Lemony Snicket should be purchased and perused by audiences of all ages: that is to say, despite the gruesome awful and terrible events befalling the hapless children in this story, it was a completely charming, dry heavingly funny, oddly sad and amazingly disturbing tale.
I cheated on reading this book in that we acquired it on audio tape to calm the family as we made a six hour trek with an eight and nine year old in tow. To my chagrin, not only did the children remain quiet, but the adults were riveted to the tale as well. A year later with only adults traveling in the car, it was still a hit.
The power of this tale is generated by the strong writing and unique literary devices employed by the author Lemony Snicket (a.k.a Daniel Handler) and Brett Helquist. The fictional tale recounts the lives of the Baudelaire children: Violet, Klaus and Sunny. The children are orphaned after an unfortunate fire claims the lives of their wealthy parents and their home. After staying with the manager of the family estate temporarily, the children are shipped off to live with a distant relative. Just when their luck seems to be looking up, it comes crashing down around them. The relative the children are sent to live with is a less than blissful individual. Blissful here meant to insinuate that he, being Count Olaf, was a repulsive, repugnant, dreadful man who was despicable in every sense if ever the word had applied to a human.
Throughout, the writing for The Bad Beginning is witty, precise and comical and oddly dark. The writing is so tremendous that adults with no children around will find themselves captured by the language, the story and the situations the children find themselves in. I believe the writing is so good that it overcomes the fact that nothing ever really seems to go right for the children and at its core, the story really is tragic and dark.
As prevously stated, the orphaned children are sent to live with Count Olaf who treats the children terribly. In addition to plotting for their fortune, Count Olaf and his friends are not very fond of children and go to great lengths to make life uncomfortable and miserable for the children. At every turn as things seem to get brighter for the children, misfortune seems to magically appear to place yet another road block to happiness.
Throughout, the children rely on themselves to avoid catastrophe. Klaus at the tender age of 12, proves extremely bright and is able to keep the kids one step ahead of the man made traps placed before the children. Violet, who is 14, is the ranging thinker and tinkerer whose inventions and analytical mind serve to both escape and ensnare the children. Sunny, the baby, is simply an intuitive baby unable to do anything but incite laughter: loved her.
I’ve heard some rubbish masquerading as criticism bantered about labeling the tale formulaic and repetitive, however, for my first brush with the series I simply say bravo: here bravo means tremendous, wonderful and ppppllllgggghhhhhhh to all the naysayers.
When I endeavored to begin a 500 book reading voyage, I asked friends and family for suggestions of “the most life altering books.” There were quite a few responses, but The Shack, written by William p. Young,was continually nominated so I grabbed a copy and dived right in.
The Shack is an engaging story that intertwines Christian theology within a modern tale of tragedy and struggle. The language is straightforward and places the subject matter into an understandable and digestible format accessible to all. Some criticisms attack the straightforward style, but I think it works for this story. Be mindful, there are some deep reactions from the Christians as to the accuracy and even heresy of some of the books content. To look into some areas of the skirmish, you can visit: http://www.boundless.org. Much of the criticism circles around the interaction and usage of the trinity in direct communication with Mack(Mackenzie) Phillips, the main character of the story.
As we meet Mack, he has entered into a period of his life he dubs, “The Great Sadness.” This period is ushered in by the abduction and murder of a close and vulnerable family member. In the midst of his pain, Mack grapples with the reconciliation of his faith and the atrocity visited upon his family. The plot, though not unique, delivers a compelling exposition of the Christian trinity and the attendant love gracefully bestowed upon mankind through the creator.
I found the book to be a quick read due to not only the subject matter, but the fresh approach in explaining such complicated topics as the trinity, forgiveness and redemption.
The trinity consumed a large portion of the book. Young spins a tale where Mack, against common sense, heeds a call to revisit the site of the horrendous crime. Once there, Mack begins a journey in conversation with The Father, represented as, for lack of a better metaphor, “Aunt Jemima,” Jesus as a man of “Middle Eastern” descent, and The Holy Spirit as an ethereal woman of Eastern descent.
Although the name Aunt Jemima doesn’t appear in the book, the images of God as a portly African-American woman, cooking in the kitchen plays on the obvious stereotype. The problem with the stereotypes is that they erect a philosophical barrier, for those observant of them, that the user must grapple with prior to moving forward with the book. As in any writing, cliches are to be avoided, well, “like the plague ” - couldn’t resist.
Utilizing a stereotype is a weak way of not developing characters. By relying on the images and baggage generated by the stereotypes, the writer doesn’t have to develop the characters. The unintended consequence, however, is that the stereotype carries baggage that each user will interpret to their own understanding which may prove detrimental or helpful to the writer. In my case, it wasn’t as bad, but in many cases, it became a huge flaw that soured readers on the whole experience.
One of the redeeming aspects of the book, however, is the confrontation of forgiveness, which is a complex emotional issue. The interplay between The Father, referred to as “Papa”, Mack intertwined with his tragedy, Young does a great job in illustrating the interplay of forgiveness in it’s multiple facets as he weaves the conept through The Father, Mack and the perpetrator of the deadly deed.
All and all, I liked the book and would recommend it. If pushed for a grade on the book, I’d give it a C+.
I’m ashamed to say that I’d never taken the time to read the 1987
Pulitzer prize winning play “Fences” by writer August Wilson. I’ve really hurt myself by not
reading it, it is an enjoyable, informative and instructive play.
The play centers around Troy Maxson. He reminds me of the
quintessential black patriarch. Consumed with his own understanding and
experiences with the world, he narrows the scope of life to that which
is comprehensible to him. Anything outside of this sphere is nonsense.
His tendency to judge his son’s future by his past is deceptively
destructive to not only his relationship with his son Cory, but Cory’s
future and subsequent generations. In Troy we find that cantankerous
man growing old and struggling to stay afloat in a world changing
around him. His life is like concrete quick sand both knocking him
about and swallowing him up at the same time.
His love for his wife seems to be of legend, yet and still, he ends
up having a relationship outside of his marriage that produces a child.
He judges his actions by his heart, failing to consider how his actions
jeopardize the relationship he had so fully built with his wife. In him
we find the drive which insecurity breeds in clinging to one’s own
understanding in the midst of a complex world of complex relationships.
The workmanship of Wilson’s dialogue is amazing. I found myself
reading outloud, portraying the gruff, shortened sentences of Troy and
the seemingly long and thoughtful words of Rose. The dialogue rolls
along pushing into the next idea and thought, wrapping the reader up
and placing them in the yard surrounded by the fence.
Throughout the play, Troy transforms before our eyes as he is played
against the supporting characters who reflect his goodness, his
stubbornness, his selfishness. In them we see the irony of the fence he
slowly builds over time. Even as the play states, a fence is not only
used to keep others out but also to keep some in. At the conclusion of
the play, we find those who are within and without the gates that
Troy’s life has constructed.
Imagine if you will, the sideline reporter at your favorite football game, casting his microphone aside to deliver a bone crunching tackle on a wide receiver streaming down the sideline.
It’s an unfathomable proposition, unfortunately exposing itself in gory detail. The aftermath of the Haiti earthquake is an undeniable drama of epic proportions that has presented this exact scenario. Act or watch people die.
In the modern era we’ve come to expect impartiality from our news organizations, but as a matter of education and the imperfections lurking within the human psyche, this is a standard which is rarely achieved. We are a smarter generation, and we know every reporter brings a bias and vision to the story that necessarily has blind spots that we may or may not share.
But the coverage CNN has been executing on Haiti is nothing short of mind boggling. In the meltdown of infrastructure and the satisfaction of basic needs and services such as communication, transportation, health care and security, the reporters in the midst of this tragedy find themselves in the unique position of becoming participants in the story.
Believe it or not, the reporter’s ultimate goal is not to be a participant in the story, rather it is to provide as unbiased an account as possible while being as close to the story as possible. Somehow, the motionless body of a child lying alive but bleeding within the outskirts of a camera lens can conjure up emotions too strong to resist. Quietly, the preservation of life, is one of the essential bonds that has ensured our survival since days of old when we were simply snacks with legs to far bigger and faster creatures. Luckily for the people in Haiti, CNN remembers.
Anderson Cooper pulled a boy out of harms way after he was hit in the head by a concrete brick. Another correspondent had his vehicle commandeered to take an injured girl to the hospital. Dr. Sanjay Gupta went so far as to perform surgery and render medical aid in accordance with his expertise. Their frustration, outrage and helplessness was evident in their reports.
I couldn’t help but think how bad the situation was that reporters were actively involved within the story. The country is falling apart so much so that reporters are helping to lead the charge.
I couldn’t help but move toward inserting myself in the story.
My kids and I were sniffling as we prepared to move. The dust hesitated in the air, and like a swarming mob crowded into the crevices of our sinuses. That made the task of prepping to move more and more miserable by the moment. Then at the height of my misery, I came across a picture that rescued forgotten memories long missing in action tucked irretrievably just outside my consciousness.
I chuckled at rogue roommates, silly siblings and funny friends. The grunge of basement grit covering me was overpowered by the satisfaction of revisiting beautiful people, wonderful places and wondrous things. I had the proof to tell the stories. So, how to share in a post Kodak mindset? I could post these pics to the Kodak gallery, load them on flicker, create a PowerPoint presentation or . . .?
Or, I could use them as the beginning salvos in the greatest Facebook picture war known to mankind. Of course my flair for the dramatic may overstate my aims just a tad, but hey, it doesn’t hurt to shoot for the stars. The more I pondered, the more I realized we needed a Geneva Convention of sorts on how to war fairly. I do believe in fair war, so what follows is a delineation of the rules of combat for a well executed honorable Facebook war that will leave friends and family just that, friends and family.
Rules of Engagement
1 - Know your subject well enough before posting:
Do not post pictures of someone as the main subject if you do not know them well. This is in poor taste. As a rule of thumb, if your response to randomly spotting them in the mall is a lukewarm hand gesture, chances are, you two are NOT not on it like that. No pictures for you.
If, on the other hand, you knock an elderly person to the ground while making a bee line to greet them, you’re good. Post away. If there are others in the picture who are not the main focus of the pic and you a.) don’t know their name, or b.) don’t care what their name is, fa-get-about-it. We call these folks fb pic war collateral damage. It’s expected that a certain number of these folks will get trapped on your Facebook page.
2- No pictures of children whom you are not related to:
On a serious note, protecting others should always be in the forefront of our minds when posting online. To this end, be mindful of posting pics of children whom you are not related to because some parents are extremely protective of their children’s privacy. Many of them have good reason to be.
3- Be mindful of relationship status prior to posting:
You know when your significant other asks the question, “did you have a xxxxxx with so and such?” By not posting previous relationship pics, you uphold their answer, regardless of their answer. Other folks simply have a tremendous amount of pride, and if they see who their significant other has dated in the past, they may be extremely insulted and terminate the relationship on the spot!!
4- No compromising photos:
It’s important to recognize that people grow. We all are hopefully smarter and wiser than we were during earlier periods of our lives. It’s mean spirited and calamitous to knowingly post photos of others in situations or scenes that would jeopardize their relationship, their job or their security. I know posting a compromising pic of your ex seems like an equitable way to repay them for that wonderful gift they left you with, but, you will appear as the villain and you can’t undue what you’ve done. This also applies to posting ugly pics of models and could even extend to posting pics of people you know who are now “famous.” When in doubt, refer to rule #1.
5- Move when asked to remove:
Be responsible for the pics you post. If the person whom you have added or tagged requests that you remove their picture, do it promptly. Now be mindful some folks are a little bashful and some are hard of hearing, so depending on which side you fall you may need to request harder or BS better.
6- Post with a sincere heart:
The cardinal rule of thumb is to post in love and appreciation. Be mindful, your FB Pic War has the potential to touch, move and inspire!! How great is it to share with others the beautiful people whom your life has been blessed with? Isn’t it also motivating to reflect on where your life has taken you? At the end of the day, your FB Pic War should be about bringing family and friends closer. Keep this in your heart and win lose or draw, your war will have been worth it.
There is a loving rage engaging comprehension, shining pathways to humanity’s last stand in a land lost to time, reclaimed by ferocity.
Here, genetically irrelevant instincts are startled to usefulness. They ineffectually fight specters slaying feminine spirits before the approach of motherhood. Allowing supernatural terror to be handled by babes masquerading as would-be mothers, their love is ravaged before it can save, before it can heal, before it can live. Their life and death is now sentenced to sorrow filled nights and grieved dreams.
Predators are stalking dressed as unrighteous souls, leaking their sickness onto the landscape of our collective conversation painting gasps and tears on unwilling faces. These liars in our midst are monsters feigning humanity, defiling the sanctity of our morals as polluted as they be.
Shaniya cries and we lie. We lie, we lie. We lie to ourselves and we lie to others. We embolden mothers romanced in a love affair with the profane to sell our future and pawn our honor. We allow sanity, legality, apathy, safety and the proper chain of command to comfort little girls with running noses and bruised thighs. Tearful eyes, screaming for mommy living through pain not meant for unwilling women beyond the door of womanhood.
And we who had errands to run, appointments to make, jobs to fulfill and classes to attend, we who knew nothing of these matters, knew nothing of vigilance, knew nothing of suffering we whispered in a traumatized child’s ear, “our care and concern is not with you.”
Long fingers point out killers and hint at allies staring in mirrors. Our silence applauds evil as it ravishes lives and claims future wombs too young to comprehend the potential of their destiny. Our mouths confess sideline soliloquies speaking of children who battle lustful killers and incomprehensible villains unwilling to save their lives.
We surrender our apathy. We surrender our lives to the service of loving touches pure with concern. We reject the death of silence and the bludgeoning of apathy. We want our girls to live and our boys to joy. We pledge anew our lives for theirs, removing ALL villains who allow their brutalization.
What becomes of a dream deferred?
What is the substance of hope with no faith?
What of timid desires?
Good questions, but better still.
What dream was the last you led to slaughter?
Whose blessings did you forfeit when your dream died?
I see these good intentions strewn across landscapes haunted by unintentional souls swimming in misplaced promises?
Our influence recedes, like creeping creeks slinking backward, exposing abandoned dreams, who, like discarded tires, speak through the ravages of time.
There is no life where resignation reigns.
Could you fathom hope resurrected in deserts once abundant with despair?
No, No No!!
There is ONLY crushed desires paying homage to despair and pain?
These desires remember promises chanted over familiar verses and forgotten days and sadly, tears silently testify against heartfelt pledges.
Those pledges exist in wistful glances and as reflections tilled in the fields of the successful.
They are but estranged friends, who sorrowfully, out of duty
give way to 9 to 5s,
give way to kids,
give way to unloving loves,
give way to life and usher forth deathbeds comforted by regret.
Dutifully sorrow visits, bearing gifts wrapped in possibility never to be opened.
There are no heirs to our potential there is only grief.
Not of dreams deferred but dreams unfulfilled.
In the wake of our dreams death, we feign smiles,
mourning and lamenting gasping between steps,
marching, marching to our maker.
But you know?
There, ARE ROSES GR-ROWING in cracked asphalt, defying desolation!!!
Mocking despair, they turn leaves to glorious sunsets.
They rise above skyscrapers
They are towering marvels to the sanctity of desire bathed in the purpose of God.
Rise and grow, live and love, forgive and receive.
You who are bound with the weight of broken dreams.
You whose arms are polluted with the burden of butchered desires …
Rejoice for the day has come when your seeds of greatness surrendered unto God will rise and live again.
Alas, my previous post on musical influences was incomplete. How could I forget “The King of Pop?”
The death of Michael Jackson sparked our collective minds to individual reflection. It’s quite possible the passing of any musician or artist engenders this appeal, but his musical acceptance was freakishly universal. Consequently his songs, and his memory have the ability to connect a large groups of people.
In particular, the Thriller era claimed me as a zealot. Yes, yes I possessed a glove and coupled it with a mean moonwalk. Embarrassed may be part of my current emotion, but nostalgia is also woven into the fabric of this memory.
As the musical tributes over the airwaves continue, each song visits me like an old friends carrying pictures and telling stories, all the while joyful or sad in their reminiscing. And with that, the unremembered names of friends relegated to forgotten scribbles on dusty yearbook pages suddenly burst into vivid recollection. Running a built in sound track to boot.
So, the Thriller album punctuated the soundtrack of my high school years. For me the grinding thump of Beat It takes me back to dancing in the break room or peeking into the garage on Grove Street. The gentle sounds of Human Nature eased my morning runs through the winding hills of Villa Park, CA and helped me get through another load of laundry in our awfully bright laundry room.
The passing of a musical giants brings to mind the scattered pieces of our lives. It’s crazy how someone who has no idea who you are can share with you such personal highs and lows. I believe God’s creative love lives in these moments. Musical artists are blessed in that they can silently speak to a place in your heart next to thoughts and dreams shared only by you, the Creator and a special song.
RIP Michael Jackson - Thanks for the memories and God’s grace upon your soul.
Original Post Feb 23, 2009
Just read a friends post about a recent Journey concert she attended and it made me think of the special place that music holds in our hearts. Though I was never a huge Journey fan, I can remember watching the Faithfully video on tv during the MTV era. Years later I realized that my deep love and affinity for my family is why I loved the song and video. This realization highlighted for me how our music can call to the darkest corners of our heart and speak to the highest timbres of our souls. My life has been filled with music.
Hotter Than July
Music, though varied, is so universal. We find our identity in the artists that we love. Some of us love the rhythms, others yearn for the melody. Yet again, some folks clamor for words and lyrics flowing in syncopated rhythm, propelling us forward in our travels.
I’ve been in love with music since our first dance when I was a boy. I was laying down in the backseat of my mom’s black VW Bug, staring up into the bright Virginia sky. The tree lined Blue Ridge mountains reassuringly looked down on me as I unwittingly ventured into a new world. The year must have been about 1976 and from the speakers, Stevie kept asking, “Isn”t She Lovely” following it up with the refrain, “made by love.” And my mind went. I remember feeling so happy and I deduced the beautiful sound I was experiencing had something to do with the sun shining so bright. I didn’t realize that music was seducing me and my childhood sweetheart was here, for life.
As the years drew along, Stevie kept me moving. He made me realize, even as a child, that there was a larger world out there. He made me understand, in his way, that somehow I was lucky and things would all work out. Around about 1980, Stevie introduced me to another one of my eventual musical mistresses. At the time, I had no clue how influential the sound was. He released an album entitled, “Hotter Than July.” The album was a huge success, staying on the Billboard R&B chart for more than 13 weeks. It also topped the pop charts and cracked the UK market as well. It was a big hit. On that album was a song titled, “Master Blaster (Jammin).” As a boy I would play this track over and over. It had a beat I couldn’t shake.
The horns were blazing and the song just sauntered along like an ineffective breeze on an oppressively muggy summer day. I couldn’t shake this driving rhythm and I would sing the lyrics over and over again. When I was much older, I realized the song was dedicated to Bob Marley and this rhythm was a jazzed up American tempered reggae beat.
I flirted with hip hop while I was in junior high. This was also right about the time I became fascinated with Michael Jackson. I probably shouldn’t confess this but, I actually wanted to get a jheri curl like Michael Jackson. After my mom stopped laughing and wiped the tears from her eyes, she managed a dignified but firm no. I was rebellious though and permed a little patch in the front anyway. Just enough to get that little MJ curl on the forehead. Thank the Lord no pictures exist to confirm this. [read: if you have these pics, burn 'em]. So between doing the moonwalk with a sequined glove , and break dancing to Newcleus in the designed dancing room during lunch, my junior high years with music were uneventful.
When I graduated to high school, the Beastie Boys and Def Jam were in full effect. Winter breaks were punctuated with parties where the refrain came, “now what’s the time,” legions replied, “It’s time to get ill.” Beer induced fuzzy nights were spent playing the drinking game “Quarters” and listening to the “son of Byford brother of Al” telling us exactly how hot it was when the kings were on the mike. Once I graduated from high school, I was introduced to Bob Marley through the Legend cd. This dude, along with a book written by Alex Haley, altered my life
The album was “Exodus.” It captured me. Its hypnotic beats, swaying slowly pulling me into a world of heathens, sufferers and the struggle of the human spirit to come out this side of good. It feed a hunger for praise to Africans all around the world. He connected me to a world I had always had a ticket for, but had never known how to get into.
If Bob got me on the ride, Alex and Malcolm turned the accelerator to full throttle. As I became aware of an American struggle whose length counted 400 years, I understood there was a place prepared for me. I came to know this struggle was not only waged on American soil, but had been waged around the world. At the time, South Africa’s apartheid era was coming to a hotly contested end. Front and center, there was Peter Gabriel, chanting down apartheid and lifting up Biko. I picked up Stephen Biko’s book, I write what I like, and meditated on the power to love something so deeply as to give your life for it.
Gabriel, to me, had a way of working through the nastiness of life and dealing with those burdens of the heart that escaped conversations and tip-toed to the center stage of the brain, accompanied by a spotlight, when we were to ourselves. Always willing to dig in my own dirt, he provided the right music to tend to my inquisitive nature and and nurture an emotional garden generally walled off to the world. I remembered him from the Shock the Monkey days when he was only a bit catchy to me.
But with the release of his So album, I couldn’t release some of those themes from my head. Don’t Give up and Mercy Street were songs that required deep consideration. I still find as amazing, a line reading, “All of the buildings and all of the cars, were once just a dream in someone’s head.” To me, at the time, that was cause for a 12 pack and long consideration. Well, truth be told, it didn’t take much for me to pick up a 12 pack.
Hip hop was a passion but that’s another blog post altogether. But I couldn’t talk about the most influential musicians of my life without bringing up who I believe to be pound for pound the baddest MC. Lauryn Hill. Some folks are on the ground and upset with that selection. How could I pick Lauryn over the likes of Eric B or Jay-Z or Biggie. First off, it feels right to me to not even include Biggie, Tupac or Jay-Z in the same category. This may be my affinity for upfullness, but that’s the way I call that one.
When I think of Lauryn, the old Lauryn that is, I think of the amazing potential of hip hop to reach and uplift. I more than likely omit Jay-Z, Biggie and Tupac because so many little boys that looked were just like me growing up are playing guns in the street. So many little boys like I used to be won’t come home to their mother, or kiss their children goodnight tonight. They’ve listened to the unfiltered lyrics over and over its stuck in their head; shoot first. So many little boys who look like my son will ruin not only their lives, but the lives of countless others pursuing imaginary glory dreams painted by studio gangsters.
Rakim was positive, but Lauryn shined a light into the transformative power of music. She took the streets she knew and spun love into every nook and cranny spoke to the hardened thug, mistreated women and hopeful familys. She once said:
MCs ain’t ready to take it to the Serengeti
My rhymes is heavy like the mind of Sister Betty Shabazz
L. Boogie spars with stars and constellations
Then came down for a little conversation
Adjacent to the king, fear no human being
Roll whatever bims to Nassau Coliseum
Now hear this mixture
Where hip hop meets scripture
Develop a negative into a positive picture
- Lauryn Hill - Everything is Everything(The Mis-Education of Lauryn Hill)
So, if I had a chance to produce the baddest concert ever. Invite any musician dead or alive, this would be my all star lineup:(of course I reserve the right to revise at will(One revision down!!)):
A couple of weeks back, the subject was dodged but I knew the topic was far from buried. Sex. An interesting albeit over saturated topic in the adult world , is an intriguing, embarrassing, funny, engrossing and disgusting conversation for an inquisitive 10 and a snickering soon-to-be 9 year old.
I know, I know be honest, deal with it first go round. I’ve heard it and read it, but truth be told, my imagination just got the best of me. Like a 50’s black and white reel with grainy oddly moving images, I imagined remorseful adults locked up in the pokey, confessing to cellmates in possession of mom tattoos that the origins of their devious ways began when their dad screwed up “the talk.” I pictured them crying as they lamented of their downward spiral, led astray by their very own father.
Sounds absurd, but through the fuzzy channel of an unfocused brain, the words I chose somehow had the power to usher them from the innocent Eden devoid of sexual implications to a world suddenly saturated with it.
I didn’t possess the perfect beginnings for “the talk”, so careless parenting stepped in courtesy of a local events mag entitled Creative Loafing. A city paper whose budget appeared to be on an extreme diet judging by the dwindling number of pages produced week by week. But I digress.
Creative Loafing, (bad daddy!!)
To understate a fact would be to say that Creative Loafing is NOT a kid friendly paper. Kid friendly in the sense that a child in possession of the magazine, moderate reading skills and a desire to pass the time would feel they were doing a great job. Even if they hadn’t taken the trash out, they would realize they hadn’t gotten a tattoo, a piercing, called a singles chat line, hooked up on the local dateline, redeemed a Starship 1/2 off coupon, gotten botox or silicon breast implants.
Maybe once every couple of months I grab the magazine out of habit to see which bands are coming to town or review a particular cover story (seriously) or check out what’s going on in Atlanta. On occasion, I’ve needed to make a quick pit stop to clean the car after hearing the kids snicking at images of men holding hands on the inside pages or the scantily clad women urging them to dial 1-800-hot-pants. Aside from these minor incidents, nothing major ever came out of the not-so-often habit.
So, I thought nothing of picking the paper up on the way out of the library with my son about a week ago. We made it home and began cooking dinner without incident. While taking a break from the grill, I stopped by my office to see my son hunched over the newly collected paper, reading intently.
“What’cha reading, ” I inquired.
He lifted the paper up and pointed to the cover story without missing a beat. The story, “35 Years,” covered the details of a young man’s conviction for rape in Atlanta. I asked him, “is that something you think you should be reading?” He pauses, looks at me and comes to the sudden realization, “uhhhhh . . . No?”
Panicked and intrigued, I sit opposite him at the desk and ask him to tell me about what he’d read to that point. Eager to display his reading comprehension he proceeded to tell me. He spoke as a teacher would impart wisdom to students and related his understanding that a man forcing himself on a women is called rape. He was satisfied that the penalty handed down, which was 35 years in jail, was a good sentence. His understanding was rudimentary and fundamental. That was oddly reassuring in that he didn’t really get the emotional human cost associated with the act. I realized that we were in a unique moment.
“How far did you get,” I asked, attempting to mask my concern. He pointed to the top of the second page. The time for the talk was at hand. Not a day later, not an hour later, not even five minutes later, but at that exact moment the time had come.
His response led to the instinctive question, “what is sex.” He smiled and giggled, coyly saying, “you know.” He moved his hands while giggling to indicate a motion for sex that only silly kids can make funny and not obscene. Drawn in by the giggles, his sister soon waltzed into the room and found a place on the floor, eager to add everything she knew and had heard from her friends to the conversation.
What followed over the next 45 minutes was an inquisitive, funny, serious and poignant conversation lead more by the children with me simply providing points of clarification I was amazed at some of the questions.
Can lesbians have children?
Can you die from having sex?
When I get married, do I have to take my clothes of to have children?
Did you and mommy have sex?
Can old people have babies?
The last was a great question that lead to my daughter running for her Bible to read to us the story of Sara and Abraham when they doubted God’s ability to give them a child.
All and all, the article albeit extremely scary, was a great starting point for our conversation. The hope was that they could feel comfortable asking their parents anything about sex. But I realized that the infamous talk is really not, “the talk.” It is she be called the introduction because it was simply the first step in a long road to teaching them how to effectively choose boyfriends and girlfriends and hopefully, soul mates that will strengthen them as children of God and lead them away from behaviors that would put them in harms way.
There were a couple of things that I learned and here they are:
1 - Get rid of any creative loafing and treat them like the plague if you have 8+ year old children. If you read them, read ‘em BEFORE you get home.
2- Similarly, find a mild mannered bock or article that deals with the topic, it’s much easier to start by finding out what they ALREADY know. This way you can be in control of how the conversation is initiated.
3-By getting your kids talking about their understanding of sex, it’s much easier to help guide them through the conversation and give them exactly what they need and not too much.
Every now and again I hear that soul stirring emotional gripe, “my Facebook account has been hacked.” Or, maybe you are one of the unfortunate individuals to whom this has happened. My condolences.
I was skeptical at first. Not because I didn’t believe it could happen, but because many computer problems are affectionately known by techies as a PEBCACs (Problem Exists Between Chair and Computer). After seeing more and more posts about the hacks on various sites, I looked a little deeper and was moderately interested in what I found.
Getting your Facebook, or any other social media account, hacked can and does happen. For individual low profile folks out there, access is typically gained through poor password selection or installation of rogue applications. Low profile meaning NOT Sara Palin or Barrack Obama.
When it comes to generating passwords, despite knowing better, most Americans are just not that creative when it comes to creating a password. This is the lament issued by a collection of high school teachers on their blog, “Teaching High School Psychology.” They go on to list some of the most common reasons that hackers are able to guess passwords for general user accounts.
16% used their own first name or that of one of their children
14% used simple keyboard combinations such as “123456789″ or “QWERTY”
5% of the passwords were of television shows, famous names, etc. such as “Hannah,” “Matrix,” or “Ironman”
4% used the word “password” or a close variation “password1″
3% used phases such as “Idontcare,” “Whatever,” “Yes,” or “No.
What’s more, I bet quite a few folks reading this have a password or two residing on a dubious list entitled, “The Top 500 Worst Passwords of All Time”. If you see your password here, go straight to jail and do not pass go. But before you do that, change your dang password to something not on the list. Keep in mind that any information in the public domain can and will be used against you by hackers. ANY piece of information (Read: Google yourself and see what information is out there about you, you might be surprised).
This means your dog’s name, your children’s name, your birthdate, your home state, your zip, your street address, your alma mater, everything is out there for the taking. A hacker can assemble all of these items into a list and begin running through the combinations to generate probable passwords. That’s not good news.
Want to know how to choose a better password? Grab a small cup of joe and peruse the following link; Click here to peruse. Yeah it’s boring and completely non-sexy, but at least you won’t have to send an email to everyone apologizing for the hee-bee-gee-bees you gave their pc (sorry, sorry. Or Mac). And remember to change your password at least 3 times a year.
The other predominate way to get hacked on Facebook in particular and other social sites in general is to continually install and allow random applications to access your information. Keep in mind, these applications ARE NOT, in general, built by Facebook and its development group. These are private groups and organizations with wild ideas and dreams of grandeur that assemble the applications. Some have good intentions and others, not so much. There is no verification process for developers putting together Facebook applications so installer beware.
On Facebook in particular, the applications will rifle through your user list sending random join messages to your unsuspecting friends. And bam, before you know it, cyber calamity. It’s ok to decline to allow applications access to your information. If they really need it, they’ll IM you.
Enough talk, go change your passwords and practice saying, “No, you can not have access to my information.”
Lemony Snicket should be purchased and perused by audiences of all ages: that is to say, despite the gruesome awful and terrible events befalling the hapless children in this story, it was a completely charming, dry heavingly funny, oddly sad and amazingly disturbing tale.
When I endeavored to begin a 500 book reading voyage, I asked friends and family for suggestions of “the most life altering books.” There were quite a few responses, but The Shack, written by William p. Young, was continually nominated so I grabbed a copy and dived right in.
I’m ashamed to say that I’d never taken the time to read the 1987
Imagine if you will, the sideline reporter at your favorite football game, casting his microphone aside to deliver a bone crunching tackle on a wide receiver streaming down the sideline.
My kids and I were sniffling as we prepared to move. The dust hesitated in the air, and like a swarming mob crowded into the crevices of our sinuses. That made the task of prepping to move more and more miserable by the moment. Then at the height of my misery, I came across a picture that rescued forgotten memories long missing in action tucked irretrievably just outside my consciousness.
As the musical tributes over the airwaves continue, each song visits me like an old friends carrying pictures and telling stories, all the while joyful or sad in their reminiscing. And with that, the unremembered names of friends relegated to forgotten scribbles on dusty yearbook pages suddenly burst into vivid recollection. Running a built in sound track to boot.
His response led to the instinctive question, “what is sex.” He smiled and giggled, coyly saying, “you know.” He moved his hands while giggling to indicate a motion for sex that only silly kids can make funny and not obscene. Drawn in by the giggles, his sister soon waltzed into the room and found a place on the floor, eager to add everything she knew and had heard from her friends to the conversation.
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