Frightening Lies From the Other Side

We're Talking About Your Freedom

So President Obama came out (um... so to speak) for marriage equality.

There's been a lot of hand-wringing about this. But I don't see how it's a problem for anyone.

To put it more directly: If you're against freedom, you're on the wrong side.

And 20 years from now, everyone will be ashamed of you.

Wild Rumpus

When I was a kid, two of my favorite books were Chicken Soup with Rice and Where the Wild Things Are, both products of the wondrous imagination of Maurice Sendak.

I'm told that when I was two or three, after being read Chicken Soup with Rice for the millionth time as a bedtime story, I declared that Chicken Soup with Rice comes out of a can.




The movie version of Where the Wild Things Are (directed by Spike Jonze with a script by Jonze and David Eggers) a few years back was polarizing. I know a lot of people who completely hated it -- some thought it was too on-the-nose and filled with psychobabble. Others were shocked by how unhappy the monsters were.

For me, the blending of id-filled adventurousness and the growing awareness of loss was heartbreaking.

The loss of Maurice Sendak this week at age 83 was a sad occasion.

And I'm sure I'm not the only one who was reminded of childhood -- with all the excitement, amazement, and danger that entails.

Thanks for so many decades of great stories and pictures (not to mention sets for plays and operas).

You will be missed.

Better Brush Up On How To Tie A Windsor Knot

Stop The Hands of Time

She was holed up in a small motel room at the edge of the desert, drinking heavily and watching numbers flick by on her laptop.

I waited patiently. In years past, brilliant and powerful men had paid her millions for her insights and opinions. I wondered how she'd downsized from her previous life to a single suitcase, a laptop, and a 19-year-old Ford with a dented fender.

Finally she closed the laptop. And slowly stretched out the word "shit" until it sounded like it had 14 syllables.

"Follow the money," she told me.

So I did.

Here's what I found:

There is a completely unregulated pool of Credit Default Swaps that is gigantic. It's hard to know exactly how big since there's no regulation (and no requirements for reserves and no way to accurately set prices), but experts estimate it's between 800 and 1,200 trillion dollars.

That amount is hard to fathom.

So let me put it another way.

The total annual value of everything in the world is about $50 trillion.

So the amount of outstanding Credit Default Swaps is 16 to 24 years worth of everything in the entire world.

So what happens if someone has to start paying off large numbers of those Credit Default Swaps?

I couldn't imagine, so I went back to the motel room. I'd ask her. Certainly she'd know.

The Ford with the dented fender wasn't there. And her door was open.

Empty liquor bottles littered the floor. But the suitcase wasn't there and she was clearly gone.

All she left behind was a small note. It read "We are all fucked."

And Transmit Thought Energy

The public scoffed "It's far too crude."

By 1976, music fans were desperate to think the Beatles had gotten back together.

How desperate?

This desperate.



If all of this seems silly now (and it does), it was a big deal back then.

And, if you were a fairly good Canadian pop band desperate for publicity of any kind, why wouldn't you be happy about something this completely and totally ridiculous?

Go to the Place that's the Best

Try not to be cynical.

Grace comes in unlikely places.

There, outside a cheap falafel place, a modestly dressed young couple paused. On the table in front of them were two pitas wrapped in white paper. And two cups of water.

And as the lunchtime crowd raced around them, they were oblivious.

Not because they were in love (although they might have been).

Not because they were a rock-solid partnership taking their stance against an indifferent world (although, again, they might have been).

But because they bowed their heads.

And they both whispered long-memorized phrases of prayer.

Phrases that visibly brought them comfort and peace.

And a moment later, it was done. And they looked up and they smiled. And bit into the pitas.

I'm sure many of my atheist friends would mock them mercilessly, would tease them for believing in fairy tales, things that are clearly untrue.

But maybe that's not the point. Maybe it's not the truth that's so wondrous and magical.

Maybe it's the act of concentration, the bringing of Grace into a world that so desperately needs more.

They looked up and caught me staring. And they both nodded at me. Not wanting to convert me or preach to me, but just wanting to let that moment of Grace radiate out from them.



Norman Greenbaum sold two million copies of this record 42 years ago.

His previous band had broken up after scoring one minor novelty hit ("The Eggplant that Ate Chicago") a few years earlier.

And then one night Greenbaum (who was raised as a fairly conservative Jew) was watching TV and saw Porter Wagoner singing a gospel song.

And Greenbaum thought it would be fun to write a gospel song with psychedelic rock leanings. It took him 15 minutes.

You could claim this was an act of pure cynicism on his part. Or you could claim it was pure divine inspiration.

Whatever the case, the song (with its unmistakable fuzz-guitar) struck a nerve.

A small spot of Grace in a cynical world.

Puffy White Clouds with the Face of Mitchell Froom

It would be too cynical for words just to post Glenn Tilbrook's song "Hot Shaved Asian Teens" in an attempt to drive more traffic to my blog, right?

Good thing I like the song then...

Lyrics and link to Glenn Tilbrook's "Hot Shaved Asian Teens".

I guess the cynicism goes with mentioning the title ("Hot Shaved Asian Teens") three times.

Holding Hands While the Walls Come Tumbling Down

So Sad They Had To Fade It

The road into the desert seems to stretch out forever.

And you're stopped at a stop sign.

To the left is a storm cloud. Gathering winds and thunder rolling across the empty spaces.

To the right is a small shack, selling fireworks.

Amazingly, the shack is open. Even though it's got to be 100 degrees.

So you park for a moment, peruse the fireworks.

The clerk tries to chat you up.

"These are the most popular," he says.

And you nod. You're not there to talk. You're there to wait out the storm.

But then the clerk looks up at the sky, apologizes, closes everything down, hops into his car, and speeds off.

And you get back behind the wheel. And slowly drive forward.

Into the rain.