An Act of Revision

A few days ago my thirteen year old son asked if he could take one of our laptops up to his room. My immediate thought was no, simply because it is a rule in our house that no internet accessing laptop goes behind the closed door of one of our children’s rooms. I don’t think I need to explain why, I’m sure many of you have the same rule. The reasons are obvious, especially when one’s children are fifteen, thirteen and ten. We wouldn’t want them having secret chats with strangers or even secret chats with their friends, among other things. That was always the fear with my daughter, who is the fifteen years old. But with my sons, it is different. And at the risk of sounding blatantly sexist, I add another reason for the rule: Porn. When I was a kid it was simple, you either found your father’s stash of Playboy Magazines or you didn’t. Now my father had no stash. For those of you that know me well you know that my apple fell miles from the tree. But my best friend, well, his fat

Defeat is not the worst of failures. Not to have tried is the true failure. -George Edward Woodberry When I was eleven years old, baseball was my life. I really, really loved it. I watched it constantly, listened to it when I couldn’t watch, thought about it, dreamed about it, lived it. If no one was available to play, I played by myself, throwing a ball up against the back of our house for hours. I pitched and played shortstop, but my love was being on the mound. I was pretty good at a very young age. I had my shutouts, a no-hitter or two, and once struck out nine batters in a row. Honestly, it was the first thing in my life I can remember being really good at and at the time, the only thing I wanted to do. I remember many of my games, many of the moments within those games, but there is one that stands out above the rest. It wasn’t an extraordinary feat of mine, nor a great team victory (To be honest, the teams I played on mostly sucked. There weren’t a lot of victories to

Farce noun \ˈfärs\ : An empty or patently ridiculous act, proceeding, or situation Organized religion is a farce. There I said it. And I wasn’t struck by lightning nor did I turn to stone. Don’t get me wrong I am certainly not opposed to religion and, in general, I am not opposed to organized religion. But in definitely find it patently ridiculous. Sometimes I even find it to be empty as well. Before I continue, I want to be absolutely clear; this is simply my opinion. I will voice that opinion and you, the reader, have the right to agree with me or think me a complete and utter asshole. It’s your call. Now don’t get me wrong, I think it is supremely important for a person to have faith and to choose to believe in a higher power as a way to understand their lives and what, if any, is the meaning to those lives. It is a personal choice with the key word being “personal”. And while I have this belief I do not, in any way, believe that the word “organized” has a part of it. Se

I remember sitting in front of the elevator, in my wheelchair, waiting for the mailman. All the doctors and nurses on the floor knew me and they would say hi as they passed on their way to tend to other patients. It was my favorite time of the day, when the mailman came, and I looked forward to it like nothing else. He delivered joy in the form of cards sent from relatives and friends alike. And for the completion of that simple task, he earned a permanent place on the list of heroes of my life. The year was 1968 and I was five years old. A few short months earlier my pediatrician thought that he heard a murmur in my heart during a routine examination. He was concerned enough for my welfare that he had me put through a battery of tests. They poked, they prodded, they cut me open. I have very little memory of those tests. The results were sent to a specialist in this sort of thing. In those days there were no cell phones, no emails, and for some reason, the doctor who examine

[For those of you with limited short term memories, I will give you just a bit of where we left off last…] My mother was in Cornell Medical Center in New York (coincidentally, the very same hospital where I had my open heart surgery twenty five years earlier). She was going to be moved to a hospice facility within a day or two and I knew, as the due date approached, my time to see her was limited. My wife accompanied me on that visit and for that I am forever grateful. I know how difficult that must have been, and I wouldn’t have blamed her if she stayed home. But she came, to be by my side, to be with me when it mattered most. Hell, we were in a hospital. If she went into labor, what better place to be? We spent only about 15 minutes or so with her together. My mother couldn’t really communicate at that point but we both had the sense that she totally understood every word we spoke. But out in the hall, after the visit, I knew that I would never see her again. And I was no

(Author’s Note: It has been nearly 16 years since the death of my mother. I think of her daily; talk about her, especially to my children, often. And I dream about her more nights than not. But I have never written about her, or her death, or how she still affects three little lives she left behind. I have avoided it studiously, made excuses, fabricated reasons and well, just plain avoided it. The time has come for me to do this. And so it begins). On July 20, 1996 my daughter, Rachel Elizabeth Berr, was born. Four days later, her paternal grandmother, Phyllis Schmidt Berr, died. Rachel’s first day on earth included spending four hours or so in the infant ICU due to some relatively common condition that prevented the doctors from getting a fully audible heartbeat. I watched her scream bloody murder as they attempted to put an IV in her tiny wrist barely an hour after she was born. The doctors told me that her screaming was a good sign, that she was a fighter. I struggled wi

(Author’s Note: It has been nearly 16 years since the death of my mother. I think of her daily; talk about her, especially to my children, often. And I dream about her more nights than not. But I have never written about her, or her death, or how she still affects three little lives she left behind. I have avoided it studiously, made excuses, fabricated reasons and well, just plain avoided it. The time has come for me to do this. And so it begins). On July 20, 1996 my daughter, Rachel Elizabeth Berr, was born. Four days later, her paternal grandmother, Phyllis Schmidt Berr, died. Rachel’s first day on earth included spending four hours or so in the infant ICU due to some relatively common condition that prevented the doctors from getting a fully audible heartbeat. I watched her scream bloody murder as they attempted to put an IV in her tiny wrist barely an hour after she was born. The doctors told me that her screaming was a good sign, that she was a fighter. I struggle

The last time I checked, I had 354 friends on Facebook. 354. That’s a lot of friends. Of course, by Facebook standards, it’s nothing. I know people with over 3,000 friends. And here I am, little ole me, with my paltry 354. I must be doing something wrong to only have a mere 354. Am I not a good friend? Do I not care about people? Am I selfish? Self centered? Just plain mean? I always thought I was a good person; a good listener, always trying to lend a hand, willing to sacrifice for others. How is it that I can be like that and only have 354 friends? Truth be told, it’s a lot worse than that. Out of those 354 people, exactly 87 are relatives. Cousins, Aunts, Uncles, etc. Not really friends, are they? They could be friends, and some of them I consider friends, but they’re relatives. If I’m friends with them, it’s only by an accident of birth. Don’t get me wrong, that’s not a bad thing, but it is a fact. If I weren’t born into the family I was, or they weren’t born into

One thing I truly want those of you who read this blog to do, is comment on it. I want to know if I am making you laugh, cry, get angry or, heaven forbid, disagree with me. I want to make you think. And I want you to point out to me where you think I'm wrong, where I'm actually wrong or where I am just plain dumb. That being said, it has been pointed out to me that there are, in fact, specific passages in the Bible which prohibit homosexuality (thanks Dirk). Those passages are: “You shall not lie with a male as with a woman. It is an abomination.” (Leviticus, 18:22) And, “If a man lies with a male as he lies with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination. They shall surely be put to death. Their blood shall be upon them.” (Leviticus 20:13) Yes, the Bible apparently prohibits men having sex with men. That much is clear. What it doesn’t do is say anything about prohibiting men marrying men, which is what I was clearly talking about. Not to mention, no one has

The very first time marriage is “mentioned” in the Old Testament is when God looks at Adam and Eve and tells them, “Be fruitful, and multiply.” I say “mentioned” because it is an interpretive phrase that can mean lots of things. I mean, at the risk of being blasphemous, it could be just a command to have sex. However, if there are people who want to interpret it as a clear reference to marriage, then so be it. I am not a Biblical Scholar, who am I to argue. The actual word “marriage” is used a countless number of times but most examples are like, “It is not our custom here to give the younger daughter in marriage before the older one.” (that’s Laban in Genesis 19:26). Or one of my personal favorites, “I gave my daughter in marriage to this man, but he dislikes her.” (Deuteronomy 22:16), which I’m sure, still happens every single day. Bear with me here, I’m getting to the point, I promise. We see the word “wife” for the first time in Genesis 2:25 where it says, “Adam and hi

A little history: "That little monkey gets loose, doesn't he?" Howard Cosell said that during a Monday Night Football game on September 5, 1983. He was referring to Washington Redskins wide receiver Alvin Garrett (a black man). He was not fired for his comments, but he left Monday Night Football following that 1983 season claiming he wasn’t interested in football anymore. Right. “Blacks may not have some of the necessities to be, let's say, a field manager, or, perhaps, a general manager”….and [they] are poor swimmers "because they don't have the buoyancy." Al Campanis made those remarks on during an interview on ABC’s 20/20 with Ted Koppel on April 6, 1987. He was not fired for his comments, but he resigned as the General Manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers, a position he held for 19 years, two days later. Right. “The black is a better athlete to begin with because he's been bred to be that way, because of his high thighs and big thighs that goe

Shakespeare once said, “If you write it down, it will live forever.” Well, I’ve decided to write it down. And with the Internet, it will definitely live forever. Because, as our parents have been telling us for years, “Be careful what you post on the ‘Net because nothing ever really gets deleted. It just sits there, waiting for some prospective employer, or girlfriend, or college admissions officer to find it. And then you’re totally fucked.” But alas, I’m writing it down anyway. As I once told a good friend, I’ve gotten to a point in my life where I really don’t care what people think. I mean outside of my kids, who are still somewhat impressionable, why should I? If I can make you laugh, or cry, or just think, then I’ve done my job. If I offend you, or piss you off, or make you cringe, then don’t listen (or read). Honestly, I’m writing this because it’s just something I want to do. And I can’t think of a better reason for doing it. I’m also writing this because if I don’