Stumbling onto good stuff on the Web

Just like in real life, one thing usually leads to another when you're searching for something on the Web. You find these great sites and you don't even know how you got there, or what you were originally setting out to find, especially if you tend to be like me: chimp-like and easily distracted by shiny objects.
But one way or another, there you are, eventually, in a field full of lush banana trees.
I wanted to share some of my recent finds for you:
Go to American Rhetoric at http://americanrhetoric.com/ if you appreciate the power of persuasive speech and how it comes to be that way. By turns scholarly and populist, you can find here the texts and sounds of some of the greatest speeches in our history, from Lincoln's Second Inaugural to King's "I Have A Dream.'' There's even a section on movie rhetoric where you can hear Al Pacino deliver a powerful eulogy for a dead child as a fictional mayor in "City Hall'' or Henry V rally the troops in Shakespeare's famous "St. Crispin's Day speech'' delivered by Kenneth Branaugh and on and on.
Rhetoric has a bad reputation, but its purest sense, using language to persuade or convince, is one of the few things that makes us just a little lower than the angels.
If you're looking for DVD versions of obscure movies at a reasonable price, go to http://thesmallscreen.org/ I've recently found a couple of gems there: "Wise Blood,'' John Huston's version of Flannery O'Conner's dark comic novel about Hazel Moats, who starts "The First Church of Jesus Christ Without Jesus Christ,'' and a great old Paul Newman movie, "Sometimes A Great Notion,'' which has the most harrowing few minutes I think I've ever seen on film.
While you're wandering around the ether you might want to check out Paul D'Ambrosio's Web site at http://pauldambrosio.com/. Paul is the head of our investigative unit here at the Press, in charge of those folks who do real serious journalism, sniffing out corruption (as opposed to whatever it is I do around here). He's won dozens of big-time journalism awards and has just written his debut novel "Cold Rolled Dead.'' Buy a few copies today! Just so you know, Paul did not pay me to write that.

The downside of marital longevity

So, the wife and I had a huge fight last week. We don't have those kind of apocalyptic spats very often, maybe every five years or so, but they can be epic, especially when I combine rhetorical brilliance with an abundance of Anglo-Saxon-derived cuss words. (Believe me, there are just times when all that marriage counseling hoo-ha about how to argue just doesn't cut it.)
The details here are unimportant. The only thing you need to know about it is that I was absolutely 100 percent right. There was no "two sides to every story'' stuff. I was right, she was wrong and that was it.
The good thing about this is that you get to build up a good head of self-righteous indignation, so that you are not just ticked off, but positively wroth the way Jesus could get with the money changers in the temple. You can hold onto that kind of anger, man, it keeps you warm, gives you something to hang onto -- for days, weeks even. Especially when you know that when it comes to spats and beefs in your home, you ain't right that often.
Except that you can't, not if you've been married to the woman I'm married to -- and married to her for the 26 years I have.
I tried. The morning after the fight, she apologized and I just grunted, still the aggrieved party demanding justice and not willing to show mercy.
What are you going to do? She's a sweet woman; I'm no walk in the park. The anger just kind of seeps out of you over the day, like a slow leak from a bicycle tire. You've been married too long to stay mad long.
But you're a guy, so when you get home you have to ease into normalized relations, thaw things out slowly the way you can't throw frostbite victims into the microwave.
Except that she knows what you're doing, and you know that she knows, which kind of cuts the charade short, and you've made up before you know it.
Rats!

Time's winged chariot

My column for Friday, July 27, is about time's winged chariot, about the ticking of the clock on the wall and how we approach our inevitable mortality. My mom turns 90 in October and my wife turns 50 in November.
Which, to hear the Old Testament tell it, is a mere drop in the bucket. Back in the day, people lived centuries, Scripture tells us. Adam, the original ne'er-do-well, 930 years. Noah didn't go to that big dry dock in the sky until he was 950. And the all-time champion geezer, of course, was Methuselah, who didn't kick the bucket until he was 969 years old.
And all of this, apparently, without enlarged prostates.
Those were the days, huh?
This is one of thoses places in Scripture that you don't want to take literally. And don't give me that "years were reckoned differently in the olden times'' stuff. Lunar calendar or not, the ancients could figure out about how long a year lasted.
The idea, when Genesis was written, was to show a kind of theological truth: that God blessed the righteous with longevity, and that there were spiritual giants in those days, not like the "three score and ten'' losers around today.
Of course, there's a flaw in this system. Children die, and miserable old coots can hang on a good long time, so there is not a one-to-one correlation between goodness and old age.
Better just to consider every year, every day, a gift from God and go where the days and years carry you, even as you move your own way in the world.

Kiss-missing etiquette

Mornings at my house are not leisurely affairs. I left my bedroom at a pretty rapid clip this a.m. Halfway down the hallway, I realized that I had forgotten to kiss my beloved goodbye, and hurried back to buss my wife.
She was smiling and waiting expectantly.
"Forget something?'' she said and puckered up.
"Hold on there a minute, hot pants,'' I said. "I notice you weren't about to chase me down the hallway to give me this forgotten kiss. I had to make the trek back.''
"The person that leaves the room has to give the kiss,'' she said. "Them's the rules.''
What rules are these I want to know? It seems to me that my wife is making a morning good-bye kiss as complicated as French nobles' behavior in the court of Louis XVI. Which reminds me of another connection: Are French kisses permissible for the morning fare-thee-well?

Where I won't be at midnight

Well, I won't be in line at a book store picking up the final Harry Potter book, that's for sure. My sons never took to the young wizard and his quest. Fine with me, as long as the kids read something, I'm good.
If, in fact, the boys were gaga over those books, I would carry them off in the darkness and make sure we were among the first in line.
I've never been sure exactly where this yearning to get something right away came from. It's in the genes, maybe. But as Carrie Fisher once remarked, "The trouble with instant gratification is that takes too long.''
My wife, Sue, on the other hand is a patient sort, the sort of patience normally ascribed to saints. "It'll be there tomorrow,'' is her motto.
She could be wrong, for a couple of reasons.
In the first place, "it'' could well be sold out tomorrow, whatever "it'' happens to be, which is why I've hied myself off over the years to sleep on sidewalks to secure a place in line to get Springsteen tickets. Sue has always had a "que sera sera'' attitude toward hard-to-get seats. If I were a lesser man, I could well have said to myself, "Well, if that's how she feels, let her stay home when the concert rolls around. Why should I share the fruits of my labor with her? She didn't sleep on any sidewalk. And it makes no nevermind to her if she goes or not."
But I'm a Christian man, and kind-hearted.
In the second place, while "it'' may be there, surely the possibility exists that I won't -- "If I die before I wake'' and such -- and I have some experience in this regard, having dropped dead once, and so there's a certain urgency that obtains when something I want goes on sale at midnight.
But even those not possessed of a burning (possibly genetic) desire to own something when it hits the shelves can surely see that the journey to the front of the line is itself a destination, a festival of sorts, a fun community of like-minded strangers.
Unless, of course, you are married to my wife. She sees morons, including the one she wed.

The mediocrity of TV news

So, this morning local TV news stations were covering the eruption of Mt. Grand Central Station, the steam pipe explosion in Manhattan.
One of these yo-yos was talking about panic in the streets, about how just like during 9/11, people didn't know what was happening.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but on 9/11 we knew exactly what happened. There were planes sticking out of the sides of buildings, for heaven's sake!

The Grim Reaper School of Child Discipline

I'm still working my way through Harry S. Stout's moral history of the Civil War, "Upon the Altar of the Nation.'' And every once in a while, you read something that gets you in the head of someone who lived over 150 years ago, and you know that the weirdness back then still exists in certain people today.
Stout refers to another historian who dug up a letter from Union Private Henry Abbot to his children.
"Now you must be good all the time & remember,'' he wrote, "when you get mad and begin to cry, it makes the rebel bullets come a good deal nearer to me.''
Wow, huh?
At least now when guilt becomes the core of family relationships, there's Prozac and talk therapy to get us through.
Back then, I suppose, you lived with it, and god only knows what happened if your daddy tasted fatal rebel steel.

Godless secular humanists in the Civil War

I'm about one-third of the way through a fascinating book by Princeton professor of religious history Harry S. Stout. "Upon the Altar of the Nation: A Moral History of the Civil War'' is a door stop of a book, but it is as engaging and well written as any work of history I've read.
Stout points out that one of the many things the Confederacy had against the Union was that it was founded on, quite literally, a godless document. Jefferson and that crowd didn't see fit to put God into the Constitution, something the Confederacy didn't overlook when it made up a constitution. That document invoked "the favor and guidance of Almighty God.''
Fat lot of good it did them.
But they were right that our Constitution did not explicitly call a "Christian'' or even a "Judeo-Christian'' nation into existence. For good reason. You declare yourself such and, ipso facto, anything you do has God's blessing attached to it in black and white. Which is just hooey.
And how happy do you think the Almighty was to have his named dragged into a document that thought slavery was His idea in the first place?

A Baptist reflects on the "One True Church''

Pope Benedict recently took the opportunity to remind Christians everywhere that the Catholic Church is the big enchilada of Christendom. In fact, the rest of us aren't even little enchiladas, not churches at all but rather "ecclesial communities.'' We're a side of nachos. At least we still have a shot at heaven, except without all the bells and whistles.
There is nothing new here and nothing to be alarmed about. This has been Catholic doctrine for a long time. It's not such a big deal.
And if we Protestants thought that the Catholic Church was the one true church, we wouldn't have followed Martin Luther out the door in the first place.
But we're all brothers and sisters in Christ.
What worries me is the continuing existence of a small, but ugly strain of rabid Protestant evangelicalism that does not even consider Catholism "Christian'' at all. Anybody who has seen Jack Chick tracts knows what I'm talking about. Some of these nutbars consider certain scary images in the book of Revelation to refer specifically to the Catholic Church.
It's a bunch of nonsense, of course, but I've run into people who buy it hook, line and incense.
The breadth of orthodox Christian theology means that ecumenism is possible, but we're never all gonna sing "Kum-by-ya'' in one universal church, or Church.
But the friction between competing views of Christ's kingdom keeps us sharp, and insights can come from those sparks, sparks that can light everyone's way in the darkness.

God will, even if nobody else will

Imagine my surprise yesterday when I was channel flipping and came across one of those little bulletins at the bottom of a 24-hour news station that reported Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki said American forces can get the hell out of his country "anytime they want.''
Well, that's it then, I said to myself. ''We stand down when they stand up,'' we've been told for years. And now here's the freely elected leader of a liberated nation saying, "You've been swell, but we got it from here. Don't let the door hit your butt on the way out.''
An answer to my prayer and to many Americans' prayers, I 'm sure. In fact Maliki brought God into the whole deal. The prime minister was quoted as saying, "We say in full confidence that we are able, God willing, to take the responsibility completely in running the security file if the national forces withdraw at any time they want.''
Good enough for me. I figured we'd be moving out today.
Turns out Maliki now says he was misquoted.
Yeah, and I'm sure that the Bush administration was on the phone with him yesterday:
"You're killing us here with stuff like this, Nouri,'' I'm sure he was told. "Frankly, we don't care about you or your wimpy little government and whatever delusions you have about what it's capable of. We've screwed this whole thing up six ways from Sunday and made your place a manure magnet. We're here for the long haul no matter what you say, no matter what you want, and no matter what God may or may not will.''
So, it looks like September is the next time we might consult God...or at least Gen. Petraeus.

Daniel Johnston: What am I missing?

I'm not a stupid man, nor am I a philistine. I don't have to like a work of art to "get'' it. It's the same way with popular music. I don't listen to Nirvana, for example, but when my kids brought the band's music home, I understood just what Cobain's wail in "Smells Like Teen Spirit'' was all about: the anger, self-pity, ennui and disaffection of a whole generation.
Personally, I think CCR did it better, but who am I to judge?
But I watched a documentary this week about a manic-depressive musician named Daniel Johnston who has a pretty elite cult, judging from some of the people who have covered his songs.
The guy is as crazy as a bedbug, but then so was Van Gogh.
But I've listened to his work, and I just go "Huh?" The music is muddled and the lyrics never rise above the level of a precocious junior-high student.
Any Daniel Johnston fans out there want to clue me in?

This is about gender, not sex!

Two recent studies have caused a stir in the Riley household.
The July 6 issue of the journal Science reports that women do not chatter more than men. In fact, the research showed that both men and women speak 16,000 words a day.
"That seems strange,'' Sue said to me when I told her about the study. "You generally use 16,000 words before breakfast. In fact, you never really shut up. But I suppose if they averaged you in with women who are mutes, and those in religious orders with a vow of silence, it would work out.''
The study did not discuss how many of those 16,000 women's words are dripping with sarcasm, but I'm betting it's around 15,487.
Even more recently, science has come to the conclusion that women prefer men with muscles. This would indeed be bad news if I wasn't married to a woman who finds big muscles on men, in her words, "somewhat icky.''
Sue prefers the balding, loquacious type.

In Re: The Pringle Contretemps

So, the mayor of Belmar got his knickers in a twist when he was mistaken for a girl while he was riding his bike with his wife. An apparently near-sighted resident in town invited "the ladies'' up to his porch for a little sunset pick-me-up.
The mayor, Kenneth Pringle, should realize there are worse things than being mistaken for a babe in the eventide:
A woman used to pass a pet store every day on her way to work. One morning there was a parrot on a tall perch on the sidewalk.
She walked past and the parrot said, "Hey, lady! Boy, are you ugly!''
Startled, she continued to work. At the end of the day, on her way home, she passed the parrot again. "Hey, lady!'' the parrot squawked. "Boy are you ugly!''
Outraged, she stormed into the pet store, demanded to see the manager and proceeded to upbraid the guy, threatening all types of litigation and demanding satisfaction.
"I'm terribly sorry,'' said the embarassed manager. "This will never happen again.''
The lady went home. But the next day, the parrot was in front of the store.
"Hey, lady!'' the parrot said.
What?'' she responded.
"You know,'' said the parrot.
Count your blessings, mayor.
For the latest on this story, read Erik Larsen's report at http://www.app.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20070710/NEWS01/707100344/1004

I'm back and it's like I'm not even here...

I'm back from vacation, tanned, ready and rested, as they used to say about Richard Nixon when he would periodically come back from whatever justified obscurity he'd landed himself in.
And I see that you've carried on in my absence, arguing about the existence of God and the nature of His political opinions.
Let me see if I can make myself clear (although why this time should be any different is beyond me).
Belief in God is a matter of faith, not empirical evidence. It's also not a matter of "believing six impossible things before breakfast'' as they told Alice there in Wonderland. You have to have good reasons for your faith, even if they won't pass muster in a laboratory.
As to the political persuasions of the Diety, you pays your money and you takes your choice.
I don't imagine, can't imagine, Jesus standing next to the switch of Ol' Sparky and telling some convicted murderer, "You gonna ride the lightning, son!''
On the other hand, I'm a capitalist. Yet in the early church, at least according to Acts 4:32-36, believers were a bunch of hippie communists, who claimed no possessions of their own and shared everything, selling land and houses and putting it all in one big pot. And woe betide the couple who tried to keep a little something for themselves, as Ananias and Sapphira found out right before they were struck dead.
So whatever your positions on the various issues of the day, you're gonna have to squint hard and fudge some passage of the Bible somewhere.
But onto other, more mundane matters.
On Saturday, I received in the mail a notice that I had whizzed past a toll both on the Atlantic City Express on June 16, at 9-something in the A.M. and owed somebody 25 cents for the toll and 25 smackers for the offense.
A couple of things here: I wasn't on the Atlantic City Expressway on the day in question and haven't been on the Atlantic City Expressway in more than a year. Strangely enough, I actually know where I was on the morning in question and I have witnesses.
The smoking gun evidence was a photo of my alleged transgression. a photo whose clarity makes convenience store security cams look like Academy Award winning cinematography. But it is clear that the offending vehicle was a pick-up truck and I don't own a pick-up truck.
I called the number on the ticket, expecting to enter a Kafkaesque world wherein my car would be impounded and my liberty denied as I tried to prove in vain my innocence. I saw clearly that this would take years to settle and years off my life.
Well I talked to a woman, explained the deal and was promptly told to disregard the notice.
Just like that. Easy as pie.
Maybe too easy.
Now I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And the question is, should I be worried?