I came across this photo essay on the BBC which details some of the struggles of an soldier who dropped out of the army at age 13. He had been in the army for three years. What I can’t help but imagine is the life ahead for a child who doesn’t have and educational path to his future and who has endured the sites and experiences of war. Sobering stuff.
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My rating: 3 of 5 stars For the workaday professionals bound in the fishbowl of office life, Joshua Ferris’ freshman novel, Then We Came To The End, will be familiar territory with comical twists and reminiscent characters. The story covers the intertwined office and often personal lives of an advertising firm’s employees as they endure the turbulent bust period of the dot-com era. Ferris imbues his book with rich characters who display the anti-social, psychotic group think prevalent but overlooked in the 9 to 5 office existence. Conversations around watercolors spawn plots and generate resentment among the advertising employees who answer to Joe Pope, even though they report to the bigger than life Lynn Mason. The book is written in the first person plural which allows us to sit inside the heads of the employees as they cycle through their madness. Ever looked at a co-worker in dread and wondered, what in the world were they thinking? If you could think in first person plural, you would know. The technique is useful in painting a full picture of the dysfunction generated by the band of misfits comprising the staff. What used to be thought of as the ‘royal we’ could now be considered the ‘corporate we’,” says Ferris when asked about the style in an interview at the end of the book. As the company loses clients they begin to go into perpetual downsizing mode. As the team is arbitrarily and summarily dismantled and sent packing, the groveling office mates shift their attitudes, their allegiances, their gripes, and their complaints, each survivor thankful for another day’s reprieve from “walking Spanish” – a euphemism concocted by surviving employees. The quirky, funny and unique euphemism of course is code for being fired. They’re prisoners of their own making, delusional in their desire to control and know the tidbits of everyone’s life. Case in point, the group can’t understand why Benny the Jew would hold on to a totem pole left to him by an old deceased office worker who lived for nothing more than his daily cigarette, often smoked in the bitter cold. When the answer for his affection for the totem pole escapes the group, they create their own answers to suite their tastes. Each character lends a unique color to the rainbow that is the we. Tom Moto, before he is let go is the free spirit in the bunch who rebels in hopes of inspiring. He is the poster boy for “when keeping it real goes to far.” After he is let go, rather than being remembered for the inspirational challenge to authority, he is feared as the one that could come back and go postal. In Ferris’ book we find the cynical nature inherent in the American dream. Spending all of our time at a job most can’t stand so that we can hold on to the safety of the American dream buckled tightly into the drivers seat of our Mercedes and Beamers. It is the safety found in the mindless work that protects our image of ourselves and who we are in life. It is a comical look at American life that shows the irony of inept communication and under appreciation of those we spend much of our lives with. The book took a little while to get into, but once it got going, I felt the character development was strong, the writing was crisps and fresh. The plot meandered but it seemed right in line with the lives lead by the characters. For anyone searching for the something to help quantify the value found in the average workplace, pick up this book and enjoy.
What is it about healthcare reform that has the country up in arms, violent with the tongue? Who is against healthcare reform? Who is for it? Not an easy answer, but in a country that is good at generalizing and slicing statistical data for group definitions, we probably can get there. It would seem that a logical start for mitigating the madness would be deciphering the unusual suspects responsible for the protests and the vehement opposition to healthcare reform. The primary groups are the Tea Party, Conservatives, libertarians and some independents. They share a disdain for big government, big price tags and governmental intrusion in the lives of its citizens. Exactly what would a Libertarian look like. Of course this is a generalization, but data says they have the following characteristics:
Pew Research,Politics and Candidates Summary: Well educated, male, wealthy and white – generally speaking. Next up, the Republicans. What characteristics would they have?
Summary: Educated, wealthy, white and older (starting to see a trend?) It’s interesting to reflect that these numbers were from mid last year, and during that time period, the Republican party has been hemorrhaging members to the Tea Party movement which is a distinctly different group. The Tea Party is the final group will take a look at. On paper, some of the characteristics of this group include:
Summary: Well educated, young, white and conservative (generally speaking) The Tea Party is the youngest group on the scene, generally comprised of Republican, Democratic, Libertarian and Independent defectors. This group has been at the heart of agitation against healthcare reform making themselves appear larger than the mere 16% of the population that identifies as belonging to the group. Rasmussen Reports. So by and large, the group is characterized as being predominately white, well educated, upper class, conservatives. This group, because of their wealth is typically insured and is more likely to run a small business in contrast to the rest of the population. Juxtapose this with the opposing segment which would be lower income mixed race (including the majority segments of minority populations) and there is an automatic divide that can be seen along racial and class lines with smatterings of educational skirmishes thrown in for good measure. A proverbial clash of the titans. The divide between the group is from the start far and wide. Let’s be clear, this battle is about the cheddar, the dinero, the loot. Politics is a hungry beast fed by the battle for finite resources amongst willing and unwilling pawns. Obama’s strong-arm tactics are a forced redistribution of resources in no uncertain terms. His healthcare reform is a Robin Hood fantasy with Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid filling in as his merry men. Sorry, merry people. The conservative coalition, who has the most to lose in healthcare reform, are the haves who’ll end up shouldering the additional taxation both personally and in the small business situations; it’s a fight for resources that belong to them in an economy that is already hostile to their growth. If Robin Hood were alive, he would be best suited to stay out of conservative neighborhoods after dark. Despite their motive, this conservative coalition doesn’t see the conflict in terms of the haves and have nots; this boils down to an issue of principle – founding principles at that. They tapped into a spirit that is inborn into the American way of life. Rather than view the argument from the smelly side of concern for their country men’s welfare, they found a rallying cry that hearkens back to the founding of the U.S. and is enshrined in the formation of the country. It’s amusing to know that other countries can see this as well. In an extremely interesting article written by Geoff Elliott in The Australian he contrasts the American view of national healthcare with the Australian view. You can read the article here. What emerges from the comments on the post, unfortunately, is that Americans are viewed as self centered, greedy capitalists unwilling to share their spoils with even their own country men. In his article Elliott highlights the nature of the US split from Britain and Australia’s moderately peaceful split from the colonial power. The US split was brought about due to agitation against the existing governmental power. The indomitable I was bred in America. The I became more important than the we. There is no moral judgment here, just an understanding that individualism is part and parcel with being American. Indeed, agitation was enshrined and encouraged to keep the government from tyranny and obstruction. For the conservative coalition, the additional taxes and modifications to their existing healthcare would indeed be obtrusive. In true American fashion, these segments of the population revolt. So although it is a practical issue, this segment rails against the principle of the matter giving rise to terms like Socialism and Marxism. The opposing side of principle is practicality - easily delivered with any number of dismal statistics about the state of healthcare in America. Take for instance a study completed last year by Harvard University which linked a lack of healthcare to the deaths of more than 45,000 Americans. Granted, this number wouldn’t even fill half the Rose Bowl, but these are human lives representing mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles etc. This number do not include those whose quality of life is hampered because of lack of access to healthcare. With the economy still sputtering from a glut of greedy insurance practices and an over inflated housing market, the job numbers are still dismal and on the daily push the unemployed to the roles of the uninsured. If you’ve got the guts, you can check out state by state unemployment statistics here. Even for those who are insured, there is no guarantee that it will be enough. It was estimated that last year over 60% of Americans who declared bankruptcy, did so because of medical bills. Many of these were insured during the time of their illness. It should be difficult for the most loving liberal to look unflinchingly at the plight of the conservative coalition; their backs are against the wall. The healthcare reform bill of 2010 is a solution that violates the spirit of America’s promise to be unobtrusive to all of its citizens, despite its noble aim to prop up the most vulnerable among us. Shifting the healthcare burden to a narrowly defined segment of America although convenient is ultimately problematic. We would hope that the conservative coalition would be active participants in solving the problem. Charity is a virtue, while theft is a crime. There is a solution somewhere in the middle if the Democrats can address the principle within the problem; distributing the burden equitably. And we can only hope the conservative coalition can work through the practical issues realizing there is no way the country can allow 32 million people to gamble that they’ll be OK for another day. My guess is that this will continue to be a political football for years to come. I just hope that we as Americans don’t lose our souls in the process. Saw a recent Facebook post from Raj in regards to the Tea Party. Interesting conversation around the vitriol generated by this group and some of their recent 1st amendment selections.
I don’t exactly see the Tea Party singing ‘Kumbaya’ and running out to compassionately seek opinions of the local Native American Tribes, Latinos, Blacks or any other group that doesn’t look like them and think like them. To them, these groups are stereotypes out to steal America’s riches through draconian measures like health care reform that is surely a precursor to enslavement, the forceful takeover of land or the silencing of their voice in the land they raise their children in. Maybe they have more in common with those other groups than they actually realize. … See More They believe with the stroke of one pen, Obama and the Dems will undue the time space continuum, erasing Elvis from our collective memory while sending them to a Tule Lake-ish socialist internment camp in CA. It’s as if Obama and the Dems have mastered some brilliant Harry Houdini trick to disappear the Rule of Law and the checks and balances inherent in our government. I don’t get why they don’t come out and say what’s really on their mind instead of hiding behind their weakly fabricated arguments. Let’s be real, someone in that crowd finally said what I’ve had a suspicion they were thinking all along. In a recent Huffington Post article (here), comedian and political dynamo Bill Maher’s oozing sarcasm and biting wit took aim at President Obama’s defense of the firing of all teachers in a struggling Rhode Island school. We’ve grown accustomed to Maher’s rants on religion and Linda Blair-esque attacks on anyone remotely contemplating the existence of a higher power. Maher clearly has the answers when it comes to religion, but his brain, like a scratched record, must have skipped a couple of grooves in his casual lambasting of Obama for defending the firings. He sorely missed the point and again is out to push the cynical agenda which so rampantly drains dreams, poisons hope and viciously exorcises his deeply seated religious demons. The irony in his rant is that he missed some critical pieces of the underlying story. Factually, Central Falls High School was one of the worst performing schools in the state. The school board recommended that additional measures be taken to rectify the unacceptable academic situation. These additional measures included extra hours, additional tutoring, teacher training and additional planning time. The teacher’s union refused the measures without additional pay at which point the board threatened firing the teachers. They saw the train coming a mile away. Not sure about you, but when the entire school under performs, seems like there is a problem with the institution. Maher would like to label all of the inhabitants of the district as terrible parents and accuse them of looking for a “boogeyman” instead of putting on their poor parenting dunce caps. But, the fact remains, Maher’s ability to critically assess the results of a properly functioning school seems to be a bit off. Maher, who revels in his bachelorhood alludes in his article to no connection whatsoever to the plight of parents across the country who have become nighttime teachers to supplement the poor education routinely delivered in the American public school system. Historically, the US has a tremendous credibility problem when it comes to delivering quality education in impoverished neighborhoods. The struggle for quality education in middle class neighborhoods is becoming increasingly difficult as well. The inability of our educational leaders to reward excellence in the class room and discourage mediocrity sentences legions of children to a substandard life as education is one of the primary determinants in the quality of life. His argument, although sarcastically topped and bitingly written, lacks the heart and the conviction of someone truly engaged in the argument. It appears the topic is just another blog post to dash off between trips to the Playboy mansion. But any parent who has waited outside a lunch room to get a word in edgewise with a teacher who doesn’t return calls feels a little different. Any parent who has pulled their hair out trying to get a copy of their child’s lesson plan so they can spend extra time with their child knows the deal. They know the dilemma. The educational system is broken and “bogeymen” don’t exist. What really gets me is that in the land of political correctness which Maher assails so fluently, the courtesy of a dislike or unDigg button is painfully absent from his post’s technical landscape!!! I’m forty years old and up until yesterday, I’ve only ever had black hands cutting my hair. That was up until yesterday. There are those who will say what’s the big deal and still others whose hand covered mouths are still fixed in an O-shape completing a long sound with the word “SNAP!!.” It’s just one of those things. It’s not a dirty secret, but something that our differences bring out. My hair is kinky, despite the days when I lay the gel on hard and get that pseudo “good hair” look – refrain from any extracurricular comments here. I take my head to a kinky hair specialist because just like a peculiar compound, my hair has its own unique properties and qualities. I was leaving for Sydney, Australia and the word on the street was that Blacks were so sparsely represented that finding a barber would be a difficult task. Just like any concerned consumer, I consulted experts. “What do you think Brian,” I asked my barber before departing for the savage land that lacked the civilized touches of a barber for my head. He was a man I held in high esteem. No just because of his uncanny ability to fade your hair until parts of your scalp were invisible, but his proficiency in barbershop psychiatry was second to only Freud if he were a barber. “Hmmm,” he puzzled as he spun me round in the chair. “You know we can just go ahead and shave it all off.” His advice was sound and practical albeit drastic. It had taken me roughly two years to locate a barber that didn’t have me looking like an eraser. I still remember my first visit to that particular barbershop, The Ultimate in College Park, GA. I got scalped by an older guy who claimed to be a barber. Unable to locate my hairstyle on the chart at the front of the store, I proceeded to provide the older dude with hand gestures pointing to location on my scalp where I expected to see fades and bubbles, lines and definition. When the do was completed, and I was given the mirror to gaze upon his creation, my eyes started twitching. I was left looking like Larry Blackmon from Cameo without the decency of handing me cup to complete the look. If I didn’t look like Larry Blackmon, I looked like a Big Daddy Kane groupie 20 years too late and to corporate to count. I told dude to just take it all down and recognized I’d have to try again but neva eva, eva, eva with that decrepit barber again. Every time I see that dude in the shop I still want to bi#@$ slap him. Ultimately, I decided against going bald. My style gave me just the right mix to fit in with my corporate duties and my rebellious inclinations. A sort of quite fight the power if you will. My dilemma was unavoidable. I consulted with old friends asking them to poll their personal networks seeking the needle in a haystack. The prognosis was grim. Brian’s recommendation didn’t make the day brighter. Like a binge drinker just before last call, I needed that righteous last cut. Brian set about crafting the masterpiece that has earned him the nickname “Miracle Worker” in my family. At it’s conclusion, his handy work was evident and his kindness even greater. “This one’s on the house,” he smiled. With that final cut, I was now on my own to find a suitable replacement for the likes of the Miracle Worker in a land far, far away. Upon my arrival in Sydney, I began spying, eying and questioning. Pretty soon, I had my line of questioning down. “Do you know where I might find an ethnic barber?” Most folks looked a little puzzled. Wasn’t sure if they were puzzled because they didn’t know where one was or if it was because they couldn’t see the need for it. You must understand there are few, few Black people in Australia. I’ve gone weeks without seeing someone that looked like me. Like a ticking time bomb, I carried my days on knowing that day by day my hair was growing. As the time approached for me to begin looking for a job, I knew my dilemma was growing out of control and would reach a head soon. Either I would locate a barber or I would have to shave off all of my hair. Shaving it all off wasn’t necessarily a bad option, but the fact is I’m forty. The way I figure it, there may come a time when I can’t grow hair, so I need to grow as much of it as I can while I can. While walking to a class in downtown Manly near the wharf, I saw a barber executing a pretty decent fade on a tall white guy. I was late for class so I made a mental note of the place, maybe someday it would come in handy. I’d searched online for at least an hour with no luck. I could find beauty saloons for women with ethnic hair, but no barbers. That weekend, I played my ace in the hole. I’d heard of a place called Blacktown inhabited my minorities including a large contingent of Africans. It was a family outing. We all piled into the car and traveled the 40 miles or so. Some days I plan well, others not so much. On this particular day, I could have saved us some grief by calling ahead. We arrived at 3:30 PM and they closed at 3:00 PM. There was not a soul in site. Uggghhh. Things were now officially desperate. Later that week I traveled back to Manly to locate the barbershop. I found the shop but walked around outside contemplating my options. There were no black barbers to be found. I was tempted to just chalk it up to “Not gonna happen,” but instead decided to at least inquire as to the cost of the cut. “Twenty six dollars,” the man said. I would later find that his name was Frank and he in fact was the owner of the shop. He had been open for business for seven years now. “Do you know how to cut my hair,” I asked. “Sure,” he said without pausing. Oddly enough, that wasn’t as comforting as I had hoped it would be. Knowing that my only other option was baldness, I decided to have a seat and see where the chips would fall. He appeared to be Latino, Cuban if I had to put money on it. As I took my place in the calmly painted white interior shop, I spied a stack of Murray’s hair pomade on the neatly lined glass shelf behind me. Both the orange and the black cans. My hope was restored. I relaxed a little as the clippers sprung into action with a familiar click and hum. “I see you have some Murrays back there,” I said, attaching a question with my tone. “Oh that,” he responded in his thick Aussie accent. “The English guys love that.” Now I was puzzled. Murray’s pomade is a thick waxy greasy pomade most notably used to generate waves in short hair for the brothas. I would now be educated on my ignorance. Frank informed me that it was also used by the surfers as it would allow them to style their hair and the pomade made their hair virtually waterproof. That was news to me. I was now receiving an international education.
When it was done, it was different. But it was a good cut that I was satisfied with. Thankfully, I think I found a barber for the short time till I can get back to the states. ************** Update 16/03/2010*************** As fate would have it, I ran into one of only two black American men I’ve seen since I moved to Mona Vale, Australia. Coming down an isle of the local Woolworth’s supermarket, I spotted him and conversation ensued. Spying the neatly lined edges of his hairline, I asked him where his hair was cut. He flashes an easy smile and says, “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”
A little puzzled I let him continue and he eventually tells me his Australian haircut story. His story involves baldness, hesitation in front of a barbershop and a barber by the name of Frank!! As it turns out, after moving here over nine years ago, he simply began shaving his head bald. The day before we met, oddly enough, was the first day that he’d ever gotten a hair cut other than bald. One of his coworkers told him a shop in Manly could cut his hair.… See More I laughed when he shared that he hesitated in front of the shop, contemplating entering or leaving. I laughed even harder when he confessed that his new barber, Frank of Frank’s on Belgrave, tried to convince him he could fade his hair and that he had just done it a couple of days earlier on anther black man’s head. That head of course was mine!! Hill-friggen-larious!!! He asked Frank to keep it simple and passed on the fade, but after looking at my haircut there in the store, I think the prospects of a fade in his future have increased. I’ve been in Australia for a little over a week and I must say I find it amazing. I spent some time detailing my first days. I awoke early in the am to type the words into my pc, only to lose my thoughts to an incoherent mind fumbling to recover from jet lag. I forgot to save the words before powering down. Note to self number one, no writing with bad jet lag. Now relieved of that twanging sensation which is not unlike a hammered tuning fork, I can think clearly free from the ill effects that such a long damn trip collects. Long being 24 hours traveling and sitting in small seats bolted into big airports with famous names. The flight was interminably long. With a stop in Chicago and then one in LA, both beautiful cities, I was beat before the journey started. There were delays leaving Atlanta, roughly two hours. Luckily the Chicago flight was only delayed by three hours so I only had an hour wait upon my arrival in the windy city. LA was another hour delay. It wouldn’t have been as bad if there were enough time to actually grab a deep dish pizza in Chicago or a Tommy’s tamale in LA. But, nope, tha wasn’t happening. By the time the 16 hour flight from LA to Sydney was underway, I’d already spent 8 hours sitting or flying. Caught between something that vaguely resembled sleep and a knawing ache running down the back of my spine and seeping just underneath my knee caps, it was less then comfortable. It was just uncomfortable enough for me to think about it, but not that uncomfortable that I actually got up and walked around the plane. As is the recurring theme in my adult life, there were very few African-Americans on board. Walking around seemed to me an invitation for scrutiny from foreign eyes with alien ideas about just what my story was. Was I a ball player, singer or jumping bail to evade the long arm of the law? Funny thing is, I to had foreign eyes spying two other brothas on the plane. They travelled together and dressed in Lycra/nylon sweats and basketball shoes, their height seduced me into a stereo type: what team did they play for? Seeing them did comfort me though. It gave me the illusion I wouldn’t be alone when I landed in Sydney. There were now at least two other brothas in the country. Not that I didn’t mind some eyes on me. Truth be told, I felt I was looking moderately fly in my newly acquired brown vest, smartly contrasting light beige ribbed shirt, and sufficiently dress-casual jeans. To top the entire ensemble off, there were a pair of brownish yellow pull on soft soled dress shoes adorning my feet. I thought I looked better then I had in years. At the end of the day in the consideration to walk or sit, sitting won out. I still got stares and unfortunately, it wasn’t because of my funky fresh gear. The flight was scheduled for 16 hours, in the end, we did it in 15. Yea for great piloting. When I dragged my fresh dressed tired butt into Sydney, the weather was great and the scenery tropical. My eyes darted to and fro to greedily suck up any details they could discern. The palm trees waved in the wind and the overcast day promised a warm but gentle experience as I hoped in the waiting car and we drove the 45 minutes to my new home in Mona Vale, New South Wales.  How many MJ crosswalks can you count? Along the way, I took in the sights and sounds that were Sydney. I saw cars that were familiar, but many more there weren’t. The first thing I was immediately struck by was what I perceived to be an unhealthy veneration and worship of Michael Jackson at every other street corner. In my American mindset, I saw signs at each crosswalk that hearkened me to the days of Thriller and I anxiously awaited street dancers to jump in the middle of the street popping locking and throwing down a bogaloo for good measure. Turns out it was just a cross walk sign. There would be plenty more aha moments ahead for me if I could just survive the ride home. Again, my American mindset knew that in Australia the driving rules held that “the left side is the best side and the right side is suicide.” Despite the rules and conventions, the brain has certain elements of life that have become instinctual. Mindless violations of those instincts, without fail – for safety reasons- trigger alarms that widens eyes, tightens grips and causes a certain shallow breathing. With every turn that we made, I couldn’t help but pause mid sentence, prepared to holler, “get on the right side!” Things have progressed though. Now not only can I sit while watching others drive Engilsh, but I can drive English and even navigate the unique round-a-bouts that seemingly hang out at the end of every street scattered across the greater Sydney area. My American doctor has chaos neatly alphabetized next to spring gardens and 12 tips for a better you. He doesn’t tend scabbed knees for free: there is a world beneath his waiting room window that isn’t pretty. There I see fear flickering in a child’s eyes and her mommy is shopping. Somewhere. She can’t be far, her lopsided cart overflows with brickbats and pieces of a unique dream shattered into a million distinct pieces. There are millions like her whose dazed eyes, gorged with destruction, tune in to empty stomachs and cold nights. Though they are starving, an appetite for destruction has consumed their happiness. Help has dialed 911 and gotten lost on a telephone line snaking to nowhere that really matters. Lights and stop signs ignore their purpose and substitute as disaster’s jewels and destruction’s court jester . Silently, the resolute cling to concrete Legos and open skies – oddly singing in triumph and praise. Broken bodies shelter beautiful memories that torment in an ugly world decorated with despair. Raised hands missing bodies grow from the concrete daring to ask somber questions. There are no answers in this place, just pointed fingers and texting vigilantes cleaning up behind feeble children and the broken hearted. Morbid cocktail parties stumble into the night under cover of anonymous blankets. Crushed plastic, broken bodies, dust and rubble dance a two step with the grim reaper mixing. Little girls with ankle high lace socks, network with rich bankers and thugged out boots missing bodies. No one closes their eyes, no one opens their mouths under anonymous blankets. No one exchanges names and answer only to the winds howling call. Pictures carefully frame despair so that we can see, believe and then neatly close the magazine, before walking to our appointment. http://www.soulpundit.com/2010/02/20/anonymous-appointment/
My rating: 4 of 5 stars 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 previously 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. My rating: 3 of 5 stars 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+. Grimy streets wheeze gray.
I’m ashamed to say that I’d never taken the time to read the 1987 The play centers around Troy Maxson. He reminds me of the His tendency to judge his son’s future by his past is deceptively His love for his wife seems to be of legend, yet and still, he ends The workmanship of Wilson’s dialogue is amazing. I found myself Throughout the play, Troy transforms before our eyes as he is played An excellent play!! |
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Frank set about working on a zero fade with an afro top. His technique, razor and comb, was curious. I’d never experienced the technique before, so the question was – how would it look when completed? It took an hour during which time he filled me in on the different rugby styles prevalent in Australia. We discussed kids, parenting and business partners. I was at ease.
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