Friday, December 28, 2012



Chapter 9: Rich man, poor man

The Bible is full of great morality plays expounding the virtues of the poor and the malevolence of the rich. Mathew quotes Jesus as saying that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get to heaven. I don't want to get into all the crazy arguments about whether Jesus intended to be literal. And it is silly to talk about the alleged misinterpretations assigned to the eye of the needle. Suffice to say that Jesus wanted us to understand that most rich people were assholes. They were assholes in his day and they are assholes today.

Today's political arguments revolve around this unarguable premise. To hear a Republican talk, one would think the rich were endowed with virtues far beyond the capacity of our lower class brains to decipher. They truly believe it when they say the rich work hard and the poor are lazy. I have been around both the rich and the poor all my life. I can honestly say I know of no rich man who works hard. Rich people think 8 meetings and two plane connections is a hard day. But if they had to work one shift at McDonalds, they would understand the true meaning of work.

Most of this idiocy revolves around the belief that most rich people are self made men. To the contrary. Most rich men are generationally wealthy. The top one percent had it given to them. They were born into it. They work to keep it. They work to keep from being swindled. They work to make it possible to pass it down to generation after generation after generation. Their ability to make more millions on top of what they already have boils down to the same kind of luck it takes to win at roulette. They spend their days betting on stocks and bonds and businesses to which they owe little or no sweat. To call that work is an insult to the working class.

They never clean a toilet or dig a latrine. They don't have to paint the eaves or clean out the basement. They don't rake their own leaves or dig their own weeds. They are mostly leeches on society, grabbing up most of the profit for themselves. The only value they give to our society is in the wealth they allow to be used to finance businesses...the bricks and mortar kind.

When we prospered, back in the 50s, the rich were taxed at 90 percent. Politicians knew that most rich people would never have to pay that rate. But they also knew that if you allowed them to park their money in high yield bonds and low risk derivatives, they would be absolutely happy to sit on their millions. That high tax rate pushed money into the markets. In order to avoid the tax man, the rich invested in charities and businesses. And boy oh boy did we prosper!

Most people have never read a single book on economics. I read three this year. All of them outline the following simple reason for high taxes on the rich:

If I am rich, I have a large amount of disposable income. Most middle class people have nearly none. Disposable income generates demand. Demand generates middle class prosperity and healthy tax collections. When disposable income is concentrated at the top as it is now, the markets starve. Demand is low because one man holding a hundred million dollars cannot possibly spend his disposable income. But if ten thousand people hold that same hundred million dollars, chances are excellent that they will spend a great percentage of it. They will be able to fix their cars and put insulation in their attics, or go to a movie or buy a new TV. They will generate demand. They will stimulate job acquisition.

Rich people are no more frugal than you or I. They just have no need to spend their cash as a percentage of income. So giving them tax breaks will only exaserbate the problem. Giving them tax breaks will tie up even more money that is never spent.

So now that you understand the great Republican lie, let's compare that with the great Christian makeover.

Why do you think most Catholic Churches have stopped preaching sermons about the pitfalls of wealth? Whe don't they follow the example set by Jesus and pillory the rich? Could it be because their most important benefactors are rich? Could it be that the collection plate dictates the political stand of the Church?

So they give Jesus a makeover and strip him of his anti-wealth, anti-violence message. They pray to Jesus to make them victorious in war. They pray to Jesus to help them nail that next commission check. They hobnob with the wealthy and flatter them. And the wealthy start believing that they do it all by themselves. They dip into the corporate coffers and scoop up the lion's share of the profits.

Michael Moore makes his point in this way: Imagine a large room with a hundred people standing around waiting to be fed. Everyone is very hungry and hasn't eaten in days. A man walks in with a large pie cut into 100 pieces. One of the hungry men walks up to the pie and takes 99 pieces for himself, leaving 1 piece for the other 99 people. That is how capitalism works in this country. And without the help of the Christians, it would never fly. Christians have forsaken the most important message of their great Savior. They have embraced greed and forsaken generosity.

But that's just business!” they will say. That may well be...but Jesus was specific about this one and today's Christians are diametrically opposed to his message. There is a way to make capitalism a more egalitarian pursuit. But reforming it will be impossible until conservative Christians turn back to Jesus and accept his philosophy.

I'm not holding my breath.








Wednesday, December 26, 2012



Before long I was flying regularly. But I had so many mechanical problems that I was never truly comfortable in the air. My muffler broke off in mid air on one occasion. The prop was sheered and pieces of it flew through the wing making a nice neat hole. I simply turned toward the field and landed gently. I became an expert at sudden engine loss. Eventually it became so expensive that I had to quit the sport. But there were lots of great moments soaring through the air.

One day I was flying as the kids came home on a big bus. I flew down close to them and waved as they got off the bus. I don't know who was more thrilled, them or me! I will never forget that feeling. It was a warm spring afternoon just before dusk. The sun was setting and the shadows were long. There were geese flying close by. I took the para-glider high over the field and cut the engine so that I could coast slowly down without any noise. The wind whistled over the wing and I could hear children playing beneath me. Life just doesn't get any better than that. I sure hope God was with me that day. If not, he missed a helluva ride.

One Sunday morning, on one of my last flights, I flew over to the farm of one of my friends who had been injured in a para-glider incident. Although he had been paralyzed from the neck down, he was what they called high functioning. As I flew low and close to his house, he came outside and looked up at me. I waved, tilted my wing and circled over and over. Then I left with a great big lump in my throat. God was right there. I am sure.

You might have heard of people who consider certain activities to be their version of church. For me, flying was church. It was far more spiritual than any church. It allowed me to enjoy living and nature and the goodness of God. The kind of somber prayers that the Catholic Church advocates is absolutely useless to me. God is not the dour overlord depicted by Catholics. There are very few things of which I am absolutely sure. But that is one of them. Those journeys into the skies nurtured my soul in a way that no prayer could. And God was as close to me then as he has ever been.

Many Catholics are aware of this basic truth. Unfortunately, most of them are fallen Catholics. That is a shame; a tragic misunderstanding of the true nature of God. Note to Catholic Bishops and the Pope: if prayer is a chore, it ain't a prayer.
I strongly disagree with the idiotic idea that you should make yourself uncomfortable by kneeling and rattle off a bunch of stuff that bores both you and God. You are NOT praying. You are eager to finish and you are saying the words as quickly as possible and as you “pray” you are thinking of everything from your sore back to the cupcake you ate for lunch. I say again, THIS IS NOT PRAYER.

And one more thing. I have never met a cleric of any sect or religious affiliation that had a clue about the true nature of God. For those bozos to be passing out advice to the rest of us is a great irony. Fortunately, I have met many priests and nuns like Father Breen, my pastor at St. Edwards. These holy men almost make up for the thousands of clueless ones. Too bad there are so few. And if the conservative ones get there way, even fewer in the future.



Tuesday, December 25, 2012




If you understand why people cuss, you begin to understand why God is much bigger than the picture painted by conservatives. And if you have the chance to hitchhike, you begin to understand that we all share a great adventure as we trudge along. God truly must be endless.

Here is what hitchhiking taught me.

God is the embodiment of the eternal and endless and timeless universe. The universe is endless and therefore has no center. Try to wrap your mind around that. Think about it. If the space we call the universe (billions of galaxies created by the big bang) is really only a tiny cloud separated by trillions of light years from the next large mass of stars, then who's to say there aren't millions more spread out endlessly? Even so, there is an irresistible thirst within us to find out just how far it goes. That is the most important part of God. That is what propels the human race. It is that sense of insatiable exploration that sustains us. It is, in my lowly opinion, the only truly immortal part of the universe and therefore, the only truly immortal part of God. God simply could not exist without us. He created us just as we created him. But neither of us could possibly exist without the other. So if you want to know which came first, you are asking the wrong question.

This is the cosmic God I yearn to know. He is much more interesting than the human God that Catholics invented. I'll admit that he is not the personal chum Christians want to believe in. But I also believe that if he exists, he has no more compassion for us than the wind has for a bird. He is as impersonal as the tide but every bit as constant.



Chapter 8: God toys with me

When I was a para-glider pilot, I learned to respect the wind. It lifted me and cradled me and soothed my body as it propelled me through space. Sport flying was the greatest personal adventure I ever experienced. It made me hyper-sensitive to the laws of wind and gravity. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same moment. It brought me closer to God than at any moment in my life.

The urge to fly bit me a few years ago. Fortunately, my wife supported me and encouraged me. I cannot adequately describe the fever that came over me when I realized that it was possible for me to fly out of a field with a light wing. I had always dreamed about flying in some small craft at a very low altitude and a very low speed. Flying in any kind of aircraft other than a para-glider is much too fast. Even a powered hang-glider moves too fast. Only a para-glider gives you the sensation of flying with the birds. At a maximum speed of 12 knots, a little over 10mph, you glide with the wind. A para-glider has only one speed. If you rev the engine you cannot go faster. More power makes you climb. Less power makes you descend. If the wind is greater than 12 knots, you fly backwards, making it impossible to travel upwind.

Picture a tricycle with a parachute tied to it. The engine mounts to the back of the vehicle and the wing anchors to the frame. The wing is laid out on the ground behind the trike. The pilot straps himself in and guns the engine. As the para-glider moves forward, the wing fills with air and lifts off the ground. As the vehicle gains speed the wing lifts it off the ground. There are lots of videos on youtube that show how it works.

As a para-glider lifts into the air, it is important that it does so without swinging. If the wing is off to the side upon lift-off, the trike will sway back and forth once it is free from the ground. If it swings too much, it will deflate the wing and crash back into the ground. So it is vital that the pilot make sure the wing is centered before taking off. If the wind is rowdy, the pilot can end up being tossed about like a marionette. It is a very unsettling feeling. If a para-glider swings too much, it can deform the wing, become entangled and fall to the ground. So it is an understatement to say that flying in unpredictable wind conditions is hazardous.

My second lesson in para-gliding was on a blustery day with winds gusting periodically to 12 miles per hour. We waited for the wind to calm down before we attempted to fly. We watched the windsock and when we got a calm period we started the engine. I was very nervous about the wind conditions and so was my trainer. Somehow both of us forgot to strap me in before I left the ground. I was two hundred feet high when I discovered the mistake.

The seat belt does not keep the pilot from falling out of the para-glider. It is difficult to get out of the seat without making an effort. But the wind began to toy with me almost as soon as I realized the seat belt was unbuckled. I had only had 3 previous flights and I was still scared shitless every time I went up.

A para-glider is controlled by lanyards that attach to the wing on both sides. Pull right and you go right. Pull left and you go left. When the wind is “active” you can make the ride more tolerable by responding to wind gusts by the way you steer. A rookie pilot often over compensates and therein lies the danger. One of the first things you learn as a pilot is how to let go of the steering and trust that the lanyards will still be there when you want to reach for them. I had not been through that step. So there was no way I was going to let go in those wind conditions. I was absolutely frozen.

There I was bouncing around helplessly. Other pilots on the ground were becoming concerned as they watched my progress. My radio was one way, so I could hear but I could not speak. I could only indicate with my feet by shaking them back and forth if I was not okay. I began to shake them wildly. My trainer began to talk me down. We both knew I would have to come around and land into the wind. So I started my turn. Without a seat belt, I thought I might simply fall out of the trike. I later learned that the danger of doing that in flight was tiny. The real danger was landing without a seat belt especially when the pilot was a rookie fighting wind gusts.

As I made the turn I looked out at the ground below me and there it was. The farmer whose corn field abutted the airport had grown a message for those of us able to see it. The corn spelled out “Jesus” in neatly sculpted rows. As an atheist, the message seemed to mock me. I was not comforted by it. I was annoyed. To me, if there were a God and he was toying with me as I dangled in the air, he was a sadistic son of a bitch. It made me determined to keep my cool and land safely. I know. It is a terribly wrong minded and cynical way to look at such a sweet message.

As I lined up on the runway, the wind started tossing me. I could hear my trainer telling me to straighten up, but I was powerless to do so. I knew I was in for a bumpy landing.

As I drew closer and closer to the ground, I became more and more calm. My flying skills returned and I began to take control I set the para-glider down perfectly and slipped out of the seat. Fortunately, my wife was not aware of the dangerous situation until we talked about it later. She ran up to me and hugged me and I put on a brave front. “No problem,” I lied.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Hey Guys!  Going to Texas to shoot horse videos.  Will not be adding to the blog while I am down there.  Heavy shooting schedule.  Will be back Saturday the 15th with more hilarity and nonsense.

Saturday, December 1, 2012



Cussing is absolutely harmless. It has a cultural identity. It is a bond that common workers share. It is a sign of lower class angst. I admire cussers.

Of all the cussers I have met, the one I most admire is a good buddy of mine from high school. His name is Greg Motter. Greg is one of those guys who makes no apologies. His straight forward country manner belies his deep mental acuity. He gave me my first heavy construction job carrying concrete forms. It was a brutally difficult job but I got through it because of his guidance and good-natured ribbing.

Just about every other word that comes out of Greg's mouth is a cuss word. His favorite word is motherfucker. He isn't a belligerent cusser. (As soon as my wife walks in the room he shuts it off.) He is a consistent cusser. He is a creative cusser. I have no idea why he likes me. He and I are as different as night and day. But for some odd reason, we get along. I can always ask him his opinion if I want an unfiltered comment. He does not try to ease the pain when he tells you how full of shit you are. I sometimes think he cusses to hide his innate intelligence. When you lace your philosophical statements with vulgarities, the resulting commentary sounds less truculent. Less radical. More folksy. Almost sage.

Greg and I became close friends because of his sense of adventure and my eagerness to be led. He once decided to hitchhike to Atlanta to see Corndoggie. He asked me to come along. It was the early seventies and there was a preponderance of yippies, hippies and protestors of every ilk littering the highways. It was a trendy thing to do. It was also dangerous as it ever was.

As we struck out on our journey from Louisville to Atlanta, normally a six hour car ride, I grabbed my granddaddy's fedora and a few bucks. I was trying to become a hippie. I thought Greg was not hippie enough so I suggested he stand back and let me put out my thumb.

I look more like a hippie,” I informed him. This was hilarious to Greg as it would have been to any casual observer. My hair was only slightly longer than Greg's and the hat had a comical effect. So I can imagine what we looked like to an oncoming car.

We stood out on I-64 with our thumbs out, walking backwards. Don't ask me why we chose to walk backwards instead of standing still. I guess we realized that we may have to walk all the way if we didn't get a ride. I know. Crazy.

After about an hour of getting nowhere somebody finally picked us up and the adventure was in full swing. It was an old beaten up station wagon with a married couple of hippies. They were trying to get us to share our weed and we were trying to get them to share their weed. After about 20 minutes of hinting around we finally realized nobody had any weed. It was a very pleasant ride. Everybody seemed full of hope and exuberance. But the ride came to an end all too suddenly when our benefactors informed us that they had to make a detour.

After they let us off at the ramp, we noticed they got off and right back on at the other side of the overpass. We realized that the need to score some free dope was foremost on their minds. Who could blame them?

This time our luck was not so good. We stood there for hours until just before dark when a Volkswagon bug pulled up. I clambered into the back and Greg sat up front. The driver, Bobby, was a young man in his thirties. He was very clean and neat, something you don't often find when hitchhiking. He talked a lot. He talked a whole lot. Occasionally, Greg would look back at me and snicker.

Somehow this asshole turned the conversation to guns. Greg and I became increasingly alarmed as he pointed out how easy it would be to kill someone on the highway and drop them in the ditch. It would be years before the body could be discovered. This kind of talk was bad enough but he eventually reached over to the glove box and pulled out a revolver. I believe it was a thirty-eight.

Greg and I totally freaked out. We were too scared to say anything. But finally Greg had the balls to say what I was thinking.

Hey man. This is freaking us out. This is way not cool,” he said.

Let us out, man,” I blurted out.

Then Bobby started to apologize. He explained that he was worried about me sitting behind him and worried that I might grab him and try to strangle him. That was why he brought out the gun. He was actually more afraid of us than we of him. He did a good job of convincing us that he had no violent intentions but that he had never picked up hitchhikers before and he figured the gun made him safe.

This nightmare drove home the stupidity of people who carry firearms. The whole thing could have ended tragically if I had freaked out and tried to grab the gun, which definitely occurred to me.

We calmed down and decided to stay in the car with him since he was going all the way to Atlanta anyway. He kept apologizing but it didn't matter. We were totally freaked out for the rest of the drive. It was the most unpleasant and scary time I ever spent hitchhiking.

When he finally let us out close to the campus at Georgia Tech, Greg and I couldn't get out of that car fast enough. As he patted the little Volkswagon on its backside and the car rolled away, Greg said, “Adios, motherfucker.” Then he turned to me wide eyed and seriously pale. “Son of a bitch,” was all he could say.

It was quite a rush. But the fear subsided almost instantly and we began to laugh, nervously at first. Soon we were rolling in the street in pain from the waves of hilarity. We dodged a bullet and we knew it. We got exactly what we had signed up for...an adventure.