A British medical journal reports that Prozac can increase users' risk of suicide attempts and violence.

I remember that after Del Shannon committed suicide mere weeks after going on Prozac in 1989, his widow teamed with the Church of Scientology to push for Congressional hearings into the safety of the drug. At the time, I was on Prozac myself, and I believed Shannon's widow was being shamefully used by the Scientologists to further the cult's own agenda.

When I think about the Scientologists' accusations today, after being free from the drug for four years, I have to admit that even a stopped clock can be right twice a day.

There is a fundamental difference between drugs that were developed during the late 1980s and beyond, like Prozac and other selective serotonin-reuptake inhibitors, and older drugs like lithium and tricyclic antidepressants. The toxicity level on the older drugs, and the side effects that they caused, were enough of a cause for concern that the drugs were generally reserved for people who saw a psychiatrist or therapist regularly.

With the advent of the less-toxic SSRIs, which had fewer side effects, primary-care physicians were encouraged to prescribe antidepressants to people who had no other psychological care. As a result, depressed people were often left without an important point of contact with a helpgiver.

Although I saw a psychiatrist during the time when I was on antidepressants, I noticed with the doctor a quasi-religious faith in the powers of the pills that he prescribed for me. No matter how often I told him that I was worried I was slipping back into suicidal depression, he would brush it off. He received quite a number of free samples of drugs from manufacturers—if I was too broke to get a refill, he usually had a one-week supply on hand. I had the distinct feeling that he was eager to keep me on his list of pharmaceutical success stories—so much so that he became increasingly impervious to danger signs.

People shouldn't be on psychoactive drugs unless they are in therapy that treats the problems for which they were on the drug in the first place. That therapy* has to address the patient's basic assumptions about himself or herself—regardless of whether the medication is making the person appear to be "normal." Because antidepressants, at best, is only a stopgap measure. It has to be backed by changes in the way the patient views himself. Otherwise, the patient risks falling back into depression, which is made even worse by his feeling that the one thing that was supposed to help him—antidepressants—didn't.


This is a problem of our age,not only with antidepressants, but with other medications as well. Planned Parenthood tells women that they can abort their children at home—without seeing a doctor. Anti-AIDS programs around the world are telling people that sex with condoms is "safe sex." The artificial, Band-Aid solution to a problem is held up as a safe solution—with no heed to the spiritual and physical destruction that it will cause. And why? Because modern culture devalues human life—reducing it to a body that has no soul.

*What eventually worked for me was cognitive therapy, because it helped me get to a point where I was healed enough that I could not only seek God, but also let Him in. It was an awareness of and faith in God's existence that ultimately healed me from suicidal depression, in October 1999.
5:33 PM  |

Bobby's Girl

I'm scared to see the poorly reviewed Kevin Spacey film of Bobby Darin's life, but that didn't keep me from seeing over an hour of Darin's TV appearances—selected by Spacey, natch—at the Museum of Television & Radio last night.

It was my first time seeing footage of Darin, and it gave me a strange feeling. Not only was I utterly blown away by both his performance and his choice of material—he even did Al Jolson's "Toot-Toot-Tootsie", but I had the eerie impression that I knew him personally.

That personal feeling I got wasn't just due to Darin's ability to connect with his audience. It was because I was witnessing a man I already in a sense knew—from having interviewed his son.

I interviewed Dodd Darin for New York Press in 1995, when Rhino released the Bobby Darin boxed set, As Long as I'm Singing. Coming home from the Museum of TV & Radio, I was moved to put it online for the first time.

Regular Dawn Patrol readers will be amused—or maybe aghast—to see that, in my original article, I used a certain profanity (which I've here blanked out). Well, there's a lot about my rock and roll years that you may not know, and may not want to know. I'm thankful that I've changed in certain ways, like finding other ways to express how ineffably cool Darin is. But I'm also thankful that even in my darkest and skankiest hours, I perceived a hint of C.S. Lewis-style joy in the God-given talent of artists like him. And I do miss writing about Sixties pop—though I don't miss chasing down editors for assignments.

Here's how the story—which my editor called "The Too Many Sides of Bobby Darin"—begins:

"Not to denigrate other artists," Dodd Darin says of his father, "but other people of that early-Sixties era, they just faded, because they really were kind of homogenized. This artist, my dad, was different. He came from the gut. Because he didn't have a great voice, he didn't have Fabian or Presley's looks. But what he had was the desire and charisma and talent. When you saw him on the stage, he was ten feet tall. All that came through in the music."

Rhino's long-awaited Bobby Darin boxed set is called As Long As I'm Singing: The Bobby Darin Collection. If they'd asked me, it would be Bobby Darin: Too F---ing Cool For You.

You groan. Rhino hears you. If anything, they overprepared for the naysayers. If you subtracted all the defensiveness from the box's 60-page booklet, the remaining text would fit on the inside of the box itself. This, despite the fact that anyone willing to buy a collection of 96 Bobby Darin songs probably doesn't need to be convinced of the artist's worth.

Admittedly, in this modern age, it takes more than the average amount of cultural literacy to appreciate Bobby Darin. For starters, he had the misfortune to be named "Bobby" in an era when the name was synonymous with seemingly pre-fabricated, post-Elvis popsters; Rydell, Vee, ad infinitum. And, during those Elvis-in-the-Army years, when rock desperately needed a savior, Darin switched over to an adult cabaret act...

Continue reading "The Too Many Sides of Bobby Darin"

Incidentally, I am convinced that if you stare long enough at the above photo of Darin—a postcard from an appearance at the Flamingo Hotel, taken from bobbydarin.net—he blinks at you. Either that or I should stop blogging at 3 a.m...

3:33 AM  |

Thursday, December 30, 2004

My New Year's Prayer for You

I'm going to stay in tomorrow night, so I'd like to continue a tradition that I started last year: to take some time out on New Year's Eve for intercessory prayer.

I'm already praying for my country and its troops, plus Israel, Iraq, and world peace in general, as well as for the tsunami victims and the relief workers who are helping them. What I'd really like to do in addition to that is to pray for God to bless you in the New Year.

If you'd like me to pray for you, drop me a line at dawn -at- dawneden.com (replacing the spam-foiling "-at-" with an atsign). You don't have to write your name or anything else in the e-mail if you don't want to; just put "Prayer request" in the header and I'll pray for the person who sent it.

If you'd like me to pray for anything specific for you or your friends and family, I'll pray for that too, according to God's will.

If you're reading this after New Year's Eve and want a prayer, my offer still stands. But I'd most like to receive requests by 10 p.m. New Year's Eve, as I'll have some time before going to bed, and it would be a blessing for me to be able to welcome the New Year with prayers for others whom I know want them.
11:33 PM 

Give 'Em El, Dubya!

An e-mail pal who's going to the inauguration wrote to his friends asking if they could suggest a slogan he could put on buttons for himself and other W. supporters, to annoy the protesters at the event.

Remembering Elvis—and Phil Ochs—I suggested:

"59.1 Million Voters Can't Be Wrong"

10:57 PM  |

The Spy Who Loved Me

Janjan of With Issue spies on her teenage daughter and her friends. Specifically, she reads their LiveJournal entries and comments (and quotes a four-letter word from one) What she sees in the friends' journals' is a window into permissive parenting:

Many of the kids whose journals I see catalog a miserable life spent trying to make sense out of their disfunctional families. Actually it is heartbreaking to see how many cases of arrested development are masquerading as responsible adults. I see the inner thoughts of kids whose upbringing has been bereft of guidelines, rules and God. Kids whose parents are so busy "self actualizing" their children are involved in things which should make your hair curl, right under the radar.

Why does this affect me? These idiots have made my job difficult and it ticks me off.

If I'd ever wondered what Andrea of Twisted Spinster would be like as a mother of a teenage girl, now I think I know.

10:40 PM  |

Xavier of the trilingual blog Buscaraons forwards a story from Santificarnos that slipped my notice. It's a harrowing account of a legal attempt in Spain to force an abortion on a 27-year-old mentally handicapped woman because her parents don't want her to have the child.

1:59 PM  |

Thank You!

The Penitent Blogger writes with gratitude regarding the response to yesterday's post "Aiding Victims," on her church's fund to help tsunami victims in Chennai, India:

Thank you for mentioning us on your site. Because of you and Midwest Conservative Journal, among one or two others, we were able to raise about $600.00 online yesterday. Local contributions bring the total
to $3,164.11 to date.

Penitent's rector, who is from Chennai, will travel to the region in January to oversee the distribution of the aid. To donate to the effort, visit the St. Gabriel's Episcopal Church Tsunami Relief Web site.

1:39 PM  |

It's Just Desserts

Watching Jacques Demy's musical fairy tale "Donkey Skin" last night at Film Forum, I was reminded of a story about Esther Ralston, the actress who played Mrs. Darling in the silent-film version of "Peter Pan." She was only 22 when director Herbert Brenon chose her for the role, and she told him that she feared audiences wouldn't accept her as the mother of the three Darling children.

The director responded, if I recall correctly, that the film's story was a children's fantasy, and all little children believe their mother is young and beautiful.

That's the charm of "Donkey Skin," a French film which I saw with English subtitles. Although the film, based on a Charles Perrault fairy tale, is often hard going, with corny humor and tawdry early-'70s sets that put the "Carol Burnett Show" designers to shame, it has moments of joyous, childlike innocence and—best of all—a child's logic.

The film won me over during the dream sequence, when the prince (Jacques Perrin—a gorgeous Frenchman in the kind of overgrown Beatle cut that you see on today's club kids) and the princess (Catherine Deneuve with about three feet of flaxen hair extensions) are doing the requisite early-'70s running-in-slow-motion-through-a-field-and-singing-to-each-other bit.

As they sing the soaring Michel Legrand-penned anthem, the subtitles come up and—what's this?

"We will do forbidden things.

"We will go to the snack bar!"

I could not believe my eyes. Could it be...?

YES! The next thing you know, there's a DESSERT TABLE in the middle of the field. It's long, with a white tablecloth and everything—just like I remember from the Oneg Shabbats* of my childhood. Looking at it, although I couldn't tell, I was absolutely certain that the goodies on it included those dark-chocolate-covered cakes with the pink, green, and white layers that I remember so well.

The joyously happy couple proceeds to eat from "le snack bar"—not in a gluttonous or erotic way (this isn't a "Grande Bouffé" for the Asterix set), but like a pair of kids exulting in being able to do something "forbidden."

Watching it, I felt this sense of exhilaration. Suddenly it was almost 20 years ago and I was back in college, eating the Matterhorn at Swensen's with a cute Monkees fan.

And I thought, when was the last time that I went on a date with a man who really enjoyed having a shared food experience with me?

So I have resolved, this will be my litmus test from now on. It takes time to learn if a man shares my faith, my values, or my interests. But it's easy to find out from the start how enthusiastic a love interest will be if I say:

"Let's do forbidden things.
"Let's go to the snack bar."

*Oneg Shabbat = post-synagogue-service coffee hour
3:17 AM  |

Sorry if you stopped by during the wee hours and found this page inaccessible or messed up—I accidentally wiped the right-hand side of the template and had to rebuild it. I think it's OK now. Bloggers, save a copy of your template!

1:53 AM  |

Wednesday, December 29, 2004

"Stuck Outside of Baghdad With the Fallujah Blues Again"

An Air Force Times reporter meets Capt. Steven Givler—a name that should be familiar to regular Dawn Patrol readers—and loses those Fallujah blues:

So, as we sat waiting for a helicopter ride from Camp Victory, near Baghdad, to Camp Fallujah, I sat in the cold contemplating the depressing facts. Appropriately, one of the helicopters set to take us here had a maintenance problem, so a flight scheduled to leave around midnight was still sitting on the ramp, and we were still shivering in the winter chill at 3:30 a.m.

Then a funny thing happened. I stumbled into a conversation with someone who not only provided a valuable reminder that the military is made up of all sorts of folks, but told a story that made it truly difficult to be depressed about anything.

It's a great story, and while the reporter doesn't give all the details, I'm sure Givler gave him an account of how he and his wife adopted their daughter Zoe, which he wrote about on The Dawn Patrol.

The reporter concludes:

Military men and women — men in particular, perhaps — fit into a pretty narrow band of public perception. English-degree-holding, watercolor-painting intel officers don’t really fit anywhere in that band. It was a valuable reminder that there are all sorts of fascinating people here.

4:15 PM  |

One of my landlady's sons is putting in a new gas heater as I write, and his son, who is probably around 11, is bored.

"Excuse me," the boy said to me, "do you have any books?"

I LOVE hearing a kid ask that.

He is now sitting, apparently content, with one of my original, yellowed 1950s Peanuts books. I told him not to worry if he accidentally tears a page—it's an old book.

3:41 PM  |

Ho Ho Horrors

Kevin Walsh sends this link to "Scared of Santa," the results of a Florida newspaper's contest for family photos of kids frightened by St. Nick. He writes: "I don't blame 'em. Some of these Santas look scarier than Billy Bob on his worst day."

3:08 PM  |

CNN's Anti-American Morning

Mark Kellner writes in "CNN STILL Hates America—and Americans" that one of the network's correspondents is using the tsunami disaster to accuse Americans of lacking compassion.

I recommend reading the whole post, from the CNN transcript through Mark's conclusion. The issue is not that "compassion fatigue" is a good thing, but that the factors that contribute to it are real. Those factors include the fact that America itself is still recovering from disasters, and that foreign countries—particularly Muslim ones—are notoriously ungrateful for our aid. To deny aid on them is wrong, but to accuse Americans of lacking compassion simply for stating that those factors exist is wronger still. They represent issues that must be addressed—if not now, then in the future.

Mark observes that it's America's unparalleled generosity that makes CNN's criticism so utterly petty and punitive:

The U.S. government donated $2.4 billion in disaster relief last year, some 40-percent of such relief given worldwide. Already, the U.S. has pledged $35 million to victims of the tsunamis, versus a whopping $136,000 from that bastion of freedom and compassion, La Belle France.

And, this doesn't include private, non-governmental charities including ADRA International as well as The Salvation Army. Each of these charities deserve your support, and that's why these are "live" links to each group's Web site.

At the same time, I think it's foolish not to realize there can be a level of "compassion fatigue" that attends to repeated relief efforts originating in America when recipients later deride those who try to help. It may not be the most admirable of attiudes, but it's understandable to those of us who have lived more than a few years on this planet, and who believe in some concept of reciprocity. No, we're not expecting repayment for our charity, but a little clear-headed commentary would be nice.

2:00 PM  |

Aiding the Victims

The Penitent Blogger writes about her church's campaign to aid tsunami victims in Chennai, India. The church's rector is from that region and is "in contact with his mentor in India, who informs him that the Chennai region has been devastated, and as of yesterday at least 500 children have had their houses washed away and are left with absolutely nothing."

This sounds like a campaign where the money donated will go directly to people who need it. To donate, visit the St. Gabriel's Episcopal Church Tsunami Relief Web site.

Note:* If you're mindful of the fact that the tax year is almost over, and you wish to make sure that your donation is tax-deductible, you may wish to donate to the church via regular mail (their address is on their Web site) rather than via their site's link to PayPal, as its PayPal account is in the name of a parishioner. If, however, you're not concerned about having proof of the donation to the church for taxes, then the PayPal account is the quickest way to help.

*UPDATE: It is possible to get a tax-deductible receipt for a PayPal donation as well—see Penitent Blogger's comment (posted under my name).
1:39 PM  |

Here's a short-and-sweet article to forward to friends who don't have a clue about why all this values stuff is important to parents.

3:20 AM  |

Buss Stop

In 2005, I resolve not to mouth-kiss any man who is not in or on the precipice of a committed relationship with me.

Hand-holding is OK.

Sex is right out.

I also resolve to be more conscious of my eyelash-flitting and hair-tossing at love interests, and—once aware—will resist doing them unless I am seriously interested in the object of the flitting and tossing.

And I continue my resolution to resist fantasizing about men—at least, not men who are still alive. I have given up all efforts to resist fantasizing about 1940s and early-1950s Orson Welles, and mid-1960s Phil Ochs; however, I am happy to report that I have not gotten beyond first base with them in a long time.

2:52 AM  |

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

Get Your Clicks
Links of Note

My friend and exceptionally good server-host Joshua Tanzer has a witty "Boss Watch" in the left-hand margin of his site. You can read about it in his entry "Don't Meet the New Boss," which begins,

Today marks four months since we got a new boss at Business Week Online, Kathy Rebello. Top management decided it was time for a change, someone new who could chart a future course into the bright digital future. I honestly have no opinion about her as a person because thus far she has been unable to chart a course even as far as my desk. In four months, she hasn't spoken a single word to me. I don't like to form snap judgements based on insufficient information, but I believe I now know enough at least to say that, whatever her other abilities, she hasn't got the slightest curiosity about the little people who work for her. After several years of demoralizing Internet-bust cutbacks, we're down to maybe 20 people on the whole web site, which means that in an hour a week she could have had lunch with almost everybody on the staff in ones and twos by now.

In the sidebar, which lists the number of days that his boss has not even spoken to him—currently 231 and counting—he observes,

I'm trying to show a lot of understanding, because, supposing she had to meet every single one of the approximately 20 people in the department, and she met us at a rate of one every 11.6 days, and I was the absolute lowest priority in the whole department (which is very possible), then she would just be getting around to me ... um ... tomorrow. That's a hopeful thought.

* * *
Bonnie, a homeschooling mother of three, makes some insightful observations about C.S. Lewis's humility in her blog Off the Top. She also highlights several passages about human and divine justice from Lewis's Reflections on the Psalms.
11:18 PM  |

NARAL's Minor Threat

On the NARAL Pro-Choice America blog, Jessica Valenti, mentioning an effort in Congress to make it illegal to transport a minor across state lines to have an abortion, writes:

Sigh. When will the f[-----] up logic ever stop? How is a minor not old enough to make the decision to have an abortion, but old enough to have a baby? Please.

For the same reason a minor is old enough to grow breasts, but not old enough to walk into a hospital and demand the doctors lop the things off. (NARAL's buddies at Planned Parenthood Teenwire are doing their part to encourage teens to get that medical procedure as well.)

Saner pro-choicers like Joe Kelley acknowledge the lunacy of states' making abortion the only medical procedure for which a minor does not require a parent's permission. Kelley quotes Cam Edwards, who writes:

So let me get this straight: I have to get a phone call from my son's school before they can give him an aspirin, but I'm not allowed to get a phone call from my daughter's doctor before they perform an abortion?

7:36 PM  |

If you would like to give to aid the victims of the earthquake and tsunami, World Vision is on the scene and deserves your donations. For more updates on the disaster and relief efforts, Kevin McCullough has continuing coverage.

6:21 PM  |

Band of Angels

Congratulations to Jeff Geerling for all the great press he's been getting for the PROLIFE wristband he and his sister created, which is sold for $1 to benefit pro-life nonprofits. The last I heard, the first batch of 10,000 wristbands had just about sold out, and a second batch was on the way.

Interestingly, no sooner did the Geerling siblings come up with the PROLIFE wristband, than Moloch came up with one of his own. It's violent—I mean, violet—made by the Ben & Jerry's-funded group Working for Change, and benefits the usual suspects—Planned Parenthood, NARAL, the ACLU.

Ironically, for the wristbands' slogan, Working for Change chose "NEVER SURRENDER"—the words most famously spoken by Winston Churchill in his 1940 speech before the House of Commons. In that speech, Churchill held out the solid hope that America would use its force to rescue Europe from the clutches of the Nazis, a group which forced abortions on "undesirable" ethnic groups. The Nazis' eugenic actions were watched closely, chronicled, and encouraged by Planned Parenthood founder Margaret Sanger, who in 1939 embarked upon her own plan for cutting down an "undesirable" ethnic population.

At any rate, coming from Planned Parenthood, NARAL, et al, I would take the "NEVER SURRENDER" slogan with a grain of salt. After all, when it came to toppling Saddam, they were all on the side of the cheese-eating surrender monkeys.

TRACKBACK: Jeff Miller of The Curt Jester delves into the online headquarters of Never Surrender. I love his encapsulation of the Ben & Jerry's philosophy: "I Scream, You Scream, Silent Scream."

2:09 AM  |

During Fr. Bryce Sibley's recent New York City visit, I had the great pleasure of attending a holiday party with him as well as the vivacious, flame-haired Karen Hanley and her husband Gerard (holding Karen's fur). This is how I keep the first half of my title of Petite Powerhouse—by standing next to Very Tall People. For the first time, I can understand why blogger Dave Munger calls me "elfin." Anyway, I'm glad to have this reminder of a lovely evening. (P.S. The women at the party were duly impressed that I managed to get extra mileage out of a bridesmaid's dress.)

UPDATE: Because Fr. Bryce has sent his readers this way, I've uploaded a larger version of the photo—click on the image to see it.
2:00 AM 

Via Beatrice.com comes this link that will be a great relief to anyone who's tried to access a news article online, only to be stymied by the registration requirement: BugMeNot.com is a clearinghouse for registration usernames and passwords. You go to BugMeNot and enter the URL of the story you want to read; the site gives you the username and password that someone has contributed for that site. It saves those of us who don't want to get on Web sites' spam lists from having to give our e-mail addresses to them.

Needless to say, there are a number of ethical questions involved with such a service. Since online newspapers already have advertising that I read when I am on their sites, I don't feel that I am depriving them of income when I don't register. And the "free" registration really costs me in terms of time spent deleting spam and trying to get off of spam lists.

TRACKBACK: Dean's Journal swears by BugMeNot...well, not exactly...

1:25 AM  |

Monday, December 27, 2004

On New Year's morning, I am joining my friend Janet to volunteer for Caring Community, packing and delivering lunches to elderly shut-ins. It's possible that the charity may need more volunteers. If you would like to help as well (from about 10:00 a.m. to noon), e-mail me—dawn -at- dawneden.com—and I'll forward your e-mail to the charity. This invitation is open only to personal friends or friends of friends of mine, as I have to vouch for whomever I refer.

9:54 PM  |

Bioethics journalist has an excellent piece in TechCentralStation on "Quiet Breakthroughs in Africa's War on AIDS," demonstrating that the secret of Uganda's success in lowering HIV infection rates "has not been mass distribution of condoms, but aggressive marketing of abstinence."

7:27 PM  |

Most Unfortunate Associated Press Headline of the Day

"Inmate Gives Big Hairy Gift to Children"

As my boss noted, "Is that what he's in for?"

5:50 PM  |

Grand Delusion

An article in today's Kentucky Post on Kentuckians' favorite Christmas gifts features this tidbit about Planned Parenthood Cincinnati Region CEO Sue Momeyer:

Her best Christmas gift is seeing the excitement on the faces and the joy of the season in the eyes of her three grandchildren. "Just the fun of having grandchildren and seeing how much they appreciate funny little things -- it doesn't have to be fancy or expensive," she said.

She probably never thinks about the thousands of women whose grandchildren's bodies are up in incinerator smoke this Christmas—thanks directly to her.
4:22 PM  |

That's the Sway It Is

Al Jolson rocks my world.

I mean it.

I'm still getting over seeing "The Jazz Singer" for the first time last week. The most startling revelation was watching him do "Toot-Toot-Tootsie." His pelvis never stops moving.

Back and forth. Around and around. The whole song. Meanwhile, he's got the lateral moves down—his feet are sweeping the floor with a slick gracefulness that James Brown would envy—and his voice has a Louis Armstrong trumpet edge as he wails, "If you don't get a letter, then you know I'm in jail!"

It made me realize that there was nothing fundamentally new in the young Elvis Presley's act. All those hip-sways and pelvic thrusts that made Ed Sullivan shoot him from the waist up, those soulful vocal inflections—it had all been done before.

You could say Presley was more dangerous to the nation's youth in that, being better-looking than Jolson and comparatively limited as a singer, he centered his act on his erotic appeal. In that sense, he helped spearhead the loosening of sexual mores. And likewise, you could say that Presley brought an electric style of live performance to a generation that had never had its own Jolson.

But if you watch Jolson's "Toot-Toot-Tootsie" (a clip of it's buried in an unlinkable section of his fan site—click on "His Works," then "Films," then "The Jazz Singer"), it's clear that the most supposedly radical aspect of Presley's act was actually older than he was.

As for the blackface that Jolson wore in other parts of "The Jazz Singer," I find that far less offensive than today's version—Eminem's and other white rappers' aping the black "gangsta" look in every way but the color of their skin. Jolson, by contrast, wore the dark skin, but beneath it was the persona of a good-hearted, law-abiding man. I'll take his "Mammy" over Eminem's "mutha" any day.

3:20 AM  |

I just did something I haven't done in a year or so: put disc 2 of the Rhino Grass Roots Anthology into my CD player, programmed "Lovin' Things," "Heaven Knows," and "Temptation Eyes," and hit "repeat."

We will see how long I can last before I get tired of the tunes. I'm betting a half hour. But it could be days.

3:06 AM 

Sunday, December 26, 2004

Heaven Can Wait

The Boston Herald reports the beautiful yet chilling story of Bill DiPasquale, who recently came out of a coma. He had been in that state since December 2, when he tried to drink himself to death after getting fired from his waiter job.

Word came to DiPasquale's friend and fellow waiter, Ralph Nash, that DiPasquale's boss, Charlie Sarkis, had told a friend of the patient, "You tell him to wake up, get out of bed, and get his ass back to work."

So Nash, sitting at DiPasquale's bedside, leaned close to his ear and said, "Charlie says to get out of bed and get your ass back to work."

Five minutes later, DiPasquale awoke whispering, "I've got to get to work."

The story could end there. DiPasquale is making a miraculous recovery, telling the Herald, "I think God said it's not my time yet. I feel like I've been given two strikes by God. He's telling me, 'Now, if you want to be struck out, have another drink.' It will not happen...The show must go on."

But there's one more element of the story, which sticks out of the Herald's account like a scythe.

Just before Nash came to whisper the words of the DiPasquale's boss into his ear, DiPasquale's family—heeding the words of the doctors, who said "it may be too late"—had allowed the hospital to cut off his life support.

The story doesn't say whether the family asked the hospital to continue to feed Pasquale, but I suspect—because no continued feeding is mentioned—that the answer is no.

God gave Bill DiPasquale a new lease on life. We can only hope that He gives Pasquale's family members, and the doctors who treated him, a new understanding of how precious life is—and what a terrible sin it is to take it away.

For more coverage of life issues, including the Terri Schiavo case, visit MediaCulpa.

9:40 PM  |

Lavender Christmas

Wanting to go to a midnight Mass in Manhattan, I found myself at the mercy of the Web when it came to locating a church to attend after getting off work late Friday night.

Our Saviour didn't list a midnight Mass on its site (it turns out they had one), so I found another church in midtown, an "Episcopal in the Catholic tradition" place which will remain nameless (mostly to prevent less diplomatic readers from teasing me with an incredulous "you went there?").

My mother and stepfather (whose testimony is linked at left) made a special trip into the city so we'd be together on Christmas Eve, my stepfather carrying his Johnny Cash electronic Bible. It looks like a large calculator, but it contains the entire Bible, plus selected verses read by the country-music legend. Press a button and you hear the familiar rough-edged voice saying, "Hello, I'm Johnny Cash, and I'd like to read you some passages from the Bible..."

The church was gorgeous, and as we walked in, the choir was singing beautifully. I looked at the program for the evening and was glad to see that it evidenced a traditional liturgy, with copious amounts of Latin, and classic hymns. I was so pleased to be in such a lovely place that until my mother pointed out the congregants' gender makeup to me, I didn't even notice that she and my stepfather were the only heterosexual couple in the place.

But the Christmas spirit reigned as I reminded myself that homosexuals need Jesus too. I also knew it could have been worse—I could have chosen a non-liturgical church that caters to yuppies.

As the service began, I noticed something in the liturgy that I'd only seen before in Reform and Conservative Jewish synagogues: mistranslations. In synagogues, the prayer books often neglect to translate words from the ancient Hebrew liturgy that refer to God as masculine, or that refer to doctrines that are viewed by less observant Jews as "Christian"—like salvation and eternal life.

In this church's program, while God was referred to as the Father and King, the translations were spotty. I spied many "Rex"'s and "Patris"'s in the Latin that were omitted entirely in the translation. The spirit of the translation seemed to be, "Yes, God is our Father and King, but please don't remind us too often."

The priests' chanting was beautiful—all those falsettos—and the homosexual angle really didn't get to me—until the sermon. The priest, wrists aflutter, gave the message that Jesus died to enable us to overcome our shame. When we feel ashamed, we should think of Jesus as a naked baby or naked on the cross—"he didn't wear a loincloth, you know"—and realize that He understands.

The message was heartfelt, enough so that, while being utterly appalled, I felt pity for the priest. He was clearly trying to deal with the fact that he himself, on some level, felt ashamed.

On a brighter note, during the reading from Titus, as the congregation silently paid attention to the holy words, I was startled by a voice from a couple of seats down:

"Hello, my name is Johnny Cash—"

Someone had pressed the wrong button.
2:44 PM  |

Saturday, December 25, 2004

Just My Type

I wrote "the wood" (the main front-page headline—so called because its humongous letters used to be made with wooden type) for the first time today. It's for a story on New York City policemen pitching in to bring Christmas cheer to a homeless widow and her nine kids: "JINGLE BELL COPS". My first idea was "BLUE CHRISTMAS"—a co-worker suggested putting an NYPD badge inside the "U"—but the editors thought that was too sad.

It's a great relief to have finally come up with a wood. I've been working at the paper for nearly three years (when I started part-time) and whenever I tell people I write headlines for it, they always say, "Oh, you write the front page?" And I always say, "No, just the headlines inside—the editors write the front-page ones," and it sounded so insignificant. Now I can just answer with a "yes."

It's just like when I wrote liner notes for CDs. I'd been writing them for years—over 80 of them (here's a partial list)—yet whenever I would tell people I was a liner-note writer, they'd say, "For Rhino? And I'd have to say, "No, for Sony, BMG, PolyGram, Capitol, EMI—" but it didn't matter to them...until I finally got in at the best-known reissue label.
10:54 PM  |

Hag Sameach—a k a Merry Christmas

"Hag Sameach" (pronounced with the guttural "ch") is Hebrew for "Happy Holiday," and while that greeting may be generic, it expresses the feeling of many American Jews that today is a holiday—and not just a chance to get off of work.

Kevin McCullough observes in his WorldNetDaily column that one group has been noticeably silent in the debate over religious symbols this Christmas season—observant Jews. On the contrary, such Jews are more likely than most Americans to realize the importance of allowing faith a place in public life.

I've noticed it myself here in New York City—several Jewish friends and co-workers wished me Merry Christmas today, and I don't think it's just because they knew that I'm Christian and are being polite. It's because they appreciate the fact that today has a beautiful spiritual meaning for me and others—and they too are touched by the setting aside of a day to hope and pray for peace on earth and good will towards men.

Kevin writes:

The problem with the anti-Christmas thugs is that while they claim to represent an "inclusive picture" of what America needs to be – they are in fact creating a Godless America that Americans themselves do not want.

When my former high school banned religious music at holiday concerts, it didn't just ban Christian music. It banned Jewish music and any music that might be associated with a religious holiday—even instrumentals. In the name of "understanding," the secularists would ban children from gaining an understanding of the most fundamental aspect of their schoolmates—their faith.
9:56 PM  |

UPDATED—'Cradle' Catholic

Something in the Pope's Christmas message made me do a double take:

"The Pope, who suffers from Parkinson's Disease and no longer walks, asked the infant Jesus to encourage attempts to promote dialogue and reconciliation and to sustain peace efforts."

If that statement is accurate, could someone familiar with Roman Catholic theology please tell me why the Pope would make a request of the infant Jesus, rather than just Jesus? Not knowing what he meant, it seems strange to me to make a request of someone at a stage of their life that they've already passed.

UPDATE: Two answers have come in, both very helpful. John Brown SJ writes:

It is common for Catholics to have a devotion to a particular image or name that highlights an aspect of the person they are making a prayer request to. Christ on the cross in times of agony, Our Lady of Guadalupe as Patroness of the Americas, the Sacred Heart or an icon of Christ holding up two fingers teaching wisdom are some examples you might be more familiar with.

I am assuming that because it is the start of the Christmas season, JPII is associating his call for peace with all there is that was so vulnerable about the infant Jesus and all the responsibility that Mary and Joseph had to keep the Christ child safe. Picturing the all-dazzling, transfigured and glorified Christ coming down from on high might not promote the same interior sentiment that the peaceful infant Jesus in the crib would.

I think the concept is less theological and more devotional and/or stylistic.

Jeff Geerling refers me to what I'd call a Child Jesus fan page which states:

Devotion to the Child Jesus is devotion to the reality of the Incarnation. A few of our separated brethren may object that "Jesus isn't a helpless little baby anymore", so we shouldn't depict Him as such or have a devotion to His Infancy. But the fact is that our God did become truly human and entered this world as a baby. This is how He chose to begin His saving mission on earth. St. Paul marvels at how Christ "emptied Himself" in the Incarnation, and we who love Him marvel as well. That is why we celebrate His Holy Infancy alongside His Death and Resurrection; the former made the latter possible!

5:34 PM  |

Many thanks to JD King for the beautiful new Dawn Patrol caricature (the old one, by David Chelsea, still has a place of honor—just further down the page). Thanks too, very much, to Jeff Geerling and Saint Kansas's Brett Taylor for their technical help with getting the new image up and properly sized.
4:42 PM  |

A GI's Christmas in Qatar

U.S. Air Force Capt. Steven Givler was recently moved from Iraq to a base in Qatar. He sends the following Christmas photo, photo caption, and message (if you're like me, you'll need tissues for the latter). Please include him and all our troops and their families in your prayers:

"The tree is made of clothes hangers, straightened out and taped together into a trunk, then bent down as branches. We have a surplus of hangers here. There are no laundry facilities for us to wash our own things, so we have to send them out (I know, it sounds more like a luxury than a complaint) and everything comes back on hangers so they're everywhere."

Last night I walked the nearly two miles from the compound where I work to our squadron.  I could have signed out a truck and driven there, but it was a beautiful night and the walk provided an opportunity for some solitude.  The waxing moon outshined all but the brightest stars, and cast its light across a far-flung layer of thin, high cloud.  My walk carried me past a large spherical antenna shelter.  The moonlight gleamed on the top and faded down the curving sides.  In the darkness, the shelter seemed to be a planet, reflecting the light of its small silver sun.

I had a cigar in my pocket, and paused a moment to light it.  Then, marked by its glowing orange tip and a wreath of silver smoke, I left the road, cutting across a broad, dark patch of desert.  Had I not walked this route before in daylight, I wouldn't have done it last night in the dark.  Concertina wire, which is the tinsel of deployed bases, is invisible in the dark, and once wandered into, is difficult to get out of without leaving something precious behind. 

Absent razor wire though, the desert is a beautiful place at night.  Having no particular schedule to keep, I sat for a bit on a rock, accompanied only by the darkness, the silence, and a tiny desert fox that flirted with the limits of my peripheral vision.  On a night like this, not far from here and not particularly long ago, shepherds keeping watch over their flocks were amazed by the sight of a heavenly host.  Angels shouted, trumpets sounded, and the word went out.  The world is changed forever.

On the distant end of a momentarily forgotten runway, a pair of fighters lit their afterburners.  They shattered the silence and leaped into the sky, trailing 20-foot cones of pink flame.  No angels for me this night (none that I can see) but I am no less aware of Christmas for the lack of them.  This night, this place, my circumstances - as foreign and as far removed as they are >from the Christmases I have known, they are somehow appropriate.  Christmas exits outside the presents, the trees, and even the company of my family.

Maybe that explains what happened on this day during the First World War.  The German troops, facing the British across a blasted landscape, caroled them with Stille Nacht.  The British answered with a carol of their own.  The Germans sang another, and as Christmas Eve wore on, the night was filled with songs, back and forth across no-man's land, celebrating something that transcended even war.  On Christmas day, a small number of Germans climbed from their trenches.  With one exception, they held their hands in the air.  In the center of no-man's land, the man with his hands in front of him dropped his burden.  It was a soccer ball. 

The day was filled with games.  Schnapps and whiskey were exchanged.  Men who had faced each other across the most brutal battlefield known to man laughed and ran and drank together like brothers.  Even for those men, whose world was bounded by machine guns, barbed wire and slaughter, Christmas was transcendent.

We won't be playing soccer with terrorists over here.  We won't share any sense of brotherhood with them.  Our religions and their conduct of war preclude that.  Still, Christmas is here.  This evening the open space outside the chow hall was covered with tables and chairs, and burgers and hotdogs smoked over charcoal grills.  We ate under the same sky I noted last night, while the general and the chief handed out stockings filled with gifts.

After supper two of my colleagues and I retired to the smoking area - a dusty corner protected by 12 foot high concrete barriers - for a Christmas Eve cigar.  (I know, that's two cigars in as many days, but it's Christmas.) We were surprised to find that the camo netting overhead, through which the silver moonlight filtered, was strung with Christmas lights.  Someone had spread Astroturf over the gravel and set out chairs, and from a radio came Christmas carols.  I might have failed to notice these improvements were we at home, or noticing them, failed to be affected.  Here though, they mean a lot to me.

When we finished smoking and talking to the airmen gathered there, we wished them all a Merry Christmas and returned to the facility where we work.  On entering, we were arrested by the sound of a flute.  On the operations floor, below the many screens showing maps and aircraft, and video footage from our unmanned surveillance aircraft, a group of carolers was finishing Oh Come Oh Come Emanuel.

Normally I can't decide what I want for Christmas, but this year I know exactly.  To read again to my children.  To say their prayers and put them to bed.  To spend a quiet evening with my wife and, when the evening is over, to peer into our little ones' darkened rooms and listen to the softness of their breathing.  I will have those things.  It will take a little while, but don't feel bad about that.  As with many things, the waiting will make the realization that much better. 

I've long been a little cynical about decorations and carols and wishing people Merry Christmas.  Not long ago I told a friend that I wasn't sure why we made such a big production out of the day.  Easter I understand, because Jesus' resurrection seems to me so much more miraculous than His birth.  But I've come to revise that philosophy.  The angels who appeared to the shepherds clearly thought Jesus' birth warranted celebration on a grand scale.  I find, now, that I am inclined to agree.  That alone might be worth the trip. 

Merry Christmas,

Steven   

1:25 PM  |

Stocking Feat

A dear friend of mine wrote to me early this morning:

"Hope you get everything you want for Christmas -- although your stocking's probably not big enough to hold him. (I think Santa would run afoul of human trafficking laws if he tried to make that sort of delivery.)"

I can't blame my friend for thinking that's what I want for Christmas—I certainly spill enough blog ink and use enough breath talking about wanting to be married. But, other than wishing that I had a husband in the here and now to go to services with and watch the Yule Log on TV, that's actually not what's uppermost in my prayers for myself this Christmas.

What I want is something I think most people want—peace of mind. I'd like to be better able to accept what God has for me without so often wanting something different, and I'd like to be more loving and appreciative of the people in my life, rather than being critical or taking them for granted.

God has, over the years, given me a great deal more peace of mind than I had in the past. But I still long for a greater understanding and experience of His peace, the kind that is "not as the world giveth."

The other main thing I want is to be better reconciled to God's will for me—to have a better understanding of it, and to walk in the way He wants me to walk. I believe, and experience has shown, that this is the only way I can truly be happy.
3:40 AM 

Just discovered View of the Republic, a blog run by one "Jay Gatsby," who says he's a 17-year-old student from Trenton, N.J. (and I have no cause to doubt him).

Jay's clearly of the Protest Warrior generation; it's encouraging to read how someone his age who's examining and thinking through conservative ideas. "I used to be a liberal (yeah, gasp, I know) but turned conservative after becoming more interested in politics around 9th grade," he writes. "I just know what makes sense, and it's not the left."

Check out his "Journalistic Treason" entry, about how Associated Press photographers rejoice at being able to capture thugs' executions of those working to free Iraq from terror. (Not that I think other agencies' photographers are necessarily any better.)
1:23 AM  |

Friday, December 24, 2004

Thanks to Dean's Journal, I have recently had the pleasure of discovering BlameBush!—rather late in the game, I'm afraid, but that's what happens when one spends one's days reading a few favorite blogs. The entry that Dean noted,