An Act of Cowardice

Once again America’s schools make the news as violence explode in the hallowed halls of learning and knowledge. It’s kind of depressing. You’d think we’d take the hints. You’d think we’d realize we need to stop marginalizing the outcast. You’d think we’d realize we need to spend time with our kids. You’d think we’d realize that maybe violence in TV, movies, and music needs to be reevaluated. You’d think we’d realize that handguns are a little too accessible. You’d think we’d realize a lot of things, but we don’t.

That’s a messed up little freshman running around shooting his classmates with a smile on his face. He must live in a pretty messed up American family in a pretty messed up American high school full of pretty messed up American kids. He’s probably just like a million other freshmen in high school. That’s the sad thing. Maybe one of these days we’ll realize we’re doing something wrong.

President George W. Bush called this an act of cowardice. That may be, but I would say that a country that continues to watch its children murder one another is committing a bigger act of cowardice. And I’m not just talking about the suburban schools that make the news. I’m also talking about the back alley jobs and the ones that happen all the time. People are dying all over this country, you’d think we’d realize something is dreadfully wrong.

But we’re too busy sucking back on another pop, rotting our teeth, and minding our own business. It’s great to be an American.

Taxes

Don’t do your taxes on Sunday. I think there should be a law that makes it illegal to do your income taxes on a Sunday, just like you can’t be inaugurated as the president on a Sunday. Simply put, taxes are a pain in the butt. Now I’ll admit they were a lot easier than I thought they would be. But they still weren’t a lot of fun. Wouldn’t that be cool if doing your taxes was fun? Senators and Representatives would really earn their money if they figured out a way to make income taxes fun. It could be a board game, like monopoly. Then people would be dying to play. They’d do their taxes several times a year just to play.

Catching Up

Some days I’m just not so sure. The day passes by before you even realize it. I think Saturday is especially susceptible. Even if you sleep in just a little bit, the afternoon doesn’t last long enough for you to catch up on anything. And that’s what Saturday becomes, the catch-up day for the week. You catch up on sleep, you catch up on work around the house, you catch up on the bills. And with all that you don’t really catch up on anything. It’s kind of depressing. It’d be nice if we had fewer things to catch up on, fewer things to fall behind on.

Ideas

Big ideas. They like to deflate. They start small. Then snowball. Give me ten minutes of quiet and I’ll have a plan to rule the world. Give me another ten minutes and I’ll have the solar system, too. Give me five minutes of conversation and I’ll be taking over my cubicle and that’s about it. Ideas are funny that way. They work so well in my own little world, then you have to go and ruin it.

The Death of Dale Earnhardt

Life is not a guarantee. That’s a lesson learned hard this past week in NASCAR circles. The speculation has been unending since Dale Earnhardt’s death on Sunday in the Daytona 500: Is NASCAR unsafe? Could Earnhardt’s death have been prevented? Is Sterling Marlin to blame? Could an improved neck restraint system have saved Earnhardt? The answer to most of those questions is no. No one is to blame for Earnhardt’s death. Certainly not Sterling Marlin, the driver who tapped Earnhardt and sent him spinning into the wall. Contact is a part of NASCAR racing and happens all the time. I saw Earnhardt take several taps throughout the race and amazingly pull his car back into line. On the last lap he wasn’t so lucky, and that’s not Marlin’s fault. Blaming a seat belt manufacturer that’s never had a faulty seat belt ever seems kind of silly. Could more be done to make NASCAR safer? Maybe. The gentlemen could just not start their engines on Sunday morning and they’d be a whole lot safer. Of course they may get killed in a car accident on the way home. Life is simply not guaranteed and no helmet, seat belt, or effort of restraint is going to change that. People die. Period.

The difficult thing is accepting that and moving on. I walked into the grocery store tonight and Dale Earnhardt’s smiling, mustached face was standing next to a display of Oreos. I can’t help but wonder how long it will be there, and how many people know that a dead man is peddling oreos.

Smack Dab in the Middle

That’s what they tell me anyway and I agree silently. What am I supposed to say, what kind of answers am I supposed to give? How do you guide when you don’t know where you are? I’m so full of questions of how it’s supposed to be and we got so far off track. And now I’m a thousand miles away with a life of my own and I’m still supposed to care. Long distance charges on a relationship that already costs too much. Other families are dying and your problems seem so mundane. What do you want to hear from me? I can’t take sides, I won’t take sides, but it seems there’s no side left to be on. I’m stuck in the middle, stuck in no man’s land. That’s what happens when the one becomes two. It’s reverse, it’s backward, and you’ll never have two wholes again. You’ll just have a bunch of broken pieces. I guess we should have thought of that before.

Oh well, it’s the American way.

Can I Borrow a Cell Phone?

“Can I borrow your cell phone?”

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

“Can I borrow your cell phone?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Look, I’ll pay you for it, just let me borrow your cell phone.”

“I said I don’t have a cell phone.”

“Look, the batteries are dead in mine, let me borrow yours.”

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

“See, it doesn’t work.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“So let me borrow yours.”

“I do not own a cell phone.”

“You don’t? Man, you’re not with it? Even I’m with it.”

And on and on and on. Rule number one of riding the bus: don’t sit next to the drunk guy.

If you had a second chance, would you do it again?

The words echo back to me in an unending chorus. Eighteen months, do we have to do it again? I ask why and I ask why and I ask why and you shrug your shoulders and answer with silence. Damn the silence. They don’t teach that in Sunday School. They teach love your neighbors and your enemies, too, they teach about Jonah and the toppling wall. But they don’t say anything about death or pain or silence or unanswered questions. It’s been a drunken bus ride and I just want it to stop. I’ve gritted my teeth and smiled and tried to slosh my way through the messiness but it’s been dragging for so long. When will it end? Should it even end? Do we pick up the pieces and cut ourselves in the process, or do we just sweep them into the trash and wipe our hands? I don’t know which way to go, I don’t know what to ask for, and I don’t know what to say. And it’s probably a good thing because you’re not saying anything. Or I’m just not listening, which is probably the case. All I can do is ask for a little light in the darkness. This little light of mine, oh if you’d just let it shine. I’m so sick and tired of bad news on the telephone. I just can’t handle long distance calamity. Love doesn’t come through the phone lines because I can’t see that tender smile and I’m glad we never had a relationship like that. What are you talking about, you ask, and I sympathize. But sometimes you need to talk. I’m so tired of hanging up the phone and nearly crying out with the pain of a thousand wounds. The receiver clicks and the dial tone drones and it sucks the feeling from your soul. You feel hollow and empty and oh would you make up your mind? How am I supposed to tell you what to do?

And then there’s you. You sit so comfortably in your pew and it makes me sick. The pew’s so padded it’s dulled your senses and you don’t even realize there’s pain all around you. Why won’t you share that little light of yours, why don’t you let it shine?

I don’t have the answers. I don’t pretend to. But sometimes I wish I did. I wish I did.

If you had a second chance, would you do it again?