Sniff! Sniff! Is That the Stench of Santorum I Smell?

OK, it’s time to take off the love glove and dick-slap Rick Santorum for his calculated attack on the U.S. porn industry.

Come on, Rick, can’t you find a real issue to incite the mindless masses of Christian conservatives who have the mistaken notion that you are relevant.

You’re not relevant. You’re not realistic. You are so far out of touch with reality, you will need to catch a rocket ship just to be within sight of reality.

Rick, pornography didn’t fuck up the economy. Pornography also didn’t send our troops halfway around the world to fight for lower gas prices. Pornography isn’t behind homelessness, the Occupy movement, Al Qaida, Iran’s nuclear aspirations, double-digit unemployment, or China’s rise to economic prominence.

Pornographers are people too. Hell, even Mitt Romney believes in corporate citizenship, and pornographers are just like corporations.

The porn industry is made up of people. Real people with real, every-day problems, like paying the rent, keeping the lights and heat turned on¸ buying groceries, and raising families.

Just like you, Rick. They’re people. Real people.

Good people.

Honest people, who believe everyone has a right to be whoever he or she wants to be within their own space. That means letting us use our bodies to our best advantage, to our own ultimate benefit.

Pleasure is one of those benefits. Pleasure was created to reward man and woman for their good works, not to be something repressed, of which one should be ashamed, or to be regulated against our own personal will.

Pornographers provide an outlet for that pleasure for many of us. As free Americans, it is our choice to buy and watch pornography, in the privacy of our own homes, or in a theater or arcade that we choose to patronize.

Rick Santorum, for his part, says pornography is "toxic to marriages and relationships," and contributes to "misogyny and violence against women" including prostitution and sex trafficking.

It does? I would think abuse of alcohol and prescription drugs might be the culprits, since you’re more likely to find drugs and booze in a hooker’s place than boxes of “Debbie Does Dallas” or “Shemale Strokers”.

Let’s be honest, Rick. You don’t have any real issue on which you can rally your small-minded constituency, do you? You are whipping up the flame on the porn industry because you know the simpletons who believe you’d be a great president are too fucking stupid to recognize a snake selling his own oil.

So thanks for “looking out” for us, Rick, but I think I’ll pass on your brand of morality and American living. I like my America with lots of freedom, and a healthy seasoning of choice.

And pass the remote.

Older Fans' Behavior Dishonors Frampton's Talents

Amazing!

Sixty-one-year-old Peter Frampton came alive again Monday night at Bakersfield’s Fox Theater. It was as if he’d never aged a day since his break-through hit album Frampton Comes Alive! some 36 years ago now. His voice still sharp as ever, Frampton strolled through FCA! front to back, as it was on the album.

But while Frampton, who will turn 62 next month, was weaving his lyrical magic through hits like Show Me the Way, Baby I love Your Way, and Do You Feel Like We Do?, the real show was in the seats.

Average age of this crowd was well-above 50, though there were the occasional Gen X and Gen Y among the masses (probably there as mom and dad's designated driver). This is a crowd one would assume would act like responsible adults.

Think again.

Despite several admonitions to not make sound or video recordings during the performance, I could see dozens of cell phones glowing steadily in the darkness below my perch in the front row, stage left, of the balcony.

Most weren't snapping photos, and they weren’t texting the grandkids either.

People were recording video, despite the best efforts of security and even Frampton himself. At one point during his opening song, Something’s Happening, Frampton walked stage left and in between guitar riffs, he motion for security to stop a guy who had been standing near the stage recording with his cell, but who had returned to his seat when Frampton had approached, where he continued to video the performance.

Security took care of him and a few other violators as well. But by and large, people ignored the video embargo and took home snippets of the performance.

The damnedest thing about it is this: For $35, you could get a recording of the evening’s show, in its entirety, within minutes of the end. For this tour, Abby Road Live has been recording the concerts at each venue on the Frampton Comes Alive! 35 Tour. Only 1,000 three-CD sets are pressed at each venue, and you also can download it from Frampton’s website for the same $35.

OK, so it isn't a video. But unless you've smoked way too much weed or have fried youre brain cells with some other form of chemical recreation, the memory alone is worth far more than any shaky cell-phone video from the 20th row.

I guess my point here is that we've come to expect the kind of behavior those individual with cell phones in hand on record, or on camera/video exhibited. And the fact is, it is piracy. No different that downloading a movie without paying for it. And that is illegal.

More than that, it sets a poor example. And personally, I think it is juvenile.

Grow up, people. Be responsible in every aspect of your life, at every opportunity.

And for the record, my copy of FCA! 35-Bakersfield is no. 21/1,000. And the video replaying in my mind as I listen to it is priceless.

Grillin' and Chillin': Food for the Soul

I love to barbecue. It’s a man thing, I suppose, but when that grill is smoking and the food is sizzling … it’s just the most fun you can have around fire with your clothes on.

I cook with gas these days, though I was raised on charcoal and hickory chips. Dad was an ace with the grill, and could prepare any cut of meat to perfection. I watch him take ordinary bargain cuts of meat and make them taste like the finest filet. He’d build his fire with care, waiting until the coals were just right before placing the meat over it.

These days, I prefer the simplicity of cooking over a gas-fueled fire. Propane and propane accessories; Hank Hill would be proud.

My Weber is piped right into the same gas that lights the stoves and heats the water for the house, so I never have to worry about running out of fuel. It has four burners and a charring flame. Plenty of room to cook, but this night, the grill would be tested, as would my skills as a barbecue chef.

Tonight, the fare was ribs – beef and pork – chicken, and grilled veggies for my niece’s birthday. Three rack of pork ribs, a rack of beef ribs and about a dozen beef short-ribs, and a dozen skewers of tomatoes, onions, bell peppers, pineapple chunks, and zucchini; rice pilaf, green salad, and garlic bread completed the dinner menu. Dessert was German chocolate cake and rocky road ice cream.

I cooked in shifts, staring with the beef ribs, then the pork, followed by the chicken. The veggies were last as they don’t require much time.

The family is small now so the gathering was more intimate than usual. They all visited with each other as I tended the grill. We ate. Dessert was served and consumed. While everyone sat around the table and talked, I cleaned up. It’s what I do. Afterward, as everyone drifted off to their respective homes, appreciation … thanks … love was shared. It was a good day, and the company was good.

I love to barbecue. It’s a family thing too.

Once in a Blue Moon, and Other Lunacy

Driving home from work last night, I was treated to a display of nature’s beauty that was truly breathtaking.

As I steered my Sonata the 42 miles from the college to my home, the March full moon slowly, gracefully was revealed on the horizon, peeking inch by inch over the Tehachapi Mountains to the east. As the radiant globe sat on the horizon in its golden fullness, I thought about the moon and the science and folklore it has inspired.

I remembered watching, along with the rest of the world, back in the summer of 1969 as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin romped around the lunar surface. I thought of honeymoon and wondered where that word came from. I also thought about other folk wisdom inspired by the cold rock that circles our planet.

I thought about “the man in the moon” …

“Moon River, wider than a mile, I’m crossing you in style, someday” …

“I see a bad moon risin’” …

“Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own …”

So with this serving as inspiration, I went to the computer and searched for “full moon names.” The list I found is both interesting and amusing. According to The Farmer’s Almanac (www.farmersalmanac.com), the names were bestowed upon the months by the Native American tribes as a way of keeping track of the seasons. Here is their list:

January – Full Wolf Moon

February – Full Snow Moon

March – Full Worm Moon

April – Full Pink Moon

May – Full Flower Moon

June – Full Strawberry Moon

July – Full Buck Moon

August – Full Sturgeon Moon

September – Full Corn Moon or Full Harvest Moon

October – Full Hunter’s Moon or Full Harvest Moon

November – Full Beaver Moon

December – Full Cold Moon, or the Full Long Nights Moon.

So where does the Blue Moon come in. Well, it seems the lunar cycle is just 29 days long, which means every couple of years, there are 13 full moons, putting four full moons in a three month period or season. When that happens, the third full moon of the quarter is the “blue” moon.

Over the years, it seems that the definition of “blue moon” has been misinterpreted to mean the second full moon in a given month. But not every 13^th moon of the year is blue. When the fourth moon falls between the equinox and solstice, it is deemed “blue.” But occasionally, the 13^th moon of the year falls after the solstice or equinox, putting it outside the definition. That moon is just … well, extra.

Any way you look at the moon, though, one must admit it has a definite appeal to our imaginations. People are thought to behave differently during a full moon. In fact, the full moon was once thought to cause insanity! (That’s where we got the words “lunacy” and “lunatic”). The moon, it seems, is ingrained in the culture of the world it serves.

Lovers pledge their undying allegiance to one another by it. Poets are led to volumes of lyrical exposition by its golden visage. Scientists wonder about its past, present, and future. And “Old Blue Eyes” immortalized it in song:

“Fly me to the moon, let me swing among those stars …”

Crazy, man.

Like It or Not, We Are All Teachers

I just finished reading a chapter in one of my text books about the ethics of teaching. Not surprisingly, there is more to being an ethical teacher than just not dating your students (yes, it is not just frowned upon) and taking bribes to change grades. It also extends to some behaviors one might not think were ethical issues at all.

One such issue is allowing retests. Do-overs. Giving students a second chance.

Now, I am all for second chances, and in fact I have given many a student an opportunity to improve a score. But according to McKeachie’s Teaching Tips, which is considered by many to be the definitive handbook on theory, research and strategy among college instructors, there are ethical questions surrounding the idea of allowing a student to take a test again while not offering the opportunity to the whole class.

An interesting proposition and depending on the circumstances, there are myriad answers to the ethical question of fair or unfair. Certainly, we want our teachers to be fair and ethical, and how we exercise such discretionary power can make a big difference in how one is perceived by their students and colleagues alike.

So while the book raises questions about a teacher’s ethics, it also raises the more important question concerning the teaching of ethics. While we certainly want our students to act ethically, our own values determine our ethics; how we define fair and unfair frames what we teach others about those concepts.  

So in essence, we teach values. We have no other option. It is who we are, and it is reflected in how we act, not just what we say. As teachers, one of the most powerful tools we have in our arsenal is our own behavior. Students see how we act toward them, toward our colleagues, toward our institution, toward out community, and they model that behavior. Certainly this is true among young children, who look to their elders for cues on every front.

But it is just as true among adult learners, maybe even more so, as they look to us to show them how to be successful, how to act professionally, how to think critically about the world around us.

My point here is this: You never know who is watching you and basing their lives on your example. So set an example of which you can be proud. Behave in a manner that inspires people around you to emulate you, not immolate you.

We’re all teachers, after all. The only difference between me and the non-educators in the audience is perspective.

With a Song in His Heart, and a Hand in My Mouth

I have a dental appointment tomorrow morning, and I know it sounds strange, but I can’t wait!

That’s because I have the best dentist in the world.

For me.

According to studies, fear of dentists and dental work is common among 75 percent of adults in the United States. This “dental fear” ranges from mild to severe. Of them, it is estimated that between five and 10 percent fall into the classification of “dental phobia," a condition that makes them so afraid of the dentist that they go to extreme lengths to get out of going. (For more complete information, check out the entry on Wikipedia).

I used to think the dentist was only necessary when something was wrong: toothache, broken tooth, or some other painful reason. And of course, when you only go to the dentist when it hurts, you equate that pain with the person who is really trying to relieve it. Unfair association, I know, but that is how we think, we humans.

So why am I so eager to see my dentist, and what makes him “the best in the world – for me?”

One word: music.

My dentist is also a musician. He plays and sings in a garage band of other 50-plus professionals (their guitarist is an attorney). He also does local musical theater, so the man has a prodigious talent. But what makes him a perfect dentist for me it this: He not only listens to you when you say you’re not quite numb yet, he sings to you while he works!

Two visits ago, I had to have a broken tooth removed. My dentist is current rehearsing troup a production of “The Music Man,” so between grunts and yanks, I got a mini concert of tunes from Meredith Wilson’s classic. (I tried to sing along and sprayed blood everywhere, so now I just hum along in my head!)

My last visit was a preparation visit for some bridgework I am having done. As he’s grinding down the two adjacent teeth that will support the new dental devise, this I what I am hearing:

“I could while away the hours
Conferrin' with the flowers
Consultin' with the rain
And my head I'd be scratchin'
While my thoughts were busy hatchin'
If I only had a brain …”

Yes, I was being drilled on by … the Scarecrow from “The Wizard of Oz!”

And while it was a lovely rendition, I stopped him at the end of the chorus and said, “That’s not the most comforting thing to hear from the man with his hands in your mouth!”

He laughed and shot right back: “It’s all in the hands, my boy!”

And, indeed it is! I have complete confidence in my dentist, and in his ability to make my visits a pleasant experience. Now, when I think of the dentist, I don’t think of Orin Scrivello, DDS, the abusive and sadistic dentist and boyfriend to Audrey in “Little Shop of Horrors.”

And that is important, since your dental health has major bearing on your overall physical health. According to the renowned May Clinic, your oral health can give you clues about your overall health. (For the complete story, go to the Mayo Clinic.)

So as I approach my 60’s, I realize just how important good dental care is to my overall plan to live a long time! And having a dentist I can trust, one who cares about my pain, and one who makes sure I am totally comfortable as he cares for me is an important part of the team that will help me live into my 70’s and 80's (and beyond?) .

It helps that he has a great voice too!

Like I said, I have the best dentist in the world – for me.

Let Us Make Ourselves Perfectly Clear

I am a communicator by profession. It will be 43 years this July since my first byline in my local newspaper. I was just a few months shy of 16 and I was writing about a swimming meet – that I was in!

The whole “article" was about 15 inches in length – all of three inches was my stellar prose (and the coveted byline), the rest all results. Three lousy inches ….

I’ll wait while you make jokes here … OK, done?

I was hooked! One glance my name in bold face type was enough to propel me on a wonderful career that covered most of four decades.  But even with all my experience, I still find myself not communicating as well as I should with those around me. Oh, I do just fine when I am face-to-face with folks. It’s this damned Internet that is causing me to re-evaluate how I communicate.

Words on a computer screen have no context. There is no voice inflection. There is no facial expression to see, no body language to interpret. In short, we are sacrificing some of our most valuable and most accurate communication tools when we limit our communication to a chat room, or a social networking site.

Without our eyes and ears to add the much-needed context and attitude to a conversation, it is easy for misunderstanding to develop. Lives can change because one person’s interpretation of meaning is inaccurate or otherwise flawed. I once lost a job because my words, written in an email, were not read with the desired intent; the words I wrote were angry words and the point I was making was completely lost in the misinterpretation.

Sure, the Internet can be a great communication tool. We can converse with people anywhere on this planet through it, as well as do business 24 hours a day, seven days a week through it. It had made our vast planet a smaller, more accessible community.

But it has also spawned a generation of people for whom technology like the Internet is the norm, an army of techno-geeks who have reduced communication “dwn 2 jst a fw chrctrs.” And while I am more than sure anyone reading this will be able to “decipher” the end of that last sentence, I wonder if this generation realizes the value of good, fluent communication. And as much as it pains me to say this, I have become just as guilty of the sin of poor communication.

But no longer will I be part of the communication problem. My challenge to everyone is to make communicating a priority. Instead of talking at people, try talking to them.

You may be surprised at how much better you get along.