. He had also recorded this song several years earlier a a demo (released posthumously on the “Gypsy Angel” album), and the two versions played side by side offer a striking comparison of his voice in his earlier and later years. By the time he recorded this version, the years of self abuse had had their effect. But in some ways, his voice is actually better, at least for this song. It is deeper, rougher, and tinged with the world weary melancholy that was at the core of his soul. Olson’s harmonies are haunting in this version.

“Kathleen”: In 2001, Evangeline Records released a collection of demo’s on an album entitled “Gypsy Angel”. While inconsistent, as one might expect a collection of demo’s to be, there are two truly standout songs here. “Kathleen”, while yet another song about lost love, is unique in Clark’s output in that it is told from a third person perspective. It is a heartbreakingly beautiful ballad about a woman who waits for her husband to return from sea. The starkly simple arrangement of Clark’s voice, guitar and harmonica perfectly convey the woman’s anguish and sorrow. Probably my favorite Clark song.

“Your Fire Burning”: Fair warning: the recording quality is not great on this, as it, too, was a demo from “Gypsy Angel”. Clearly this was a work in progress, as it does tend to meander a bit. No doubt Clark would have cleaned it up had he lived. But for all that, Clark’s uniquely mournful and melancholy style is on full display in this song. Knowing what we know about his life and death, when he sings the lyrics, “I can never replace/The time that I didn’t know/You were trying to love/Someone out of control”, it is almost too painful to listen to.

Every one of these songs, and many others as well, is worth a 99 cent download. He deserves to be more well recognized. Someday, I hope he will be.

-Smith

21
May

I’m not going anywhere

It was all going so well, too. But all of a sudden, my little ship of life sailed into some stormy waters. I won’t bore you with the details. You have your problems; you don’t need to hear about mine.

As usual, the blog got the short end of the stick. Blogslackery is my stock in trade, but this hasn’t been blockslackery, this has been total blog neglect. I get that. I have treated the people who have supported me in a very shabby fashion indeed. Those who take the time to leave comments deserve to have those comments acknowledged, and I have not done that. I have been a bad blogger.

I am (as many of you have probably figured out) manic depressive. I offer this as an explanation, not an excuse. The events going on in my life have been such that I have found it difficult to muster the energy to even get out of bed and live my life, let alone write creatively.

A well intentioned fellow blogger suggested that perhaps a hiatus might be in order. In fact, that’s how this post started. It was going to be my farewell (for now) post. “Dear friends, it is with a heavy heart that I write these lines…..”

And then a thought hit me, out of the blue as it were…

FUCK THAT.

Yes, there are things in my life now that suck. A lot. Yes, I feel like shit and there are days I don’t even want to get out of bed. There are days when I have to force myself to remember that I will not find the answer to my problems at the bottom of a bottle of Bushmill’s.

I will not be silenced by my own demons. I have things to say, and a unique way of saying them. I will write what I want, I will express my opinions, I will be heard.

Depression, you can KISS MY ASS!!

And to those who cared enough to give me some tough love (and you know who you are), I have two things to say:

1) You’re all a pain in the ass.

2) I thank you. With all my heart.

Sorry, kids, you’re stuck with me.

-smith

17
May

an apology….

….to the many friends I have been neglecting lately.

I can’t go into details, but there’s a lot of negative things going on with me lately, so the blog, as usual, gets short shrift.  I value all of you, your comments, your emails, and, of course, your own writings.

I beg a little further indulgence.  Hopefully things get back to normal around here.

-smith

15
May

Drawn to art

There are three things I have always wanted to do before I die: skydive (at least) once, learn to play Brahms on the piano, and learn to paint. Having recently turned 46, I’m at a stage in my life where I realize that the ride is half over, so if I’m going to do any of these things, it had better be soon.

It is highly unlikely that I will be able to do all three. While I don’t think there’s anyone who loves music more than I, and even pride myself on a rather extensive knowledge of classical music, I have found, through hard experience, that I have no musical talent whatsoever. Frankly, I have a better chance of meeting Brahms than ever playing his music. Some of us are just born to listen.

I intend to take up skydiving just as soon as I can get over my fear of flying. I do fly, when I have to, but I loath the experience. In fact, it’s my very hatred of airplanes that makes me think I can do this: I hate them so much I honestly think I’ll jump out of one just to get away from it.

But for the moment, I’ve decided to try my hand at the third, somewhat more realistic goal: learning to paint.

A good friend of mine introduced me to Edwina, a 70 something art teacher from England. Edwina is, to put it mildly, a hoot. Barely five feet in height, she has so much energy she simply dominates the room with her presence. And she talks exactly like one would expect a 70 year old English art teacher to talk. Combine the voices of Queen Elizabeth and Alfred Hitchcock, and you’ve pretty much got the idea.

Edwina suggested that I start off a little more modestly, using soft pencils, so I could see if I had any aptitude for this before I invested in oil paints, which can be pretty pricey. A $20 investment got me 3 soft lead pencils, an eraser, an easel, and a sketch pad, and I was ready to add second rate artist to second rate poet on my resume of dubious accomplishments.

My first attempt was not what one might describe as an unqualified artistic triumph. If you click the pictures, you’ll get a better view:

Edwina was not impressed. “Oh, NO!” she rebuked me, clearly horrified that she had allowed such an imbecile into her midst. “Young man, you’ve got it all WRONG! You’ve got to go for the SHAPE of the thing! Don’t worry about the details! It’s the SHAPE that matters most at this stage!”

Oh, ok.

I made a few more attempts at the pipe. I could tell that Edwina was finding it something of a challenge to come up with anything positive to say about my efforts. “Ummm, that’s…..a little better.”

As the evening progressed, so did I. After several more attempts, I finally managed to come up with something that looked kinda sorta like a pipe:

Finally by the end of the evening, I actually got Edwina to say, “Now young man, THAT’S more like it! Maybe you have some hidden talent after all!” Yeah, she really talks this way.

And I finally finished up with this:

No, I don’t think I represent much of a threat to the legacies of Mssr’s. Monet and Renoir. But it was fun, and gratifying to learn that after only two hours I could create something with my own hands that somewhat resembled the object I was trying to draw. I needed this.

Now, where’s that parachute?

-Smith

28
Apr

Doug Mirabelli: An Appreciation

“Like some cult religion that barely survives, there has always been at least one but rarely more than five or six devotees throwing the knuckleball in the big leagues… Not only can’t pitchers control it, hitters can’t hit it, catchers can’t catch it, coaches can’t coach it, and most pitchers can’t learn it. The perfect pitch.” ― Ron Luciano, former AL umpire

Last March, the Boston Red Sox released backup catcher Doug Mirabelli. Ok, I know this is old news. And even if it weren’t, you’re probably saying, “Backup catcher? Who cares?” And some will say I must be completely bonkers to do another baseball post, since my post on Bill Buckner crashed and burned so miserably (it has the distinction of being the only post I’ve ever written not to generate a single comment, so I guess the Red Sox aren’t the only ones who suffered from the curse of the ex-cub). But my conscience will not let me live with myself if I don’t pen a little something about one of my favorite players. Of course, recalcitrant blogslacker that I am, I have allowed over a month to go by since this happened, so I thought I had better get on the stick before the season is over.

It might seem strange that a backup catcher should be one of my favorite players. The backup catcher is one of the most unglamorous positions in professional sports, ranking just ahead of backup quarterback. Backup catchers don’t get lucrative endorsement deals. They don’t see their picture on the cover of Sport Illustrated. Hell, they’re lucky if the manager remembers their name.

But one of the things I admired about Mirabelli is that is that he was a true professional. He not only accepted this role without complaining, he embraced it and made it his own in a way rarely seen in professional baseball.

Luckily for him, Mirabelli did possess one rather unique talent: he could catch a Tim Wakefield knuckle ball. Or rather, about 100 Tim Wakefield knuckleballs in one game. For those of you who don’t know, the knuckleball is the most difficult pitch in baseball; difficult to pitch (accurately), and maddeningly difficult to hit. The antithesis of the 95 mile per hour fastball, the knuckleball has almost no rotation, which means it literally wanders in an unpredictable trajectory toward the plate. While the typical knuckleball only travels about 60 mph or so, batters often look silly trying to hit it.

Remember that old Bugs Bunny cartoon where Bugs was a baseball pitcher? Remember how the batter would swing the bat about a dozen times in the time it took for the ball to float up to the plate? That’s pretty much what a knuckleball does (while originally held with the knuckles, nowadays it is actually held with the fingertips rather than the knuckles, so the name has become something of a misnomer).

And as difficult as it is to hit, it is equally difficult to catch. Legendary manager Joe Torre once said, “You don’t catch a knuckleball, you defend against it.” Broadcaster and former catcher Bob Uecker quipped, “I always thought the knuckleball was the easiest pitch to catch. Wait’ll it stops rolling, then go to the backstop and pick it up.”

Yet Mirabelli had the soft hands necessary to catch this most elusive of all pitches. He became Wakefield’s personal catcher, guaranteeing him playing time every five days, and Wakefield had some of his best years with Mirabelli as his personal batterymate. I once referred to Gerald Ford as the “Doug Mirabelli of American Presidents”, and I meant it as a compliment. Both were given difficult and thankless jobs to do. Both excelled beyond anyone’s expectations.

Offensively, Mirabelli provided some occasional pop; he was the only player in Major League Baseball history to hit six or more home runs in six consecutive seasons of fewer than 200 at-bats (from 2001 to 2006). But it was his defensive abilities that made him an indispensable part of the Boston Red Sox from 2001 until this year.

It is comparatively rare for a backup player to be one of the clubhouse leaders, but that’s exactly what he was. No less a personality than Curt Schilling wrote on his blog that Mirabelli was one of only two players he’d known “who’s presence in the clubhouse carried onto the field.”[sic]

Mirabelli had an endearingly puckish sense of humor. During the 2003 ALDS against the Oakland A’s, he was one of the players standing on the dugout with letters on their backs spelling out “LILLY”, as a way of getting the Fenway crowd to chant “Lilly! Lilly” at unfortunate A’s pitcher Ted Lilly. During a Terry Francona press conference, Mirabelli playfully talked a reporter into asking Francona why Mirabelli didn’t play more often. Immediately copping to the prank, Francona responded “because he’s such a shitty player!”.

My favorite Mirabelli story involved former Sox pitcher Byung-Hyun Kim. Frustrated by his lack of success and the fans’ subsequent hostility, Kim flipped the Boston fans the bird during the 2003 playoffs. Next spring, during opening day ceremonies, Mirabelli jokingly held Kim’s arms behind his back when the announcer introduced Kim to the fans.

And of course, no one can forget May 1st, 2006. The Sox had traded Mirabelli to the San Diego Padres for second baseman Mark Loretta. In fairness to the Sox, the trade made perfect sense. The Sox were getting a first rate starting second baseman for a back up catcher. The only problem was that Mirabelli’s replacement, Josh Bard–ordinarily a fine catcher in his own right–simply couldn’t handle the knuckler. The Sox were so desperate they traded Bard as well as promising pitcher Cla Meredith back to San Diego just to get Mirabelli back. He was greeted at the airport by the Massachusetts State Police at 6:48 pm, actually changed into his uniform while in the cruiser en route to the park, and arrived at the park at 7:13 pm to a standing ovation from the crowd.

How many backup catchers have that on their resume?

I hope he catches on with another team, either as a player, or perhaps as a coach. At 37, he’s no youngster, and with his combination of personality, leadership, and baseball smarts, I think he’d make an excellent coach. I hope we haven’t heard the last of Doug Mirabelli.

-Smith

24
Apr

be afraid. be very afraid

I don’t normally write a post strictly about something that someone else has written, but once in a while someone says what I’ve been thinking better than I could say it myself.

In today’s Boston Globe Perry Glasser, who coordinates the professional writing program at Salem State College, writes an op/ed piece entitled “The Dance of the Bees”, which really hit home with me.

Those who have read this blog for awhile are familiar with my dismay with the teen and twenty-something generation. One emailer accused me of “hating” teenagers.

Not true. My job brings me in constant contact with older teens and younger twenty-somethings, and I sometimes find their brash way of looking at the world refreshing. But I do feel that this generation, as a group, has been duped into thinking that they will be regarded by their peers as a lower form of life if they don’t have:

  1. A cell phone
  2. An iPod
  3. A Facebook or MySpace page.

Glasser’s piece reflects my own anxieties about this generation. Simply put, these are the people who will be running the joint when I’m ready for the nursing home. Read Glasser’s piece, and be afraid.

Be very, very afraid.

-Smith

11
Apr

sometimes, you just want a cigar

One of the advantages of working at a smokeshop is that I get to smoke on the job.

I don’t often show my ugly mug on this blog, but a friend recently snapped this pic of your humble scribe doing one of the things he loves most, so here you go.

I love smoking, I love tobacco, and I personally don’t give a rat’s ass who knows it. Personally I’m getting a little fed up with being vilified by society for indulging in one of life’s great pleasures, a pleasure, I would add, that is, at least for the moment, still completely legal.

The cigar, for the curious, is a “Rocky Patel”, a Honduran cigar with a Sumatra seed, Ecuadorian sun grown wrapper. To put it simply, it is an exquisite cigar

A few random thoughts on smoking here:

Many people (non-smokers, naturally) paint the pipe, cigars, and cigarettes with the same black brush. This is utter rubbish. Comparing cigars to cigarettes is like comparing McEwan’s Scotch Ale or Sam Smith’s Taddy Porter or Old Peculiar Yorkshire Ale to Bud Light.

One drinks a good stout or ale for the flavor. The idea is to taste and enjoy the subtleties and complexities of the brew. The alcohol content, while significant, is of secondary import. But let’s be honest here: no one drinks Bud Light because it tastes good. The only reason to drink this misbegotten beverage is because you want to get drunk and it does the job, quickly and efficiently.

By the same token, no one smokes cigarettes because they taste good. The only reason to smoke a cigarette is to get that six-second-lung-to-brain nicotine hit that a cigarette provides. And just as one might drink Old Peculiar or Sam Smith’s because one appreciates the exquisite flavor of these brews, so one smokes a fine cigar (or pipe tobacco, for that matter) for the flavor. The idea is to taste the tobacco, as the leaves from various subtropical countries combine to form a complex panoply of flavors which intrigue and delight the palate.

I find it astounding that the anti-smoking zealots claim to be doing this “for the children”. Ah, yes, it’s always for the children, isn’t it? Has anyone bothered to take a gander at what the “children” are getting up to these days? Teenagers are binge drinking (usually Bud Light, not Old Peculiar), driving cars after binge drinking, using hard core drugs like cocaine and heroin, indulging in unprotected sex, and posting naked pictures of themselves on the internet. I guess this is okay, because-thank God-THEY’RE SMOKE FREE KIDS!!!! Where the hell are all the public service announcements aimed at discouraging this sort of behavior that can irretrievably alter-or end-their lives in an instant?

Actually, this isn’t even true. The smokeshop where I work is within walking distance of several colleges. Out of curiosity, I recently asked one of them why he had started smoking. I pointed out to him that he was too young to have ever seen a cigarette add on TV. In fact, the only information concerning cigarettes available to him from the electronic media (which is where teens get 99% of their information) was all NEGATIVE. Since this kid was old enough to understand the English language, he has been bombarded with nothing but adds telling him not smoke. So why does he? His answer was simple and to the point: “Everyone was telling me not to do it, so that just made me more determined to try it.” Ah, from the mouths of babes….

Here in Massachusetts, our feckless governor, Deval Patrick, recently held a press conference to announce that there would be no broad-based taxes. The people of Massachusetts, he said, were already paying enough, between soaring gas prices and an already hefty tax burden (they don’t call it “Taxachusetts” for nothing, kids.) Okay, I thought to myself, I can get behind this. For once I thought I found myself agreeing with a Liberal, until I got to the last paragraph of the newspaper story. There it was revealed that Patrick intends to raise the cigarette tax by a dollar a pack. Evidently the cigarette tax does not fall into the category of “broad based tax”.

The truth, of course, is that tobacco taxes are the favorite method of politicians who are too cowardly to implement an increase in the gas tax, or alcohol tax, or any sort of tax that might actually get them booted out of office by an incensed and already overburdened electorate. Tobacco taxes are safe because they only affect a now politically impotent minority, and besides, it’s “for the children.” I find it supremely ironic that Liberal Democrats, who are supposed to be the party of compassion and the common man have no problem resorting to this most regressive of taxes when it suits their purposes.

Unlike cigarettes, cigars are not physically addictive. You don’t “Jones” for a cigar the way you do for a cigarette. This is because you don’t inhale cigars. As mentioned before, the idea is to taste the tobacco, and to this end one simply “sips” the tobacco into the mouth, lets it linger there for a moment or two, and then exhales it. While a small amount of nicotine does enter the bloodstream through the lining of the mouth, it is not in sufficient quantities to create a physical addiction. Rather, it is a gradual and relaxing process, which is why smoking a pipe or cigar is such an effective way to relax.

Which, now that I think about it, is what I need to do right now.

-Smith

10
Apr

Way to go, Billy Buck!

The late, great Chicago Tribune columnist Mike Royko once wrote, “sports fans are the biggest assholes in America”, and unfortunately, he has all too often been proved correct. Sports figures themselves are also more than capable of sophomoric behavior. So it was nice to see an example of real class on the part of both fans and player yesterday at Fenway Park, as long vilified first baseman returned to Fenway Park for Opening Day.

If you’re a Red Sox fan, the memory of Game 6 of the 1986 World Series is seared in your soul like a brand, a brand that’s shaped like an “L” for “Loser”. The Red Sox on were on the brink of winning their first World Series title in 68 years. And then, like the cursed team they were, the Sox just let it slip away.

Calvin Schiraldi had entered the bottom of the 10th inning with a two-run lead. After retiring the first two batters, it was announced by the sportscaster (prematurely, as it turned out) that Bruce Hurst had been named as the series MVP. But Schiraldi allowed three straight singles to Gary Carter, Kevin Mitchell and Ray Knight and was replaced by Bob Stanley. Stanley, who himself has had a love-hate relationship with Sox fans over the years, proceeded to throw a wild pitch, which allowed Mitchell to score the tying run. Then Mookie Wilson, whose name is almost as hated in Boston as Bucky Dent’s, followed by hitting a ground ball that rolled between Buckner’s legs, scoring Ray Knight and giving the Mets a victory that left Sox fans believing in the Curse of the Bambino like never before.

When the Red Sox lost game seven the following night, it just all seemed so inevitable, so very, very fated.

And Buckner got all the blame, of course. The film of the ball rolling through his legs has been played thousands upon thousands of times. The poor decisions of feckless manager John McNamara and the erratic pitching of Schiraldi are noted by knowledgeable baseball fans. But it was Buckner’s error that became the stuff of nightmarish legend for the eternally tortured Red Sox fans. The memory of that game has been become so distorted over the years that there are some Sox fans who actually believe that Buckner’s error came in game 7 and thereby cost the Sox the World Series.

And so it was gratifying and heartwarming to see Buckner return to Fenway Park to a standing ovation. Not since May of 1999, when the Fenway Faithful gave a standing ovation to Joe Torre upon his return to the game after missing time due to prostate cancer, have I been so proud to be a Sox fan. Buckner was a fine player whose career has been unfairly tarnished by one play. It was high time that Red Sox fans showed some respect to one of the players who got them to the World Series in the first place.

And speaking of Mike Royko, this ill-fated game also had the effect of perpetuating the myth of the “Ex-Cubs Factor”. Created by freelance journalist Ron Berler but popularized by Royko, the theory stated that any team headed into the World Series with three or more former Cubs (a team every bit as accursed as the Red Sox) on its roster had “a critical mass of Cubness”, and was doomed to failure. From 1946 until 2001, this theory held true with the sole exception being the 1960 Pittsburgh Pirates.

Care to take a guess which team Bill Buckner played on before he came to the Red Sox? You got it: the Cubbies. And if that’s not weird enough, it has been discovered that Buckner was actually wearing a Chicago Cubs batting glove under his first baseman’s mitt when he made that error that forever etched his name in Red Sox infamy.

The final irony? Calvin Schiraldi, an extremely talented young pitcher who had been a teammate of Roger Clemens at the University of Texas and had helped pitch them to a College World Series victory, had been traded to the Red Sox that very year from the New York Mets. He was never the same after the 1986 World Series. After spending one more year with the Sox he was traded to–guess who–the Chicago Cubs.

Congratulations to Bill Buckner. It’s good to see him back.

-Smith

02
Apr

New nest for the raven

I tied up some loose ends in the previous post, but I wanted to give this little tidbit its own space.

In case you haven’t noticed by now, “Murder of Ravens” has its own domain, “murderofravens.org”. Those good people at WordPress sell domain names for a measly $15 per year, complete with the redirect from the “wordpress.com” domain where all the WordPress blogs are housed. You don’t have to buy the domain from WordPress, but given my lack of technical expertise on these matters, it was just easier to buy it from them since they take care of all the technical junk for you.

Why did I do this, you ask? No really good reason, apart from the ego gratification of having my own domain, plus the fact that “murderofravens.org” seems a little snazzier and is certainly more streamlined than “murderofravens.wordpress.com”.

The only really salient point here is that while it is NOT necessary to change your blogroll or bookmarks, (the old URL simply redirects you to the new one), you SHOULD use the “murderofravens.org” URL if, for some strange reason, you actually feel compelled to link to this blog. Otherwise I may never be made aware of it, since the link won’t show up in my blog stats. Since I really do like to thank people who are kind enough to give me a link (even if I am a bit tardy in doing so), using the new URL will ensure that I see the link and can thank the linker.

I should also mention that there is another blog with a similar name, murderofravens.COM. That is NOT me. I only found out about this when I found I wasn’t able to register murderofravens.com, since it was already taken.

As you might imagine, this was a trifle annoying. After all, one puts a great deal of thought into coming up with a catchy, original name for one’s blog. When I started it, I don’t think I knew three people who even knew what a “murder of ravens” was, so I figured I was being pretty darn original, if I do say so myself. Now I find out that some clever soul has thought up the same name. Oh, well. I suppose cyberspace is big enough for two “murderofravens”.  And besides, .org has a little more cache, I guess. ;)

As always, thanks to all who are so generous with their time and continue visit my little corner of cyberspace.

-smith

01
Apr

Tying us some loose ends…

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

“The Waste Land”
T. S. Eliot

T. S. Eliot was so right. He could have added “and makes Smith ponder what an egregious blockslacker he is”. It has been suggested to me that I should trademark “blogslackery”. Others have suggested I have already done this. And so, without further ado, I intend to clean up some odds and ends…..

First and foremost, I wish to thank everyone who was so kind as to leave comments on my recent posts, especially the last three poems. While poetry makes up a regrettably small percentage of my overall output, the poems are easily my favorites, and the comments left on them mean the most to me. I couldn’t help notice that the word “Wow” was used more than once. Anytime I can make some of the many fine writers who make up our blogging circle say “Wow”, I feel that I have truly accomplished something. I only wish I had it in me to write more of them, but alas, the muse only whispers in my ear once in a while. I remain in awe of writers like Ali and Angelica who write more quality poetry in a month than I do in a year.

Speaking of comments, I once again must apologize for being so slow to respond. However, I am happy to report that I have finally gotten caught up in this department. For those of you who actually care what I think, any comment left in the last month or so has been replied to.

In the “pat myself on the back” department, I noticed recently that “Murder of Ravens” was actually mentioned in The Providence Journal Bulletin! Columnist and (I think) sports Editor Art Martone had written a piece on Joe Torre, and referenced my post on Joe Torre to make his point that even Red Sox fans respected the deposed Yankees manager. For those who are interested, Martone’s piece can be read here.

Also in the “pat myself on the back” department, I passed the 50,000 his mark some time ago. Of course, blogslacker that I am, the event came and went, and I had already passed 60,000 before I even noticed. And, naturally, by the time I actually got around to writing this I was 69K. Well, it IS my favorite number, after all.

-smith

30
Mar

Tag! I’m it.

I was recently tagged by, of all people, my favorite atheist, “Bad”, over at “The Bad Idea Blog”. I must admit that I was somewhat astonished to be tagged by this highly intelligent, eminently readable, but somewhat dour individual. But on the other hand, it IS a literary meme, so perhaps it’s not so discordant after all.

The rules of this meme go like this:

1. Go to page 123 of the nearest book.
2. Find the 5th sentence.
3. Write down the next 3 sentences.

Pretty easy, as far as this sort of thing goes. This is undoubtedly why he tagged me with this in the first place: anything more involved and I probably would never have gotten to it, inveterate blogslacker that I am.

As it turns out, I happen to be re-reading J. M. Barrie’s “My Lady Nicotine”. Barrie is, of course, far more famous as the author of “Peter Pan”. In fact, Wikipedia makes no mention at all of this work in their entry about Barrie (a work extolling the pleasures of smoking is far too politically incorrect for Wikipedia, presumably).

The book was originally published in 1890, and recounts the adventures of Barrie and his four bachelor friends, Gilray, Marriot, Scrymgeour, and Jimmy (Jimmy’s last name is Moggridge, but for reasons revealed in the book, he alone of the four friends is always referred to by his first name).

While this book is comparatively obscure, it is actually rather popular with us pipe smokers. What makes this book so interesting (at least from my perspective) is that the stories are all related through the prism of the smoking habits of each of the five friends. While cigar smoking is occasionally referred to, it is the pipe which is usually at center stage in each of the short vignettes presented by Barrie. The five friends’ love of a particular mixture, known as the “Arcadia Mixture”, forms the central theme of the book.

Whether you smoke or not, the book is an extremely entertaining visit to late Victorian England, viewed through the eyes of someone who was there. Barrie’s subtle wit is in fine form here, beginning with the first chapter, in which he informs the reader that he has given up smoking. At the beginning of the chapter he is strident (like most reformed smokers) in his declaration that “I am much better without tobacco, and already have difficulty in sympathizing with the man I used to be”, yet by the end of the chapter he grows wistful, and as he launches into his series of tales, we see where his heart truly likes. Strangely, in the description of the book, the reviewer for Amazon.com seems to have complete missed the irony in this chapter.

As an interesting footnote, Barrie was close friends with the creator of Sherlock Holmes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Doyle paid a subtle tribute to his friend in “The Crooked Man”, in which Holmes says to Watson, “You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of your bachelor
days, then! There’s no mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat.”

So, without further ado, here is my contribution to the meme. Oddly enough, this particular passage has nothing to do at all with smoking.

I stood up and gazed. She was perhaps a hundred yards away fro me, but I could distinctly make out her swaying, girlish figure, her deerstalker cap, and the ends of her boa. (as, I think, those long furry things are called) floated in the wind. In a moment she was safe on the other side; but on the middle of the plank she had turned to kiss her hand to some of her more timid friends, and it was then that I fell in love with her.

-smith

22
Mar

Resurrexi

Pascha nostrum immolatus est Christus
(Christ our Paschal lamb is sacrificed)
-Dominica Resurrectionis (Gregorian Mass for Easter)

These words, originally from Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, form the entire Alleluja section of the Gregorian Mass for Easter, written some time in the 10th century. Or, should I say, written down some time in the 10th century, as the Mass itself is undoubtedly much older than that.

I love Gregorian chant. I love how this music floats down through the mists of time, envelopes me in its seductive, meter-less rhythms, and carries me away to a world of monasteries and mysteries. It is spiritual and mystic, and very, very, beautiful. The haunting melisma in the word “immolatus” (sacrificed) still sends a chill up and down my spine every time I hear it.

Easter is a very different holiday from Christmas. Christmas is a holiday that even an atheist can get into, if he so chooses. Uber-atheist Richard Dawkins admits that he “likes singing Christmas carols”, and describes himself as a “Cultural Christian”. Apart from the fact that Christmas has been secularized and commercialized almost beyond recognition, Christmas celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ. Nothing especially remarkable about that, really; we celebrate the birthdays of lots of people: Washington, Lincoln, Martin Luther King, Jr., for example. It does not require a belief in divinity to celebrate anyone’s birth.

Easter is very different. Unlike Christmas, one cannot separate the the holiday from its religious underpinnings. What is being celebrated here is no less than the idea that someone was resurrected from the dead. While one can believe that Jesus lived without being divine, one cannot believe that Jesus rose from the dead without believing in the divine. You either believe it, or you don’t. The only middle ground is agnosticism.

Personally, I guess I fall into the agnostic camp on this one. I’ve reached a point in my life where I’ve shed many, but not all, of my religious beliefs. Like many people nowadays, I find little that is appealing, and much to be deplored, in religious orthodoxy. But unlike the atheist, I am not prepared to state that something cannot exist beyond the capability of my five senses to understand it. There is much in the universe we will never understand. The unseen can still exist.

As far as Jesus goes, he lived during a time when eschatological “prophets” were a dime a dozen. Yet while the rest have all been forgotten, he somehow inspired a group of men to spread his teachings, even to the point of sacrificing their lives in the process. He quite literally changed the world forever. Divine? I don’t know, but he clearly had something going for him. The real sin is that Christianity has strayed so far, so often, from the teachings of Christ.

But I still love Gregorian chant.

Happy Easter, to all those who celebrate it.

-smith




"taking up a glowing cinder with the tongs and lighting with it the long cherry-wood pipe which was wont to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious rather than a meditative mood" ~ Dr. John H. Watson ************************
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