The sun is a fairweather friend. 

We practice Thanksgiving as the nights lengthen to remind us that winter’s not forever,

Spring is damn near guaranteed (eventually),

and death is a beginning, not an end. 

But darkness enfolds us, encroaches further into the productive day.

We are tempted to rise and roost with the chickens,

but then the earth tilts just too far,

Day gets just too short,

Night gets just too long,

Until we punch through the curtain,

embrace the night,

and write poetry in the dark.

All right, I know I haven’t blogged in, like, forever.  Hey, school’s out for summer.  And besides, it’s too damn easy to throw a quick observation onto Facebook.  But this past week has offered the perfect opportunity for me to get a good rant on.

I’ve been inundated with Jesus freaks this week.  The weather report in Mt. Juliet:  It’s raining Christians (Hallelujah). 

Item 1:  Wednesday afternoon.  I was coming out of Target.  Two middle-aged men wearing golf casual clothing and looking incredibly Republican approached me.  One held out a pamphlet and said, “I’d like to give you some information about a local church.”  I started to reach out my hand (a natural impulse when someone hands you something), but then held it up in an Indian “How” posture.  “No, thanks,” I said, smiled and kept walking.

Item 2:  Friday morning.  I was sitting at my desk working when the dogs started barking their fool heads off and somewhere in the midst of all the growling I heard the doorbell ring.  I answered the door (still in my pajamas, mind you) to two people who I KNEW, before they even opened their mouth, were Jehovah’s Witnesses.  They tried to make small talk about my dogs.  You know, door-to-door saleman rule #1: Get them to like you.  Finally I said, “What can I help you with?”  The woman held out a pamphlet.  (Apparently, no one is getting into heaven unless they have a pamphlet.)   I read the headline as she spoke.  It said, “Will you survive the end of the world?”  Since there could have been a slight chance they were environmentalists, I let her speak for a few sentences until her motive became clear.  At her next breath, I interrupted her.  “I don’t proselytize my religion, and I would appreciate it if you gave me the same respect.”   They smiled, said okay, and left.  I think maybe they were pretty used to this response.

Item 3:  Thursday afternoon.  I pick up The Chronicle of Mt. Juliet, our local free weekly newspaper, from the end of the driveway and bring it in to my desk.  On the cover is a blurb which says, “Calling all clergy: The City of MJ needs You (Page 5).”   I was intrigued.  On page five I learned that the city leaders of my little burg were holding a “special city update brief for leaders of all Mt. Juliet churches.”   It was announced that this update would include information on police activities, infrastructure work, finances, and economic development, among other local issues.  The Mt. Juliet City Manager, Randy Robertson, was quoted saying the reason for this meeting was that “these men and women touch and influence the fabric of our city.” 

Of course, I fired off a letter to the editor of the Chronicle jumping up and down about the First Amendment and the Jeffersonian principle of separation of church and state.    I argued that this kind of “exclusive” offered to church leaders in a city with an overwhelming preponderance of protestant Christian churches was a de facto “estalishment of religion.”  I wondered in print why the city leaders couldn’t simply hold a town hall meeting open to ALL citizens interested in local politics.   I reminded city leaders that there were indeed those of different religions or even no religion who also constituted the “fabric of our city.”

Now, all we have to do is wait and see if they print it.  Publication of such a letter in this neck of the woods is certainly not a given. 

(Sigh.)  I really want to like Christians.  But, they don’t make it easy sometimes.

I just watched an interview with Ryan O’Neal on The Today Show regarding Farrah Fawcett and her medical condition.   From the way it sounds, she may not be with us that much longer.   This Friday night NBC is showing a documentary called, I believe, “Farrah’s Story” airing at 9:00/8:00 central. 

And how does this rate as blogworthy for me?  I was far more attracted to Kate Jackson.  And I’m not one to be drawn to mere beauty (i.e., regarding the Miss California flap, my primary response is “Who cares?  She’s a beauty queen, for god’s sake.”)  And yet, that’s what Farrah was for all of us, sans crown.  

I was a child of the ’70s.   Anyone of my generation who simply hears the words “Farrah’s Red Swimsuit Poster” can immediately conjure up the image.  She captured our imaginations (and our eyes!) with her unashamed sensuality.   We had pin-up girls in the ’40s and ’50s, but after the era of Betty Grable we entered into the girl-next-door period of the ’60s.  Suddenly female stars had to be wholesome and cute – not pretty.  Think Mary Tyler Moore and Marlo Thomas.  What Farrah did was far more than look beautiful and pose.  To steal words from Justin Timberlake, she brought sexy back.  Regardless of my personal disdain for focusing solely on superficial beauty, Farrah Fawcett is an American icon who helped shape and define a generation more than we probably acknowledge. 

And then I watch this interview with Ryan O’Neal and I learn from him what I have known to be true about all women. . . that she is so much more than her trend-setting hairstyle and crystalline eyes.  She is strong and determined and the rock of her family.  She is capable and nurturing and real. 

I skipped the Miss USA pageant, but I’ll be watching “Farrah’s Story” on Friday night.  And I’ll probably cry.  Regardless of whether Farrah lasts six weeks or six years or beyond, when she goes, along with her will go a part of my generation.

Nothing like a small rant to get the blogging juices flowing again.

This past week the actor David Ogden Stiers publicly acknowledged that he is gay.  You will probably remember him as Charles Emerson Winchester, III, on M*A*S*H.  Stiers is 66 years old and has most recently found steady work doing voice acting in animated Disney films.  He alludes to the fact that some of the powers-that-be in Walt’s World didn’t think it would be prudent for an actor in their “family-oriented” fare to be openly gay, and thus he remained closeted to protect his career.

This sudden flash of personal honesty (at about retirement age, ironically) was considered news this week, though it would certainly have been bigger news if a current, more visible celebrity offered it.  He will likely now become more visible in the gay community and might even be seen grand-marshaling a few gay pride parades in future years.   The fine folks at the Human Rights Campaign will probably figure out a reason to give him some kind of award, the best way to assure celebrity presence at the annual dinner.   In short, he’s just set himself up for a sort of mini-hero status in certain circles. 

And I say, “Pshaw!” 

There are millions of people across this country and the world who have lived open and honest lives of true integrity for years.   And no one has ever offered to put them on the cover of a magazine for it.   These are people who risked family, friendships, jobs, and social standing for one simple reason . . . they chose to live honestly.  

I feel sorry for David Ogden Stiers.  To wait until 66 to be true to yourself would not be much of a way to go in my book.   I don’t believe what he did was “wrong.”  He did what he had to do.  I don’t pass judgement on people who feel they must remain closeted.  They have their reasons.  But, I don’t necessarily celebrate them when they finally figure out that there is life outside the closet, like some sort of gay prodigal son. 

The bottom line is, it’s only news when a celebrity does it.  But, darlin’, he ain’t no pioneer.

If you don’t yet know who Susan Boyle is, crawl out from under your rock, go to Youtube, watch all seven minutes of her “Britain’s Got Talent” audition, then come back to this page and continue reading.   A dowdy, 47-year-old, never-been-kissed Scottish woman has turned the entertainment world on its ear and elicited a genuine grin from Simon Cowell.  I believe hell might have frozen over for a few minutes there as well.

Three years ago it was Paul Potts, the British cell phone salesman in need of dental work who opened his mouth on that same stage and made folks across England look twice at their tellies and inquire, “Luciano?”  And now we have Susan Boyle, a woman who could probably sell out a U.S. tour in a matter of moments right now, yet completely unknown just two weeks ago. 

What shall we make of this? 

Well, I have a theory (you knew it was coming, didn’t you).  Actually my theory is two-fold.  First, I think this phenomenon might have something to do with the aging baby-boomer generation.  Those of us in our late 40s, 50s, and 60s represent a mighty marketing demographic, and we’re just about wise enough now to appreciate true talent over superficial beauty.   Thirty years ago if a would-be celebrity couldn’t appeal to 17 year olds, they weren’t considered viable in commercial music.  Now?  Well, screw the whippersnappers.  Who needs ‘em?  We might be stiff crawling out of bed in the mornings, but we can deliver up platinum album sales if we take a mind to. 

The second part of my theory is a bit more esoteric.  I wonder if there might be an evolutionary step we’ve taken that has caused us to be more in tune with what is real.  I’m a creative person and value the creative process.  I’ve read “The Artist’s Way.”  But, there are some things you can’t create.  Susan Boyle’s moment in the spotlight was the artistic equivalent of lightening striking, and even the best director or producer would tell you that you just can’t create that.  Sometimes magic happens, whether on a movie set, under a Broadway proscenium arch, or on a talent show stage.  And that magic is when absolute authenticity shines from a pure place. 

Susan Boyle might not look like a star, but she’s real.  And that true self she presents to the world is what we crave.  We don’t want to sing like Susan Boyle.  We want to have the courage to be as authentic.

Either that, or it all boils down to Boomers becoming as Youtube savvy as the whippersnappers.

No question is so difficult to answer as that to which the answer is obvious.

                                              — George Bernard Shaw

This quote will be at the top of my argumentation syllabus from here on.  And, sadly, it probably won’t matter to anyone but me.   Oh, well . . .

Tomorrow I go to the post office to put a very large check into the mail made out to the IRS.  Meanwhile, a bunch of Republicans are staging “tea party” demonstrations across the nation for lower taxes.   (And isn’t their W-onder Boy the one who grossly increased the national debt, increased the size of government, put us into an endless war with a seemingly limitless price tag, and left us in our current economic shit-hole?)

Here are my three thoughts about this tea party:

1.  Why do you try to prove you’re more fiscally responsible by wasting a precious commodity?  The original tea party was to protest against taxes on tea by a government that offered the colonists no representation.  So, a) why don’t you bring your income or capital gains to dump tomorrow as those are the taxes you are protesting, and b) our votes are now our primary voices of protest, and more of those “voices” were (and still are) in support of the change President Obama brings.  

2.  As an avid tea drinker and, dare I say, afficionado, tomorrow’s demonstration is practically akin to burning books to me.  I would almost approve your ignorance if your plan was to donate the tea brought to the demonstration to people who have lost their jobs . . . because of the economy W-onder Boy helped bring about.  

3.  When I put that check in the mail tomorrow, with it will go the power of my intentions that my widow’s mite will go forth into the coffers of our government to do good work . . . help someone get a job rebuilding our roads or a child get healthcare.  

And after I mail it, I think I’ll go home and have a cup of tea.

Zen Saying:    All this world is in your own mind.

So does that mean that people who believe in life on other planets have multiple personality disorder?

Gaia knocks at the window.

I sit at my desk and stare into a screen of

chicken scratch letters on a snowy field. 

The keys feel like river pebbles rubbed smooth from eons of erosion. 

Beside me is a maple bowl turned by a local craftsman which holds my crystals –

Tree agate, Bloodstone, Selenite, Snowflake Obsidian,

Labradorite, Carnelian, Sodalite –

the vibrations of a million years of terrestrial pressure collecting dust while I

focus on work that will be forgotten tomorrow. 

I rub my hand across the laminated desk top and yearn for wood. 

I will get no splinters tonight. 

I have not seen the moon and could not tell you if it is

full or new, waxing or waning. 

Knowing that would have been the work of my ancestors,

those noble souls who built Stonehenge

and sang songs to Brighid

and marked their bodies with triple spirals

to honor maiden, mother, crone.

I sit at my desk, my back to the window,

and click-clack the chicken scratch.

Gaia knocks with a ping on the glass.

I respond without looking,

“We need the rain.”

I have two more things to say about the Obamas in Britain:

1)    The Queen hugged Michelle Obama, and the press said the two ladies “genuinely seemed to like each other.”  In fact, Buckingham Palace officials said they could not remember the Queen ever showing such a public display of affection.   I take back everything I said in my last post.   Rock on, Good Queen Bess.

2)    Don’t you just know . . . that Michelle Obama and Princess Diana would have adored each other?