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A few days ago, Ted did a post about grammatical abominations like "I could care less." I wanna play too. Only with a twist. I don't want to talk about grammar. I want to talk about the most abused words in the language -- the ones that have had their proper meaning most badly warped.
Take "adult" -- as in "adult movie." Could you get the meaning of the word more backwards? A Calvin and Hobbes strip captured it best. Calvin's looking at an ad for a movie with "adult situations" and wonders what that means. Hobbes speculates: "Probably things like going to work, paying bills and taxes, taking responsibilities...." (Then Hobbes wonders how these movies make any money.)
Or take "lovers." Typically, that means people having sex who aren't married -- at least not to each other. But what's love -- real love, not lust or passion -- got to do with that? The proper, non-prettified language here would be (to haul out some useful, biblical-style words) "fornicators" or "adulterers." Real love flows from God's love; it doesn't fly in the face of His Word.
Your turn. What language abuse bugs you most?
That title's not meant to be sarcastic. I'm having computer problems, and it's been a blessing.
The technical details aren't important (which is good for me, because I'm not competent to explain them). The important part is that the best way to minimize the problems -- until I can afford the time and money needed to deal with them -- is to turn off the computer overnight or any time I'm going to be away from it for long. And I've found it's helping me to get my life back.
Seriously, this thing is addictive. I spend an hour or so without checking my e-mail and I can go into withdrawal; give me a few minutes between activities -- any activity -- and I'm right back in front of this screen again. Minutes stretch into hours, and "one last check" of e-mail and headlines before bedtime turns into half an hour or an hour of surfing.
Like I said, addictive. And I don't even have this problem as badly as some people I know.
But my enforced separation from this machine has imposed some limits. I find myself enjoying other activities more now: Reading something, talking to someone, thinking about other people, thinking about God. It's enough to make me resolve that I keep turning the computer off overnight even when I no longer have a technical need to do so. I want to use it as needed and as helpful to enhance my life, not so much that it takes over my life. (Pray that my resolve on that sticks, will you? I can feel it wavering already.)
I'm sure I'm not the only one on this site who needs to work on this problem: It's especially tempting to singles living alone. Am I right?
Well, I've officially been part of the Boundless blogging team for just over a week, and every day since then I've unsuccessfully stared at my computer screen trying to write my first blog.
Not a good sign for someone aspiring to be a full-time writer.
Perhaps that occupational test I took my junior year of high school was right and I should just be a mime. Seriously. That's not a joke. No offense to those of you who are mimes; I just didn't realize occupational tests got that specific in high school.
Anyway, in my defense, I did come up with of lots of very specific ideas. It was just that I realized the rest of the team beat me to it by weeks, months, or even years in some cases. So congrats to them to being so on top of things.
With that, I'll just let this serve as my introduction to you all. I'm looking forward to being a part of the blog, and I promise I'll do a better job at coming up with some topics. However, if you have any ideas of things you'd like to see me address, feel free to let me know in the comments below.
What's the best way to communicate a final thought after much discussion, the perceived conclusion after all ideas have been considered? It seems our phrase of choice for that concept is typically "at the end of the day."
A Google search of our blog shows that the phrase "at the end of the day" appears quite frequently in our blog posts and in your comments.
But, at the end of the day, has this phrase become a cliche and lost its punch? That's the concern Tim Kidwell raises in a Wall Street Journal article today:
If you're like me, at the end of the day you're tired. You're not looking for a fight, but you'll stand your ground if you think you're being played. And that's precisely the limit I've reached with this sprig of verbal parsley.
"At the end of the day" has certitude, finality and a hint of righteousness. But it's cheap and it's stale. No surprise that every talking head, politician, sportscaster and game show host lunges for it like a linguistic life preserver. Uh-oh, running out of time, need to quickly summarize, but need something conclusive, something that will cut off any further debate . . . Aha! I've got it!
Mr. Kidwell challenges his readers to find a new and fresh idiom:
Come on, folks. Surely we can come up with a few worthy replacements for this tired old saw. I'd like to think that at the end of the day, we're better than "at the end of the day." With this in mind, allow me to share a few humble submissions.
Domestic: When the Pop Tart's out of the toaster.
Legal: When all appeals are exhausted and all clients are broke.
Lyrical: When that last, lone swallow is perched upon the cliffs of Capistrano.
Speculative: When the closing bell sounds and every fund's been hedged.
Legislative: When the filibuster's broken, the bill is up for vote, and senators are running for cover like roaches in a brightly lit kitchen.
Maybe we can do our part.
What would you suggest as an alternative to "at the end of the day" that would be a good fit for the Boundless community?
Here's a starter suggestion: "When Ted has approved the last comment on this post (perhaps his own)."
What say you?
We talked about being a good groomsman or bridesmaid on a recent episode of the Boundless podcast. But nobody mentioned that scooping poop may become one of the regular duties in-between escorting grandma down the aisle and lighting candles.
From a USAToday.com article:
Pet-loving couples are increasingly including their dogs (and other pets, to a much lesser degree) in the wedding parties of some very formal weddings — decking them out in silk and satin and including them in the receiving line, on the program and in the portraits.
"Many people think of their pets as family members, and they wouldn't think of having a special day like this without that member," says Celina Bojorquez, co-owner of Beverly Hills Mutt Club, purveyor of upscale accessories like doggie tuxedos ($70 and up) and couture dresses ($170 to $500).
It seems the preferred method of inclusion is to have a groomsman walk the dog(s) down the isle on a fancy leash and have it sit at the alter while the vows are taken. Yo!
Any of you soon-to-bes planning to have your pooch as part of the wedding party?
A friend of mine sent me this link a couple of weeks ago, accompanied by the comment, "When I was in high school, I thought I was so ugly that I never was in pictures and I totally regret it." She hated camera lenses. She hated the way she looked.
The men reading this post are probably already perplexed by it, while the women are even now bursting into tears. It is so true. Many of us have lost huge chunks of our history due to "photo fear." We see ourselves in photos and think, "Ugh. I look terrible. I'll lose 20 pounds, cut my hair, wait for my acne to clear up, get braces, wait for the next solar eclipse, ___________ [fill in the blank], and then I'll start being in pictures again." We promise ourselves, pinky-swear, cross-our-hearts-and-hope-to-die, but the next thing we know, we're ten years older and not a bit bolder. And as the above blogger notes, guess what? We look ten years older to boot. Double whammy.
I have almost nothing from my college years documented on film. In part this was because I ran around like a madwoman, living the life of an overachiever and overcommitter, only to wake up one day, diploma in hand and future before me. But vanity and photo fear came into play, too. I think I only had about four months of my senior year where I felt somewhat pretty. Four months out of four years -- what an unbelievable tragedy. I loved my college experience. But I have no photos to prove it.
I've taken (and been in) more photos in recent years thanks to digital photography and a newfound posing prowess. Any woman who has staged her own photo shoot for the purpose of online dating sites or Facebook photo albums knows what I'm talking about. We've learned how to stand with one foot forward, one hip turned and one arm bent to streamline our silhouettes. We have doctorate degrees in how to suck in, twist, elevate and hide any number of body parts for maximum presentation. Trust me, Annie Leibovitz has nothing on us.
But the fact remains: we need to get a grip. We need to reclaim our photo opps, both for our sakes and the sakes of our grandchildren. Ladies, I need a witness here! And guys, we need support! Or do you suffer from photo fear as well? Please let us know.
Thanks to Facebook, I've reconnected with some college friends who have shared their photos. In a spirit of reckless abandon, I'm posting a photo of me in my college glory days.  I look positively ridiculous (I'm surprised I didn't start a fire with those glasses), but I am so grateful to have this photo in my stash. There are tons of memories associated with it.
So guys and gals, let's not be afraid to jump in the picture. And when you do, pull someone along with you. Here's a start: this weekend as you're out and about, take a photo of yourself in action. Then send it to us and we may post it as a declaration of freedom.
Let's take back our history, folks, and shed our photo fear. Start snapping!
As you may know, I'm a sucker for top ten lists. And I've run across three recently that got my attention. Enjoy.
Top Ten Ideas Changing the World Right Now
1. Jobs Are the New Assets
2. Recycling the Suburbs
3. The New Calvinism
4. Reinstating The Interstate
5. Amortality
6. Africa: Open for Business
7. The Rent-a-Country
8. Biobanks
9. Survival Stores
10. Ecological Intelligence
For more on number 3, go here, here, and here.
Top Ten Recession Winners
1. Home gardening
2. Hollywood
3. Escapist literature
4. Condom makers
5. Resume editing
6. Public universities
7. Chocolate
8. McDonald’s
9. Career development websites
10. At-home coffee brews
Ah, at-home coffee brews. I can relate. In an effort to tighten our household budget, I've limited my Starbucks runs to 1.5 times a week. And not that I'm looking, but I've done number 5 too. Because you never know.
Top Ten Movie Stars 2009
1. Denzel Washington
2. Clint Eastwood
3. John Wayne
4. Will Smith
5. Harrison Ford
6. Julia Roberts
7. Tom Hanks
8. Johnny Depp
9. Angelina Jolie
10. Morgan Freeman
The list is interesting but the poll breakdown by gender, age, political affiliation, and region is what's really cool.
HT: Between Two Worlds; Challies; World Mag Blog; Big Hollywood
My New Year's Resolution for the two years prior to 2009 was to give up Splenda. In 2007, I tried to do it cold-turkey. Failed. In 2008, I planned to do it slowly over a three month period. Failed again. In 2009, I didn't even kid myself. But here I am a quarter into the year and feeling the pressure to break my artificial sweetener addiction.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with Splenda, here is a brief description from Splenda's official site:
Sucralose, or SPLENDA® Brand Sweetener, is made from a patented multi-step process that begins with sugar (sucrose). Three hydrogen-oxygen groups on the sugar molecule are replaced with three chlorine atoms. Although the process for making sucralose begins with sugar, sucralose is not sugar and is not broken down for energy. This is why it has no calories.
Isn't the most basic purpose of food to provide energy? Food is meant to give us energy for life, not to be where we find life's sweetness. Splenda is empty of any real nutrient; it only adds flavor. So even though Splenda assures me that there are no harmful effects, I'm wary of something meant to give energy that only gives empty taste.
I know that a fake substance can't possibly taste better than the real thing, but it does to me. I don't like real sugar in my coffee. There was a time when I used Splenda to save the calories of the sugar that I put in my cereal and my coffee. Today, I would gladly take back the 100 or so calories. But I like it so much.
Sunday was my fist attempt of 2009 to cleanse my diet of Splenda. I ordered a Grande Americano before church as is my sabbath ritual, but instead of adding three Splenda, I added four raw sugars. I couldn't even finish it. Yuck.
(I put a Splenda in my afternoon coffee without evening thinking about it.)
Monday was attempt two. Instead of adding sugar, I just drank it with cream and called it a cup. Not the same, but not bad.
Today is day three and I didn't drink coffee this morning, so sweetener has not been an issue today. (Yes, I'm dragging.)
If I'm going to make it to day four, I need to have better reasons than the vague assumption that artificial sweetener is bad for my health. What's going to happen when I'm sixty and I've had a three packet-a-day Splenda habit for forty years? I've been doing some research and my findings have been ... confusing.
From Splenda.com:
Sucralose has been tested at extremely high doses in long-term studies without any adverse health consequences. These doses are far in excess of the amount normally consumed in the daily diet. Moreover, sucralose does not accumulate in the body. It is highly water soluble and passes through the body without being broken down for energy.
From WebMD:
"Sugar may have its health drawbacks, but at least we know we're not in for any major surprises -- and we just can't say that about Splenda yet -- so to imply that it's got the same profile as sugar is misleading and that is important today, as well as in the long run," she says.
Samantha Heller, MS, RD, agrees. "Saying Splenda is made from sugar is like taking the round wheels off a car and putting on square wheels. Is it still a car? Yes. But can it still perform like a car? No -- and what's more we don't know what's going to happen when people try to 'drive it' cross country," says Heller.
From Consumeraffairs.com:
A new Duke University study finds that the artificial sweetener Splenda contributes to obesity, destroys beneficial intestinal bacteria and may interfere with absorption of prescription drugs
"The report makes it clear that the artificial sweetener Splenda and its key component sucralose pose a threat to the people who consume the product. Hundreds of consumers have complained to us about side effects from using Splenda and this study ... confirms that the chemicals in the little yellow package should carry a big red warning label," said Turner.
Of course this isn't the extent of what I found, but it sums up the research pretty well from what I can tell. Splenda claims their product is a consequence-free alternative to calorie laden sugars. Others are saying time will tell if Splenda is our calorie cure and still others are saying the results are in and sucralose should be taken off the shelves.
Do you use natural or alternative sweeteners? Do you know anything about Splenda that I didn't find on the Web this week? If you do, I'd love to hear it. It might keep this dog from going back to its vomit artificial sweetener.
So I asked our e-newsletter subscribers yesterday what they found more disturbing, the image accompanying yesterday's article or the one accompanying today's article:
  
Responses have been mixed, with a few more being unnerved by spidergirl than by the blankly-staring humanesque doll. Here's what Annali had to say:
The doll face by far is creepier than the spider! Although I would never want to have a spider on my face, I know that it is a creature God made that is just trying to live. Don't get me wrong, I would scream hysterically and smack the spider off my face with lightning speed, but just as quickly, I'd think of Charlotte's web and suddenly the spider isn't so terrible.
The doll on the other hand is downright creepy. The blank, inhuman expression is chilling. If a little girl were holding the doll, if the doll had hair and was dressed cutely, the creepiness would be gone. The doll alone, staring blankly, with no sign of hair, clothes or a person loving it as their own is nothing cute, it is certifiably creepy.
Dawn concurred:
The doll is creepier. Its creepy because of the way the eyes will follow you wherever you go, it almost seems alive. And let's face it, evil like in the horror movies. Come to think of it, I never really liked dolls or clowns when I was younger and was so glad I had a son so I never had to get any.
Josh added:
The creepy doll is a little more disturbing; the other looks like the regular goth scene, of a girl who may need Christ in her life.
Most of our readers, on the other hand, found the arachnid more to their distaste:
- Nasty. I hate spiders. That one is definitely the most disturbing. However, the article is very good.
- I'm petrified of spiders, so that image was definitely more disturbing. The doll didn't really bother me at all.
- Def. found the spider crawling across the woman's face more disturbing.
- I find the spider on the face more creepy. Yes, dolls are creepy too, but the other image is more disturbing to me.
- The creepy spider ... yikes!!!!
- Spider face!
- I'm definitely more repulsed by the spider. I'm just not into the goth thing. The doll's face is ceratinly creepy, but maybe in a little more dated "Chuckie" sort of way -- lol.
- Hands down the spider! Spiders are so much creepier. Crawly things. Although that doll is fairly scary too. But spiders are definitely capable of making me scream -- loudly. Ugh, I can't stand that picture.
We've also been discussing this over on Facebook. It's not too late to make your voice heard. As the guy creating all the article artwork for the past couple of months, I am open to your input. Give it.
I'm drawn to weirdness. Not in the way my wife is (which is more of an attraction to weird people, or, more accurately, a particular weird person), but in a more late-night-talk-radio kind of way.
Some day all will cease to be fuzzy. Some day the Lord will pull back the curtain and let us enjoy clarity. In the meantime, mysteries abound.
So here are the enigmas I find pummeling me this morning:
Chemtrails: Are "they" spraying stuff from the backs of some aircraft in an effort to inoculate us or to experiment on us or to reduce global warming? Don't know.
UFOs: Are they extraterrestrials, or demons, or secret experimental aircraft, or weather balloons, or hoaxes, or drops of condensation sliding off the window of the Space Shuttle thus giving the illusion of a darting flying saucer? Or maybe all of the above? Hm.
Economic attack: More than half a TRILLION dollars was taken out of U.S. money market accounts over the course of an hour or two on Sept. 15, 2008. If the activity hadn't been halted when it was, some $5.5 TRILLION could have been withdrawn, collapsing the entire U.S. economy. Who did this, and why does nobody in our government seem to care? Puzzling.
The two arks. Where did the Ark of the Covenant end up? And where did Noah's ark end up? Hm. Perhaps the Ark is buried outside of Jerusalem, or in Ethiopia, or in Spain, or on Egypt's Elephantine Island. Perhaps the ark was used by Noah and his family for firewood, or to build homes, or maybe it is in Turkey somewhere. Will someone someday upload photos of each to their archeology blog?
The U.S. Census: It's an actual head-count conducted every 10 years, and administered by the Commerce Department. Certain politicians want to change that. They want it run directly out of the White House, under the President, which strikes me as a blatantly partisan power-grab. They also want to adjust the results based on a mathematical formula they come up with, rather than rely on what our Constitution (Article 1, section 2) describes as an "actual Enumeration." What's going on here? Will "they" succeed?
EMP attack: Would we survive an electromagnetic pulse attack? Would our electrical grid and communication infrastructure be rendered unusable? Would my Mac's hard drive be erased, and all the songs on my iPod Touch be gone? Would the databases for Boundless and the Boundless Line vaporize?
Conficker: What is it waiting for? A massive cyberattack? Or simply to send out spams? And who made it? Some foreign government? An anti-virus company?
Surely I can't be the only one drawn to such bewilderments.
So I was listening to the John Tesh Radio Show yesterday ... and he was talking about double-dipping chip experiments done by a Clemson University (my alma mater) professor and a group of students. Important stuff.
What? You've never heard of double-dipping? Here's an exchange from Seinfeld's George Costanza with someone at a wake that'll help you out:
Timmy: What are you doing?
George: What?
Timmy: Did, did you just double dip that chip?
George: Excuse me?
Timmy: You double dipped a chip!
George: Double dipped? What, what, what are you talking about?
Timmy: You dipped a chip. You took a bite. And you dipped again.
George: So?
Timmy: That's like putting your whole mouth right in the dip. From now on, when you take a chip, just take one dip and end it.
Timmy was right. According to Clemson's research, double-dipping your chip leaves about 10,000 bacteria in the dip.
From the John Tesh website,
In an experiment that involved food technicians double-dipping, and even triple-dipping a bag of potato chips, scientists found the results disturbingly dirty. All it takes is one single bite to transfer more than 10-thousand bacteria from the mouth back into a bowl of dip.
So if you're feeling a little under the weather, it's probably because of double-dipping offenses that occurred at the Super Bowl party you attended.
Yes, I know the Super Bowl was four days ago, but I've been busy. I can't let a few matters go uncommented on, though.
The Arizona Cardinals have nothing to be ashamed of. I thought last year's Super Bowl was the most exciting I'd ever seen. I stand corrected: This year's topped them all. Still, the Cards played a great game—except for those last 10 seconds before halftime; that was the difference in the game. And Pittsburgh did not get a cheap win; they earned it. Congrats to Steelers fans.
Bruce Springsteen was pretty good, but I prefer his "Tom Joad/Nebraska/Devils & Dust" material to his rockers like "Glory Days," which to my ear are fairly pedestrian.
There wasn't a single commercial worth watching this year. Instead we got to see:
- a man change a pretty woman's clothes into lingerie by eating a Dorito. Yeah, lots of laughs there.
- a woman in lingerie crawl on all fours toward the camera—in 3D, no less.
- a woman receive a box of flowers that hurled insults such as, "No one wants to see you naked."
- a panel of busty women testify at a congressional hearing as to whether they have been "enhanced," ending with the most ... um, well-enhanced of the bunch starting to remove her shirt.
I watched the game with our church's youth group, and I felt bad for the teenage girls in the room, seeing themselves objectified by businesses wanting their dollars. Me, I'll make a point of not patronizing any of them.
Speaking of commercials, when did they become such a big deal? I've watched almost every Super Bowl since the first one in 1966, with the exception of a few when I lived overseas in the late '70s and early '80s. I don't remember the commercials becoming such a big deal until about 10 or 15 years ago. It's a football game, folks, not a freak show. (By the way, Danica Patrick still hasn't won a major race. Maybe she should consider instead a career appearing half-naked in titillating TV commercials. Oh, wait …)
If this continues, I'm going to have to stop watching the Super Bowl, even though the game itself might be good. I'm no longer a sniggering adolescent boy, and I resent the advertisers' thinking I and their entire audience are.
I re-read a post I did before Thanksgiving 2006 and was surprised to see how relevant it still is (especially the part about having a new baby boy). So here it is again:
How do you go into the Thanksgiving holiday when you can't think of anything to feel thankful for? Although I'm thankful this year for a new baby boy and other blessings, there have been years when I could identify more challenges and setbacks than reasons for thanksgiving. How about you? What's this past year been like? Have you dealt with the death of someone you loved? Financial challenges? Relational disappointments? Or maybe even just the blandness of a life without much to be happy about?
I noticed a great quote by our Plugged In team yesterday by H.U. Westermayer. He said, "The Pilgrims made seven times more graves than huts. No Americans have been more impoverished than these who, nevertheless, set aside a day of thanksgiving." In the face of loss of life, severe hardships and a still unknown future, the Pilgrims found within their recent harvest a reason to trust God and to return thanks.
Their attitude reminds me of the song The Martins released in the late 90s called "Count Your Blessing." For people who can't count many blessings in their life, the Martins suggest finding at least one blessing to count. The song goes, "Count your blessing. You'll find one if you try. Count on the Lord and watch that blessing multiply." Even in the worst circumstances, they remind us that we can still give thanks for a risen Savior and a perfect God.
What one blessing can you count on?
Around the time Ted posted his blog featuring his poetry, I was cleaning out files in our home office and came across some stuff I wrote in college.
Here's one piece that may explain why people even bother writing poetry:
Poetry, they say, is for losers
Especially those who've lost out
Who go grabbing metaphors like lifeboats
When their ship is going down
Poetry, they say, is for sick people
Especially the terminally unwell
Who go stabbing their pens like needles
Into veins with things to tell.
Poetry, they say, is for loners
Especially because it's done alone
But still we write and read it
To know we're not alone
So Suzanne just got back from North Carolina. Tom just traveled to Germany. And I just took my first trip to the Northeast United States -- specifically, the tiniest state and a commonwealth. Here are some random thoughts from this Southerner's first "on the ground" experience in New England.
The foliage really is incredible. I've seen the majesty of the Rockies, the power of a thunderstorm rolling across the Kansas plain and colors dancing across the ocean at sunset. But those of you in New England really do have a treasure each fall. Some New Englanders seemed skeptical when I told them where I lived. "You don't sound like you're from Oklahoma," was an oft-repeated refrain. I wanted to ask them what an Oklahoman sounded like. Perhaps like Laurie? But I realized that I expected them to have an accent too. Only the Boston ferry guy came close to what I expected to hear. Me: "How much for the ferry?" Him: "A dollah sehventy." Me: "Why I thank you kindly, sir." He gave me a great accent. I wanted to return the favor. While walking around Harvard University campus, I saw one of the Harvard gates that had an inscription that struck me. Isaiah 26:2: "Open ye the gates that the righteous nation which keepeth the truth may enter in." May we keep the truth. At the Old North Church, I was surprised at the lack of pews. Instead, there were private boxes, each with names inscribed on brass plaques.
Me to Church Tourist Info Lady: How did the church determine which person got which box?
Church Lady: It depended upon the rent a family could afford.
Me: Rent? They had to rent their seats?
Church Lady: Yes.
Me (pointing): How much would this box go for?
Church Lady: About the equivalent to today's $25,000 a year.
Me: Did the poorer people sit up in the balcony?
Church lady: Oh no, those seats just rented for less money.
Me: So where did the poor go to church?
Church lady: Not here.
I'm glad we don't rent pews anymore. But it convicted me. I wonder if the poor feel any more welcome at my church than they did at the Old North Church. It was amusing, if slightly anachronistic, to sit and admire the architecture of Faneuil Hall while a few feet away street dancers gave a show to the professionals inhaling their sandwiches. Do those of you who live in historic cities ever just stop in awe at what surrounds you? I toured a few Gilded Age mansions in Newport, RI. One cost over $10 million dollars to build at the turn of the 19th century. The family lived in it for three years until the couple divorced and it became what my tour guide quipped, "One expensive closet." It was exquisite, but it was hard not to think about moth and rust. When standing on one of those Vanderbilt mansion lawns, looking out across meticulously manicured lawns to a breathtaking view of the ocean, sometimes a girl just needs to do a cartwheel. - Good clam chowder! Man, oh, man.
Overall, great trip. And, as usually happens when I travel, I found myself with much more of an appreciation and much less of a characterization of the place and the people.
I can't let a November 10 go by without a shout-out to my fellow Marines. Today is the 233rd birthday of the U.S. Marine Corps, which was founded this day in 1775 in Tun Tavern in Philadelphia. 
On that day they began recruiting for two battalions of Marines who would fight primarily from the mast tops of the ships, sniping into the decks of enemy ships that had pulled alongside for a broadside. But the Marines were also prepared to fight ashore, and their first battle on foreign soil was in Derna, Tripoli, where in 1805 a contingent of Marines marched 600 miles overland to free American sailors from the U.S.S. Philadelphia who were being held captive by Barbary Pirates. (That's the "Shores of Tripoli ..." line in The Marines' Hymn.) In 1847, during the Mexican-American War, they stormed Chapultepec Castle in Mexico City, taking heavy casualties in the process. (That's where the "Halls of Montezuma ..." line comes from.)
The Marine Corps has had a long and distinguished history since. In World War I the Germans referred to Marines as teufelhunden (devil dogs) because of the tenacity of their fighting. In World War II, they more than earned their reputation. The Japanese commander of Tarawa, a heavily fortified speck of coral and sand in the middle of the Pacific, boasted that it would take a million men a thousand years to take the island. The 2nd Marine Division (approximately 35,000 men) took the island in three days. And Admiral Chester A. Nimitz, watching the tough fighting on Iwo Jima, said admiringly of the Marines, "Uncommon valor was a common virtue." I highly recommend you read Flags of Our Fathers and With the Old Breed to get a feel for the type of war the Marines had to fight in the Pacific. (And don't bother with the movie version of the former, which doesn't begin to capture the true story and invents some incidents out of whole cloth.)
Marines are different, both in their training and in their outlook on life. Robert Kaplan captured that well in an article in The Atlantic Monthly about five days he spent with the 1st Battalion, 5th Marines in Fallujah, Iraq: The idea that Marines are trained to break down doors, to seize beachheads and other territory, was an abstraction until I was there to experience it. Running into fire rather than seeking cover from it goes counter to every human survival instinct—trust me. ... As the weeks had rolled on, and I had gotten to know the 1/5 Marines as the individuals they were, I had started deluding myself that they weren't much different from me. They had soft spots, they got sick, they complained. But in one flash, as we charged across [a road under heavy fire] amid whistling incoming shots, I realized that they were not like me; they were Marines. ...
What the Marines really had going for them was their warrior spirit and a matter-of-fact willingness to die, if circumstances demanded. It was never spoken of; it was simply there. Concomitantly, they had stores of compassion. The two occasions when I had seen the Marines of 1/5 most depressed in Fallujah were when the civilian was accidentally shot in the firefight next to the mosque, and when a six-year-old girl was killed by a mortar that missed the FOB [forward operating base] and hit a nearby house.
I joined the Marines fresh out of high school, a long-haired surfer dude not really sure what he wanted to do in life so long as it was gnarly. When I stepped off the bus at Parris Island, I quickly discovered that I hadn't the slightest idea of what gnarly truly meant. Indeed, there's no faster cure for long-haired surfer-dudeness than Marine boot camp. There was a still a war on, but I wasn't afraid of that. I even volunteered for the infantry. I wanted to be part of something larger than myself and engage in an honorable cause big enough to believe in. I’m a better person for those seven years I served, and it's hard to imagine what turns my life would have taken had I not. (I do know my hearing would probably be a lot better, though.)
A lot of Marines have gotten off the bus since that day long ago. There has always been some grumbling that new Marines don't have it as tough as we old Marines, but I'll quote Chesty Puller on this one: "New breed, old breed, it don't make a bit of difference so long as it's the Marine breed."
Happy Birthday to all Marines, young and old, and especially to those serving in a combat zone in Iraq and Afghanistan. I'm proud to have worn the uniform alongside you and generations of Marines past and to come.
Semper Fi!
So a couple of nights ago I found myself having eaten a, um, "few" handfuls of salted pistachios over the course of an hour's TV watching.
Going to bed, I noticed that my tongue felt burned. If you've sipped your hot chocolate or coffee too fast you know what I mean.
Now, a couple of days later, my tongue is still distractingly raw. My leftover microwaved spaghetti lunch wasn't as tasty as it would have been had I more unscorched taste buds.
Strange how something as innocuous as salt could cause such uncomfortable burns.
And then I thought about saline abortions. Man, that must hurt.
I’ve just returned from spending some time in Germany. It, along with Denmark, is the land of my ancestors, so that in a way colored my interaction with the people I met. Every person I interacted with was a potential relative.
Some thoughts:
Driving 165kph (102mph) on the autobahn wasn’t as fun as it was when I was younger. Many years ago, when I lived in Switzerland, I would cross into Germany at Basel and put the pedal to the metal, basking in an exhilarating sense of freedom as I blasted along the autobahn. (The Swiss, fuddy-duddies that they are, insisted on a speed limit on their autoroute.) This time, 165kph seemed on the very edge of control. (Never mind that people were still passing me, even at that speed.) Perhaps I can blame encroaching fuddy-duddydom, but I slowed down to a mere 130kph (80mph). Besides, my three-squirrel-powered rental screamed in protest when I got that fast, and I half expected a piston or two to come punching through the hood.
Speaking of roads, in all the time I spent in Bamberg, Nuremberg, Munich, Füssen and points in between, never once did I encounter anything remotely resembling the chewed-up, potholed wastelands that pass for roads in so many American cities. Why is that?
The Germans have the service and hospitality thing down pat. A lot of American businesses could learn a thing or two from them. I’m also humbled that almost everyone I encountered spoke way better English than I spoke German. Bavaria is beautiful this time of year, with the hillsides a riot of different colored leaves as autumn settles in. I am reminded of a song I heard long ago: "Vor uns liegt ein weites Tal / Die Sonne scheint mit Glitzerstrahl."
A lot of Americans giggle when they see the German sign for “exit”: Ausfahrt. But as a sage friend commented, “Is there any other kind?” I also had a friend who thought Ausfahrt was a city, and she was amazed that so almost every German road led there.
I ate enough schnitzel to last several lifetimes. Why can’t one find good schnitzel here in the States?
I spent some time with American soldiers stationed near Bamberg. They were members of the 319th Airborne Field Artillery Regiment and recently returned after 15 months in Afghanistan. Their brigade lost nine soldiers killed and many more wounded in a big firefight in the Wanat Valley—a mere two weeks before they were to return home. It hit a lot of them hard. No matter what you think about war, be sure to thank a soldier, Marine, airman or sailor when you see them. They are sacrificing a lot more than their lives in service to this country.
There is a McDonalds and a Burger King just outside the entrance to the memorial site for the Nazis’ Dachau death camp. (More on Dachau in another post.) Have they no sense of propriety?
My husband interned for a summer in Washington D.C. So when he took me there several years later for my first visit to our nation's capital, he had this advice: "Heather, don't smile at people on the Metro."
Huh?
Evidently, I tend to smile and look people in the eye whether I'm at church or at an airport or in a mall. Kevin wanted me to know that people on the Metro simply wanted to be left alone.
So I tried. I really did. But when you grow up in a place where people still wave each other on at the four-way stop, it was hard to suddenly act disinterested, hip and oh-too-busy. So I slipped and smiled a few times. And, one time, someone smiled back.
Evidently Kevin understood by instinct what a recent Wall Street Journal article confirms. "The United States of Mind" reports on new research, based on over 600,000 questionnaires, that finds certain regional clusters of personality traits. According to the article: "Even after controlling for variables such as race, income and education levels, a state's dominant personality turns out to be strongly linked to certain outcomes."
The research ranks states on five characteristics: extroversion, agreeableness, conscientiousness, neuroticism and openness. My particular state ranks #9 in agreeableness (#1 being the most agreeable). Washington D.C.'s agreeableness? #50.
According to the map showing the state-by-state results, my state is more agreeable and conscientious than my fellow bloggers' state, but theirs is waaay more laid back (it's #50 in neuroticism) than mine. It's gotta be that crisp mountain air.
Of course, the article warns against taking the results too seriously: "There's no way to unravel the chicken-and-egg question: Do states tend to nurture specific personalities because of their histories, cultures, even climates? Or do Americans, seeking kindred spirits, migrate to the states where they feel at home? Maybe both forces are at work -- but in what balance?"
And, as the Boundless clan pointed out in a recent podcast, Christians shouldn't use our personality tendencies as an excuse not to follow Biblical commands.
But as I plan my trip to New England soon, I'm finding the results informative. The states I'm planning to visit are not very agreeable, not very conscientious and pretty neurotic. But they do rank high in openness.
Maybe they won't mind, then, if I smile.
TypePad, the company providing the platform for our blog, has surprised us with some new "features."
I don't like them at all. TypePad, for example, has mandated new restrictions on the number of comments that can appear on a page (50), the number of blog posts that can appear on an archive page, and so on. I'm doing my best to fix the mess they created. In the meantime, please accept my apology for the navigational weirdness.
I can't believe I missed an important holiday yesterday: National Punctuation Day. I missed the joy of celebrating the semicolon, congratulating the colon, exclaiming against the exclamation mark, and emphasizing the proper use of the em dash.
I know, it sounds like a crashing bore to a lot of people. But I've spent a large part of my 20-plus years in journalism as a copy editor. The copy editor is a nitpicker, a language curmudgeon. His motto: Go ahead and call me anal-retentive — just make sure you hyphenate it.
He's the guy who agonizes over punctuation, the guy who knows the difference between immanent and imminent and brazier and brassiere. (And those aren't arbitrary examples: twice in the past month I’ve seen those words mixed up in print, resulting in hilarious unintended meanings.) He's the guy who knows that a viscous criminal is no threat, but a vicious one is. He's the unsung hero who makes other writers look good — and usually kills without mercy hoary clichés such as "unsung hero."
So what's the big deal? Well, a misplaced comma in a contract cost a Canadian company $2.13 million. The Strategic Arms Limitations Talks between the Soviet Union and the United States were held up for weeks over a comma — basically, whether a definition of a certain weapons systems was restrictive or nonrestrictive. (To our shame, the Russian-speaking negotiators understood the distinction in English better than the Americans did.)
It's especially perilous to write about the importance of punctuation and mess up in the process, as one hapless PR person recently did. And an incorrectly punctuated love letter could get you in serious trouble.
A few of my peeves, pet or otherwise:
The mistaken belief that quotation marks add emphasis to a word: No, quotation marks are used to indicate quoted material, to introduce an unfamiliar term, or to indicate ironic usage.
Right: Mayor Jones was seen in town with his beautiful wife.
Wrong: Mayor Jones was seen in town with his "beautiful" wife.
An overuse of em dashes: The em dash is a useful piece of punctuation, but it is not interchangeable with commas or parentheses. In fact, I see way too many writers who seem to have set their em-dash function on random — not that they notice.
The improper use of semicolons: Like the em dash, the semicolon is a useful tool when used correctly. Unfortunately, it's often used incorrectly or not used where it should be. The proper use of the semicolon indicates a subtlety of thought and an elegance of expression. In fact, during the Son of Sam murder spree in the late '70s, some speculated that the murderer must be a writer because of his proper use of semicolons in the taunting notes he sent to police. Newspaper columnist Jimmy Breslin famously said, "He's the only murderer I know who can wield a semicolon as well as he can a revolver."
Some have mocked the semicolon. Kurt Vonnegut once told a university audience that "all [semicolons] do is show that you've been to college." And New York mayor Fiorello LaGuardia's favorite put-down for overeducated bureaucrats was "semicolon boy." Mock if you must, but the semicolon is really more like an obscure implement in your toolbox; you might not use it often, but it’s the perfect tool when you need it.
I could go on, but we're allowed only a certain number of words per post. If you enjoy the nitty-gritty of grammar and punctuation or want to know what all the fuss is about, I highly recommend Lynne Truss' wonderful book Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation. (Her book will explain why I didn't set off the title with commas.)
If you want to improve your grammar and punctuation, there's always the indispensable The Elements of Style or its droll and useful follow-up, The Elephants of Style by fellow copy editor Bill Walsh. Hat tip also to Bill for the title to this post. (I profiled Bill for Writer's Digest several years ago.) Two other books I find useful are Fowler’s Modern English Usage and Modern American Usage. (Both books are out of print but can be found on eBay and other sites.)
My blog about bad words and euphemisms garnered some interesting responses, and it got me to thinking about how we can become overly sensitive to perceived bad words or insulting words -- to the point of silliness.
You might not have known that some Web sites have built-in filters that automatically change potentially offensive words into preferred euphemisms. The results can be hilarious. The title of this blog is what would happen to a news story about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln were it to go through a poorly written filter. The three-letter word that crudely refers to the gluteus maximus is automatically changed to the supposedly less offensive butt. (And how many young boys in Sunday school have not snickered behind their hands while reading the King James Version of the Bible with all its references to said three-letter word?)
The larger point: why is the three-letter word impolite in public but the four-letter synonym not? In a certain context, they both mean the same thing.
This is not just a theoretical mistake, either. One Web site set its filters to automatically change the word gay, which it deems a distasteful euphemism, into the more clinical homosexual. This was the result in a story about U.S. Olympic sprinter Tyson Gay.
It doesn't take automatic filters, by the way. Cluelessness works pretty well, too. In the early '90s the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum was putting together an exhibit on the Enola Gay, the B-29 bomber that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima in World War II. Veterans groups were upset because the exhibit was turning into a politically correct rant against all the supposed sins of the U.S. while ignoring the fact that Japan started the war and committed many atrocities. A historically ignorant headline writer, perhaps needing to stretch a line, wrote "Veterans Groups Upset Over Enola Homosexual Exhibit."
Such cluelessness seems to be in copious supply in politics. There's the classic case (or would that be clbuttic case?) of the aide to Washington, D.C. Mayor Anthony Williams being forced to resign for using the word niggardly with regard to the city budget. Never mind that he was right. It was ignorance -- and cowardice from those who knew better -- that forced the man from his job.
And just recently a Dallas County bureaucrat took offense at a colleague's use of the scientific metaphor black hole to describe a county agency where paperwork went in and never came out.
Yes, there are bad words that should not be used. There are euphemisms for many of these words, and sometimes people don't realize they’re euphemizing. And then there are some words that aren't really bad, but overly sensitive or plain ignorant people think they are. Such fussbudgetry degrades our public discourse. It communicates an image of Christians as nothing but legalistic prudes who go out of their way to find offense and smothers the gospel of grace.
* Postscript: In my previous post some people asked if there's a good alternative to express pain, dismay or anger. Where I used to live in Africa the locals had an expression, ai-yo, that is sort of a combination of oh no and I can’t believe I just did that. I unconsciously absorbed the word while living there, and 30 years later I still find myself using it, often to quizzical stares from those who hear me. Letters on a computer screen cannot communicate the musical lilt to the pronunciation of the word, but I wonder if that gentle, lyrical self-rebuke helps calm the user. After all, so many of our curses are hard and percussive, which maybe adds to our anger. Just a thought.
 Historians have pointed to markers of the past century that they believe were significant enough to shape generations -- markers such as World War I and II, the great depression, the race to the moon, the JFK, RFK and MLK assassinations, Vietnam, the Challenger explosion and the fall of the Berlin Wall
In a world with hundreds of television channels, millions of Websites and endless opportunities for segmentation, it's more difficult for events to break through as fundamental life changers. 9/11 has been one of the few markers to emerge as a life changer at a broad level. Years from now, historians will be describing how your life was shaped by 9/11 in the same way they talked about how people were shaped by the depression, the world wars, the sixties and other markers.
But just how significant was September 11, 2001 in shaping your life? Would you say it has directly or indirectly shaped your view of the world, your values, your sense of security, your views of good and evil? What do you think you would see differently if nothing newsworthy had happened on September 11, 2001?
I've had a passion for chicken wings for years, an obsession that's driven me to spend years pursuing the perfect recipe.
Gradually, though, over the past few months I've found myself less enthralled by this once-pleasurable meal. What had been a key ingredient of a cozy night in front of the TV has descended into an ordeal of bone and fatty skin. The sauces that had sent me soaring now merely give me a stomach ache. The process of preparing them had been therapeutic; now it's a chore.
I've come to concur with those who denounced my craving. It is a chasing after the wind, this quest "to make the useless appendages of a 'yard fowl' taste good."
So, I repent, and humbly ask the forgiveness of Boundless Line readers for touting as "good" something that's ultimately nothing more than bone and fat and skin and a bit of meat, something that requires a slather of mouth-numbing spice to bring it to a point of edibility.
The college football season is right around the corner and the USA TODAY kicked things off last week with their preseason poll and then followed it up with an article about the Georgia Bulldogs' (whom they picked to finish No. 1) head coach, Mark Richt.
Much of the article focused on how nice Coach Richt is. And how many in the business wondered whether he had the toughness to succeed as a college football head coach. Just before Vince Dooley, then Georgia's athletics director, offered Mark Richt the head football coaching job after the 2000 season, he spoke with Florida State coach Bobby Bowden. Richt had spent 15 seasons with Bowden's Seminoles, primarily as offensive coordinator.
"The one thing that worries me about him is he's too nice," Bowden told Dooley. Seven seasons later, Richt is still as nice but also has won nearly 80% of his games, becoming one of only nine coaches in major-college history to record 70 or more wins in his first seven seasons. He also restored the glory, glory to old Georgia, as the fight song goes, winning two Southeastern Conference championships.
Now Richt, 48, has the Bulldogs ranked No. 1 in the preseason USA TODAY Coaches' Poll, which raises the question: Can nice guys finish first?
Richt isn't just nice, he's a Christian. And Christian coaches will always have to answer the "passion gap." Fans want someone who is as passionate about their team as they are. And a "Christian" countenance can often be construed as an inverted priority, particularly for southern college football fans.
Ultimately it's results that matter. And Richt seems to have found the balance. A couple of championships and an eyewitness account of him bawling out a player seems to have answered the passion gap ... for now.
HT: World Mag Blog
After my second pregnancy, I noticed something. Or somethings, really. About 40 pounds of them.
So I went on a diet that emphasized healthy eating: lean meats, lots of veggies, no sugar. The weight came off and I learned one big fact: even before my pregnancy, I didn't eat all that well. To drop the weight, fast food was off the menu -- except the occasional salad. Once I hit my goal weight, I let fast food back into my life, but vowed to stick to the kids' menu.
According to an article in today's USA Today, I need to be even more careful than that. In a study by the Center for Science in the Public Interest, nutritionists analyzed 1,474 different kid meal combinations from 13 chain restaurants and found that the majority have too many calories, too much fat and too much salt (based on the 1,300 calories needed by a 4 to 8-year-old).
Yikes. So I hit one of my favorite chain's websites. Good news: my kid chicken strips, tater tots and Diet Dr. Pepper ring in at 430 calories. Bad news: My daughter's grilled cheese, fries and slushie hits in at 830 calories. But, then again, she never eats her crust and leaves half her fries.
One surprise, though. My kid meal and diet drink actually has fewer calories than the grilled chicken salad with light ranch dressing. Of course, there's more nutritional value in the tomatoes than in my tots.
"Eating out is no longer a special occasion, it's a lifestyle now, so we have to be more selective about what we eat," says Keith Ayoob, who works with overweight kids at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine in New York.
Looks like it still comes down to choices. I know an apple is healthier than fries. I know water is healthier than soda. The question is: Which will I choose? I'm just happy that my chicken strips are still in.
Americans have a penchant for sticking things on our cars, from Christian fish decals to the Darwin amphibian thingie and every variation thereof.
It's a phenomenon I haven't seen too often in Europe or Africa, this desire to tell anyone and everyone who we are and what we think by putting things on our cars. Maybe it’s because we Americans are such a car-centric culture, we see our cars as an extension of ourselves. (So what is the suburban family that drives a Hummer to the supermarket saying about themselves?)
Anyway, I like looking at what people put on their cars, from the obnoxious to the indecipherable. It's the automotive variant of people-watching. Here are a few bumper stickers I've seen over the years that have stuck with me. (Bad pun not intended.)
Give War a Chance: Seen on a car with a Young Life decal on the same window. Aside from the mixed message, I wonder if this person has been in an actual war. I’m guessing not.
If We're Not Supposed to Eat Animals, Why Are They Made of Meat? Nuff said.
Fight the Dominant Paradigm! Seen in west Texas on a rattletrap pickup truck with a shotgun in the rear-window rack. I'm sure that shotgun, loaded with double-ought buckshot, would put a big ol' hole in the dominant paradigm. (In Texas the law requires that the adjective big always be followed by the intensifier ol' , e.g., "That's a big ol' dog you got there, Sheriff!" In Mississippi, on the other hand, the word is reserved for females and is to be used after the word little, e.g., "You surely don't suspect little ol' me, do you?")
I ♥ Foat Wuth: Seen on the German autobahn outside of Mannheim. A lot of Germans are probably still scratching their heads over that one.
Visualize Whirled Peas: Um, I'd rather not. But a good thumb in the eye to those naive, moony types who believe the only problem with the world is that everyone is just so darn mean to each other.
Just Because You're Paranoid Doesn't Mean Everyone's Not Out to Get You: Cue X-Files music.
Help! The Paranoids Are After Me! A variation on the theme.
My Honor Student Can Beat Up Your Honor Student: So there!
I ♠ My Dog: At least he doesn't ♣ the poor thing.
Just Think: 1/7th of Your Life Is Mondays: That explains a lot.
Finally, be careful what you put on your back bumper. Jay Leno tells the story of pulling up behind a car at a traffic light. Seeing the "Honk If You Love Jesus" bumper sticker, he gave his horn a little tap. The guy in front leaned out his window and yelled, "The light's still red, you moron!"
And for the record, my Jeep has a U.S. Marine Corps decal, a Wheaton College decal, a Columbia University decal and now, thanks to my daughter, a Biola University decal. Our family van has a Marine Corps decal and a Biola decal.
I think the windiest spot on earth is in my daughter's school parking lot. Evidently, the winds start up in Canada, come south and do not stop until they hit this slightly elevated piece of property in northeastern Oklahoma.
So it wasn't a surprise for me to notice, during a particularly windy week this past Spring (we're talking continual 40 mph all day), that the American flag flying in the school parking lot was tattering. It made me cringe a little, but I gave a little sigh of relief the next morning when I saw a brand new flag flying. The following morning, the American flag was toast again (I'm not exaggerating about the winds -- they were brutal). And then, that afternoon, a new flag was in its place.
Call me obsessive-compulsive. Maybe nobody else noticed that the flag was torn and replaced, and torn and replaced again. But I did. And I know why -- I was taught to. Back in the good old, sixth-grade, "junior police" days, my duties were to get the little kids across the crosswalk, guard the bikes and take care of the school flag. I can still remember my "flag duty" days, hoping against hope that it would rain and I would get to race outside, bring the flag down and fold it in the proper way we were taught. Any excuse to get out of class, you know?
The flag's care was emphasized to us so much that, even today, I still want to stop and pull a flag down if I see it flying in the rain (although, I have since learned that an all-weather flag can continue to fly in the rain).
An article in this morning's paper reminded me of a few other points of flag etiquette:
- Fly the flag only during the day, unless it is illuminated.
- The flag should be raised briskly and lowered slowly and ceremoniously (um, yeah, didn't always follow this as a sixth-grader getting soaked in the rain).
- The flag should never be stepped on, have anything placed on it or be draped over any type of vehicle.
- The flag is not for sword fighting (this isn't actually in the US Flag Code, but I am teaching it to my four-year-old son).
So, Happy Fourth of July, all. Fly those flags proudly!
And, speaking of etiquette and honoring things, did anybody else's parents teach them never to place anything on top of the Bible? Just wondering.
It's a classic tale: Girl moves to big city. Girl blogs in her spare time about life in big city. Girl blogs with nearly reckless abandon -- about what she's "reading and watching and thinking about," and about her longtime boyfriend, who doesn't particularly enjoy the attention. But since it is a small blog for just "a few hundred people," girl insists on her right to blog without boundaries.
Girl gets a full-time job at big-name blog. Girl's posts are now read by thousands every day. Girl begins flirting with male co-blogger. Girl breaks up with longtime boyfriend, begins dating coworker and proceeds to craft not-so-veiled blog posts about her new relationship. Girl's new boyfriend -- much like her previous boyfriend -- does not appreciate the public dissemination of their relationship's every twist and turn.
And this, dear readers, is where the classic tale takes a turn. Unlike the previous boyfriend, the new guy is a blogger, too, and thus has vast, untold media channels at his disposal. So, when their relationship eventually falters -- and how could it not, given the DEFCON 2-level breach in trust? -- the male co-blogger retaliates in kind, with an article titled "The Dangers of Blogger Love."
The author uses only the girl's first name, but the details are just a Google search away. He uses her words, her own posts, against her. He doesn't come across very well, but she looks even worse. "You should have known better," he quotes her as saying. "After all, I'm a blogger." But she apparently didn't know better, either, and her insistence on baring both her privacy and others' is likewise laid bare.
So what does she do? After a time spent in the fetal position on her kitchen floor, the girl responds with an article of her own -- a cover story, in fact, The New York Times Magazine. It's called "Exposed," and in it the girl tells all, admits all. In case you haven't figured it out by now, the girl just can't help it. She is, as the kids like to call it these days, an "oversharer."
Is this what the blogging culture has done to us? Are we more willing to share (overshare) things online that we would never otherwise reveal in public? Has the Internet created some sort of artificial anonymity that makes many people feel "safe" when discussing the details of their personal lives?
Truth is, oversharing works, at least in terms of increasing Web traffic or reader response. Whether they admit it or not, plenty of readers enjoy those revealing details. It's why we watch reality TV, why we read People magazine and its less-seemly spawn, why we like to sit in the park or at the mall and simply watch the world walk by. This even holds true at Boundless, where readers tend to respond more when an author illustrates a point with personal anecdotes than with straightforward exposition. Boundless Answers' columnist Candice Watters, for example, has often referenced the story of her transition from friendship to courtship with her now-husband, Steve. Not surprisingly, some Boundless bloggers are personally more forthcoming than others.
Making a point with a personal story certainly isn't wrong, not at all. (Look at Jesus' use of parables.) And it's often very effective. (Again, parables.) But when does sharing cross the line into oversharing? And who makes the call? After all, one person's oversharing is another's everyday conversation. And as long as we're playing the role of innocent bystanders -- i.e. readers -- oversharing seems like harmless people-watching.
At least until somebody gets hurt.
Stuff I've learned from others -- and from hard experience -- during my 50-odd year journey on this planet:
In a showdown between foolhardiness and gravity, gravity usually wins.
Throw the firecracker, not the match!
Middle school boy. (Okay, boy of any age.) Bendy plastic spoon. Orange Jell-O. The worst possible combination of those three things in all known universes. (Other colors just as hazardous.)
Figure out what you don't do well and don't do it.
Never end a sentence with a preposition? That's the sort of nonsense up with which I shall not put.
Every house has a junk drawer.
Corollary One: No matter what you're looking for, it's always at the back of the drawer.
Corollary Two: No matter what you take out, no matter how small, you can't get the
drawer closed again.
Don't sweat the petty things.
Don't pet the sweaty things.
If you come to a fork in the road, take it. (HT: Yogi Berra)
If you had an infinite number of good ol' boys with an infinite number of shotguns and an infinite number of stop signs, could they reproduce the works of Shakespeare in Braille?
Every toolbox requires only two tools: duct tape and WD-40. If it moves and ain't supposed to, duct tape. If it's supposed to move and don't, WD-40. (A hammer comes in handy every once in a while, too.)
Where I grew up, y'all is singular. The plural is all y'alls.
If a good ol' boy says, "Hey, y'all, come watch this!" stand clear. They're likely the last words he'll ever speak.
I bet all those people who bought Hummers to shop at the local grocery store are feeling kinda stupid now.
Five things you'll never hear a Texan say: 1. I'll take Shakespeare for a thousand, Alex.
2. Pass the arugula, please.
3. Wrasslin's fake!
4. No kids in the back of the pickup. That's dangerous.
5. Why, yes, Sam Houston was indeed a cad and a coward.
The high heels on Barbie's shoes were specifically engineered to penetrate the first three layers of skin on the bottom of your foot at 3 in the morning.
A Lego block was specifically engineered to separate the bones in your foot at 3 in the morning after you leap off a Barbie high heel.
It's hard to explain what certain words mean at 3 in the morning because your 5-year-old just happened to be up getting a drink of water, and, no, you really don't wish that Barbie and Legos had never been invented, although you didn't word it quite that way in the heat of the moment.
I'm hyper-sensitive to cursing. Maybe it's because I'm reminded of my own boorish behavior when I hear it. You see, I could weave a stream of obscenities that would make Tiger Woods blush before regeneration. Whatever the case, I notice it immediately when I'm in public places, especially if my wife and kids are with.
Such was the case a couple of nights ago.
My family and I were out celebrating at one of our favorite restaurants when group of four business men sat down at a table next to us, each with cocktail in hand. And it started immediately with a cool "f this s." Then pretty much all the biggies were said.
Right now my kids are a bit oblivious to it. But my wife isn't. And as her protector, as well as for the sake of decent society, I felt an obligation to do or say something. But after entertaining a few options in my head, I didn't do anything. I settled on the thought that my interference could evoke a visceral response that would make matters worse.
I'm not at all convinced that was the right conclusion though. So I've decided to come up with a plan since I'm certain it'll happen again. Here are the possible responses I'm considering:
1) Speak to the manager. After all, it's their job to maintain a enjoyable dining atmosphere. So it should be no problem for the manager to politely ask for the patrons to keep a civil tongue. And the establishment may be more sensitive to it in the future.
2) Confront the offender(s) directly. I really have no problem with humbly asking an individual or group to stop cursing, particularly on behalf of my wife and children. However, there's always the risk of inciting additional unpleasantness given the character of those prone to public cursing.
3) Let it go if it's not too loud. This is what I did the other night. I let it go because it wasn't overly boisterous. I'm not even sure if my wife would have noticed if I hadn't pointed it out to her. But regardless of who's offended, don't I have a civic duty to confront indecency?
I guess things like this are decided on a case by case bases. But it may prove worthwhile to have thought this through. I'll let you know how it turns out.
What about you? Have you ever done anything to quiet some barbarians?
 It was 1972. President Richard Nixon had made the first overtures toward communist China. With the thaw in diplomatic relations came multiple visits from Chinese delegations decked out in Mao jackets, all wanting to learn as much as possible about their erstwhile enemy here in the United States. A lot of Americans were still uncomfortable with this development. After all, these were still Communists in the stripe of Chairman Mao, and many Americans were still skeptical of the "erstwhile" part of that previous statement.
During one such visit, a Chinese delegation asked the governor of Alaska what he thought of China. Ever the diplomat, the governor paused and then said, "Any country that has done away with the necktie can't be all bad."
The good news is that 30-plus years later, the U.S. might have finally caught on. By this, I mean the hopeful news that the necktie might be going the way of the dodo. (HT: Jolly Blogger.) When even the CEO of tie manufacturer JA Apparel Corp. and a member of the trade group representing tie-makers declines to wear a tie, it must be a good sign for civilization.
This oppressive, completely useless piece of cloth should have died a violent death long ago. Every other piece of clothing we wear serves some practical function, even if it can be fashionable at the same time. The tie? What purpose does it serve other than providing a handy place for little boys to surreptitiously wipe their noses in church?
Alas, the dress code here at Focus on the Family requires men to wear ties. (Nose-wiping optional.) So, if I must wear a noose garrote tie, I figure I might as well have some fun while doing so. At right is a small collection of the ties I wear to work. But say the word and I wouldn't mind in the slightest to donate those ties to a good cause -- bonfire, anyone? -- and live as man was intended to live: free.
Where are all the bloggers? Motte? Tom? Denise? Steve? Candice? Heather? Suzanne? Bueller?
You'll hear more about this later, but this fall will be the tenth anniversary of Boundless. We've been planning to come up with a feature to get your thoughts and stories for the anniversary, but in the meantime I have a favor to ask. I am giving our leadership team a presentation next week and I'd like to share at least one good story for them of how Boundless has intersected with the lives of our readers -- ideally from someone who has been around for a few years.
Anybody game?
 Today is Memorial Day, the day we honor those Americans who have given their lives in war. You might not know this from the newspaper or TV, though. The holiday seems to have become another excuse to sleep in and for retailers to sell everything from dryers to bed sheets. In fact, Memorial Day should be May 31, but since that's a Saturday this year, the government moved it up so we could all enjoy a long weekend.
If you're ever near Washington, D.C., be sure to stop by the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Maya Lin's elegiac memorial is perfect, despite the controversy that erupted when her design was announced in the early 1980s. In fact, the two sculptures added to it "balance" it out -- overly literal figures of male and female soldiers -- actually detract from the deep symbolism of Lin's elegant design. Visitors leave mementos at the base of the wall that are deeply meaningful only to the person whose name is on the wall and the person who left it. In addition to the usual flowers, teddy bears and uniform items,  one time I saw a 45-rpm record of "Devil in a Blue Dress" by Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels. What did that song mean to whoever left it? Which name on the wall was it intended for? It was a haunting sight, that simple black disc propped forlornly against the base of the wall.
The Korean War Memorial suffers in comparison, a hodgepodge of quasi-impressionistic sculptures and a polished granite wall containing images instead of names. It's as if the design committee couldn't decide what it wanted to be -- symbolic or literal. It settled for both. Personally, I think the Korean veterans deserve better.
The World War II Memorial, nearby on the Washington Mall, is huge and sprawling, as was the conflict it memorializes. Its classical design is split into two halves, one for the Atlantic Theater and one for the Pacific. For a while after it opened, people would leave mementos around the memorial as they do at the Vietnam Wall. Faded photos of young men in uniform, their hats tipped at a jaunty angle, provoked deep melancholy. Even if those brave young men are still alive, they would be in their 70s and 80s. Thousands of their generation die every day.
That memorial is especially meaningful to me, even though Vietnam was my generation's war. You see, I have two dads memorialized in the World War II plaza. My biological father, Eugene, died six weeks before I was born. He served in an Army Air Corps unit that flew The Hump, supplying British, Australian, and American units in China and Burma. I have a few old photos of him with his brother Paul, in uniform on leave in Tehran, Iran, broad smiles belying the world-changing conflagration they were part of. I know my father only from these photos and the stories told me by my Uncle Paul, Aunt Mary and my mom.
My other dad, Francis -- it feels strange to call him my step-dad, since he's the father who raised me –- fought in Europe. I don't know much about what he did, because he never talked about it, even when questioned. I do know he refused to see Saving Private Ryan. He is now in his 80s, suffering from Parkinson's disease and Alzheimer's in a veteran's home in Iowa. He is long past remembering anything he did in the war.
I will mark Memorial Day in remembrance of them and their generation, especially, but I will also remember all the young men and women who have died in all of America's wars for the past 232 years. Yes, I plan to barbecue some burgers and brats, too; there's nothing wrong with celebrating. But please, as you celebrate, remember the true meaning of the day and thank a veteran.
Thanks, Dad. Both of you.
Someone sent me a link to this article today. They're talking about it over here. We won't be talking about it here, for c3rtain reasons I can't get into right now.
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