Goldfish And Clowns

No Podcast Tonight

Diecast Dude — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 21:56:12 GMT

Sorry about not getting a podcast done tonight. Feeling too beat up over workplace melodrama to come up with anything other than kvetching about same. Not that I'm averse to speaking plainly about what's going on in my life, but as agitated as I am about it all I'd probably say more than a few things I'd deeply regret as knowing my luck this would be the first podcast anyone I work with will bother to give a listening. Hopefully later on this week things will be mellower.

As a form of consolation, how about a teaser?

One More Step To Complete The Journey

Diecast Dude — Sun, 17 Aug 2008 22:36:06 GMT

I finished the chapter for Steve Hindalong (The Choir) this morning -- as in shortly after midnight -- and it's been approved. Which means the only chapter remaining is for Nancyjo Mann (Barnabas).

Almost impossible to believe, but it's true. I'm almost finished.

Working Through The Weekend

Diecast Dude — Sat, 16 Aug 2008 22:03:12 GMT

I'm currently working like mad trying to get the chapter for Steve Hindalong (The Choir) completed so I can post details in the next few days about an exciting development with the book. Details ASAP.

Podcast Update -- August 12, 2008

Diecast Dude — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 23:05:37 GMT

This week's podcast (or should I say this month's? Ah well) talks about the past few weeks in NASCAR, seizing opportunities while they are still available, and what it means to be a genuine rebel.

You can listen to the podcast here. If you have iTunes, you can subscribe to it here. As always, please let me know what you think, and thanks.

Here's the text for this week's edition.

But enough about the prom.

And welcome to this week's edition of the Diecast Dude's (Mostly) NASCAR Positively Persnickety Podcast. It is Tuesday August the twelfth 2008, and this week I'll be talking about the need to seize the moment when and while it's available, as well as what it means to be a genuine rebel. With a cause. And a clue.

But first, a look back at the past few weeks in NASCAR.

It's becoming progressively more difficult for me to watch NASCAR this year. While I freely admit a part of that has to do with how Jeff Gordon is having by his standards a miserable year, the majority of my discontent stems from how awful the races themselves have been regardless of who wins. The lack of genuine action and almost total absence of lead changes anywhere than during pit stops is making the four plus hours I spent on the weekend watching this thing, plus time spent writing about it, something I actually resent far more than enjoy.

It's a sign of how deep my devotion is to the sport that I along with so many continue to stick around, although among this merry band of pranksters that has over the years come together around the NASCAR blogging Maypole the conversations and friendships between us is of far greater interest as an action item than tuning in to catch our weekly dose of driving fast and turning left. Certainly it's more important. However, it would be nice if when we gather the conversation could start with "did you see that race!" and not "why are we subjecting ourselves to this?"

A couple of songs before the next segment.

Now that I'm truly in the home stretch of finishing the new book, I've started contemplating what I want to do next as far as writing is concerned. Also coming into play is my oft-expressed desire for a new gig. Add the two together, and while I don't foresee making it my full-time job I do want to re-enter the world of being a freelance journalist, selling stories to different periodicals and Web sites.

I've been chasing a couple of different stories. One, suggested by a dear friend of mine, would be an expansion of a post I wrote on the NASCAR blog last month, talking to the people involved to make it a complete story as opposed to an observational piece, which is what the original post was. The second is taking an upcoming charity event in NASCAR and exploring the story behind the action, which would necessitate talking to the people involved.

In both cases I have followed proper protocol, namely contacting the PR people involved, explaining who I am and what this is all about, and would you please set up the interviews with the people involved. In the case of the first story, I was originally told the person I wanted to interview, who I needed to help set up the interview with the second person in addition to getting their story, had been told about the request. This was followed by the sound of crickets. I asked again. The response was the person I wanted to interview didn't work there anymore. Um, could you tell me where they went? Apparently not. Okay, thanks. Disappointing, but these things happen.

The second story was a different matter. So you'll do a story, the question eagerly came. Yes, but I need to talk to these people so will you please set it up. So you'll do a story, came the earnest reply. Yes, but I need to talk to these people so would you please set it up. Crickets. Hello, is anyone home, what's going on. Oh, we're too busy to set up any interviews. If we send you some existing quotes from people who have no connection whatsoever to your story will you write one anyway? Gee, let me think... oh wait that's right. No. You can't be bothered to do something that will give your charity organization a ton of free positive publicity, guess I can't be bothered either.

Not to be morbid, but don't these people realize we all could die tonight?

Life on this earth is fragile and fleeting. The wise see things in terms of eternity, and during their tenure on this planet plan accordingly. They work not with frantic uncontrolled urgency but rather with calm deliberation toward taking care of the things that truly matter. Inspiring others in life matters. Helping others in life matters. Laying the foundation for eternity matters. And part of that is doing the work God asks us to do. Namely, love. In all its many forms. Inspiring and helping is love. It's something worth pursuing.

I'll find other stories to write, and for them will hopefully get the cooperation I need to actually write them. However, it is regrettable that these two stories will apparently not be written for the sole reason those whose job duties include doing what is necessary to facilitate the writing of such stories couldn't be bothered. There's really nothing else to say about it other than they didn't cheat me out of anything. I'll look elsewhere. The ones they cheated are the people about whom the stories would have been written. And the far greater number of people who would have been blessed by them.

And we move on.

So what does it mean to be a rebel, anyway?

There are few things in this world easier than striking a pose as the angry young man. Or the angry old man. Or angry young woman, or old woman, or middle-aged woman. Instead of the angry middle-aged man you usually find the brooding middle-aged man. I was thinking this morning on the way into work, headphones strapped on tight and the iPhone blasting away in same, that explains why I like Marillion so much as their mix of progressive and melodic rock together with introspective lyrics form a perfect soundtrack for brooding middle-aged men. But I digress.

A lot of things in this world are worth being angry about. Man's injustice to man; our injustice to ourselves. Those who protested the graphic depiction of Christ's suffering and crucifixion in Mel Gibson's The Passion Of The Christ, lamenting why it couldn't have depicted the gentle meek and mild Jesus they learned about on a flannelboard at Sunday school, missed how the film did have flashes of that Jesus. But it also showed the Jesus Who stared down the crowd eager to stone a woman to death for committing adultery. It showed the Jesus Who suffered and died for both that woman and the crowd that wanted to stone her. It showed the Jesus Who suffered and died for the people who complained about a movie showing His suffering and death. Because nothing else could possibly save them from an eternity spent in hell as just punishment for their sins. An eternity spent without love.

You want to know who a rebel is? A real rebel? I mentioned her in the Goldfish and Clowns blog a few weeks ago. Her name is Ingrid Betancourt. She was among the hostages who were recently freed in a daring undercover military operation after having been held hostage for years by a terrorist group in her native Colombia. Shortly after she was freed, she fulfilled a promise she had made during her time in captivity:

Accompanied by her mother, son and daughter, she went to Lourdes, the holy place in France where Mary appeared to Bernadette Soubirous.

While what little coverage Ms. Betancourt's story received following her rescue focused mostly on the Red Cross' anger over its logo being used as part of the ruse to free the hostages, another cross has been rather ignored.

It was the one attached to the rosary Ms. Betancourt fashioned out of buttons and string during her captivity.

There is an inconvenient truth about Ms. Betancourt that makes her story less attractive, less sexy than modern news machine media prefers. It's this insistence she has about mentioning how her deep faith carried her through the years of torture and abuse at the hands of her captors. Consider the following words she spoke while at Lourdes:

"I know I talk with God and God replies -- people prefer to speak about the force of circumstances, rather than miracles, but I think miracles happen to everyone all the time," said the ex-hostage, who also holds French citizenship. "I have to do two things: forget and find spiritual peace, and be able to forgive. When I do this, I'll also have to recall my memories. But perhaps, in time, these won't be so painful."

Betancourt, who noted the Lourdes pilgrimage would be her last public appearance until she recuperated, said she had made a rosary from buttons and old string during her captivity.

Meanwhile, Betancourt told a French Catholic magazine, Le Pelerin (The Pilgrim), July 12 that she constantly had read the Bible as a hostage, "made many promises to the Virgin Mary," and believed her faith had "constantly grown."

"If I had not had the Lord at my side, I don't think I could have overcome this suffering," she said. "Being a hostage places you in a situation of constant humiliation. You are a victim of total arbitrariness and you get to know what's most vile in the human spirit.

"Faced by this, there are two paths. You either let yourself grow ugly, bitter, peevish and vindictive, and let your heart fill with spite, or you choose the other path which Jesus showed us when he asked us to bless our enemies," said Betancourt.

I wish I had that kind of faith. I try to get there, but I fall so short of the goal. Perhaps one day I'll make it.

On that day, I'll be a true rebel, rebelling against everything the world tells us we must feel and think and do.

How I pray to one day be a true rebel.

That concludes this week's podcast. Take care, everyone, and we'll get together again next time.

I Didn't Get A Podcast Done This Week; Will A Chapter Do Instead?

Diecast Dude — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 21:24:40 GMT

I finished the first draft of Stephen Crumbacher's (Crumbächer) chapter today. Which means there are only two more to go.

I'm beginning to get a little excited.

Next up is Steve Hindalong (The Choir).

Apology

Diecast Dude — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 00:05:02 GMT

I'm sorry about the lack of podcasts lately. Been running myself ragged (again) and not TCBing. Hopefully I'll get it together in the next couple of days.

Faithful

Diecast Dude — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 23:29:15 GMT

I did something earlier this evening I haven't done in many months: pull my faithful Fender Precision Bass, that has served me well since getting it as a high school graduation present lo those all too many years ago, out of its case. Once tuned, I began to play. Clumsily and haltingly, which given how woefully out of practice I am came as no surprise, but play nonetheless.

As the minutes wore on and the comfort level grew, I started running through assorted songs. Veil Of Ashes, a few Lost Dogs tunes. Old habits set in, fortunately good ones. The mental metronome every bass player worth their salt always keeps, since in most circumstances the bassist leads the beat while the drummer is straight on it and everyone else follows, started clicking. Leading with my middle finger on my right hand as I plucked the notes as opposed to the index finger became part of the rhythm. By the time I was finished, while I was still rustier than Fred in the movie Cars there were signs it wasn't a lost cause. I could still play. At least a little.

I mentioned in the NASCAR blog back in January of 2006 how I was going to have surgery to alleviate ulnar nerve entrapment in my left arm and also severe carpal tunnel (the doctor who tested it, and who had decades of experience in the field, said it was one of the worst cases she'd ever seen) in my left hand. The nerve entrapment was hereditary; the carpal tunnel wasn't. Nor was it a result of the massive amounts of typing I've done over the years, since at the time my right hand tested fine and being that I am right handed it would be the first one to give out. I'm pretty sure I've developed it in that hand since then, but that's beside the point. It came from years and years of playing and playing, working the wrist hard to try and compensate for the lack of strength in my hand due to the nerve entrapment. Starting about seven years before the surgery I had gradually cut back on my playing, and in the two or three years before the surgery I had completely given up playing because what little strength I had in my left hand had gone away completely and I no longer had sufficient hand strength to press the strings down to the fret. Granted, by then I had shelved music as my primary form of expression in favor of writing, in part because I was finding it easier but also because I had admitted to myself I was never going to make it as a musical artist. But I still had songs in my head I wanted to play for at least myself. Being physically unable to do so was bitter reality.

Perhaps somewhat curious is how after the surgery which was successful I have seldom touched any of my guitars or my bass, the latter especially odd in that I have long been a much better bass player than guitar player (long story short: more properly schooled in the instrument). Whether it's due to being far more into writing, not wishing to remind myself of all my youthful dreams that could never come true, or some combination of these two is a matter of debate. This I do know: this evening, my faithful companion felt very good to me. It was good to play music again. I plan to do it more. Not at the expense of writing; certainly not until the book is done. But I will play more.

I'll Get To That Podcast Sometime, Honest

Diecast Dude — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 00:14:34 GMT

Sorry I haven't gotten one recorded this week. I know what I want to say and I have the music selected, but time (as in lack thereof) and fatigue (why do I feel like a need a vacation to recover from my vacation?) have conspired against me. I definitely want to get one recorded before this weekend, so hopefully either tomorrow night... um, tonight since it is after midnight, or after the actual tomorrow night as in Friday I'll git'r done.

Acting Like I've Been Here Before... Oh Wait That's Right I Have

Diecast Dude — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 21:00:51 GMT

Best laid plans, etc etc blah blah blah... I had genuine hopes to complete the first draft of the chapters for Steve Crumbacher (Crumbächer) and Steve Hindalong (The Choir) last week. I ended up getting somewhere between a third and halfway through the Steve Crumbacher chapter without even looking at the Steve Hindalong chapter. Ah well. The work continues.

As I mentioned in the podcast earlier this month, I've become convinced I need to start looking for a new job. That conviction has been strongly reinforced -- and I wasn't even at work last week. If you can keep me in prayer about this I'd deeply appreciate it. Thanks.

It's My Birthday And I'll Work On My Book If I Want To

Diecast Dude — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 22:53:19 GMT

Yes, today is my birthday. One more year until I run headlong into fifty. Ah well. No deep thoughts on the subject; I seem to be taking this birthday as far less of a mid-life crisis moment than is my regrettable norm. Working on the book is assuaging any "what am I doing with my life" moments. Besides, having another birthday beats the alternative a mile.

Speaking of the book, I'm spending the day working toward making sure I don't spend my fiftieth birthday working on it by pounding away at it today. Currently I'm doing the chapter on Stephen Crumbacher, who by some odd circumstance was a member of Crumbächer. I was hoping to have it completed last night, but alas was not to be. Maybe tonight.

I was working on the chapter for Nancyjo Mann (Barnabas), but she sent me a note the other day indicating she wanted to talk to me again, which has been arranged for next week. No sense in continuing to write the chapter when information might be added or changed.

Anyway, once I finish the current chapter it's on to Steve Hindalong (The Choir). Next will be completing Nancyjo Mann's. And then...

... I'll be done.

Before my next birthday, promise!

No Podcast This Week

Diecast Dude — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 22:02:47 GMT

Too busy pounding away at the book. More later.

In Case You Missed It (Since Most Everyone In The Media Did)

Diecast Dude — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 13:34:15 GMT

A news item came across the wires earlier this week. Since it had nothing to do with Barack Obama or Britney Spears the story received scant notice on these shores, back page mention if mentioned at all.

It happened anyway.

The name Ingrid Betancourt may ring a bell. She was among the hostages who were recently freed in a daring undercover military operation after having been held hostage for years by a terrorist group in her native Colombia. This past Saturday, she fulfilled a promise she had made during her time in captivity:

Accompanied by her mother, son and daughter, she went to Lourdes.

While what little coverage Ms. Betancourt's story has received following her rescue has mostly focused on the Red Cross' anger over its logo being used as part of the ruse to free the hostages, another cross has been rather ignored.

It was the one attached to the rosary Ms. Betancourt fashioned out of buttons and string during her captivity.

There is an inconvenient truth about Ms. Betancourt that makes her story less attractive, less sexy than modern news machine media prefers. It's this insistence she has about mentioning how her deep faith carried her through the years of torture and abuse at the hands of her captors. Consider the following, as reported by CNS:

(For those who only accept their news from the Big Boys, Ms. Betancourt told the New York Times much the same thing.)

Laying aside all the snark over media priorities for something far more important, Ms. Betancourt is a woman to be honored and revered. May her light that shone through unimaginably dark times be looked upon as the miracle it is.

As is she.

It's. A. MOVIE!!!

Diecast Dude — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 11:41:21 GMT

In these troubled times, there are many disturbing stories flashing across our digital television screens. Wars and rumors of wars (now where have we heard that before), economic woes, social discomfort...

... the alarmingly large number of people with nothing to do except make Halloween a year-round affair by playing dress-up as they attend Thursday midnight premiere showings of whatever special effects-laden sensory assault Hollywood is pushing this week.

Look, I can geek out with the best (or whatever you want to call it) of them. Original Star Trek? I was there from the beginning and at least the first three hundred and fifty-seven reruns of each episode. Star Trek: The Next Generation? Ditto, even though it took all parties involved two and a half seasons to become watchable, Marina Sirtis notwithstanding. X-Files? New movie will be the second film I see this year (WALL•E being the first -- just don't go to the movies very often). Star Wars? Well, the first set of films; still haven't seen the second or third episodes since watching them would be about as meaningful as watching Titanic. The logic of investing a couple of hours in a film where you already know the ending eludes me. The ship sinks, doesn't it? Anakin Skywalker turns into Darth Vader, right? So why bother? I can live without knowing exactly how these things happen. But I digress.

Getting back to the topic at hand, being so wrapped up in a movie that you feel the need to break out a costume and blow off your life, if in fact you have one which is highly debatable, in order to stay up until two in the morning watching it and then hustle off to the nearest 24 hour restaurant so you can eagerly dissect it with your fellow freaks is a mindset that eludes me. What does the entertainment industry have to offer that's so vital it's worth wrapping any portion of your life around? The only possible exception to this is music, since it is a gift imparted directly from God used for worship and edification as well as entertainment. For Scriptural references to this, check out 1 Chronicles 6, 9 and 15 (there are others). The Temple was home of the original jam band, which is why I use music so much in various communications. The gift from God aspect, not the jam band although I reserve the right to sneak just about anything into the podcast. But again I digress.

There's nothing wrong with entertainment for entertainment's sake. But that's all it is. If you're so wrapped up in a little world defined by which pop culture trappings you embrace, you might want to rethink things.

Podcast Update -- July 16, 2008

Diecast Dude — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 22:53:53 GMT

This week's podcast talks about the people behind the sport of NASCAR, and also about the shared joy of living.

Most of the text this week comes from blog posts I've written the past couple of days. I hope you don't me using them again, but since I believe I got certain things right the first time there's no need to rewrite everything.

You can listen to the podcast here. If you have iTunes, you can subscribe to it here. As always, please let me know what you think, and thanks.

Here's the text for this week's edition.

And welcome to this week's edition of the Diecast Dude's (Mostly) NASCAR Positively Persnickety Podcast. It is Wednesday July the sixteenth, 2008, and this week I'll be getting into more of the personal side of NASCAR as well as the shared joy of living. A couple of songs leading into the first segment.

We are a society inured to death. It is filler for the back page, a faceless news item quickly scanned and responded to with clucked tongue and mumbled expressions of what a shame even as the names involved are forgotten, the actual persona forever an intentionally unexplored mystery. Some reach out with the open hand of compassion and concern; but many, so many, are their own private island fortress, clinging to the sanctuary of isolation. When it is their turn for the dark angel's visit they angrily mourn, bitter over the absence of shared grief they themselves are unwilling to show. It is then time to once again retreat behind castle walls, reaching for solace in solitude.

Adherence to this philosophy of avoiding shared sorrow via hiding away is a wish upon a fool's star. We are all interconnected; we are all part of the whole. This is truer in NASCAR than any other sport, a place where every driver knows not only do their fortunes in performance lean heavily on the support team behind them who build the cars and oversee all other elements of the race along with the drivers surrounding them and their support teams, but life itself.

One of the earmarks of NASCAR is that while its members are in open competition with and ofttimes snarl at each other, there is a bond of family. Even if this alone was the only reason, the passing of NASCAR technical director Steve Peterson deserves far more notice than a sidebar or slightly reworded press release.

We know the public basics about the man, how he worked for NASCAR starting in 1995 and was instrumental in the implementation of such safety items as the SAFER barrier, head and neck restraints, and the overall mesh of driver protection elements in the new car. But what of the man? Doesn't he deserve something more than a recitation of professional accomplishments?

A man who knew Steve Peterson back when he worked at Roush before signing on with NASCAR graciously shared his memories with me yesterday afternoon. Peterson was a glue guy, someone who holds everything together without being out front of it all. Regardless of job title, he would do whatever task was required -- work on shocks, analyze computer data, anything necessary to prepare a car for a race. He was understated and patient, a relaxed kind of man who owned a sparkling dry sense of humor. He was someone with whom you looked forward to the next conversation, someone with whom you relished time spent together. Peterson didn't seek the spotlight; he sought to create one shining on the car, the driver, the ability of that driver to walk away when something went wrong instead of being tomorrow's headline for all the wrong reasons. He shone in the edge of that spotlight, unseen and often unknown. But without him, there would have been no light.

It is neither flippant nor disrespectful to call Steve Peterson NASCAR's WALL·E, the one with a good heart who did his job no matter what. His death is a deep loss to NASCAR. He was that rare breed of man whose love of cars and racing led him to be not a talker, but a doer. Even as far too many in and around the sport attempt to make his life and accomplishments little more than a snippet with which to occupy space online or in print, those who with heavy hearts will attend his funeral know the true measure of his worth. Not only was Steve Peterson in and of himself a man whose life had value and meaning, what he did during his tenure on this planet has ensured, is ensuring, and will ensure the question following a hard crash being directed at the driver involved asking what happened as compared to asking what one should wear to said driver's memorial service.

A couple of songs leading into the next segment.

Depending on your year of birth and musical inclination you might remember Ambrosia, a band which started life in the mid '70s as an eclectic prog rock ensemble and gradually moved into a more pop direction. While never a major player in the music scene it notched a few hits still occasionally gracing the oldies side of your radio dial, the song I just played being its first foray into Top 40 land.

The song came to mind a short time ago when a friend passed on a news item about a woman in Australia labeled the world's oldest blogger passing away a few days ago at the age of 108. The notation about how I'll consider it something of a minor miracle should I notch three-quarters of that total before shuffling off this mortal coil, with some days leading me to wonder if half is a more realistic assumption -- and no, I'm not being morose here, just noting the detrimental effects of being a stress monster -- aside, reading about how Olive Riley spent her time chronicling living history and enjoying the fruits of online community does offer cause for reflection.

There are days I look at the Internet and grouse about its seeming predilection for being a perpetual pubescent wasteland, to slightly modify a line from the Who classic with which I started this podcast. It brings something of an melancholy smile listening to that song and noting how Ms. Riley outlived half a band whose members were/are some forty-five years her junior. Rock and roll doesn't always keep you young. But I digress.

Amidst all the snark and cynicism that on occasion pervades these electronic pages, it's good to note the simple joy of a life well lived, especially how the one who lived it seized on a tool created just a few years shy of her ninetieth birthday. The pleasure of creating, communicating and sharing; these far too often become obscured in a time where seemingly everyone does everything with an agenda in mind that demands finding an edge and making ones mark by any means available. Ms. Riley offered something different. She gave us a simple sharing of her life. For this, we are all the richer.

Here's to you, young lady. See you in the Morning.

And that concludes this week's podcast. Take care, everyone, and we'll get together again next time.

Heaven Is A Better Place Today

Diecast Dude — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 15:40:21 GMT

We know the public basics about the man, how he worked for NASCAR starting in 1995 and was instrumental in the implementation of such safety items as the SAFER barrier, head and neck restraints, and the overall mesh of driver protection elements in the new car. But what of the man? Doesn't he deserve something more than a recitation of professional accomplishments?

A man who knew Steve Peterson back when he worked at Roush before signing on with NASCAR graciously shared his memories with me yesterday afternoon. Peterson was a glue guy, someone who holds everything together without being out front of it all. Regardless of job title, he would do whatever task was required -- work on shocks, analyze computer data, anything necessary to prepare a car for a race. He was understated and patient, a relaxed kind of man who owned a sparkling dry sense of humor. He was someone with whom you looked forward to the next conversation, someone with whom you relished time spent together. Peterson didn't seek the spotlight; he sought to create one shining on the car, the driver, the ability of that driver to walk away when something went wrong instead of being tomorrow's headline for all the wrong reasons. He shone in the edge of that spotlight, unseen and often unknown. But without him, there would have been no light.

It is neither flippant nor disrespectful to call Steve Peterson NASCAR's WALL·E, the one with a good heart who did his job no matter what. His death is a deep loss to NASCAR. He was that rare breed of man whose love of cars and racing led him to be not a talker, but a doer. Even as far too many in and around the sport attempt to make his life and accomplishments little more than a snippet with which to occupy space online or in print, those who with heavy hearts will attend his funeral know the true measure of his worth. Not only was Steve Peterson in and of himself a man whose life had value and meaning, what he did during his tenure on this planet has ensured, is ensuring, and will ensure the question following a hard crash being directed at the driver involved asking what happened as compared to asking what one should wear to said driver's memorial service.

I Bring News: Your News Isn't News

Diecast Dude — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 08:34:56 GMT

Every once in a while, the San Francisco Chronicle forgets its prime directive of inserting obsessive Giants and 49ers coverage among its daily minimum requirement of Christ and Christian-hating drek by actually reporting the news. One such slip-up occurred today with mention of how a San Francisco city IT worker decided the best way to ward off his looming termination due to workplace incompetence was adding malfeasance to the mix by doing what comes naturally for IT people: set up your own super-password, thereby making yourself master of the domain. And company network in addition to the domain (small bit of Internet humor there).

Two items about the story warrant attention, the first being that anyone is surprised at such a thing. Even with daily reports of identity theft, the most lackadaisical laissez-faire attitude toward digital security isn't coming from consumers, or for that matter business as a whole. It's the IT department within those businesses. Why? Half arrogance ("no one can penetrate MY security!!!" will go down as one of the ultimate examples of Famous Last Words). The other half? Simply put, they don't want to spoil their fun.

I'm not spilling state secrets from my days in IT to mention how playing the snoop-snoop game is one of most every IT's departments most heavily indulged-in pastimes. There is legitimate reason for examining the assorted files and electronic missives of co-workers, namely a properly grounded suspicion that illegal and/or unethical activities are taking place. That said, the vast majority of perusing has nothing to do with such pursuits. It's looking for the immoral or just plain moronic. Why waste your time searching for porn when you can get someone else to do the work for you? A slightly more genteel side of this is the opportunities for tremendous amusement at the expense of someone else's follies, preserved for all with access to see by quietly wading through various documents and images placed on the network or the hard drive of someone's work station without a great amount of thought devoted to... oh, thinking things through before saving whatever where anyone with a password and an attitude can open it as easily as its originator saved the embarrassing item in question. It's not much of a leap to go from this mindset to deliberate sabotage by inserting oneself as sole holder of the keys to the kingdom, although in this particular case the logic of believing felony charges are somehow negated by maintaining refusal to hand over your passwords escapes me.

The other element about this news item giving just cause to raised eyebrow is this quote from San Francisco district attorney Kamala Harris when queried about possible motive:

Motive is not necessarily an element of a crime.

Mmm-hmm.

It's not overwhelmingly surprising that Ms. Harris would make such a statement. After all, it's common knowledge people commit felonies for the sole purpose of being able to cross it off their to-do list for the day. Beats cleaning out the lint trap or rearranging your sock drawer by a mile in the fun department. Ten to twenty years in a federal penitentiary? Aww-right! I'll get on it first thing after lunch.

Sarcasm aside, such a statement provides a quite illuminating look into the mindset where individual responsibility, right and wrong, good and evil, and all those other inconveniences accompanying this whole God-Jesus-man-sin-Cross thing are set aside. All we have to do is compartmentalize everything into neat little cubes, believing doing so absolves us of any genuine responsibility since there is no genuine interaction between the different elements of our lives. And of course there's no such thing as, you know, evil or sin. Just because we might do what in modern society's definition are bad things doesn't mean we're bad. Aren't we all just fine the way we are?

Aren't we?

A Mini-Rock Opera With Real Characters And Plot

Diecast Dude — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 20:35:10 GMT

The song came to mind a short time ago when a friend passed on a news item about a woman in Australia labeled the world's oldest blogger passing away a few days ago at the age of 108. The notation about how I'll consider it something of a minor miracle should I notch three-quarters of that total before shuffling off this mortal coil, with some days leading me to wonder if half is a more realistic assumption (no, not being morose here, just noting the detrimental effects of being a stress monster) aside, reading about how Olive Riley spent her time chronicling living history and enjoying the fruits of online community does offer cause for reflection.

There are days I look at the Internet and grouse about its seeming predilection for being a perpetual pubescent wasteland, to slightly modify a line from this Who classic:

It's a bit odd watching this clip to think how Ms. Riley outlived half a band whose members were/are some forty-five years her junior. Rock and roll doesn't always keep you young. But I digress.

Amidst all the snark and cynicism that on occasion pervades these electronic pages, it's good to note the simple joy of a life well lived, especially how the one who lived it seized on a tool created just a few years shy of her ninetieth birthday. The pleasure of creating, communicating and sharing; these far too often become obscured in a time where seemingly everyone does everything with an agenda in mind that demands finding an edge and making ones mark by any means available. Ms. Riley offered something different. She gave us a simple sharing of her life. For this, we are all the richer.

Here's to you, young lady.

Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down (With A Book Update)

Diecast Dude — Sun, 13 Jul 2008 10:20:00 GMT

I hit a blessed breakthrough on the chapter for Nancy Jo Mann (lead singer for Barnabas) this morning, fixing some stumbling blocks in the introduction and also working through the entire interview correcting the regrettably numerous "you and I have entirely different interpretations of the phrase 'literal transcript'" moments. This chapter is going to be powerful.

I also take this moment to thank a dear friend for providing some desperately needed clarity, and with it equally desperately needed peace. You are a blessing beyond compare.

Podcast Update -- July 12, 2008

Diecast Dude — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 16:48:04 GMT

This weekend's podcast talks about... oh, you know. Stuff.

You can listen to the podcast here. If you have iTunes and are brave enough to go there this weekend with all the issues swirling around server crashes from everyone trying to activate their new iPhone 3G, you can subscribe here. In either case, please let me know what you think. And thank you for listening. I mean that more than I can possibly express.

Here's the text for this week's edition.

And welcome to this week's edition of the Diecast Dude's (Mostly) NASCAR Positively Persnickety Podcast. It is Saturday July the twelfth 2008, and this week we'll be taking a look at this evening's Sprint Cup race at Chicagoland along with taking a stand regardless of consequences. But first, a look back at the past weekend that was in NASCAR.

Well, that's enough said about Jeff Gordon's evening. How about Kyle Busch?

Yes, he's a terrific driver. No, that doesn't mean I have to root for him or like him.

Anyway, on to this weekend.

I'm pretty sure Robert Johnson knew Chicago wasn't in California. At the time the song was written during the Great Depression in the 1930s, California was viewed as a land where everyone was wealthy and all one had to do to become part of this was go there. Didn't really work that way, but that was the urban legend of the time. I suspect he was using "the land of California" as a metaphor for a kind of Promised Land. Whether it actually is or not is a subject best approached by those who live there, in Chicago, as the only time I've spent in Chicago has consisted of changing planes at O'Hare. Although I do hope to go to Wrigley Field someday.

A couple of songs before the next segment.

I've come to the realization that regardless of how much I detest the whole process I'm going to have to look for a new job. I like my current job; in fact I love it. The job itself, that is. However, it has become more than apparent over a lengthy period of time I can't stay there for reasons which I'd rather not detail here. Suffice it to say I don't belong there.

One of the accusations often hurled at me in my present place of employment is that I'm always convinced I'm right and I always want to do everything myself and do it my way. Which I freely admit is true. I am a stubborn cuss, prone to outbursts of self-righteousness and insufferable confidence in my correctness. There. Those are my sins. That said, I've noticed that while there is no shortage of accusation hurling against me for these, there's also a near-total void of anyone else confessing their sins. I must be the only sinner in the place, in which case that line in Paul's letter to the Romans about how all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God must have been an example of his just funnin' everyone. Which I doubt. But maybe that's just me being convinced I'm right again.

Sarcasm aside, it's always a challenge to examine myself and determine whether my thoughts and/or words and/or actions are genuine and true, based on the One True wisdom of God, or my spinning lollipop dreams in a cotton candy sky in my own private universe where I'm the star of the movie. It's all too easy to go overboard in either direction, either giving myself a pass on everything because I'm so tight with the Lord or beating myself up for everything because I'm such a miserable wretch of human clay. Neither is true, but we don't always believe the truth about ourselves. Now do we.

So often we want to either hear that we're loved, even if the statement is a lie, or that we are who we think we are as opposed to who we actually are. This is the nature of mankind. There's not a lot of call to the genuine, because frankly we don't want to see the genuine. Usually that's interpreted to mean we don't want to see the genuine about how we are all sinners with nothing standing between us and hell except the blood of Jesus shed on the cross as a sacrifice for our sins. However, I believe there is another side to the genuine we don't want to see. That side is we are all indeed created in God's image, we are indeed worthy of salvation, and we are indeed worthy of love; both the love of others and love of self. Love of self isn't ego. It's a love for the wonderful child of God we have inside of us and we can be if we'll let Him show us how to be one.

Sometimes you are right. Not always. But sometimes. Sometimes the other person is wrong. Not always, but sometimes. Sometimes the other people are wrong. It happens. Sometimes you're the one doing things the right way, while others act out of the sin in which they wallow. Sometimes you're going to get pounded for sticking to your guns, especially if you point out the sins of others not in the spirit of judgment but rather the spirit of wanting people to have what is best for them, which is communication with God and fellowship with others without the hindrance of sin dragging them down along with everyone else who comes into contact with them. Sometimes the actions that appear to be born out of pride or stubbornness are in fact born out of a broken heart grieving over those who choose being lost over having life. Sometimes by the grace and power of God you reach them. And sometimes all you can do is wash your hands and walk away.

It would appear to be a paradox, but sometimes it's true. Sometimes the best way to stand your ground is walking away, knowing you did all you could and that there are others with whom you can share the love of God without being called a sinner for it.

Sometimes.

Thankfully, with Jesus there is no "sometimes" in His love.

And thankfully, with Jesus there is no "sometimes" in having others with whom you can share love and be loved.

And that concludes this week's podcast. Take care everyone, and we'll get together next time.

No Podcast... Er, Last Night

Diecast Dude — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 00:21:26 GMT

Got home too late from work and some afterwork activities. Besides, given the day I had it would have consisted of little more than a string of colorful Anglo-Saxon descriptive adjectives. Nothing to which I'd want to subject anyone. I'll try to get it done tonight.

A Child's Bracelet

Diecast Dude — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 07:22:52 GMT

The following is an excerpt from my book Restrictor Plate This.

The northern edge of Indianapolis is much like the outskirts of many big cities these days, a recent absorption of farmland now buried underneath strip malls and lookalike housing developments. The usual satellite suburbs dot the landscape, enclaves for yuppiefied office dwellers who strive to be in the city but not of it. It's tempting to subscribe to the cynic's voice and decry the scene as ersatz country living, but such smug generalizations are as shallow as the manmade parks developers insist on building in such areas in lieu of preserving the patches of nature that were already there, legacies of the soil workers who handed down the land through generations until the current one cashed in their family history for a piece of Starbucks culture. Such places are what their residents make them to be, and should they choose SUVs and latte living, it is their right.

On one of the straight-edge streets that pass for major thoroughfares in such places, one sees what one expects to see: impressive homes separated from the road by massive front yards that make even the stoutest lawn tractor earn its keep, the occasional school here, the odd store or gas station or apartment complex for yuppie wannabes there. A few yards away from an intersection, a driveway somewhat wider than the norm presents itself, flanked on both sides by stonework signs bearing bronze plaques announcing the location.

Oaklawn Memorial Gardens.

The gravesite of Kenny Irwin Jr.

We were there on a sunny Saturday afternoon in late September of 2001, my brother and I. In all honesty I shouldn't have been there at all, so far from my California home. The horror of September 11th had caused me to cancel a business trip to Atlanta that week, thereby also eliminating a plan to swing through Indiana on my way back. However, family must come before all, so I reached into my own pocket to pay for a weekend flight so I could fulfill my promise to visit my mother and oldest brother after the now-abandoned trip.

It had already been a long day for my brother and I, starting with my first visit to our beloved father's grave since his passing away in May of 1999. The emotions were still raw as a few hours later we made our way from sleepy Greencastle through thirty miles of quiet farms and tiny towns until we reached our destination. We both noted earlier in the journey having glimpsed what would be the next day's eagerly anticipated place of visitation: the RCA Dome, where I would finally see my Colts play a home game. However, this was for tomorrow. Today was for another purpose, a purpose that as soon as I knew I was going to Indiana became a personal obligation owed to someone I had never known.

The pleasant woman inside the cemetery office smiled at my inquiry as she handed me a map and circled our destination. We walked up the path she told us to take, commenting how the relative newness of the cemetery -- it was opened in the early '50s -- left it minus the ostentatious crypts that marked most Indiana graveyards, which usually date back to the nineteenth century. It could have used some more trees, but it was impeccably maintained; all in all as pleasant a place as could be designed given its thankless task.

We continued up the gently curving path, following the map as it led to a tree isolated in a small island marking where the path became two. All was quiet; with the exception of one car off in the distance we had the place to ourselves. We went to the left, walked a few more yards, and then left the path by stepping onto the thick green grass, quietly gazing upon the brass markers below. A few more feet, and we had arrived. Now absolutely silent, we saw what I had come two thousand miles to see. Rather, not what, but who.

Kenny Irwin Jr.'s grave marker is a simple bronze slab. A photograph of an awkwardly smiling youth is mounted underneath a glass seal, with a swinging bronze cover providing additional protection from the elements. Some mention is made of his racing career, but no listing of his accomplishments is given: USAC Sprint Car Rookie Of The Year in 1993, USAC Silver Crown Car Rookie Of The Year in 1994, USAC Midget Car Champion in 1996, NASCAR Craftsman Truck Series Rookie Of The Year in 1997, NASCAR Winston Cup Rookie Of The Year in 1998. Instead, prominence is given to personal traits: son, brother, friend. Then and only then, race car driver. Beneath this, words from a hymn: "Our God is an awesome God, He reigns from heaven above with wisdom, power and love."

Some crumbling mementos lay at the top of the marker, left there by the loving few. A 42, the car number he drove when he died, cut out by hand of white rubber and sitting on a base of oval discs in the colors of the Bell South sponsored car that was his. A faded photograph of a broadly smiling young woman, wearing her obviously hand painted "happy birthday Kenny" t-shirt. A weathered Winners Circle logo pin. Last and most touching of all, a handmade child's bracelet, its string broken, spelling out I MISS YOU KENNY 42. I knelt down and carefully moved the bracelet, rearranging its message into place where the letters had begun to shift out of line.

So why was I here? I had already dealt that day with visiting the most personal, painful burial place imaginable. Why remind myself of others' loss? And I wasn't there because I was a Kenny Irwin Jr. fan. Oh, he seemed like a nice enough kid; I remember a brief appearance he made on QVC once during the Batman and Joker special paint scheme promotion he ran with then-teammate Dale Jarrett where he came off as polite, well-spoken and pleasant. But a fan? No. That wasn't why I was here. Paying respects to a member of the sport I dearly love? Possibly, but there are many other fallen drivers to who I could go and pay my respects. So why was I here? Why was I now fighting tears?

I knew why.

It was the right thing to do.

When Kenny Irwin Jr. died in an accident during practice at the New Hampshire Motor Speedway on July seventh of 2000, the racing community and overwhelming majority of fans who before that day had derided him as a hack driver who shouldn't be in a Winston Cup car collectively clucked their tongues, said "gee what a shame," and then checked their schedule to see what time the race would start that Sunday. There was no tribute lap, no silence at lap 42, no one holding up four and two fingers as they stood to honor him. No massive floral displays of his car number, no one wearing his team hat, no plans for a memorial in his home town, and other than small stickers on the cars during the next race, no mention that he had ever been alive. There was no intense study of the fatal accident, no safety mandates from NASCAR as a result of the crash. No one -- no one -- save his team owner Felix Sabatas and to the surprise of many Tony Stewart, Irwin's arch rival across the dirt tracks of Indiana where they both honed their craft, seemed to really care all that much that a young man was dead.

Long after the fact, an embittered Kenny Irwin Sr. spoke. He told of the people he never knew existed who had contacted him after his son's death, telling him of his son's generosity and charity work on their behalf. He talked about how this news surprised him not in his son having done so, but in that his son, not only a son but also a best friend, had never mentioned he was doing these things. He spoke of the pride he felt the day in 1997 his son was announced as the driver starting the following year of the #28 Texaco car, the car made famous by the late Davey Allison and then Ernie Irvan. He talked about how his son took his eventual dismissal from the ride far better than he did, reassuring his Dad that it'd be all right. Above all, he spoke of his son: his best friend, a young man of faith, and how that shared faith had carried him through the unspeakable agony of performing the act no father in his worst nightmare envisions: not preparing for the eventual, inevitable day when he would be buried by his son, but rather burying his son. It wasn't fair.

It still wasn't fair, and never would be fair. It never will be fair. The racing world had demanded the rest of the world stop when its favorite son died at turn four of its most cherished racetrack in February of 2001, not ceasing its caterwauling over the single greatest tragedy in the history of mankind (or so it would seem given the never-ending maudlin sap parade at every race) until September 11th... and even then the meaningless tributes and ghoulish merchandising continued unabated. Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Irwin grieved alone, politely ignored by the racing world in which their son had lost his life, a loss to which the response seemed to be "we don't care."

As I knelt down beside the marker and carefully rearranged the child's bracelet, many emotions stirred deep within. Shame, at how callously and flippantly I had once viewed the men and women who risked death every time they strapped themselves into a race car. Resolve, a dedication to never again take these people for granted. The knowledge that it was no cliché to say I would never watch racing the same way again, now forever mindful of the very real, very fragile humanity behind the machines and high-speed competition. But above all else -- far above all else -- I felt a quiet emptiness at the realization, the full impact of the reality before me. This was no longer an image on a television or pictures on a Web page. This was cold, final truth. A young man's body laid in the ground beneath me, a young man who loved to race cars that I watched every Sunday, cars of which I collected little diecast metal replicas. Now he was dead, and I would never see him race again. His family would never see him again. And no matter how fervently one believes in eternal life for those who believe, the quiet emptiness of loss remains.

I said goodbye to Kenny Irwin Jr., told him how by the grace of our God I hope to meet him in heaven one day, and asked him to forgive me. I then stood up as my brother said goodbye to him as well, and then we left, my brother and I. I felt shaken, yet I was okay with that. It was good to be shaken. For I had done what I knew I had to do.

I had done the right thing.

The Kenny Irwin Jr. Memorial Foundations operates the Dare To Dream Camp in New Castle, Indiana. The camp offers a permanent year-round, racing-themed location accommodating underprivileged, at-risk, neglected and abused children between the ages of 6 to 17. For more information about the camp and the foundation, please visit their Website at http://www.kennyirwinjrfoundation.org.

Hey, Look -- An Update About The Book!

Diecast Dude — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 11:02:47 GMT

I'm about two-thirds done with correcting the transcript of my interview with Nancy Jo Mann (lead singer of Barnabas) for the book. If I ever do this again, I'm going to spent the time doing all my own transcriptions from the get-go. Save several hundred dollars and get it right the first time no matter how much time it takes! Ah well, lesson learned.

Podcast Update -- July 1, 2008

Diecast Dude — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 08:25:44 GMT

This week's podcast does the usual turn around NASCAR, and touches on making a decision along with wondering why so many in the pursuit of holiness are so eager to deny others grace.

You can listen to the podcast here, or if you have iTunes subscribe to it here. As always, please let me know what you think, and thanks.

Here's the text for this week's podcast.

And welcome to this week's edition of the Diecast Dude's (Mostly) NASCAR Positively Persnickety Podcast. It is Tuesday July the first 2008, and this week I'll be taking a look ahead to Daytona, mention a miracle of miracles in that I've actually made up my mind on something, and take a look at the perceived conflict between judgment and grace.

But first, a look back at the weekend that was in NASCAR.

I quite enjoyed this past weekend's race at New Hampshire. No doubt much of this was fueled by how Jeff Gordon ran up front most of the day. However, even with that set aside there was a sense of normalcy about the whole thing, and also a sense that I was being genuinely entertained. Which, sadly, has seldom been the case this season. Even the strange ending with pit strategy and weather dictating the eventual winner far more than anything taking place on the track was enjoyable. And if you're not enjoying something that's supposed to provide you a mini-vacation from the daily grind, what's the point in paying any attention to it at all?

This coming weekend NASCAR will be at Daytona, which means restrictor plate racing under the lights. I used to completely detest this form of racing, but have grown to love it in recent years. The thrill of seeing the pack thunder off the turn together, thirty or more cars separated by mere inches, is unique in all of sports. Hopefully we won't have "the big one" and instead we'll be... well, entertained. I'd like that. I believe we all would.

There's a lot of off-track news taking place right now, what with Dario Franchitti suddenly having a lot more time to spend with Ashley Judd -- oh, the poor man -- due to Chip Ganassi shutting down his race team earlier today. Apparently Mark Martin will drive the #5 full-time next year, which as I said in the blog a few days ago I have my doubts about but we'll see. I believe there's still a chance for major developments taking place that will put Tony Stewart in the #5, but it'd take a lot in a very short period of time for that to happen.

Speaking of the blog, I'll get into that in the next segment.

After receiving some clarification, I've come to a decision regarding the NASCAR blogging side of things. I'm going to stay with Restrictor Plate This. However, I am going to get back to being, for lack of a better way of putting it, me. Which may be for better or worse. But if I didn't get back to being me, complete with going off on tangents along with excursions into bizarro humor plus talking openly about my faith and related matters, there was no way I could have continued. It wasn't quite to the level Jeremiah talked about when he said, "But if I say, 'I will not mention him or speak any more in his name,' his word is in my heart like a fire, a fire shut up in my bones. I am weary of holding it in; indeed, I cannot (Jer. 20:9)." But close. Very close.

Anyway, I'm back and I hope to keep it that way. If you'll please pray for me that I stay on course I'd appreciate it, just as I have all of you in my prayers.

Some songs before the next segment.

This comes from the Goldfish And Clowns blog.

I was link-wandering off of a favorite political blog yesterday and came across a personal/spiritual blog I’ve glanced at before written by one Dawn Eden. Her primary shtick, if you’ll pardon me calling it that, is the constant proclamation of chastity as a pearl of great price to be highly prized and maintained. And endlessly written about in blog and book, and spoken about in speech and media appearance. Not to knock the concept of self-control, but it brings to mind a paraphrase of the old Mitchum antiperspirant ads: “I didn’t have sex today, and I may not have sex tomorrow because I feel really satisfied even though I hormone freely.” But I digress.

The topic on hand (no pun intended) was the late Tim Russert, best known as host of Meet The Press. Ms. Eden referred her readers to an article written by one Hadley Arkes, whose central theme was, and please pardon the expression, pissing on Mr. Russert’s grave while calling it a shower of reality by railing against him for obviously not being a “real” Catholic -- Mr. Russert often referred to his faith in assorted writings -- because he didn’t make an anti-abortion stand strong enough for Mr. Arkes’ liking… er, assertion of Church teachings. Never mind that as a journalist it was not Mr. Russert’s job to promote his personal/spiritual agenda in the professional realm; while certainly all believers have a mandate not to contradict their faith in the workplace, this does not give free license to preach and especially judge others based on ones faith. Mr. Arkes believes otherwise. He also sharply criticizes Mr. Russert for his connection via employment prior to becoming a journalist with publicans and sinners, otherwise known as Daniel Patrick Moynihan and Mario Cuomo who were noted for their adherence to separation of their Catholicism and positions on public policy. Guilty by association, y’know.

Given that Ms. Eden’s blog gets more readers in a minute than everything I write put together in a month -- hey, she works at it a lot harder than I do and is reaping a consummate (again, no pun intended) reward -- the comments area for said post was a happening place. The thoughts primarily ran along two lines:

* Speak no ill of the dead.
* Mr. Arkes did us all a favor by calling out the painfully apparent heathen.

The former bothered me; the latter irked me. While I am a firm believer in as best as possible looking at history and those now part of it with a Chronicles rather than Samuel/Kings mindset, it’s important to also be honest and objective in such things. No one gets a free pass for the sole reason of being dead. That duly noted, the harsh judgmental attitude copped by many because Mr. Russert failed one of their litmus tests for true believers gave cause for me to do something I don’t do very often, namely leave a comment on someone else’s blog:

Last time I checked, God was in the sin-forgiving business.

Which fortunately includes forgiving the sin of those whose sin is not forgiving the sin of others.

No, there is no free license to sin because of grace's presence. There is, however, grace. It is unfortunate how the pursuit of holiness when colored by pride in one taking part in said pursuit -- an oxymoron to be sure, but a common occurrence nonetheless -- often deviates into attacks on others for failing to live up to holinesses' standards... not realizing the attack itself signals a failure by the one making the attack to live up to holinesses' standards.

Someone named Margaret -- my guess is it was probably not Margaret Becker -- commented on my comment thusly:

Last time I checked, for us to repent and ask forgiveness of our sins, we have to know what those sins might be and face them squarely.

Not standing up for the most helpless when you have the opportunity to speak out is a sin, and should be acknowledged as a sin, a sin all of us have reason to repent of.

Me being me, I felt it proper to respond.

And what would you have had him do, Margaret? Refuse to interview anyone who was pro-abortion? Should he have interviewed anyone who believed that way, grill them incessantly on that one point? End every episode of 'Meet The Press' with an anti-abortion speech? Demand those he interviewed repent on the spot? In which case he wouldn't have been the host of 'Meet The Press' for more than sixteen years. More like less than sixteen minutes before he would have been shown the door at NBC.

Tim Russert did his job week in and week out. He did it extremely well. To rail against him because he didn't use his professional position as a pulpit -- and why are there not more mentions of how he openly shared his faith? -- demonstrates a rather alarming propensity toward looking for reasons to condemn someone in lieu of accepting that despite his being as human as you and I, God loved Russert and from all indications Russert loved God.

There is no arguing that abortion is a hideous abomination, one that should be firmly opposed. But again I ask, what would you have had Russert do? He was a journalist. A journalist -- a good one anyway -- in the course of carrying out their job duties does not have the option of taking sides. Period.

Unless you live in either a cocoon or the Christian ghetto, every one of us every day has personal and professional interaction with people who are morally bankrupt and do that which is detestable in the eyes of our Lord. How do we see them? Reprobates? Heathen? Unclean? Someone at whom we should throw the Book?

Or do we see them as someone worth dying for?

Which, according to Scripture, is how Jesus sees them.

And before anyone labels anyone else not a true believer, please be reminded of a man who had an affair with a loyal, devoted co-worker's wife, got her pregnant, did everything he could to cover up what had happened, and when that failed arranged for his co-worker to be killed so he could quickly marry the woman to make it seem plausible she had become pregnant immediately after their marriage.

What would you call such a man?

God called him a man after His own heart (Acts 13:22), and from him and the woman he married under the above circumstances descended the direct lineage of Jesus.

Neither you or I know what was in Tim Russert's heart. God alone knows. And frankly I'm more than content to leave it at that, for He is the one and only true judge. Our opinion is utterly without importance. "It does not concern me in the least that I be judged by you or any human tribunal; I do not even pass judgment on myself; I am not conscious of anything against me, but I do not thereby stand acquitted; the one who judges me is the Lord. Therefore, do not make any judgment before the appointed time, until the Lord comes, for he will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will manifest the motives of our hearts, and then everyone will receive praise from God (1 Cor. 4:3-5)."

Margaret again replied:

Jerry, you are conflating two different kinds of judgment, or two different uses of the word.

The ability to apply judgment in the sense of appraisement, observation, or rational critique is one of the ways in which we're made in the image of God, and we do it quite appropriately all the time, whether judging an action or a fine wine. An inability to apply this kind of judgment is the mark of a child or a fool.

No one in this discussion, and certainly not Arkes, is interested in arrogating God's right of ultimate judgment, of weighing the man's deepest motives and eternal destiny. To suggest otherwise is unfair and uncharitable.

And I again replied:

Margaret, re-read Arkes' article. "Amidst all of the mourning and celebration for Tim Russert, the most critical thing he imparted as a public man was that the central moral teaching of his Church was not, in the scale of things, all that important or true" isn't exactly a ringing endorsement for someone's eternal destiny. The implication is clear: if Russert could not hold this one thing true, then why should anyone believe he held any of the Church's teachings, or for that matter faith itself, true? That goes way beyond appraisement.

The exchange seems to have concluded there.

Fellow believers, there’d be a lot more of us if we’d let God be God. What part of James 2:12-13 (“Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment!”) aren’t we getting here? For further reference, consider Romans chapters 2, 12, and 14. It’s not that we’re supposed to sit around quietly and never speak up about right and wrong. However, neither are we called to play Avenging Annie against everyone who doesn’t in our view toe the line. Again referring to Paul’s letter to the Romans, note his quoting the book of Exodus when he writes, “For he says to Moses, ‘I will have mercy on whom I have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion (Rom. 9:15, which references Exodus 33:19).'"

Mercy, people. Let's show some mercy.

And that concludes this week's podcast. Take care, everyone, and we'll get together next time.

Mercy Triumphs Over Judgment -- You Got A Problem With That?

Diecast Dude — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 21:43:02 GMT

I was link-wandering off of a favorite political blog yesterday and came across a personal/spiritual blog I’ve glanced at before written by one Dawn Eden. Her primary shtick, if you’ll pardon me calling it that, is the constant proclamation of chastity as a pearl of great price to be highly prized and maintained. And endlessly written about in blog and book, and spoken about in speech and media appearance. Not to knock the concept of self-control, but it brings to mind a paraphrase of the old Mitchum antiperspirant ads: “I didn’t have sex today, and I may not have sex tomorrow because I feel really satisfied even though I hormone freely.” But I digress.

The topic on hand (no pun intended) was the late Tim Russert, best known as host of Meet The Press. Ms. Eden referred her readers to an article written by one Hadley Arkes, whose central theme was, and please pardon the expression, pissing on Mr. Russert’s grave while calling it a shower of reality by railing against him for obviously not being a “real” Catholic -- Mr. Russert often referred to his faith in assorted writings -- because he didn’t make an anti-abortion stand strong enough for Mr. Arkes’ liking… er, assertion of Church teachings. Never mind that as a journalist it was not Mr. Russert’s job to promote his personal/spiritual agenda in the professional realm; while certainly all believers have a mandate not to contradict their faith in the workplace, this does not give free license to preach and especially judge others based on ones faith. Mr. Arkes believes otherwise. He also sharply criticizes Mr. Russert for his connection via employment prior to becoming a journalist with publicans and sinners, otherwise known as Daniel Patrick Moynihan and Mario Cuomo who were noted for their adherence to separation of their Catholicism and positions on public policy. Guilty by association, y’know.

Given that Ms. Eden’s blog gets more readers in a minute than everything I write put together in a month -- hey, she works at it a lot harder than I do and is reaping a consummate (again, no pun intended) reward -- the comments area for said post was a happening place. The thoughts primarily ran along two lines:

Speak no ill of the dead.
Mr. Arkes did us all a favor by calling out the painfully apparent heathen.

The former bothered me; the latter irked me. While I am a firm believer in as best as possible looking at history and those now part of it with a Chronicles rather than Samuel/Kings mindset, it’s important to also be honest and objective in such things. No one gets a free pass for the sole reason of being dead. That duly noted, the harsh judgmental attitude copped by many because Mr. Russert failed one of their litmus tests for true believers gave cause for me to do something I don’t do very often, namely leave a comment on someone else’s blog:

Last time I checked, God was in the sin-forgiving business.

Which fortunately includes forgiving the sin of those whose sin is not forgiving the sin of others.

No, there is no free license to sin because of grace's presence. There is, however, grace. It is unfortunate how the pursuit of holiness when colored by pride in one taking part in said pursuit -- an oxymoron to be sure, but a common occurrence nonetheless -- often deviates into attacks on others for failing to live up to holinesses' standards... not realizing the attack itself signals a failure by the one making the attack to live up to holinesses' standards.

Fellow believers, there’d be a lot more of us if we’d let God be God. What part of James 2:12-13 (“Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment!”) aren’t we getting here? For further reference, consider Romans chapters 2, 12, and 14. It’s not that we’re supposed to sit around quietly and never speak up about right and wrong. However, neither are we called to play Avenging Annie against everyone who doesn’t in our view toe the line. Again referring to Paul’s letter to the Romans, note his quoting the book of Exodus when he writes, “For he says to Moses, ‘I will have mercy on whom I have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion (Rom. 9:15, which references Exodus 33:19).'"

Mercy, people. Let's show some mercy.

ADDENDUM: The following is from additional comments after I left the one above.

Last time I checked, for us to repent and ask forgiveness of our sins, we have to know what those sins might be and face them squarely.

Not standing up for the most helpless when you have the opportunity to speak out is a sin, and should be acknowledged as a sin, a sin all of us have reason to repent of.

Margaret

And what would you have had him do, Margaret? Refuse to interview anyone who was pro-abortion? Should he have interviewed anyone who believed that way, grill them incessantly on that one point? End every episode of 'Meet The Press' with an anti-abortion speech? Demand those he interviewed repent on the spot? In which case he wouldn't have been the host of 'Meet The Press' for more than sixteen years. More like less than sixteen minutes before he would have been shown the door at NBC.

Tim Russert did his job week in and week out. He did it extremely well. To rail against him because he didn't use his professional position as a pulpit -- and why are there not more mentions of how he openly shared his faith? -- demonstrates a rather alarming propensity toward looking for reasons to condemn someone in lieu of accepting that despite his being as human as you and I, God loved Russert and from all indications Russert loved God.

There is no arguing that abortion is a hideous abomination, one that should be firmly opposed. But again I ask, what would you have had Russert do? He was a journalist. A journalist -- a good one anyway -- in the course of carrying out their job duties does not have the option of taking sides. Period.

Unless you live in either a cocoon or the Christian ghetto, every one of us every day has personal and professional interaction with people who are morally bankrupt and do that which is detestable in the eyes of our Lord. How do we see them? Reprobates? Heathen? Unclean? Someone at whom we should throw the Book?

Or do we see them as someone worth dying for?

Which, according to Scripture, is how Jesus sees them.

And before anyone labels anyone else not a true believer, please be reminded of a man who had an affair with a loyal, devoted co-worker's wife, got her pregnant, did everything he could to cover up what had happened, and when that failed arranged for his co-worker to be killed so he could quickly marry the woman to make it seem plausible she had become pregnant immediately after their marriage.

What would you call such a man?

God called him a man after His own heart (Acts 13:22), and from him and the woman he married under the above circumstances descended the direct lineage of Jesus.

Neither you or I know what was in Tim Russert's heart. God alone knows. And frankly I'm more than content to leave it at that, for He is the one and only true judge. Our opinion is utterly without importance. "It does not concern me in the least that I be judged by you or any human tribunal; I do not even pass judgment on myself; I am not conscious of anything against me, but I do not thereby stand acquitted; the one who judges me is the Lord. Therefore, do not make any judgment before the appointed time, until the Lord comes, for he will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will manifest the motives of our hearts, and then everyone will receive praise from God (1 Cor. 4:3-5)."

Hey, Some More Real Live Book News

Diecast Dude — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 21:41:39 GMT

As mentioned the other day I'm currently working on the chapter for Nancy Jo Mann, lead singer of Barnabas. I've been slowed because of having to spend time correcting the transcript, which is horrid (should have paid way more attention when I first got it last year -- ah well). I hope to be done with that in the next couple of days, at which point I can get back into writing the story. It's a powerful one; I'm so thankful it worked out that I could include it in the book.

Podcast Update -- June 24, 2008

Diecast Dude — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 22:53:16 GMT

This week's podcast is a bit different in that there is no middle segment. I'm trying to shorten it a bit, but not at the expense of leaving out topics of discussion. Let me know what you think of the format change.

You can listen to the podcast here, and/or if you have iTunes you can subscribe to it here. As always, please let me know what you think, and thanks.

Here's the text for this week's edition.

And welcome to this week's edition of the Diecast Dude's (Mostly) NASCAR Positively Persnickety Podcast. It is Tuesday June the twenty-fourth 2008, and this week I'll be getting into the subject of what's going on when you're wondering what's going on.

But first, a look back at the weekend that was in NASCAR.

Going into this past weekend, I was quite hopeful that the Sprint Cup race out my way at Infineon Raceway would serve as a catalyst to renew my enthusiasm for if not all things NASCAR, at least enough to wake me from this borderline coma the season thus far has put me in. My thought process was the road course format would lend itself handily to side-stepping if not necessarily alleviating most everything that has vexed the new car this year, and with the number of talented road course drivers on hand would bring about an exciting, competitive race.

Oh foolish man that I am. The only difference between this race and most every other race this year was the element of turning right in addition to left. Other than that, it was the same old same old. Get out front, stay out front. No one ever challenging for the lead. Some shuffling back in the pack, but in terms of genuine racing action that was it. Oh what a thrill.

Although I am anything but a Kyle Busch fan, I do give credit where credit is due. He worked his way through the field to advance forward, took advantage of the first caution during the race to put himself up front, and then kept himself there for the remainder of the event. Yes he's a talented driver, etc etc etc yatta yatta yatta. There. Said it. Moving on.

This season is getting very old very quickly. NASCAR's inability to admit the new car needs a ton of work before it's genuinely competitive is self-destruction at its most apparent... that is, apparent to all except NASCAR itself. The fan's patience is running out. The entire reason we fell in love with the sport in the first place is because of the action on the track, with a multitude of cars in genuine contention for the win, swapping places and making moves. We're not getting that now. We're not getting anything now other than a case of wondering who we can sue to get those three to four hours back we just spent watching a high-speed parade. It's ridiculous. And if it keeps up, it will be very, very easy to dump this sport and find something else to do with our spare time.

A triple shot before the next segment.

Part of this process I've been going through the past few weeks, where I've been working toward moving ahead to where I need to be by getting back to fundamentals, has involved a fair amount of introspection. In the course of doing so, I've noticed that something which has been plaguing me for literally decades is still unfortunately hanging around. Namely, my ability to psyche myself out. It's sort of the flip side of outsmarting yourself. I don't know how much this applies to other people, but my guess is I'm not the only person who gets themselves in this situation.

The number of head trips and guilt trips we subject ourselves to is rather alarming. A lot of them are illustrated in some fashion in the Bible. There's the leper syndrome, where we walk around telling ourselves and others and for that matter God to stay away because we're unclean and unworthy. There's the Pharisee syndrome, where we tell God how thankful we are to Him about how great we are and we're so much better than others, even others who believe as we do yet obviously aren't all that because they're messed up or are messing up. And there's the Jonah syndrome, where we're so consumed with fury against God over something in our lives we run as fast as we can from Him, ignoring and/or denying Him in our lives and the lives of others. Indulge me while I look at that for a bit.

Most of us have at least some familiarity with the story of Jonah and the whale. God told Jonah to go to a city called Nineveh, which was part of Assyria which was an enemy of Israel, and lay down the law: repent and turn away from its evil or God would clean its clock. Jonah immediately got going... in the other direction as he boarded a ship headed elsewhere. A violent storm came up. The sailors looked at each other and said okay, which one of us brought this on. Jonah 'fessed up and said my bad; throw me overboard and you'll be fine. The sailors thought this would be a rather rude way to treat a passenger and tried to keep going, but the storm got worse. Finally deciding better thee than me, they threw Jonah overboard and the storm went away. Meanwhile, God brought a whole new meaning to the term sink or swim by sending a giant fish -- the Bible doesn't actually say it was a whale -- to swallow Jonah and continue on its merry way... which just "happened" to be in the direction of Nineveh.

Jonah, who was not three French fries short of a Happy Meal, took stock of the situation and said okay Lord, You've got my attention. God told the fish since there wasn't any Pepto Bismol on hand, get rid of that upset stomach the old-fashioned way, which it did by Technicolor burping Jonah on shore. God then said let's try this again, shall we; go to Nineveh and preach how it has two options: repent from and just say no to its wickedness, or else I'll go Godzilla paying Tokyo a social call on the place. Jonah got wise and did as he was told. And the people of Nineveh listened, from its king on down. They changed their ways. Everything's good, right?

Wrong. Jonah was madder than a Hillary Clinton devotee at the end of this year's primaries. God asked Jonah if he felt there was justification for the attitude. Jonah replied yes. "You saved them, Lord, just like I knew you would!" Bit of an odd mindset there, but remember Nineveh was Israel's enemy. Jonah was worked up enough about being the one who had led Nineveh to repentance, thus in his mind guaranteeing the destruction of Israel, he literally wanted to die.

Jonah set up camp outside of Nineveh and waited to see if perhaps God was just joshing about that whole walk away from the dark side or you're toast deal. He wasn't. Nineveh wasn't reduced to baby powder. Meanwhile, Jonah felt like baking powder because of the heat, so God grew a vine to give him some shade. However, the next day God killed off the vine. Then, seemingly adding insult to injury God asked Jonah if he felt he had a right to be angry about the vine. You bet, replied Jonah. And then God got in the last word.

"Jonah," He said, "you've gotten worked up over the vine that you had nothing to do with. You didn't plant it, you didn't make it grow, and you didn't kill it off. Now Nineveh is so huge it has more than a hundred and twenty thousand people that don't know their left hand from their right. (A side note here: I suspect he's referring to children, not that there were that many people in the city that dumb. But I digress.) It's also loaded with innocent animals. Don't you think that's something I have the right to get worked up over?" And that's where the story ends.

It's hard to genuinely fault Jonah for feeling the way he did. He saw things in the immediate and the present as they related to him and to his people. Nineveh is the enemy of my people. The last thing I want is for it to remain standing. Because what happens if they do, and then decide to march their armies into Israel? Which they eventually did. So he had a point.

But so did God.

It's natural for us to wonder why something is happening to us. It's just as natural for us to get angry over the dark times that happen to us. We don't deserve them, or at least we don't believe so. And it's no stretch to be upset when happy times come to someone else while we're either stuck in neutral or facing troubles. We wonder how does the other person rate. How come they get to fly high when we're just as if not more deserving, yet here we are up to our neck in problems or issues or fears or grief. It's not fair.

Which is quite true, actually. It's not.

So where's the love of God in all this? For that matter, where is God in all this? Is there a God in all this? Is there a God at all?

To which the answer is, is there a particular reason we see ourselves as the be-all and end-all of the universe?

It doesn't mean we're not loved when we get slapped around. It does mean there is evil and death in this world, and both will come calling. There's no escaping that. Not if you're human, anyway.

It doesn't mean we're not loved when we don't see the big picture and how everything fits together. It does mean Someone does, and They know the pain involved because They too felt the pain when They were on this earth.

It doesn't mean God doesn't love us because as we see it He takes care of someone else better than He takes care of us. It does mean He does take care of us whether we see it that way or not.

It doesn't mean when I'm where I am lately, which is stressed out and burned out and taking it out via assorted rants and rampages, He's turned His back on me or is tying me to the whipping post because I deserve thirty-nine lashes. It does mean I should stop allowing it and the circumstances causing it to consume me, and that instead I should listen to the music.

The sweet, sweet music that sings of a Love so far beyond all this garbage on earth it can't be described in mere words.

Only heard.

Let's hear it together.

That concludes this week's podcast. Take care, everyone, and we'll get together again next week.