Armageddon tired of English majors

My two oldest sons are home from college. Josh and Chris have always had a Cain/Abel Jacob/Esau kind of relationship and the roles switch back and forth depending on the circumstances.

But it's always good to have them home, even though they are both English lit majors, and recent studies have shown that the main cause of fratricide in this country is violent disagreement over the interpretation of the works of certain long dead writers.

One night, not long ago, I was lying in bed basking in the warm glow of holiday joy, ready to sleep, when beyond my door, I heard some sharp speech. It got louder and louder, a brouhaha in the making. It was only when I heard competing cries of "You're an idiot!'' and "You don't know what you're talking about'' that I padded from my room to check it out.

Josh and Chris were in a heated debate about whether John Milton intended for God to come off badly in "Paradise Lost.'' At least one of the boys insisted that the argument hinged on when Milton disavowed Oliver Cromwell.

Tempers were running high and their faces were flushed when I stepped into referee.
"Well, boys,'' I said, "From all my research, I think I can categorically state that Milton was blind as a bat. Does that help?'' Not so much, as it turned out.

But what they could at last agree on, so we could all get some sleep, was that from a 21st century perspective Milton's God does come off looking bad and Satan gets the best lines.
Me? I just thank God that my sons can get excited about the English language, and passionate about great literature.

Holiday greetings and news you can use

For the first time in the decade that I've been toiling away as a scrivener, I've managed to snag the week between Christmas and New Year's for vacation. I'm really looking forward to it. All my sons are home, crammed into our small apatment like 1920s' Ellis Island arrivals in Manhattan. It'll be fine.

But this week, the week before Christmas, was the longest week ever. It seemed like it was going to last forever. Which would be terrible because I really have to start my Christmas shopping soon.

In any event, I probably won't be adding many new entries to this blog during Christmas week. But I will be checking in to the site to see if you folks are getting along in my absence.
Nevertheless, I don't want to leave you bereft right in the midst of ball-dropping merriment.

So let's see what the National Institutes of Health recommends for the treatment of a hangover:

1. Consume foods and drinks that contain fructose (such as fruit juice or honey). There is some evidence that fructose will help your body burn the alcohol faster -- that is, get the alcohol out of your body faster.

2. Eat well, if possible. Bouillon soup is good for replacing salt and potassium depleted by drinking alcohol.

3. Most hangovers are gone within 24 hours. Rest is recommended. Remember, even if you feel good the morning after heavy drinking, your ability to perform at your best will be diminished due to the residual effects of alcohol.

It's good to know that Uncle Sam is looking out for us. Because, frankly, it's a bad idea to make New Year's resolutions when your hair hurts, your tongue and brain are both fuzzy, and every blink of an eyeball sounds like you're in the front row at The WARP tour. Resolutions made under those circumstances could be said to be made under duress, and are easier to break. This is true even if the resolution is not to spend next New Year's Eve so close to the open bar.
I advise having some nice hot soup first.

Have a blessed holiday and a happy New Year!

The passion of Tara Conner

Getting a second chance from Donald Trump is like receiving a twofer coupon to the All You Can Eat Liver Buffet -- it's a nice enough gesture, but do you really want to take advantage of it?

Tara Conner, the by-the-skin-of-her-teeth Miss USA, has been told "Go, and sin no more'' - not by the Messiah himself, but by Trump, a guy who knows that he could have offered really classy redemption if God had left it up to him. Is there anything funnier in this world than getting a lecture on moderation from "Mr. Golden Mean'' himself?

The beauty queen seemed grateful for the opportunity to continue to fulfill her duties as Miss USA. Which duties are what, exactly? Smiling bosomly seems to me to be the sum of it. If you ask me, that alone would require a couple of stiff drinks every day just to get through it.
But the young country mouse agreed to go to rehab, even though she's doesn't think she's an alcoholic.

She's living proof of that old saw about the difference between drunks and alcoholics.
"Us drunks don't have to go to all those darn meetings.''

Giggles, snorts...and the sound of crickets chirping

Believe it or not, I'm not a big fan of jokes. What is more often likely to make me laugh is the quick-witted response to a situation, the Dorothy-Parker-Alexander-Wolcott-Algonquin-Round-Table stuff. Luckily, a newsroom is full of those kinds of people.

And truthfully, is there anything worse than a minister telling jokes from the pulpit to show that he or she is "just folks?''

Having said all that, jokes have their place, and I know how to tell them. I've been telling a joke for the last couple of days. Less than half the people I tell it to get it: they stare at me like cows at a passing train. But I'm sure that you folks are astute enough to get it. Let's do a little experiment: I'll write the joke. You go and tell it, and get back to me how others reacted.
Here it is.

"Knock-knock.''

"Who's there?''

"Control freak. Now you say 'Control freak who?' "

Now if you don't get the joke, there's no sense in going around repeating it. But if you do get it and can sell it in the telling, let me know how it went.

Sniffing out the truth

I don't want to spoil things for those of you who subscribe to the Nature Neuroscience journal, but the January issue is going to report on some groundbreaking research. It turns out that humans are better off with two nostrils than with one. Check out the abstract for the article at http://www.nature.com/neuro/journal/vaop/ncurrent/abs/nn1819.html.

A real surprise there, huh? Scientisits had assumed that our nostrils were too close together to be able to independently track odors. A study by University of California-Berkeley scientist Noam Sobel and others reports that evolution knew what it was doing when it gave us two nostrils, and that we don't have to look like a Picasso painting to use them effectively. Indeed, we smell stuff better when both nostrils are open for business, which is a mixed blessing, as anybody who has sat next to a sweaty fat guy on the bus can attest.

I'm going out on a limb here, but I'm betting that a little research might blow the lid off this opposable thumbs things.

Santa who?

About 15 years ago, I was asked to be on a morning Philadelphia TV talk show. It was a last-minute deal - the Yale child psychiatrist had bailed out, so they called me.

I was to debate some fundamentalist who had launched an attack on Barney the dinosaur. Now, there are lots of reasons not to like Barney - that stupid song comes to mind - but this guy was claiming that Barney was a tool of the devil, designed specifically to lead children to Hell, by getting them to engage their imaginations. "Imagination and fantasy leads young minds away from the Lord,'' he said.

Debating this guy was like shooting fish in a barrel. I pointed out that part of being made in the image of God was the ability to imagine and to create and to play. During a commercial break, I leaned over to him and said, "I bet Christmas is a real blast at your house.'' He looked at me and said, "Oh, we don't let our kids or grandkids believe in Santa Claus. Jesus is the reason for the season.''

The TV host went white. "Don't bring up that no-Santa stuff when we come back from commercial,'' he said. "We'll get killed with phone calls.'' We stuck with the dinosaur and the show was over quickly.

Since when does faith in God take the magic out of life? Not on my watch.

Musical guilty pleasures

We all have our pop culture "guilty pleasures.'' You like it beyond all reason and despite the withering remarks made by people you respect. I'm sitting here at work, plugged into my DVD, and listening to the mighty Meat Loaf singing a little ditty called "Bad for Good.''

The gist of the song is that the Lothario-narrator is promising the love of his live that if "you give me a chance, one little chance, and give me all the love that you should -- then instead of being bad for just a little while....I'm gonna make you bad for good.'' What's not to love about that sung in a bombastic power ballad style.

The thing about guilty pleasures is that you don't outgrow them. "Paradise by the Dashboard Light'' was the "Ride of the Valkyries'' of my high school days. You don't leave an artist like Mr. Loaf just because you're not in high school anymore. And you stay with your guilty pleasure, even if the Rolling Stone Record Guide once referred to Meat Loaf as the "Unholy union of Bruce Springsteen and Freddy Mercury.''

I'd like to know if you understand what I'm talking about, and, if you really insist, you can tell me about your guilty pleasure. But I draw the line at "Duran Duran.''

Hellooo, out there!

Did you know that you can download software to your home computer that allows it to sift through the noise of the universe to find alien radio signals? Honest to goodness, there's a Web site and everything: http://setiathome.berkeley.edu.

Luckily for the future of humanity, this software does not allow users to respond to any alien message. I'm sure such users are a bunch of really nice people, but frankly, I'm not sure they're up to being the ambassadors for all of humanity. For one thing, they're spending way to much time on their computer as it is. And for another, what the heck are they going to say to the aliens:
"So, what are you wearing?''
""IMHO, I'm LOL.""
You know it's just that kind of thing that could set off an interplanetary incident.
On the other hand, you could probably say anything you wanted to the aliens, because, the speed of light being what it is, they won't get your message for years.
But if, in fact, the community of earth picked you to send a message to some alien civilization, what would you say?

Calling all archangels!

In the first chapter of the Gospel According to Luke, we are told that the angel Gabriel put the whammy on the father of John the Baptist, making him stone mute for a few months.
Those were the days, huh?

We could have used the old archangel around the Garden State yesterday. Seems the New Jersey Senate opens its daily session with a nice little prayer. I don't know how they pick these guys (nobody's asked me, for example) but they chose a doozy when they got the Rev. Vincent Fields from some house of worship in Absecon called Greater Works Ministries.

"We curse the spirit that would come to bring same-sex marriage,'' he said, bringing God into the whole cursing business.

Ain't that wonderful? Just in time for the big Christmas rush of God's smitings, curses and plague-delivering. 'Cause, you know, the baby Jesus was all about gay-bashing.

Can't we put the bile away for a little while, or at least get a couple of angels to dumb-strike the bilious pastors in our midst, just till we celebrate the birth of Christ?

I do solemnly swear....

Some people, honest to God, seem to go out of their way to find something to get in a lather about. For instance, there was talk recently that newly elected Muslim congressman Keith Ellison of Minnesota might take the oath of office on the Quran. You might have thought it was the sacking of Rome by the Visigoths all over again. Grown men swooned and got the vapors at the prospect.
Geez. Why would you insist on making somebody swear on a book that doesn't reflect their beliefs? That's just goofy. It would be like asking Joe Lieberman to be sworn in with a copy of the Gospel of Mark.
An oath sworn on what is most precious and holy to you is presumably an oath you take seriously. So, let's get a grip here. We do not live in a Christian nation. We live in a secular nation with a lot of believers.
As it turns out, the official swearing in of the new House of Representatives is done en masse, just the way we members of Troop 7 used to take the Boy Scout Oath in the basement of the Presbyterian Church in Woodbury when I was a lad.
By the way, it seems to me the Bible itself isn't very big on swearing oaths anyway.
So, lighten up. It's the season for it.

The eyes (DON'T) have it

It looks like bad genes have finally caught up with my youngest son Sam. We picked up his eyeglasses last night. For some reason, I was ready to believe he would be spared the curse of nearsightedness that runs like a raging river through both sides of the family. But he started to squint and claimed not to see what was written on the blackboard. So we had him checked out.

He's not blind as a bat, but almost precisely as differently lensed as his mother. All of us see life in soft focus without our glasses now.

On the way home, Sam said he was prepared if somebody called him "four eyes.''
"I'll just call them two-eyes,'' Sam said, already savoring the effect his razor-sharp retort would have on the miscreant.

"Sam,'' I said, "that's not exactly real funny,'' and I wondered when the genetically viable Riley wit was going to kick in. Sam called his brother Chris at college. Chris told him to say, "That's right. I'm a four eyes who can kick your butt.'' Chris is usually better than that. But its finals time and it was cold and he was tired.

My wife Sue doesn't think Sam will need any comeback. His classmates will think it's cool. I don't know about that, I said. I got kidded pretty hard when I first started wearing glasses.
"Yeah, but you were a different kind of kid: chubby, bookish and half a dweeb,'' Sue said.
''Sam's a lot more self-assured than you were.''

That's why I think some genetic traits skip a generation and some are just on a time-release basis. Sam got his chutzpah early.

Well water for the Martians?

Word comes from NASA this week that it has seen evidence of water trickling and gushing on Mars. This news adds to the speculation that there may once have been, or may still be, life on the red planet, given that whatever life chows down on, it will probably need some H2O to wash it down with.

I don't know about you, but the prospect of any trace of life being present elsewhere in the universe fills me with awe. There are those who would probably be upset that life isn't unique to Earth, but I'm not one of them.
To believe that God made the whole universe just to house our own fallen selves is a kind of arrogance that God's been trying to cure us of since the Tower of Babel.

"I was blind, but now I see''

Did it seem to anyone else that Robert Gates' testimony on Capitol Hill yesterday was reminiscent of nothing so much as the Hans Christian Andersen story " The Emperor's New Clothes.''
"We're not winning the war in Iraq'' is the equivalent of "Holy Cow! The king's buck naked.''
Everybody knows it, but nobody in power wants to say it.
If we're not winning the war, it's not our soldier's fault. Those men and women are doing their best. A lot of people in Iraq hate each other, and like us less. This whole misadventure has been going bad for some time. And it will be good to have a defense secretary who recognizes that.
In related testimony, Gates also said there is good reason to believe the sky is blue and the grass is green

Loyalty oaths in the working world

You stick with your friends in this world and you dance with the one who brung you.
Loyalty matters in life.
It was heartening to hear that Greg Schiano is going to stay on as head coach of the Rutgers football team. I have no vested interest in Rutgers football or who leads the student/athletes in their gridiron battles.
But there is something to be said for his decision to forgo a pay raise and warmer, if not greener, pastures at the University of Miami and stay with the Jersey team.
It got me to thinking about what it would take to get me to blow this particular popsicle stand. This is purely a thought experiment, given the sorry state of the newspaper business these days. (You kids today with your Internet and your post-literate mindset) Let's just say the offers haven't been pouring in.
But I've turned down offers before, because the people I work for took a flyer on me, back when I didn't know anything about journalism. That's worth something.
Sometimes cowardice masquerades as loyalty, if you're a chicken when it comes to any sort of change. That's just sad.
Sometimes folks are just too dumb to move on. And that's kind of sad, too.
True loyalty takes a kind of courage and a kind of cunning.
How does loyalty work itself in your job?

How do you know you picked right person to marry?

I know a guy who gives a test to any woman he thinks he might have a future with. He gives her a copy of the novel, "A Confederacy of Dunces.'' If she doesn't like it and doesn't find the humor in it, he puts the brakes on the relationship. The guy's divorced, so I think we can assume that one shared and enjoyed novel does not a soulmate make.

Having said that, it seems to me that a certain shared sensibility about the things that make you laugh and the things that put you to sleep can be helpful in a relationship. Case in point: I rented a couple of movies from the library over the weekend, and my wife Sue and I forwent our usual kick out the jams party weekend plans and watched the flicks.

"Superman Returns'' was a big snoozefest. Except for the scene where a bad guy shoots Superman and the bullet bounces off the Kryptonian's eyeball, the whole thing plays like a bad Russian novel: long and dull.

Then we watched "Clerks II.'' I'd be the first to admit that Kevin Smith is an acquired taste, what with the profanity and the vulgarity and all. It certainly isn't what I'd call a "first date'' movie. But Kevin Smith, as a writer and director, has a good heart. And he's funny as all get out.
When I saw Sue laughing at some outrageousness in the movie, it was like falling in love all over again.

Hey, man, I totally forgot what decade it was....

The West Deptford High School Class of 1976 (Go Eagles!) is having its 30th reunion - in November 2007.
I don't know why I should have thought otherwise. Our class always seemed to be in some kind of Cheech and Chong/Pink Floyd cannabis haze, so this is kind of appropriate.
But hey, it's cool, man. We're all grown up and still a day late and a dollar short.