Category: Uncategorized

Indoctrination.

Or entertainment?

Well, here we go again.  Yet another retrospective on a film I saw while trapped, eyes wide open, on the flight to Greece last spring.  It was the wildly popular and critically acclaimed, The Shape of Water.  The possessor of the ultimate in Hollywood’s Good Housekeeping Seal of PC approval, it won Best Picture at the 2018 Academy Awards.  Not to mention cleaning up in a bunch of other categories.

Oh, that I could have slept.  Or, with apologies to Mrs. Browning, How do I dislike thee?  Let me count the ways.”

Creative?  Or an assemblage of weary PC tropes?

For the few of you that may have missed it, the story revolves around a sexually intimate relationship between a young, mute cleaning woman, Elisa, and a lizard like sea creature.  Only in Hollywood.

But, I have to confess, right off the bat, that I’ve probably made my first mistake.   Bestiality probably isn’t a weary Hollywood stereotype.  Yet.  But give it time.  With the success of Shape, who knows what kinky delights show biz, even now, is conjuring up for us?

The really bad guys.

As everyone knows, a gang of bad guys is de rigueur in a red blooded Hollywood production.  And, in the case of Shape, the gang is-horror of horrors- a 1950’s era nuclear family:  husband, wife and a couple of kids.  And believe me, there’s plenty not to like about the Strickand family.

The husband, an Army Colonel, is a knuckle dragging Cold Warrior whose preferred method of “interrogating” the sea creature is chaining him up and poking him with a cattle prod.   Now, if you’ve followed this blog at all, you know I’m no fan of our bloated military:  here and here.  But the depiction of Strictland’s character is nothing more than a one dimensional caricature of the villain in a black hat.

The wife?  A ’50’s era house wife whose bouffant hairdo matches her empty head.  And the chubby, boob tube watching kids?  Put it this way:  the world would be a be a better place if these brats were both unseen and unheard.

But the most serious charge against the Strickland mob? They’re heterosexual.  And exemplars of “white privilege”.  So, in the all seeing eye of Hollywood, there’s no need for a trial: the entire gang is guilty by definition.

And the good guys?

No, that’s not a trick question.  It’s as easy as is seems.  Figure out who the bad guys are.   And then look for their opposites.

In père Strickland’s case, it’s Giles, the sensitive, oppressed homosexual who helps Elisa free her sea creature lover from the clutches of Colonel Strickland.

And the antipode of Strickland’s wife?  The sensitive, oppressed black cleaning lady who joins forces with Elisa to let my sea creature go“.

I like movies.  Just not this movie.

As you’ve gathered by now, I watch quite a few movies.  Most often Netflix choices while I’m working out on the elliptical in our basement.  Movies are among the most transparent windows into our culture that are available to us.  But the movies that I usually favor tend to be years, even decades, old.  Give me Hollywood’s Golden Era almost every time.  And movies made during the Golden Era are, perhaps, most revealing in showing how far Hollywood has fallen.

And Shape is, indeed, transparent.  Transparent in its distortion of institutions like marriage and family that have served as the bedrock of civilization for millennia.  Transparent in its contempt for the regard that most Americans still, at least in theory, have for these institutions.  And, therefore, transparent in its contempt for most of its audience.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Decline And Fall

750x450 northern lights

North To Alaska!  I’m goin’ north, the rush is on.

In fall of 1975, after graduating from CU Boulder with a European history degree, I headed North to Alaska to find my fortune.

An intrepid friend of mine, Jimmy Gray, had done it.  A few years before, he’d gone to Alaska’s North Slope and gotten a job working on the oil pipeline.  Like everyone, I knew the working conditions were brutal:  long hours, isolation, frigid temperatures. But, working on the pipeline paid more than almost anything else someone like me could do.  And, if you didn’t blow it, in a year or two you could have a sizable nest egg.

And, that’s what Jim did: his few years on the pipeline gave him a financial kick start on life.

But, for me, no dice.  By the time I got to Anchorage, for every unskilled job opening on the pipeline, there were at least 10 applicants cooling their heels in the union hiring hall waiting for a call that never came.

So, I went to plan B.  First, driving bus for the Anchorage school district.  And then, when school let out, driving taxi around Anchorage during the night shift-it was still dark at night when I first got to town.

The land of the midnight sun.

500x600 decline fall

Ever tried to work the night shift and then sleep during the day?  It isn’t easy; if I got five hours of sleep after driving taxi for twelve hours at night, I felt lucky.

So, I had plenty of time to read.  And I spent most of that time reading the second volume of Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.  It’d belonged to my dad; his neat, cursive signature is still just inside the cover of both volumes.

Originally published about the time of the American Revolution, the book spans centuries and thousands of pages.  While modern scholars may quibble that it’s outdated, to a babe in the woods of history like me, it was a work of astonishing scholarship.

The man on the white horse.

At this point, decades on, do I remember much of what was in those thousands of pages? Not really.

But I do remember this much: the vaunted Roman Legions, which had originally conquered most of the known world during the time of the Republic, played a big part in bringing down the Empire.  Why?  Because the Legionnaires and their generals that had started out being the servants of the Republic wound up being the corrupt and cruel masters of the Empire.  They were better at court intrigue than at keeping the barbarians at bay.  Again and again, they made and unmade emperors. Sometimes in a matter of days; 193 AD is known as The Year of the Five Emperors.

And the very size of the empire became it’s Achilles heel.  With a frontier that stretched over thousands of miles and three continents, border incursions and wars were never ending.

History repeating itself.  Except on steroids.

Now, the American empire dwarfs the Roman empire.  And we suffer from many of the same distempers.

In eastern Europe we poke the nuclear armed Russian bear by pushing NATO right up to the Russian border.  In the South China Sea, rather than minding our own business, we delight in bearding nuclear armed China.  And this is not to mention our perpetual wars in the Middle East.

But, astonishingly, our own southern border remains a leaky sieve to a region rife with drugs and the murderous gang warfare that has left nearly 300,000 dead.  And anyone who has the temerity to suggest that the border be walled off is “racist”.

But did you see the news?  Trump is pulling US troops out of Syria.  Now, if he could just man up and do the same in Afghanistan and Iraq.  Those tribal, dark-age regions have been at war with one another for millennia.  And there’s nothing we can do to stop it.  So, yes, Virginia, I guess there is a Santa Claus.

For the love of money.  Blood money.

Our enormous military establishment has very little to do with national security.  And much more to do with money.  We spend more on arms than the next seven nations combined-several of whom are our allies.

And now the military is proposing that we spend morelots more.  Enough so that we can not only continue, indefinitely, to fight the low intensity wars in the Middle East that have become back page news.  But also to “rearm” to fight major conflicts against countries like Russia and China.

So, the defense contractors and their lobbyists will be on easy street.  As will the generals and admirals.  And their obedient political pets in the US House and Senate.

But what happens if we, the people, dare try to turn off the spigots?  Who knows?  But when a general on a white horse-or tank-comes riding into Washington, DC demanding that the gravy train start rolling again, don’t say you weren’t warned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The little things

750x450 mountains

And when they loom large

Decades ago-back in the ’60’s and ’70’s-I was quite the outdoorsman.  Technical rock climbing.  Big game hunter.  Fly fishing.  Winter camping.  Fourteeners.  Backpacking and mountain biking.  The Colorado Trail, which I regret to say, I never completed.

For a host of reasons, primarily age and normal wear and tear, that’s all come to an end:  this getting old stuff isn’t for sissies.  But it was fun while it lasted.  And, looking back on it, I was fortunate to get out in one piece.

One of the guys I did a lot of those adventures with was Henry Gibb.  Always upbeat, a dark bushy beard, a Vermont backwoods transplant, Henry was indefatigable.  Try as I might, I couldn’t keep up with him.

One winter, we decided to ski into 14,421 foot Mount Harvard, spend a night at the base, and climb the peak the next day.  Hardly anything about the trip was short of crazy.  A night in a ramshackled mining cabin that did nothing to keep out either the snow or bitter cold.  Henry breaking trail up the steep side of the valley at the crack of dawn, trying our best to warm up after a long night shivering in our sleeping bags.  Despite the lodge pole pines that grew thick as grass, at one point the snow slumped, giving off a resounding “whoomp,” making us uncomfortably aware that an avalanche was not beyond the realm of possibility.  And which, if it had run, would have ground us up and spit us out.  Not to be found ’til spring-if then.

Nonetheless, we made the summit before noon on what turned out to be a blue bird day.  Need I add that we had the place to ourselves on back in those days?

To save the planet

Henry had, on occasion, what I considered eccentric views.

“You know,” Henry began as we drove south along the frigid waters of the Arkansas River in my used, ’65 VW Bug, “I’ve been thinking how much better it would be if we were all a lot smaller.  Say, six inches tall.”

“Interesting idea,” I replied, eye brows raised, looking over briefly while still trying to keep us from plunging into the river. “But, how would that make things better?”  Knowing Henry, I expected it had something to do with the environment.  But this one was a puzzler.

“Well,” he answered, “think of how much less we would need in terms of natural resources.  The water.  The air.  The steel and copper.  Everything.”

“True,” I said, “but it’s pretty hard to see how that’s going to happen.”

A prophet without honor

But wouldn’t you know, Henry pretty much nailed it.  At least in Hollywood.

During one of the apparently interminable legs of my flight to Greece last spring I was desperate for any sort of diversion.  I managed to stumble on the movie Downsizing with Matt Damon.  And what to my wondering eyes did I see but that Henry’s wild idea has been translated onto the silver screen.  Not that the film made any money.  Or that it got great reviews.  But nonetheless, the film’s premise was exactly what Henry suggested: shrink humans to clean up the environment.

And, who knows, perhaps Henry will someday nail it in the real world. Stranger things, I suppose, have happened.

750x450 trail sign

The ties that no longer bind

It’s been years-no, decades-since I’ve been in touch with Henry.  I miss those hair brained adventures.  And not just for the adrenaline jolt.  But for the camaraderie that those experiences engendered.

I feel largely at fault for the rupture.  It was, I’m sure, politics.  And probably, to some extent, it was my bipolar illness talking.  At times we had angry disagreements.  About what specific issues?  Who knows?  And who cares?  But I leaned right.  And Henry leaned left.  And the ties that bound us first frayed.  And then broke.

And so, Henry, where ever you are, here’s My Grown Up Christmas List for you:

No more lives torn apart
That wars would never start
And time would heal all hearts
And everyone would have a friend
And right would always win
And love would never end, no
This is my grown up Christmas list

(With, of course, a tip ‘o the hat to Amy Grant.)

Just because we can . . . does it mean we should?

The Island of Dr. Moreau

The Island of Dr. Moreau

Ever heard of vivisection?  It comes from Latin words meaning “alive” and “cutting.”  It’s the practice, in other words, of cutting living creatures.  Sounds pretty creepy.  And for that reason, the term’s largely fallen out of use.

But the word can also refer to what many of us have experienced as the beneficial effects of surgery.  What, after all, is surgery except “cutting” on “living” creatures?

But when H.G. Wells uses the term in his unsettling, 1896 science fiction novel, The Island of Dr. Moreau, vivisection takes on a much more sinister meaning.   At it’s most basic level, the story describes Moreau using vivisection in a series of cruel experiments to “uplift” animals to something approaching a “human” state.  In other words, changing a creature into something it wasn’t meant to be, something unnatural.

Now, Before Our Very Eyes . . .

Vivisection is back in the news.  And, for our purposes, high school sports.  Articles and reports abound (here and here) about males “deciding” they’re females.  And then going out and cleaning up in sporting competitions against real females.

It’s true, for a number of reasons, most of these male to female “reassignments” don’t involve surgery.  First, surgery’s expensive (up to $50,000 and not typically covered by insurance).  It also looks pretty gruesome-but, to be fair, to an untrained eye like mine, most surgeries probably look about the same.  Nonetheless, in 2016 there were about 1,500 male to female surgeries.

Chemical reassignment via hormones is probably more common-but the changes are less comprehensive, limited to things like muscle mass and facial hair.

The Sports Problem.

750x450 girls soccer silhouette

My problem with all this “gender reassignment,” at least in regards to high school sports, is that I don’t want my granddaughters to be forced to compete against what are really someone’s grandsons.  Like this state champion track star who if, with “her” square jaw and mustache, is a “girl,” then I’m a monkey’s uncle.

If my granddaughters take after their parents, they are likely to enjoy sports.  But to throw them in against boys, who are naturally bigger and stronger, in sports like soccer, lacrosse, and track isn’t just unfair.  It’s dangerous.

And it becomes outrageous when kids, whose birth certificate identifies them as a “male” can simply, on their own say so, declare themselves “females.”  To what end?  So they  can compete on a playing field that’s not just tilted?  But pitching wildly.  And then perpetuate the fraud by scooping up college scholarships which, under Title IX, are intended to be awarded to women?  (Don’t get me wrong-I’m not a big fan of Title IX. It’s resulted in the elimination of some 400 college sports programs that mainly attracted men.  That is, real men.)

Which makes me wonder:  how’s the #metoo movement going to handle this ploy to make women go to the back of the bus?

The Conceit Of The Far Left.  And Right.

The 20th century was the bloodiest in history.  Millions died at the hands of governments in the grip of savage ideologies which were determined to remake human nature in their own, brutal image.  The Nazi’s Übermensch.  The Soviet’s New Man.  The penalty for failing to fit the mold?  Death.  On a mass scale.  Thankfully, though the cost in blood and treasure was high, those cruel idols were overthrown.

However, now, well on into the 21st century, it seems the lesson of the impossibility and undesirability of fundamentally reshaping human nature has yet to be learned.  Except, this time, rather than concentration camps, gas chambers, and the Two Minutes’ Hate, individuals are remaking themselves. With vivisection.  Or chemicals.  Or the bare assertion that they are what they aren’t.

But It Doesn’t Stop There.

Did you see this story?  If you accept it, North Korea’s dictator, Kim Jong-Un, has spent billions attempting to clone an army of “super soldiers who will obey his every command.”  The article goes on to say that the hermit nation has a long history of human cloning experimentation.  Kim is also trying to insure his own immortality by cloning himself.

And Kim isn’t alone in the pursuit of super soldiers.  It’s an arms race that many, much more “advanced” nations, including ours, are engaged in.

And you thought Dr. Moreau was crazy.

So, just because we can, does it mean we should?  And even if “we” decide we shouldn’t, how do we keep this genie in the bottle if the “we” doesn’t include us all?  Will my grandchildren be forced to compete against “super” kids not just for athletic prizes?  But also for places in college?  And the work force?

Or, God forbid, on the battlefield?

Bud’s Warehouse: Rebuilding lives

750x450 buds

How we do it

Bud’s Warehouse is a Christian ministry helping individuals rebuild their lives from prison, addiction and homelessness by providing entry level jobs and discipleship.

Largely self sufficient financially, Bud’s sells gently used, donated construction materials out of our 30,000 square foot retail space a few blocks west of I-225 at Mississippi.  A favorite donation are kitchen cabinets being changed out in a remodel.  As we like to say: DON’T PUT ‘EM IN THE LANDFILL.  DONATE ‘EM TO BUD’S!

kitchen cabinets recently sold at Bud's

A set of kitchen cabinets recently sold at Bud’s

What was meant for evil, God used for good

You wouldn’t guess Pat Stewart’s rough past if you ran into him at Bud’s.  At least, I didn’t.  Always ready with a broad smile, he does customer service with a will.  And pretty much anything else that needs to be done around the place.

In high school he excelled at sports, playing defensive end and kicker; also a Golden Gloves boxer.  He earned the cuddly sounding nickname, “Papa Bear.”  But don’t let that fool you.

Born under a bad sign

He grew up in Denver in a normal family:  father, mother, brothers and sisters.

But at age 11, he went to a nearby park with some buddies and, without really understanding what was happening, he found that he had suddenly become a member of Denver’s notorious “Bloods” gang.  The initiation process?  Getting “beat in.”  When I asked, “What’s that?”,  I learned it’s like it sounds; Pat woke up in a hospital.

The initiation continued with him taking occasional pot shots at rival gang members.  “I didn’t hit anyone,” he told me.  “Almost impossible to hit someone with a pistol.”  Especially for an eleven year old kid.

If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all

450x450 Pat

But while Pat wasn’t a great shot, he had a knack for making enemies.  And they were better shots.  “I was shot twice,” he says, “and died twice on the operating table.”

A few years later, Pat’s “luck” ran out during a drug deal gone bad.  To even the score when a customer failed to pay him for some drugs, he burst into an apartment, gun drawn.  He didn’t have much success getting back either his money or drugs.

But he did succeed in bringing the police down on his head.  For an eighteen year old, the charges were pretty impressive.  Robbery.  Firearms.  Home invasion.  Drug possession.

The sentence was equally impressive: eighteen years.  He served six years, followed by three years of parole.

What’s it take to change?

But as is so often the case when God steps in, what Pat thought was rock bottom, was when the Lord finally got his attention.

It was the death of his mother.  Or as Pat puts it, “The Lord had to take the biggest part of my heart to let me know that I had to trust and believe in him for the rest of my life.  So that’s what I did.  And he’s blessed me abundantly.”

Taking a chance.  Transforming lives.

Pat is the kind of person for whom Bud’s exists:  taking a chance on hiring a him-or her- when no one else will.  And our investment in Pat has paid big dividends.  Spiritually and otherwise.

“When,” as Pat relates it, “I came to Bud’s, I couldn’t read a measuring tape.  But,” he continues, “I wound up leading the New Beginnings Custom Woodworks cabinetry operation.”

From a man whose life was in tatters, he now mentors others with daily Bible studies.  “For me,” he says, “it’s Jesus every day.”

So, come on down.  Say “Hi” to Pat.  Learn about the other businesses that we’ve started which, yes, make a profit (not a bad word for us), but, just as importantly, transform lives.  And where, of course, we get by with a little help from our friends:  Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

And, while you’re at it, pick up one of those whatchamacallit construction thingamajigs you know you need.

I. The Communion Of Saints.

Mom's old home in North Dakota

My mom and her family were blown out of their North Dakota home during the dust bowl days.

PAST.  Present.  And Future.

I’m on the road.  Again.  Marleen and I flew to visit our son in Omaha.  But, because she’s not a fan of long road trips-and I still am-I rented a car and took a circuitous, sentimental  journey back to Denver.

On the way, I listened to hours of recorded books: one of the pleasures of road trips for me.  One was The Conservative Mind by Russell Kirk.  The other was The Heart of the Mattera novel by Englishman Graham Greene, considered by many to be one of the best writers of the 20th century.  More later.

My first destination was the far south east corner of North Dakota.  It’s where my mom grew up during the Great Depression in a small farm house with her parents and six siblings.  The family was blown out during the Dust Bowl.  After selling all they could at a farm auction, they headed to west to Yakima, Washington to work in the fruit orchards and canning factories.  For some reason, the last two to leave North Dakota were my grand mother, Hazel, and the youngest daughter, Connie.  They hitchhiked the 600 some miles from North Dakota to Yakima, Washington.  Real Grapes of Wrath stuff.

The nearest towns to where my mom grew up are Lidgerwood and Wahpeton.  My mom’s last remaining relative in the area, Clark Williams, was my gracious host and guide on what was a cool, grey day.   Wikipedia characterizes Clark as one of the Wahpeton’s “notable people” because he represented the area for years in the state House.  Not much older than I, his health isn’t good.  While we were waiting for our hamburgers at Dee’s Bar & Grill in Lidgerwood, he stepped out the back door for a smoke-before coming back in to hook himself up to his oxygen tank.  I was disappointed to learn that his side of the family seems fractured and that I wouldn’t be able to participate in a family reunion-because they don’t have them.

It wasn’t easy to tell if my mom’s old house hard by the Wild Rice River is still occupied; Clark thought it was.  Brown William’s house, my grandma’s brother, was just around the corner.  Although the house is no longer in our family, it still looked good with a fresh, grey tin roof.

The geography of the area is peculiar.  Although it’s not far from the headwaters of the Mississippi in Minnesota, this flat, extremely fertile country is drained by the Red River that runs north to eventually drain into Canada’s Hudson Bay.  As I drove north from Omaha on a dark night, it was disorienting for a Coloradan to see a road sign flash by telling me that I was crossing the Continental Divide hundreds of miles west of the Rockies.

The Past: Custom and Tradition.

In his frightening novel, Nineteen Eighty-FourGeorge Orwell depicts a world in which “Big Brother” manipulates everything, including history.  An entire bureaucracy, the “Ministry of Truth,” is given over to rewriting the past to make it conform to the current party line-which changes from day to day.  Inconvenient historical facts are consigned to the “memory hole.”  The fickle nature of the past adds measurably to the hellish world that Orwell, drawing on the hellish world that Joseph Stalin had created in reality, depicted in his novel.

The antidote for the horror of Nineteen Eighty-Four and Stalin’s gulag?  Russell Kirk’s 1953 tome, The Conservative Mind.  The book-be prepared for a long one-surveys conservative thinkers and their ideas from Edmond Burke (1729-1797), an English politician and philosopher, to T.S. Eliot (1888-1965), the Nobel laureate author of what is perhaps the most famous of modern poems, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.  

For a book that was written as a doctoral dissertation, The Conservative Mind is remarkable not just for the breadth and depth of its scholarly content.  It also played an enormously influential role in reinvigorating conservatism when the movement had been almost entirely written off in the wake of what seemed the irrevocable triumph of New Deal liberalism.  The book’s a “must read” for anyone who wants to understand the rise and meaning of modern conservatism.

It’s Burke that casts the longest shadow over the pages of The Conservative Mind.  His extended essay, Reflections on the Revolution in France, profoundly influenced both the England of Burke’s day and the modern conservative movement.  Written as a warning against the bloody excesses and turmoil of the revolution, Burke was not an advocate of putting society in a straight jacket. However, he believed that change in a healthy society should be evolutionary and guided by tradition and custom-or, as he put it in the language of his time, “prescription.”  In so doing, society fulfills its obligation to generations past, present, and future.

Bonanza!

One of the early conservative statesmen that Kirk describes is John Adams.  Founding Father, our first Vice President, second President, and rock ribbed New Englander, Adams sired a host of descendants. Including John Quincy Adams, the sixth President.  Somewhere down the line, another John Quincy Adams came along who lived in Wheaton, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago.

In 1881, this particular Adams took advantage of cheap railroad land in the Dakota Territory to purchase 9,600 acres and gave it to his daughter and son-in-law as a wedding gift.  It eventually became the Adams Fairview Bonanza Farm, about 15 miles from Wahpeton.  Making the most of the flat, fertile land, Bonanza farmers put together armies of workers, mules, and capital to grow enormous quantities of mostly grain to feed the world’s rapidly expanding population.  At one point, the Adams farm was a virtual small city, with bunk and mess houses, several barns, an office building, and a grain elevator at the end of a rail spur.  There was a herd of 10,000 sheep.

Now, the original rambling farm house is now a lovely B&B; I stayed two nights in the master bedroom suite.  One gray morning, to stretch my legs, I walked to the nearest section crossroad.  It might not have been in the middle of nowhere, but I think I saw it somewhere out there beyond those fields that ran as flat as a table to the horizon.

 

John and Tuula Kube,my gracious hosts

John and Tuula Kube, my gracious hosts.

My gracious hosts, John and Tuula Kube, are, just like my mom’s family, good Scandahoovians.  (They’re no relation to the original Adams family.)  Great French toast and Swedish pancakes were served up for my two breakfasts.  It goes without saying, slathered with plenty of butter.  And, despite my having invited myself to dinner, a wonderful meal of local beef and steaming bowls of fresh vegetables out of their garden.  While they don’t farm the place themselves anymore, they do rent it out to other local farmers.  Their daughter and her family live just across the gravel road.

Was it an accident that I stayed in a bedroom in a house that had once been owned by a descendant of a man who’d played such an important role in our nation’s history?  And whose story I’d been listening to?  Probably.  But it sure was a nice serendipity.  And more than enough to slingshot me on to my next destination, far across those lonely plains, as John and Tuula shrank in my rear view mirror.

 

 

 

 

 

“Madame”: God In The Box.

Screenshot from the movie MADAME (2017)

Screenshot from the movie MADAME (2017)

And The Money Changers In The Temple.

How I happened to watch the film, I’m not sure.  Perhaps on one of those interminable flights to or from Greece last spring when scraping the bottom of the barrel of viewing choices became a necessity.  When sleep, in seats built for midgets, proved so elusive.

In any event, Madame isn’t good enough that you’d want to suffer through a 14 hour flight to take in.  But it does have some redeeming qualities.  It features the pampered, sexually “liberated” existence of the ultra-wealthy of Paris. And the working stiff, household servants that cater to their every whim.  Judging by the consensus of most of the cinematic literati, it has all the  of a sparkle of a flute of bubbly gone flat (see herehere, and here).

Something’s Happening.  But You Don’t Know What It Is.

And that’s pretty much how it was for me as well.  But there was also something that didn’t quite fit.

But, finally, it dawned on me:  why did a painting of The Last Supper feature so prominently in a film that most parents would want to slip out the back if their kids were sitting next to them?  And that the movie didn’t mock or demonize Christianity-which is so often the only way films seems to be able to treat the subject-was nearly as strange.

No, the painting, and the fortune that it represents, remains serenely in the background, looking on as the weaponized and heartless sexual escapades of this cast of wealthy playboys and girls manipulate each other like so many pieces on a chess board.  (In one scene, two of the female antagonists maneuver oversize chess pieces on an oversize chess board.)  The painting, by Italian Baroque master, Caravaggio, appears at least 6 times in the show; its larger-than-life financial significance is a topic of conversation even more frequently.

Bob and Anne Fredericks, the expatriate American manipulators in chief, need to sell the painting to pull their financial bacon out of the fire that their opulent Parisienne lifestyle has landed them in.  When the picture is finally sold, Bob, who fits the part of the unctuous undertaker down to the ground, watches with satisfaction as the painting is securely nailed in its coffin-like crate.  And then borne away by grim faced pallbearers.  Earlier, Bob describes the painting as his “grandfather’s greatest acquisition.”  Oh, well.  When the creditors are hounding you and there’re appearances to be maintained, what’s a Last Supper and family heirloom among friends?

Release The Kraken!

But it’s when the painting’s sold that things get really squirrelly.  Anne pairs up with the Frenchman whose wife she confronted on the chess board.   Only to be eventually dumped by the husband.  Bob canoodles with his much younger French tutor.  Maria, a maid who, despite her peasant Spanish Catholic upbringing, carries on with David the art broker/aristocrat who profits handsomely from selling the Caravaggio.  Except for Maria and David, around whose two very different worlds the movie wobbles, it’s tough to keep track of all these illicit liaisons without a program.

Holy Family painting by Svitozar Nenyek

“I’m Old Fashioned.  I Believe In Marriage.”

Just before the credits roll, Maria, an enigmatic smile on her face, is shown confidently striding through the streets of Paris.  But towards what, we’re not sure.  That she’s leaving Bob and Anne and David, who’ve treated her like so much beige carpeting to be trod on, is certain.  But is she just in search of another maid job for the ultra-wealthy, where, if she’s lucky, she can trick another gullible rich guy into believing she’s a Spanish princess?

Maybe.  But what would that prove?  That’s she’s learned nothing from observing, as only a maid can, just how heartless the rich and famous can be?

But maybe this idea fits better.  Amanda Sthers, the director and script writer, in addition to her other achievements, is the divorced mother of two children.  At one point in the film, she puts these words in the mouth of Maria, “I’m old fashioned.  I believe in marriage.”  Unsurprisingly, when Maria makes this pronouncement, the playboys and girls around her shrug it off.

At another point, Maria tells David that “I love the picture of the Holy Family that I have next to my bed.”  David, who can’t imagine such things without seeing dollar signs, wonders, “Which master painted it?  It must be tremendously valuable.”  Kitsch art and genuine feeling collide with the money changer.

Is Ms. Sthers, through one of the film’s only sympathetic characters, telling us what she thinks about marriage and Christianity?  Can’t say “Yes” for sure.  But neither can I say “No.”

Madame?  Or, In Other Words, Mrs.

The title of the movie is odd.  The French equivalent of Mrs, does it refer to Anne, the only married woman who has anything other than a bit part?  But Anne definitely plays second fiddle to Maria.  And Maria, it doesn’t appear, is married.

Turns out, however, that Maria has a teenage daughter that she, apparently, can only mother from afar through FaceTime. An aspiring figure skater, the daughter’s lessons are paid for by Bob and Anne. Fearing that Maria’s involvement with the art dealer might scotch their chances to sell the painting, Anne’s maternal instincts kick in,  “You know, Maria, if you can’t get this thing with David under control, we may have to quit paying for your daughter’s skating lessons.”  Yep.  The maternal instincts of a serpent.

So maybe, just maybe, Maria has resolutely set her face toward resuming her role as something other than a FaceTime avatar for her daughter.  And, who knows, even something as wildly old fashioned as a family.

Second Meanings.

C.S. Lewis, in his book, Reflections On The Psalms, says this about hidden meanings in those famous poems.  Or, for that matter, movies:

“Hitherto we have been trying to read the Psalms as we suppose-or I suppose-their poets meant them to be read.  But this of course is not the way in which they have been used by Christians.  They have been believed to contain a second or hidden meaning, an ‘allegorical’ sense . . .  Such a doctrine, not without reason, arouses deep distrust in a modern mind.  Because, as we know, almost anything can be read into any book [or movie] if you are determined enough. . . (Some of the allegories thus imposed on my own books have been so ingenious and interesting that I often wish that I had thought of them myself.”)

So, am I guilty of “imposing” an ingenious allegorical meaning on Madame that has no business being there?

Of course, I can’t be certain what Ms. Sthers had in mind when she created this movie.  Maybe it’s just, as most of the critics believe, a fizzy French nothing burger of a naughty comedy.

But if so, why so obviously give the Last Supper painting pride of place?  And which, at least briefly and less than perfectly, holds back the sexual anarchy, angst and greed that prevails after the painting is sold for an inflation adjusted 30 pieces of silver?

But perhaps that’s the real problem with this movie.  Maybe Ms. Sthers herself doesn’t know exactly what she wants.  A bonbon?  Or something with more substance, a commentary on the anomie that besets us when the idols of money and sex trump all other values?  And what happens to people who think they’ve succeeded in doing as Pilate directed the chief priests and Pharisees: “You have a guard.  Go and make the tomb as secure as you know how.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Feast Of John The Baptist.

John the Baptist Head on a Platter

A Very Merry Unbirthday To You!

There are two requirements, I’ve learned, to successful blogging: quality and quantity.

So, how is yours truly doing about a year and a half into this blogging thing?  I hope you believe that the quality of what I put out is generally acceptable.  Usually understandable.  Mostly interesting.  Sometimes even provocative or entertaining .

My real problem is quantity.  I’ve put out about 45 posts over a span of over 75 weeks.  You gotta’ be kidding!  That’s not even one a week.  I hope the only way from here is up.

The Mad Hatter And Me.

My intent was to put out a post about John the Baptist in time for his “birthday”-which many Christians celebrate on June 24.  Which, to my chagrin, is now rapidly fading in the rear view mirror.

So, John, as they sang at the Mad Hatter’s party: a very merry UNbirthday to you!

John The Enigma.

There’s no question that John is a man to be reckoned with.  Jesus says of him, “I tell you, among those born of women there is no one greater than John.” (Lk 7:28).

For the longest time, however, John was an enigma to me.  But it wasn’t the strange stories of a wild man in the Judean desert, eating locusts and honey, clad in camel hair, that puzzled me.  Odd?  Yes.  But straight forward enough.

Nor, during his early ministry, did I have any trouble seeing John fulfilling Isaiah’s prophecy:

“I will send my messenger ahead of you,
who will prepare your way-
a voice of one calling in the desert,
‘Prepare the way for the Lord,
make straight paths for him.'”
(Mk 1:2-3)

During those few, shining moments John’s out front where he’s supposed to be.  Preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins to SRO crowds.  Telling of the One to come, “more powerful than I, the thongs of whose sandals I am not worthy to stoop down and untie.”  Even baptizing Christ, seeing the heavens torn open, the Spirit descending on Jesus like a dove. And listening in as the voice of the Father tells Jesus, “You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.” (Mk 1:7;11)

Yes, it’s easy to see John making those straight paths.

But thereafter, aside from some brief, apparently random glimpses, John is almost entirely eclipsed by the brilliance that is the eternal Word Himself.  How can John be the pathfinder, if the trail he leaves is so faint and uncertain?

Making Sense Of The Forerunner.

So what do we make of John’s other appearances?  His birth?  His brutal death?  Even the troubling scene where, from prison, he sends his disciples to ask Jesus, “Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?” (Mt 11:2)  Do we treat these events as mere surplus?

Definitely not.  The key is understanding John is just like what it says:  “I will send my messenger ahead of you . . .”  Wherever you see John, look for Christ to show up.  But later.  True, John’s story, by comparison with Christ’s, is writ small.  In some cases, barely a wisp.  But it’s there.

Count on it:  where John leads, Jesus follows.

Two Miraculous Births.  And In The Right Order.

The “Christmas Story” only shows up in two Gospels:  Matthew and Luke; Mark and John say nothing.  Matthew is silent with regards to how the Baptist’s birth interacted with Christ’s.

Luke, in contrast, more than makes up for what the others fail to say.

In Luke, it’s clear that John goes “ahead”-he was born before Jesus.  (Lk 1:57-66)

And, like that of Jesus’ birth, John’s nativity was replete with “signs and wonders.”  His parents, “well along in years,” were past the age of child bearing (Lk 1:7).  Elizabeth gets pregnant anyway (Lk 1:24).  Angels run wild (Lk 1:11).  His skeptical father is struck dumb (Lk 1:20).  And then speaks again (Lk 1:64).

No, John wasn’t born to a virgin.  But it’s also clear this was far from your run of the mill L&D.  And that what we see through a glass darkly in John’s birth, we see face to face in Christ’s.

Two Public Ministries.  And In The Right Order.

Saint John the Baptist preaching to crowd

I’ve already talked about John’s public ministry:  huge crowds, preaching repentance, baptism.  Very explicitly pointing to the One who is to soon come.  What else can be said?

Probably no more than this pithy summary in the Gospel of John at the close of the Pathfinder’s public ministry: “He (Jesus) must increase, I must decrease.”  (Jn 3:30).

Two Gethsemanes.  And In The Right Order.

As those paragons of Christian theology, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, put it, “I was ’round when Jesus Christ had his moment of doubt and pain.”  But, to our everlasting gain, Christ’s response to Lucifer in the garden was, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.”  (Lk 22:42)

But Christ’s moment of doubt and pain was, again, foreshadowed by John.  His public ministry came crashing down when he told King Herod that “It is not lawful for you to have your brother’s wife.” (Mk 6:18).  Herod was no doubt upset, but his wife, Herodias, was furious.  So she persuaded her husband to have John thrown in the slammer.  (BTW, if you’d like to get a sense of what prison conditions in the ancient Mideast may have been like for The Baptist, watch the gut wrenching movie, Midnight Express.)

From the inky depths of Herod’s prison, John is likewise in Satan’s icy grip.  Wondering how something that had begun so well could have gone so badly so quickly, he sends some of his disciples to ask Jesus, “Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect someone else?”  (Lk 7:19).  How ironic, but understandable, that The Pathfinder would have his own moment of doubt and pain right after his disciples had reported that Jesus had pulled back the centurion’s servant from the jaws of death.   And raised the widow of Nain’s son from the dead (Lk 7:1-15).  John’s anguished prayer can almost be heard: “Lord, you healed the centurion’s servant.  You raised the widow’s son from the dead.  Why don’t you get me out of Herod’s prison?”  

Two “Trials.”  And In The Right Order.

But Herodias wasn’t satisfied with John merely being held in a wretched dungeon.  She wanted his head.  But Herod resisted; for some reason he took a perverse pleasure in listening to John (Mk 6:20).

But that resistance melted away in the face of incestuous lust.  At a drunken birthday party, Herodias’ daughter’s dancing so pleased Herod that he promised her anything, even “up to half my kingdom.”  After consulting her mother, the daughter demanded “the head of John the Baptist on a platter.”  Unwilling to back down in the presence of his guests, Herod ordered it done.  He, in turn, “presented it to the girl, and she gave it to her mother.” (Mk 6:21-28)  Talk about a grizzly party favor.  And one that still lives in infamy.

Does this travesty rise to the level of a “trial?”  Obviously not.  But neither did Christ’s.  And, again, Jesus followed where John led.

A Coincidence?  You Decide.

To me, the most poignant account of John’s disciples telling Jesus of the beheading in Herod’s dungeon comes in Matthew:  “When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place.”  (Mt 14:13).  What was Jesus doing in that solitary place?  Praying?  No doubt.  Mourning?  Sure.

But let me suggest one more thing:  pondering his own fate.

It is only after John is murdered that Jesus begins predicting his own death.  (Mt 16:21; but also true in the other synoptic gospels).  A coincidence?  I doubt it.  Surely, by now, Jesus saw the pattern himself, as certain as night follows day:  where John leads, I must follow.

Two “Resurrections.”  And In The Right Order.

What more can possibly be said of Christ’s death and resurrection?  These events are the cornerstones of Christianity.  They’re the culmination of all four gospel accounts.  Who could miss them?

The same, most certainly, can’t be said of John’s “resurrection.”  By contrast with Christ’s, it’s the barest wisp.

Why?  Consider the source:  Herod.  That’s right, John’s murderer.  But it’s there:

“At that time Herod the tetrarch heard about the reports about Jesus, and he said to his attendants, ‘This is John the Baptist; he has risen from the dead!  That is why miraculous powers are at work in him.'” (Mt 14:1-2).

Is Herod a reliable source?  No.  He was more likely suffering from a guilty conscience.  Had John come back to life in Jesus and was he performing the miracles Herod heard about?  Again, no.

But it’s only after Herod’s delusional “prophesies” that Jesus begins predicting his own resurrection.  (Mt 16:21).  And if Herod’s ravings about John are good enough for Jesus, they’re plenty good enough to demonstrate to me that Christ was paying attention. And following where John was leading.

But that’s not really the point.  John wasn’t meant to be the highway, plain for all to see.  Jesus was.  John was the path.  For Jesus to see.  John’s “resurrection” is just the next paving stone in the path.

It’s Not If.  It’s Who.

“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to  sympathize with our weaknesses,
but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are-yet was without sin.”  (Heb 4:15).

This is an interesting, two edged passage of Scripture.  Sure, it means that Christ is just like us-except without sin.  But it also means that we are just like Christ-except with sin.  Granted, that’s a huge difference.  But, as I take it, there are also huge similarities.

In relation to The Baptist, consider what the author of Hebrews meant.  Did Jesus really need a leader?  Unless we are to conclude that the carefully woven skein between the lives of John and Jesus was just play acting, how can it be otherwise? And isn’t this just like the Lamb of God?  To humbly submit to the Pathfinder’s leadership. Even after John’s reckless enthusiasm was reduced to bitter ashes in the furnace of Herod’s prison.

And if Jesus needed a leader, how much more us?  But the difference?  While Jesus chose just the right leader and played the game flawlessly, we’re free to err in both regards.  And how often we do.

But our consolation?  If we, like Christ, humble ourselves and choose the right Leader, He has our backs.  Because, with even greater recklessness, the Lamb humbly stoops beneath even us, making

“. . . himself nothing,
taking the very nature of a servant,
being made in human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself and became obedient to death-
even death on a cross! (Php 2-7,8).

To what end?  To rise to heights of unimagined glory.  And, bearing on His broad shoulders all those who also humble themselves, climb aboard, and go along for the ride.

There I Go. Part II.

600x450 marcus asmus

Truckin’ Like The Doodah Man.

As Jane Austen’s novel, Pride And Prejudice, works so deliciously toward its satisfying conclusion, Mr. Darcy’s housekeeper says of Darcy’s sister, “. . . and so accomplished!-She plays and sings all day long.”

Also true of my Albuquerque sister, Linda.  But playing and singing is just the beginning.  Yes, she’s good on the piano and guitar. And she’s sung in choral groups that have taken on some of the most demanding works in the repertoire.

She’s also multilingual, including fluent Swahili.  During her career teaching English as a second language, heaven only knows how many languages she picked up.

A serious birder, she has somewhere near near 6,000 species, of the world’s 10,500, on her life list.  A good enough seamstress, in her younger years, to make her husband, Jim, a work suit.  (My wife’s also very good, but that’s something she never even attempted.)

And, something I particularly admire, she’s given to hospitality with their elegant adobe style home that she largely decorated.

After retirement, and nearly single handedly, she ran a school for children in Tanzania for several years. She’d gone there originally to climb 19,340 foot Mt. Kilimanjaro-which she did.  But she fell in love with the people of Tanzania.  However, this was where the force of her irresistible personality ran up against the rock of African corruption.  Despite hiring a personal guard, the rock prevailed.

She wrote a book about getting up the mountain called, Climbing Kili.   She still writes.  But, now I think, mostly indignant letters to the editor about Trump, guns, and New Mexico’s notorious drunk drivers.

Did I mention that she and Jim are inveterate world travelers?  Oh, yeah.  I did.

I could go on.  But I’ll leave it at this:  of us four siblings, Linda best fits “and so accomplished!”

On To Taos.

But I get ahead of myself; I haven’t even gotten to Taos.  Let alone Albuquerque.

From Cimarron and lunch at the St. James, I headed west and then turned right on 38 to drive the northern half of the loop around the state’s highest peak, Mt. Wheeler.  The shortest day of the trip, it was a scenic cruise to my room at the Taos Inn, where they’ve been welcoming guests since 1936.

Not sure what came over me, but while at the Inn, I sprang for a whimsical, colorful painting by Mark Asmus of a matador leading a parade of bulls past the Taos library.  Entitled Mayhemit was one of a series based on quirky police blotter reports.  Marleen wasn’t amused.  When will I ever learn?

Going Nuclear.

The next morning, and at Linda’s suggestion, I headed northwest from Taos on US 64.  Good thing, too.  Otherwise, I might’ve missed the “High Bridge” over the thin, green ribbon of the Rio Grande, an airy 800 feet below where I iPhoned this picture.

Rio Grande Gorge

Rio Grande Gorge

That third day was the longest of the trip.  A favorite among bikers, I saw more motorcycles on the sensuous two lane road than cars.  Punctuated by views that seemed to stretch out forever, by the time I’d loped around to Española, my right knee was feeling every inch of it.  Badly in need of a break, I pulled into a taco joint that, at best, looked greasy.  But, apparently, it’s tough to get a bad Mexican meal in New Mexico; the food was fine.

The couple in the next booth, although a bit rough rough around the edges, were very friendly.  When I started off with, “You look like you know your way around here.  How do I get to Los Alamos?”, he was ready with an answer. “No problem. Go left out of the parking lot, take another left at the first light, and then go left at the highway.  That’ll take you right up to Los Alamos.”

Model of the Gadget

Model of the Gadget

Forty-five minutes later, I was standing in front of a mock up of “The Gadget,” the nuclear bomb that had been built at Los Alamos and then tested in the New Mexican desert.  And which, thankfully, brought World War II to a swift conclusion, sparing American and Japanese casualties that some have estimated could have run into the millions.

Road’s End.

Given the highly toxic and sometimes dangerous experiments that took place at Los Alamos, Santa Fe seems a bare hop, skip and a jump down the hill from where the nuclear age dawned.

And, after a restful night at the elegant Four Kachinas B&B in Santa Fe, it was not much further to Albuquerque. Where I dropped off my six banger Camry at Hertz. And where Linda picked me up.  What’s the saying?  “It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”  Probably not the smartest thing to have flit across one’s mind when visiting your sister. But it was going to be tough to top the journey.

However, if anyone could do it, Linda and Jim could.  They’d gotten a jump on it early that morning by taking Marleen on a day long excursion to the Bosque del Apache Wildlife Reserve for bird watching on the lower Rio Grande.

And they were just getting started.

Here I Am. Part I.

Lobby of the St. James Hotel

Lobby of the St. James Hotel, Cimarron, New Mexico

On The Road Again.

It was a bleary eyed 6 a.m., only one day after I got back to Denver, when my trainer, Charlie, asked, “What was your favorite part of the trip to see your sister in Albuquerque?”

Almost without thinking, I answered, “The St. James Hotel in Cimarron, New Mexico.  They had 26 killings there back in the days of the Wild West.  There’re still bullet holes in the ceiling to prove it.  I saw that on the Philmont Scout Ranch website.  Philmont,” I continued, “is close to Cimarron and my son and I went on a trek there years ago. They recommended getting lunch at the St. James at the NRA Training Center just down the road from Cimarron.  There’s a neat firearms museum at the Center.”

Talk about a guy kind of discussion.  And you’ve probably seen the news that both Cimarron and Philmont have since been evacuated because of raging wild fires.  Triggered by the relentless drought that’s had the Southwest in its grip for years.

But there was a lot more to like about my trip than the St. James.  Plenty more.  My wife, Marleen, unfortunately wasn’t with me because of a touch of sciatica.  She flew both ways; I rented a car down and flew home with her.

Don’t Be Myopic.  Take Your Eyes Off The I-70 Mountain Corridor. And See The Wonders Of Rural Colorado.

Peaceful Valley Scout Ranch in Colorado

Peaceful Valley Scout Ranch in Colorado

I took back roads, looping out to the eastern plains. I briefly stopped at the Peaceful Valley Scout Ranch.  I’d been to Peaceful Valley first when I was a kid in the Scouts; then years later with my own son, Byron.

From Peaceful Valley, it was further east through Calhan, the home town of Marsha Looper.  I sat next to Marsha for several years in the Colorado House.   She was a smart, capable legislator. She was traveling when I passed through her small town; too bad we weren’t able to grab a cup of coffee.

Then, it was further east to Limon, where I had lunch a few doors down from the dispiriting ruins of The Golden Inn.  The site of the biggest fire in Limon history, there was little sign that any progress had been made in cleaning up the blackened remains even though the hotel had been reduced to a tangled hulk six months earlier.

Sure, the Front Range and the I-70 mountain corridors are doing just fine, thank you.  But rural Colorado’s in trouble.  Need proof?  Look no further than the ruins of The Golden Inn in Limon.  And, while you’re there, get lunch; they could use your business.

Along The Ruts Of The Santa Fe Trail.

The "town" of Delhi, CO

The “town” of Delhi, CO

From Limon, it was a straight shot south on lonely highway 71 to US 350.   That two lane road, veers to the southwest, paralleling the fast disappearing wagon ruts of the old Santa Fe Trail.  As the sun declined in the west, the vast, gently rolling grasslands of Comanche National Grasslands and the Piñon Canyon Maneuver Site rolled by.  An occasional clump of antelope browsed near the barbed wire fence line.

Despite the drought that has wracked southeast Colorado for years, the late spring grass looked surprisingly good.  Clad in blue haze, ridge lines rolled away to the distant Rockies like ocean breakers.  Although now little more than tattered ruins, “towns” like Delhi, Thatcher, Tyrone, and Model still show up as dots on the map.

As I cruise controlled along, I listened, sometimes laughing ’til I veered toward the road’s shoulder, sometimes puzzled by snarled plot twists, to a wonderful tale of small time Boston hoods, The Digger’s Game.  By the prolific George V. Higgins, it’s definitely worth a read.

Occasionally, however, I turned off Digger and chewed on a nagging question:  “How did I vote on that bill expanding the Fort Carson army base in Colorado Springs to include the Comanche Grasslands and even more land around Piñon Canyon?”  I hoped the answer was “No.”  But feared, in the wake of the hysteria surrounding the “Global War On Terror,” that it was “Yes.”  Sure enough, when I got back home and checked, I was a “Yes”.  Not a vote I’m proud of.  Nor did I do any good for those folks down in that part of the state struggling to maintain their hardscrabble way of life.  The one redeeming virtue of my vote?  I was on the losing side.

That evening I pulled into Trinidad.  It’s where the Santa Fe Trail turned south to climb over the nearby Raton Pass before dropping into New Mexico.  I was on the lookout for the B&B I was booked into for the night, The Heart of Trinidad.  Not fancy, but my hostess served up some mean blueberry pancakes, good coffee, and friendly patter as I enjoyed breakfast the next morning.

“The Ludlow Massacre?  What’s That?”

mining monument in Trinidad

Mining monument in Trinidad, CO

Trinidad has a gritty coal mining heritage.  In 1914, The Ludlow Massacre occurred a few miles north and west of here.  The opening salvo in one of the deadliest labor disputes in American history, John D. Rockefeller’s coal company guards and Colorado National Guard troops machine gunned striking miners and their families in the tent colony they’d set up in the now abandoned ghost town of Ludlow.  The fighting raged for the better part of a day; tents caught fire.  Including one under which a pit had been dug and which sheltered four women and eleven children.  Two women suffocated, as did all of the children.  It’s estimated that 24 miners, their wives, and children died that day at Ludlow.

A couple of regrets about Ludlow.  And a question.  First, that I didn’t think to make the short drive to see the granite monument at the site.  Which someone, unbelievably, defaced a few years ago.

And, second, that I sat in stoney silence when the resolution commemorating the Massacre was read each year when I was in the House.  True, one of the leading proponents would have been Pueblo’s tough-as-nails Democrats, Dorothy Butcher.  Once or twice, she took what I considered cheap shots at me from the mic.  In return, on occasion-and from a safe distance-I called her “The Battle Axe.”  But Dorothy was an old school Democrat. Her heart lay with her Pueblo steel workers. And Trinidad’s now vanquished United Mine Workers.  And where did mine lay?  With Rockefeller’s thugs?  I hope not.

And my question?  Where are the Dorothy Butchers in today’s Democratic party?  All, or most, have gone to be environmentalists, enlisted in the War on Coal.  But why?  Is it “Because,” as Willie Horton answered when asked why he robbed banks, “that’s where the money is?”  Hopefully, not always.  But I do know that the money’s not with miners and steel workers anymore, the salt of the earth kind of folks who used to be the bedrock of the Democratic party.  But now, as Barack Obama derisively sneered, are “clinging to their guns and religion.”

From Coal.  To Sex Changes Operations.  To Marijuana.

But what machine guns couldn’t do, played out coal seams did:  mining is toast in Trinidad.

To be replaced by-first, sex change operations.  And then marijuana.  Great.  I could see the “Cannabis Station” from the front window of my B&B.  Because it’s located only a few miles from New Mexico, Trinidad is a favorite stop for marijuana “tourists.”  Pot’s big business in a town whose economy is struggling, generating $44 million of sales. That works out to an astonishing $3,100 for each man, woman, and child.  Moreover, pot has added $4.4 million to city tax coffers.

This isn’t the place to get into the fevered swamps of marijuana.  When I was in the state House, I voted to limit its use every chance I got.  But, at this point, it’s not going away.  The industry has more than enough cash to resist any attempt to turn back the clock on legalization.

Born To Be Wild.  Head Out On The Highway.

Yeah, that’s me all over: wild.  In my rented, white, six banger Camry.  But I did head out on the highway the next morning.  There were still two days to go before I hit Albuquerque.  Stay tuned.