an underappreciated breakup album

Yesterday I was driving to an appointment and had reached satiation with songs on the radio, so I grabbed the top CD off a stack I keep in my car for just such emergencies. As it happened it was Til Tuesday's final 1988 album Everything's Different Now. Most of the songs chronicle Aimee Mann's breakup with Jules Shear.

I was instantly transported to that period when it seemed all my relationships were, at best, practice at what not to do to be in a relationship. The late 80s was an especially rich sexual time for me when I experienced as much fucking as I could stand, and then more. Men and women were completely open to me, so much so I actually turned some interested parties down, which for a formerly fat kid with a complex was something I never thought I'd do.

But I tried steering some of those short-term escapades into more permanent waters and one of them was something I called The Great Marybeth Romance. Marybeth was much younger than me, 18 to my 27 (ironically, I think, for as much overthinking as I engaged in about the dicrepancy between our ages--and she wasn't even the partner with whom I had greatest age difference--I ended up marrying a woman born the same year as Marybeth and who keeps me honest [whether I want to be or not]), and our coupling was the result of sharing a bed on a weekend New England sojourn to hike the snow-covered trails with another couple.

I don't remember when I first heard music from the Til Tuesday album or where I acquired it, but when Marybeth and I inevitably crashed and burned a month or so later, I played the hell out of the tape. True, some of the songs were too specific to Mann's experience for me ("J for Jules," "Limits to Love," "Long Gone (Buddy)"), but I realized yesterday how much I had taken in all those decades ago. I could sing "Everything's Different Now," "Why Must I," "The Other End of the Telescope," and "Rip in Heaven" word for word, matching Mann's voice inflection for inflection, pause for pause.

The most deliciously painful is "(Beleived You Were) Lucky" whose message I imagined addressed to Marybeth as she sat quietly in a dark room, fantasizing (so I imagined) all the things we could have been and that (for reasons I genuinely can't remember but may have been partly because of our ages) we could never be, a heartfelt and disjointed stream-of-consciousness letter she was writing me abandoned at her feet. (And the album version has the gut-wrenching shift in one word so Mann sings how life "would be fucking great.") Two years later, enough time having gone by to allow a one-night reconciliation, the mix-tape I gave her (foolish romantics still did things like that then) did not include the song, however.

The phrase "deliciously painful" is accurate as I think anyone experienced in this can attest. Even now, there is a luscious hurt composed of equal parts shame, anxiety, pride, wish-fulfillment, and any number of other terms you'd like to add that comes bubbling up at the confluence of such a song and such memories. Some people never have that experience and I simultaneously envy and pity them. It is one of those tightly-held, jealously-guarded, queasy emotions some of us have access to and, for the lucky ones, delight in. For us, the emotion of the breakup is our best memory.

this is what valentine's day means to me

My wife and I used to keep track of our years the same way most people do--by holidays and anniversaries and birthdays, and by the gifts we'd gotten for each other. But in the past few years, between the financial hits we've taken and the lessening of whatever capitalist sense we may begun with, important times have come instead to be tracked by the animals we took in.

Thus, my birthday in May is when we took in Beans; late summer is when we allowed Chicklet to move in. Easter is when Nilla came to live with us, and Boxing Day is the day she drove to the southern rim of the Cities to keep Mango from being euthanized. Late January, perhaps MLK Day, is Pappy's anniversary of taking up residence in our our comfy lives; and this year my birthday came around full circle to be the date Taffy became our baby. Similarly, Jesse came to us at Thanksgiving and Magellan was taken in near Father's Day. I could locate all the other animals we've ever taken in to some other day celebrated differently by other people.

Except for the cats and Beans, all of these beasts were intended to be short-term occupants. Now Olga has come to live with us, hopefully for only a week, on the night before Valentine's Day, prior to going on to live with another family. As much as our ministries have come to be for other people outside our home, inside it is a ministry of beasts. We see ourselves as a couple meant to either save an animal from death or provide it with as good a death as possible. As I have said for our two decades together, we don't get a happily-ever-after; for some animals, we are the happily-ever-after.

UUs have a thinking problem

COLD COMFORT

A Message Delivered to the

Bismarck Mandan UU Fellowship and Church

On February 9, 2014

 

            I hate this place.

            Understand, I’m not talking about this fellowship, to which you’ve so kindly invited me to return, or Bismarck, or even North Dakota. By “this place” I mean the Midwestern midwinter.

Those are the words I greet almost every day with at this time of year.  I ask myself constantly, what am I doing here?  It’s cold, it’s dark, it’s smelly.  Recently, an illustration appeared on Facebook in which a bundled up child is saying, “The wind hurts my face. Why do I live somewhere the wind hurts my face?” When the sun does shine, it’s almost blinding, and it’s a sour sun since if I go by how brightly it shines and how warm it feels to sit in the window and let it beat down on me, and then I go outside, I’ll be tricked into stepping out and freezing portions of my anatomy I’d prefer not to have frozen.

            I’m talking about my fingertips. 

            What am I doing here?  What are we doing here?  People were not intended to live under these conditions.  Look at us—we don’t have fur or feathers to puff up.  We are a species meant to be basking in the sun day after day, rising only to get another mango from the tree or another pina colada from the cooler.  It’s been said UUs are god’s frozen people, but this is overdoing it.  This place is simply too cold.  If I believed in hell, I’d say this was it. 

            Not all Christian traditions describe Hell as a hot place, by the way.  In Dante, hell’s concentric circles lead to the figure of Satan at the exact center, stuck in a crucible of ice, and the closer one gets to him the colder it is.  I would say we’re in about the third ring. 

            Many people ask why UUs don’t meet during the summer. It gives the devil time to catch up.  Alternatively, it may be Unitarian Universalists are the only ones god trusts enough to be out of sight for a while. 

            We are guilty, I suppose, of not taking hell or punishment seriously. Three clergymen were bathing in the lake of fire and one turned to the others and said, “Well, I guess I’m here because I was a Baptist minister and although I was married I guess I just liked the ladies a little more than I should have.”  The second said, “I understand.  I was a rabbi and even though it’s against the kosher law, there’s nothing I loved more than a ham sandwich.”  The third clergyman just glared at them and said nothing.  They said, “Come on, we were honest with you, tell us why you’re here.”  But he just glared at them.  They kept at him until he sputtered, “I’m a Universalist minister, this place is not hot, and I am not here.”

            It’s been said that after we die we’ll find ourselves on a road, a new spiritual journey, that comes to a fork. At the fork there are two signs, one saying “This way to Heaven,” and the other saying, “This way to arguing about Heaven.” And all the UUs are going down the latter road. Overthinking is a problem we’re often accused of and I guess it’s something we give into often.  It can be a serious UU problem.  You might have a thinking problem if you crave at least three thinks a day.  Or if your thinking begins earlier in the day than it used to.  Or if you think at a specific time each day.  Or if you’ve blacked out as a result of thinking.  Or if your thinking caused you to do something that you later realized was incredibly stupid.  Of course, just because you don’t think every day doesn’t mean you don’t have a thinking problem.  Many problem thinkers go for days or weeks without thinking, only to eventually find themselves unable to keep from going on that inevitable three or four day thinking binge.

            Unitarian Universalism is where all your answers are questioned. We walk hand-in-hand which is why we don’t often see eye-to-eye. One fellow I know, a hellfire and brimstone fundamentalist of the old school said to me once, “I hear you folks let in a lot of weirdoes. Pagans, atheists, the unchurched…” I said, “That’s true. We even let in Christians. We’re very open-minded.” I used to teach in prison and one of my students was imprisoned in Illinois where he heard about this one con on death row.  It was coming up on the poor guy’s sentence date and the warden came in and said to him, “Son, you’re going to be heading homeward soon.”  The con says, “Yes, warden, I suppose.”  And the warden says, “Well, most fellows are comforted knowing what it is they’re heading into.  Would you like me to ask the chaplain to come by the day before and give you a little counseling?”  The con says, “Well, warden, that’s awful kind of you, but it wouldn’t be of much use to me.  I was raised Unitarian.”  The warden isn’t deterred by that, he asked, “Well, would you like me to ask the math teacher to come by then?”

            We are a contentious people. A friend of mine, a rabbi, told me once, “You know, we Jews are pretty argumentative. You’ve got two Jews, you’ve got three opinions.” And I said, “How do you get such unanimity?” There are things we’ll agree on. In this town I used to live in, a fire broke out on Church row. The priest ran into the sacristy and brought out the communion wafers and wine. The rabbi ran into the synagogue and ran back out with the Ark of the Torah. The UU Board ran into the flames, held a discussion group about what should be saved, and came back out carrying the conference table. The minister had already saved the Holy Book, Roberts’ Rules of Order.

There’s a recorded incidence of Jesus and a proto-Unitarian Universalist meeting.  It runs something like this:  “Jesus said unto him, ‘Who is it that you say that I am?’  And the UU replied, ‘You are the eschatological manifestation of the ground of our being, the kerygma of which we find the ultimate meaning in our interpersonal relationships.’  And Jesus said, ‘Huh?’” Some scholars hold that Pontius Pilate was the first UU since he asked “What is Truth?”| and didn’t stay around to hear the answer.

            I recall being in second grade and we were asked to bring in something related to our spiritual tradition. The first kid got up and said, “This is a crucifix and I’m Catholic.” A girl stood up and said, “This is a Star of David. I’m a Jew.” The third kid stands up, says, “I’m a Unitarian Universalist and this is hotdish.” A UU is an atheist with children, after all. Or another way, a UU is a Quaker who can’t shut up.  Unlike Quaker meetings, which might last four or five hours with no one saying anything, UU meetings often have one person talking a long, long time, saying nothing, nobody listens, but everybody disagrees.  My mom, a staunch Seventh Day Adventist, walked with me into a church I was serving and she said, “Now isn’t that nice? There’s a woman in that pew on one knee with her head bent. And here you told me you don’t pray in this church.” I said, “Momn, she’s tying her shoe.” There are a number of us who take our Bible courses seriously, although we’re rarely looking for inspiration so much as loopholes. 

            Of course, there are differences we’d be foolish to deny. There was a little boy out on the steps of the Catholic Church with a big box and a sign saying “Catholic puppies looking for a good home.”  A few days later at the Methodist church there was the same little boy with the same box but a different sign.  This one said “Methodist puppies looking for a good home.”  A few days after that the same little boy was in front of the UU Fellowship with the same box, and this time the sign said “Unitarian Universalist puppies looking for a good home.”  I asked him, “I’ve seen you for days with these puppies.  Weren’t they Catholic and Methodist puppies before?”  And the little boy said, “Yes, but their eyes are open now.”

Which isn’t to say we don’t try to capitalize on those differences. An unchurched fellow, before he died, got a vague feeling he needed to join a church, just about any church, so he spent a day investigating different ones in town. He went to one and asked, “What church is this?” He was told it was a Catholic church. He asked, “Can I join?” He met with the priest who told him all about the Apostle’s Creed and the Nicene Creed and what he’d have to study, and then, to see how much the man might know, asked him, “Where was Jesus born?” The man said, “Pittsburgh.” The priest yelled, “Get out, you heathen!” So the man went to the next church and asked, “What church is this?” He was told it was Southern Baptist. He asked, “Can I join?” So he met with the preacher who told him he’d have to learn certain Bible verses and give up dancing and drinking and other sins, and then, to see what he was working with, asked the man, “Where was Jesus born?” The man, a little wary now, says, “Philadelphia?” The preacher yeslls, “Get out, you heathen!” So the fellow goes on to the last church on the block and asks what kind of church it is. He’s told, “This is a Unitarian Universalist church.” Man asks, “What do I have to give up or believe in to join?” He’s told, “You don’t have to do those things, you just sign this card and join a few committees.” The man says, “Then I’ll join! But listen, tell me, where was Jesus born.” He’s told, “Bethlehem.” The man says, “Dang, I knew it was somewhere in Pennsylvania!”

I had an argument with a friend in seminary who said, “Prove to me there is no God.” And I said, “You can’t prove something like that. That’s one of those things you have to take on faith.” This was after a batch of us were in trouble with the UUA in Boston after we’d gotten together a roaming group of UUs we based on the Jehovah’s Witnesses, except we knocked on people’s doors and asked them what they believed. This was unpopular as it had come to close to the one Unitarian Universalist miracle when someone in Texas saw Ralph Waldo Emerson’s face in his tortilla.

            The title of my message is “Cold Comfort.” You may know what that means. What it usually refers to is a result that’s of dubious comfort to someone dealing with a larger misery. Now it’s true that, given our presence in the more glacial climates, UUs have been referred to as the Frozen Chosen. So if you’ve wandered in here this morning to get out of the cold, first, you are welcome. But you may not be certain that you are a Unitarian Universalist, which of course means that you are. But if there are still some doubts, let’s go over our creed, as it were.

            We are an angry, friendly people.  If you’re not friendly, get the hell out. We’re a genuine people.  Even our phonies are real phonies. We’re absolutely sincere no matter how much we have to fake it. We aren’t quite sure how ambivalent we should be. But we are a tolerant people who hate intolerant people. We are optimists.  People who don’t look on the bright side depress us. We are much more non-competitive than other groups. Every UU is a feminist, so he’d better watch his language. Our organization is run democratically because the leadership insists on it. It’s true we have our critics.  They are paranoid. And we are promptly being late to services.

            I knew myself to be a Unitarian Universalist when I attended a retreat at a UU monastery where we were counseled to spend the weekend in absolute silence. Unless we thought of something really good. Of course we all believe in the four UU sacraments:  dedication, marriage, memorial service, and argument. 

            If you’re still not certain whether you’re a UU, this might help.  You might be a Unitarian Universalist if  you believe in the Ten Suggestions; if you’re unsure about god’s gender; if you’re unsure about god; if your holy trinity is “reduce, reuse, recycle;” if instead of a bible you bring your day planner to church; if you’ve ever found yourself in an argument over whether breast milk is vegan; if you’ve been invited to join a bible study and bring your own bible and pair of scissors; if your communion is coffee hour; if you believe in life before death; if you address prayers, “to whom this may concern;” if you dress for a formal evening in a little black dress, pearls, and Birkenstocks and your wife thinks you look terrific; if your idea of a Holy Day of Obligation is the Sunday it’s your turn to come early and make coffee; if you know at least two people upset that trees had to die so this fellowship could be built; if you gave up pot because you weren’t certain it was organic; and finally, if you receive email from committees you didn’t know you were on.

            Our comfort, cold as it may be, is that we’re a faith that refuses to take itself seriously.  How many UUs does it take to change a light bulb? UU’s aren’t afraid to sit in the dark.  How many UUs does it take to change a light bulb? The board at one of my churches came up with this answer:  “We choose not to make a statement either in favor of or against the need for a light bulb.  However, if in your own journey you have found light bulbs work for you, that’s fine.  You’re invited to write a poem or compose a modern dance about your personal relationship with your light bulb to present next month at our annual light bulb Sunday service.  At that time we will explore a number of light bulb traditions, including incandescent, fluorescent, long-life, tinted, and three-way, all of which are equally valid paths to luminescence.” 

            Finally, it’s true that Unitarian Universalists are the world’s worst singers and there are two reasons for it. The first is that we’re reading ahead to see if we agree with the next line. The second is that if we don’t we’re changing the wording. This song is a result of the latter.

“I am the very model of a modern Unitarian

            I’m not a Cath’lic, Buddhist, Hindu, Jew or Presbyterian

            I know the world’s religions and can cite their roots historical

            From Moses up to Channing, all in order categorical

            I’m very well acquainted too with theories theological

            On existential questions I am almost wholly logical

            About most any question I am teeming with a lot of views

            With many fine ideas that should fill this church’s empty pews

            I quote from Freud and Jung and all the experts psychological

            I’m anti-nuke, I don’t pollute, I’m chastely ecological

            In short, in matters spiritual, ethical and material

            I am the very model of today’s religious liberal

           

            “I use the latest language, god is never Father or The Lord

            But ground of being, Source of Life, or almost any other word

            I never pray, I meditate, I’m leery about worshipping

            I serve on ten committees, none of which accomplish anything

            I give to worthy causes and I drive a gas-conserving car

            I have good UU principles, although I’m not sure what they are

            I’m open to opinions of profound and broad variety

            Unless they’re too conservative or smack of right’us piety

            I can formulate agendas and discuss em with the best of em

            In short, in matters spiritual, ethical, and material

            I am the very model of today’s religious liberal.”

johnny thunders died for your sins!

I'll be upfront and say that I'm jealous of this essay from the Orange County Weekly, both in its writing and its subject. I would prefer to be known as the punk pastor.

Having said that, I will admit the writing, by Nate Jackson, is done well. He allows enough of Joe Furey's (great name, that, for a punk) conflicted nature and the conflicts of interest between who he preaches to and the theology he preaches from to speak for itself. Furey is another in that line of preachers who have found a personal savior and want to make others aware that this same salvation can be theirs too. I can't fault anyone for wanting to spread the good news, as it were.

The story I would like to hear, however, is that of his wife, Therese. She has stayed with him nearly full-time from his early days as a catastrophically bad drug runner to his new days in the collar, raising three kids, often without help from him, and losing the eldest, her son, to an overdose. Her trust in life giving her what she needed and her ability to rise each morning is worth listening to and it's unfortunate that this isn't her story.

Which isn't to say Furey's story isn't interesting or worth telling. But it's another in a long spate, reaching back to Augustine, of libertines tamed by the Word and who make their life's work the spreading of that Word to the people they used to be. I can't complain about that, either, in that it's exactly what I want and hope to accomplish. As he comes across in the essay and in the single video I could find, he sounds like an amiable, avuncular, kind presence, and there's a lot to commend about that.

But what I'm uncomfortable with is the theology behind Furey's sermons. It's one that accepts what the Bible says as the end to all things, that there is a good and a bad and that if you would be one of God's People, you must change from one to the other. I don't credit that. It strikes me the Jesus of the Bible didn't seek out the homeless and addicts of his time because he wanted them to change in order to hear his teaching but because they were the ones most willing to hear and credit it. You were encouraged to change--"Go and sin no more"--but actual change didn't come from no longer drinking or hooking. Actual change was harder to accomplish (Matthew 19:22-4). Some people, of course, want to stop drinking or come off the road and they should be encouraged. But others don't. And they shouldn't be discouraged.

If there is a Good News to the messages of Jesus and Buddha and other teachers, it's that people  already have dignity, are of "God's People," through the virtue of being alive. They should be accepted as they are, unconditionally. End of message.

my pete seeger story

Like every hippie on the east coast I have my Pete Seeger story. Back in the late 80s I worked at a health food store in Woodstock. There were a number of old personalities that flitted around the place often enough to become nodding acquaintances if not friends. Ed Sanders was one. Arlo Guthrie was another.

One day as I was working the register Arlo came in with an older gentleman, although he must have only been in his late 60s at the time. They bought a couple coffees--we were renowned locally in that age before coffee shops for our organic coffee--and were in the middle of conversation. But both had the grace to acknowledge me when they got to the register. Pete gave me that dazzling smile he always had and Arlo grinned.

I said, "That coffee's especially good today." Pete said, "Oh?" I said, "I made it myself. Nature's magic." Arlo said, "This is, um, Bob, in'tit?" I said yes and reached over to shake Pete's hand. It was gnarled and big and warm.

I said, "Actually, Pete, we met once before." He said, "Oh? Oh sure, you were on the sloop, weren't you?"

He meant his sloop, the Clearwater. I had, indeed, done a day's volunteer turn on it.

I nodded and he said, "A few years out now, wasn't it?" "About two," I said. Pete said, "You know, no one thought we would do much of anything with that old boat but with a little belief and hope we made a difference. Remember that, Bob. You can always make a difference."

He said a few more things but I don't remember much what they were. And I'm greatly condensing what I've written above. Arlo said a few things in there, too.

None of that is important. Here's what makes it a Pete Seeger story. I've met considerably fewer people in half the lifetime Pete lived and I can't keep straight someone I've met a few days ago from someone I met decades ago. Pete didn't remember me. Thousands, tens of thousands, of guys who looked like me and who didn't shuffled across the Clearwater's deck. It was no great prognostication in that town where someone wearing tie dye was probably concerned about the environment and that close to the Hudson River who suggested he'd met the most famous local environmentalist before had probably done so on the deck of his ship. But for a moment Pete made me believe I'd made an impression on him, that he'd remembered me, and that I was important enough to impart a little wisdom to.

But most tellingly, it was true that I was important enough for him to interrupt his conversation with his friend and spend a minute and a half talking with. That, even more than the nickel's worth of advice he gave me, is what I took from him. That everybody, even the guy you were giving fifty cents to for coffee, had an innate dignity deserving acknowledgement. A smile. A few words. A handshake and a chuckle. That's a lesson I like to think I pass on to everyone I meet. That they're worth my time.

one thing at a time

At times I plan ahead for mental emergencies, not knowing that's what I'm doing. Such a one was my naming and descriptor a week ago for a February 23 sermon: 

Beer, and Thank You: Someone said that the hardest thing to complete is any project that involves sticking with it long after the hoped-for result has disappeared. In simpler words, once we lose hope, we lose interest. But it’s also true that, as Jefferson Smith once said, “The lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for.”  Join [us] for a shot in the arm for whatever ails you in fighting the good fight.

 

It comes of reading a column by Gabrielle Giffords concerning both her rehabilitation and the efforts she and her husband have made in support of restrictions on gun availability whose national defeats since the Newtown massacre make the efforts seem hopeless.

I have depression and the dim light of winter always exacerbates it. That I live in the midwest, where I had always grown up despising, and on the rim in the midwest where there are few opportunities for work or the arts or companionship, manages to slip my depression a Viagra. So it is good that I am forced for the next month to consider more closely my own statement that I am fighting the good fight. As I've taken as my mantra the past few years, "One thing at a time."

Here's a video from someone we lost last year to keep us on the road:



If my man Lou can get beyond that mullet we can get beyond this.

I have come to know my place

I've experienced depression for many years. Like a lot of people, I did a lot of self-medicating with alcohol and drugs, and I kind of liked that. But I discovered that I was a poster boy for the wonders of Prozac and have been on some form of antidepressent for nearly 20 years. I've never felt suicidal (although a good argument could be made that I have been self-destructive) or whatever term there is for the desire just to remain in bed. I have no trouble moving around and getting my day going, although sometimes it's hard to understand to what purpose. My depression leaves me angry more often than not, sometimes with myself but usually with society.

All this is to say that, when it comes to depression, I'm not un-self-cognizant. It took me a long time to recognize a need for help, and even longer to accept it. I'm not proud of my tendency toward do-it-myselfism, but realize it's a battle I fight continuously.

On Wednesday I had a counseling appointment with a new counselor I started with late last year. Before and after I left for the appointment I took out my aggression that had been building for months on the three dogs I love most, hitting one with a book, pushing another down the stairs, and kicking the third. I was devastated by this behavior and am so ashamed of myself that if I was suicidal I might consider it. None of them was hurt, although all three looked surprised, which is of course being hurt, and like an abuser I tried to make up for my behavior immediately. But it didn't do any good for how I felt about what I'd done.

This is not to make too big a thing of it. I know every animal lover has done something in her thoughtless moments that he regrets and I know that this is really no different. But one thing I've prided myself about is the immeasurable love I have for my animals. But my depression makes them fair game, I know, and my wife just a few weeks ago said she was sometimes anxious about leaving me alone with the animals in winter, knowing that I could take my anger out on them. I told myself if that happened I needed to make a serious change.

So here is the change I'm making.

It's really not a big thing, more a recognition of something in front of me all along. For decades I have tried to be something better than I am, socially and economically. I have gotten several degrees and trainings--I hold two masters and a master of fine arts, and I've trained as a chaplain and a minister. I was a college teacher for a decade and a part-time minister for another decade.

But those are middle class ambitions and I didn't come from that. I am a lower-class prole straight out of Orwell who lucked into those positions and now, in the current employment market, cannot find a way to make lightning strike twice. The market may not be right but it is what we live with and I have come to hear it loud and clear: it does not want me to make my way as a professional. I must make it as a minimum-wage employee.

I have gotten above myself and have been suitably punished for it.

As a result, I renounce my desires to be a minister or chaplain, as I more or less gave up my desire to be a teacher any longer, and starting Monday I will look for any full-time job within ten miles I can find. Keep in mind where I live, deep out on the rim: the best I could hope for around here is work as a machinist and I don't have that kind of training.

Is this a reaction to both my depression and my acting in a way I'm ashamed of? Perhaps. Probably. But I feel lighter as a result of making this decision. For the first time in a long while I feel less like a victim of economic forces and more like someone who's accepted his fate.

This doesn't mean I intend to give up ministering, as I haven't really given up teaching. I've just given up the hope anyone will pay me a living wage doing it. I've come to recognize my place, and it's behind a broom or a cash register, not a lectern or an altar.