Screaming In A Disco

I hate blogging on politics. Not because I don't like to, but because sometimes I feel like I'm trying to score a conversational point while hanging out at a loud disco in the Meatpacking District on the West Side of Manhattan. Or, worse still, I get a severe case of apatheticus dormus -- which is Tex Avery/Chuck Jones Latin for I couldn't give a shit -- and shut my mouth because I sense the screaming is pointless.

There's also the fact that many of my blogging friends do a much better job of opining on politics than I ever could, and I would much rather be the guy running crowd control trying to get everyone to pipe down and listen to my peeps who can be found screaming loudly here, here, and here....and here.

But please don't mistake my intentional silence for apathy because I am very politically minded and capable of speaking to any issue on the table if and when I feel the need to do so.

For example, I live in Peter T. King's district. Good ol' Pete is that arrogant Republican congressman whose crawled so far up Chimply McFlightsuit's ass since 9/11 that you have to wonder if he fears being digested with what the President had for lunch yesterday. I get hives just seeing his fat-headed, smug fucking face as he spouts such memorable gems as:

"There are too many mosques in this country"

And my favorite:

"The world is safer today because of George Bush, 'cause of Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya."

What the fuck?

The sad fact is that people in Pete's district, indeed my very neighbors, eat this nonsense up like those dried up microwaved potato skins they serve at the Applebees at the strip mall on Sunrise Highway near Wellwood Avenue. And why? Because he tells his constituents -- largely white, wealthy or upper middle-class, Wall Street whoring, NY Post readers -- what they want to hear. This is not to say that Pete King isn't vulnerable. Long Island is ground zero for the recent home mortgage market collapse and many people here are trying to figure out what to do now that their house payments have shot through the roof. Yet, he's said nary a word about it. Here's a guy who should be standing by his constituents and doing his all to help them out, and all he's got is:

"The world is safer today because of George Bush, 'cause of Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya."

Again I ask, what the fuck?

Why Pete King gets elected year after year is because the people who vote for him, vote from their fears and not from their interests. Ask anyone in these parts what are the three biggest issues affecting Long Islanders and they'll likely say high taxes, illegal immigrants and safety from terrorism. Seriously.

Who wants higher taxes? I don't. Who wants illegal immigrants flooding our schools and hospitals? Not me. Who wants lax security at airports and other transportation hubs?

But as you scan our local newspaper articles and newscasts, you would be hard pressed to find a politician willing to discuss these issues rationally, especially Pete King. It's much easier for him to get people riled up about this minority aid program or that after school program because it's an easy and convenient scapegoat to explain their ballooning taxes. However, when you lift the veil off this ugly bride you'll the problem of high taxes is not the useful program that keeps a school open a few extra hours for working parents, but the excessive duplication of services that exists on Long Island. People are leaving in this area in droves for a for a low-tax McMansion in North and South Carolina simply because it's cheaper to live there. We're collapsing so quickly from the weight of the numerous fire, garbage collection, school tax districts that consolidating these services is not just a pie-in-the-sky idea but an urgent necessity. What does Pete King have to say about this? Anyone care to guess?

"There are too many mosques in this country"

And then there's the illegal immigration issue. It's died down somewhat in the MSM, but in these parts it's flaming hotter than an August day down at Robert Moses Beach. Pete King is never short on words to lather up his already xenophobic constituency on this point. "Build a wall," Pete King says. "Enforce existing immigration laws and kick them (read those spics) out." Yet, no one has the balls to ask him about the mass of Eastern European immigrants flooding these parts. I've taken to calling the town of Copaigue Polish town because everywhere you look another Polish deli opens up. But this "problem" of illegal immigration is a manageable one. We need to accommodate these people and help become contributing -- meaning tax paying -- members of society and not the social pariahs as they're now characterized. Once they understand that services such as schools and hospitals cost money to run and that all working stiffs in these parts need to kick in money to make it work for all, they are very willing to become tax-paying Americans. What does Pete King have to say?

"Build a wall! Kick them out!"

And what about 9/11? People in these parts also have some irrational and not-so-irrational fears about terrorism. So much so that many are willing to give up some constitutionally granted personal freedoms so that can ride with the delusion that their next ride on the LIRR to Penn Station will be a safe one. And the source of this worry? Why it's Pete King, of course. He can't help but constantly remind them of 9/11 and all the associated fear that comes with it. People in these parts are rightfully spooked by what happened six years ago because many good people -- some of them my friends -- lost their lives that day just for showing up on time for work. I know some who have been so scarred by what happened that day that they refuse to work in NYC again. Kids still have nightmares about this, including my youngest son who stops dead in his tracks whenever a 9/11 documentary is on TV. Pete King knows this fear all too well and plays this cheap piano like a virtuoso.

Trust me when I tell you that I have tried to engage people in my town about these issues on many occasions and have gotten nowhere. I even have a brother who has bought into the Pete King mantra, and all I get from him and my neighbors is that strange, queer look that asks "Are you fucking crazy?"

Perhaps I am because out in these parts, speaking rationally about the issues of the day is like screaming in a disco. It really is.

Mrs. Lillian Carroll and The Bitch Slap That Changed Everything

The Set Up
I was a bit of an uppity kid when I was in the fourth grade. Well, I'd like to think I was. Truth is I was kid with a serious booger problem who didn't know that the sleeves on his uniform blazer were not hankies. I was a very active kid into all sorts of sports and my favorite time of day was the school yard time we used to get before school started and during lunch recess. I was what most teachers would label today as having a touch of ADD.

That school year of 1972-73, Mrs. Lillian Carroll was my teacher. This was our class's second tour of duty with this Cuban comadre (a Spanish word loosely synonymous with the French salutation for a married or older womam -- Madame) who married a gringito, moved to Woodside and spawned some really good looking kids. We had Mrs. Carroll as our second grade teacher, too, but my vague recollection of that stint was that she was alot nicer the first time around.

I'll say this for the woman. She had a breaking point. But despite the fact that corporal punishment in Catholic schools was standard operating procedure for dealing with uppities like me, she never hit me or any of my classmates for getting out of line. Oh no. She had two of the greatest weapons a teacher could ever have in the days before Prozac -- a Rolodex with our parent's work numbers and the ability to speak fluent Spanish.

The Players
You've already met Mrs. Carroll, but I don't think I've ever spoken of my mother in this blog and it's high time I did. She is a saint. She bore my father seven children, six of them boys, and still managed to hold down a full time job and get dinner ready and help with homework. We were poor growing up in our household, but we were rarely in want of much, particularly love.

But as many of the bloggers I converse with who are parents can attest, we become very different people when our kids get uppity. I know I do and I know my mother did too.

If you looked at them Mrs. Carroll and my mom together, you could swear that they were sisters. They were short, petitie, hispanic women possessed of a great patience, a long memory for indiscretions, and an indominable force of will. They even pronounced my full, three word name in slow shrill tones when they were angry with me. And, like I said, they both spoke spanish, and in that same Caribbean island dialect so prevalent in Loisaida. We didn't take el autobús to school, we took la guagua!!!!!

Again, I never saw Mrs. Carroll ever strike anyone, let alone her students, but Mom on the other hand possessed one of the greatest right hands ever given a female pugilist. In her heyday, she probably would have knocked Layla Ali on her ass. She could slap teeth from your mouth if she wanted to. No kidding.

The Story
One day in the Spring of 1973, the weather was warm, the windows of our ancient building were widen open, and having no desire to sit in a classroom, I, young master Spartacus decided to get uppity. This wasn't you're normal stay-after-school class of uppity. Oh no. I decided to go for broke. I wanted to be the new Richard Oliver whose nick name was Wally, but should have been trouble. Wally was a bully and a jokester all wrapped into one evil package. I hated the kid's guts at times, but envied the brashness of his uppitiness and thought I could top him.

Mrs. Carroll: Spartacus, please take your seat.

Me: And what if I don't?

Class: Oooooooohhhhhh.

MC: (rolling her eyes) Mr. Spartacus, I do not have time for thees. Please take your seat so that we can get on with this lesson.

Me: And what if I don't? What if I just want to stand?

MC: Don't test me. I will make you stay after class.

The Class: Ooooooooohhhhhhhh!!!!!

Me: Okay. The I'll stay.

MC: Just for that you get detention. Now sit down.

Me: No.

MC: That's two detentions. Please sit down. (Her voice now agitated).

Me: NO.

MC: Okay, have it your way.

Mrs. Carroll walked to the adjoining room where she asked Mrs. Hurd, the 3rd grade teacher to keep an eye on us. Little did I know that she was making her way to the principal's office to call my Mom. I was completely unaware of this development, nor had I anticipated it. Most 4th graders are really stupid that way and I was giddy from the class's adulation for having stood up to Mrs. Carroll. Or was it adulation? Maybe they were staring at me for the idiot that I really was. I would soon find out.

About 2 minutes later. Mrs. Carroll returned and completely ignored my presence and began her lesson. About 1o minutes later there was my Mom hanging outside the classroom door standing in her white nurse's aid uniform. She rushed over from her job working in the OB-GYN clinic at Gouveneur Hospital on Madison Street to take care of business. Mrs. Carroll excused herself and stepped out of the class and spoke to my Mom in that fluent Spanish of hers. In another 2 minutes, I was standing before the court of inquiry that was my mother and Mrs. Carroll. Lillian tried to recuse herself from the scene but my mother would hear nothing of it.

(This dialog was all in Spanish - the preferred language of really angry hispanic mothers)

Mom: (To MC) Stay. Please. I insist. (To Me) Son, is this true? Were you acting up in class to your teacher?

Me: Ummmmm. Ahhhhhh...

Before the lame excuse could form in my glottal muscles, that mighty right hand of hers, in the form of an open palm "bitch" slap cut right across my left cheek. Not once. Not twice. But several well-placed bitch slaps caught me square on the jaw.


Down goes Spartacus! Down goes Spartacus!


Mom: How dare you disrespect you teacher like that. Who do you think you are? Your father's going to hear about this. We don't disrespect our elders in this family. I taught you better than that. I'm so ashamed and you should be, too.

Me: (Sobbing) Please Mom, don't tell Dad. (Sob) I'm sorry. I won't do it again. (Sob) Mrs. Carroll, I'm really sorry. (Sob)

Mom: (To Mrs. Carroll) Take him back to class. If he acts up again, call me, and I'll handle him. I'm so sorry he troubled you.

Mrs. Carroll: (Barely surpressing a shit eating grin) Thank you for stopping by Mrs. Spartacus. I am grateful.

As I walked into class there was an audible gasp at the sight of my very red cheek. One my best friends swore he saw finger marks! The gasp soon turned to snickering, which a day later turned into outright mockery and laughter. They knew what the fates had in store for me. They just wanted to see the train wreck that was about to happen. They got their money's worth.

Richard Oliver, suprisingly, was quite empathetic and understanding. A veteran of several bitch slaps himself, he put his arm around my shoulder as if to say "Welcome to the club, kid." I looked at him with eyes that said, "thanks but no thanks." Clearly, the memory of my mother's bitch slap weighed heavily on my mind and I have never forgotten it.

Epilogue
There were other bitch slaps in my future, many occurred long after I was out of grade school and entered the dreaded teen years; the age where uppitiness is pandemic. But one happened in Christmas 1973. My Titi (aunt) Elsie (my mother's sister) came bearing gifts for her beloved sobrina y sobrinos. My gift was a plain, white, short-sleeved school shirt. My reaction was priceless.

Me: A shirt! I don't want a shirt!

Slap! Slap! Slap!
Slap! Slap! Slap!
Slap! Slap! Slap!
Slap! Slap! Slap!

Down goes Spartacus! Down goes Spartacus!

We Are The Mohawks

I've been playing softball for as long as I can remember. I've played on some great teams and on some stinkers, but none quite like the Mohawks.

I wouldn't exactly call us The Yankees of the Lindenhurst Men's 35 and over softball league. Shit, I wouldn't even call us The Mets. But we are a team that was started in the garage of my best friend Dave, and despite the setbacks we've endured, somehow this team managed to stick together through seven seasons, three different uniforms, about 50 different players, and lots and lots of beer.

Dave and I started this team back in 2001 because we wanted to hook up with guys we knew could play ball and wouldn't mind our company, either. The name of the team had nothing to do with the Native American tribe, however. I feel some shame in saying this, but our team name was drawn from an Opie & Anthony radio bit where callers had to guess how a woman's genitalia was coiffed. Because this was a family league, we could not call ourselves the Two-Fingered Mohawks, so we shortened the name and it stuck. I never said we were saints. We're Mohawks.


There were very few rules on the Mohawks. All we ever asked of our players is to show up on time, play hard, have fun and don't be a dick. We usually carry anywhere between 15 to 18 players to accommodate for vacations and work. But carrying that many players meant that sometimes, some players would have to take a seat. In our league, only 10 players can take the field, but a total of 12 players can bat, and by league rule every player that shows up must play at least one game. Still we had a few who didn't get this concept and complained. They either didn't get it or would not buy into the Mohawks ethos. The rules applied to everyone no matter how good you were. It was the manager's job to enforce these rules. I can honestly say that rules enforcement was one of the parts of managing I enjoyed the least, despite there being so few.

We took a break in 2006 because I just got sick of running the team, and no one stepped up to keep it going. But Dave took over the reins this year because...well....we just could not stand to be away from the ballfield or play for a team other than one named the Mohawks. So, we pulled a Jay-Z, reformed the team, and told the league, "We're back, baby! Ungh! Ungh!"

The pics you see here is from our last game this season, which took place two Saturdays ago. We were bounced out of the playoffs by the what had been the worst team in the league, and I can't say we didn't deserve it. We didn't play terribly well.

But no one was particularly down about this fact that we lost. Quite the contrary. It's not like we never lost a game before, and it's more than likely we'll lose a few more. But as the beer flowed and players told their jokes and stories, it became clear to me why I come back to the team year after year; that somehow this team was something necessary. If not to get our fat asses some exercise, then to reaffirm our need for friendship and camaraderie that we would not get by just being fathers and husbands. We are the Mohawks -- a fraternity of imperfect men who simply want to play a game for the fun of it.

The Fairy Princess

Meet my brother George. He's no longer with us. He passed on more than 10 years ago from AIDS. While he was not the only brother I lost to this terrible illness -- my oldest brother Gus died in 1995 from it -- George's death completely fucked me up.

You all know that I am no longer a praying man, and I have little use for the supernatural or ghosts or what have you, but there back then when I swore that I saw his apparition in the months immediately after his death. Maybe it was him or maybe it was my mind wishing he was alive. But there he was.

What made George so special in my eyes was that he was the one brother I could turn to when we needed a bit of good advice and a kick in the ass. He got me my first real job during my senior year in HS, where I actually made an hourly wage. Then, when I dropped out of college to become a rock star (really.. I did), he reached out to his then-boyfriend, Tony, who got me a job delivering mail at Price Waterhouse. You see, even when I didn't have my own best interest at heart he did.

But George had a side to him that very few people outside my family knew about. He was The Fairy Princess. He would take in this persona whenever he wanted to goof around with me and my little sister, Margie and we would eat this shit up, the way my youngest eats up Sponge Bob Squarepants. It was this "happy character" that kept me going all those years after his loss. But it wasn't until late 2005 that I finally got around to writing his poem. Please forgive the hokeyness of what's to follow, and allow me the indulgence of this ode.


Fairy Princess

I’m flying back to when
We cowered ‘neath our blankets
In advent of your morning arrival;
To our housing-green room,
When your linen bedsheet gown
And knee-high tubes socks announced,
“I’m the Fairy Princess. LA!!!!”

How naive we were to think
That our concealments
Would not reveal our secret location.
But you, dear fairy princess
Knew too well the happy sounds
Of muffled shrieks and giggles
And raised your wood-spoon wand anyway!

“LA!!! You are a mangy cat!
And, LA!, you are an ugly toad!
And if you tell mom or pop
I’ll turn you both to unmovable stones,
When you least expect it”,
You deliver in a sinister shrill
As only our Fairy Princess can.

But your threats were idle
And all your magic useless
To the power of Margie’s mind.
“A toad?” we say,
“We’ll give you warts!”
“A mangy cat, huh?”
Xing! Xing! “Fear my claws!”

Sadly, the day came when
The spoon lost its magic;
When the childhood disease of
Compounding days and years
Dragged us to another realm
Away from your magnificent spells,
Into a cubicle of boring responsibility.

In that grown-up confinement
Of living, dying, and taxes
There is nary a shock nor temblor
Nor the sparkle of pixied illusion
To provide us with happy diversions
From all that is
In our mundane, work-a-day world.

Will you join me stranger?
Come and see my housing-green hideaway,
Where my dear Fairy Princess
Still waves his wood spoon
In flowing linen robes
And knee-high tube socks.
You just may become something else.

Saturday In The Park....

As one the legion who ride the Long Island Railroad into New York City everyday, I hardly count my daily trips to the Isle of Manhattan a visit. I emerge from the depths of Pennsylvania Station on the 7th Avenue side, and take as direct a path as the street lights allow to my office on Madison Avenue & 27th Street.

But then there are those trips into Manhattan that are simply special. Anyone whose lived in Manhattan as I have (and not "on" it) knows that there's more to this tiny island than the Disney wonderland that is Times Square. No. Outside the realm of gridded streets and avenues; outside the steel and glass boxed office buildings, are real neighborhoods, each with a unique character.

I am a son of the East Village. I grew up in a six story New York City Housing Authority building on 6th Street and Avenue D. But it's been so many years since I've lived in that "barrio", and so much has changed that I've developed this new found appreciation for the island I used to call home.

Despite the mega-construction that seems to be happening everywhere now, there are still many beautiful places in "The City" to visit and enjoy. This weekend, the Spartacus clan got to spend some time with my oldest brother and his family. Armed with a digital camera and a desire to "document" this event, I give you a glimpse of our Saturday afternoon in Morningside Heights.


Here's a couple of views from the promenade in Riverside Park near 116th Street.













The kids also had time to monkey around on rings inside and the park, and on the traffic lights outside of it.......




















But there's more to this part of The City than just a places to monkey around. There is also some beautiful pre-war apartment architecture along Claremont Avenue,










and some fine sidewalk art that is hard not to photograph.










We even spotted some "wild life" that is native to this concrete jungle -- a rare sighting of a Manhattan tree mouse!

I know I skipped over the Riverside Church, Grant's Tomb, Columbia University's quad, and some other well-known places. I did that on purpose because there's a bus that leaves from Times Square that''' show you all that and more.

What I wanted to tell you all here is that I am a native New Yorker who is lost in the 'burbs of LI. But, more importantly, for one beautiful afternoon in September, I got to go home..... Peace!

Oh Brother Redux

While I was having a conversation with my brother tonight, he stopped me dead in my tracks when he said he thanked god for helping him through these times. Despite the theological truce I called with Fran I Am (great blog BTW...she's a spiritual pip), I could not help but lay into him about the absurdity of such beliefs.

I won't go into it here. You've heard the story before. But being the little brother to this older brother, I could not help but think of that little kid, Warren Wallace, in those Geico car insurance commercials. This one is my favorite:



Rest assured. However spirited I was in refuting his god arguments, the story didn't end with me putting him in a wall. I couldn't. He was on the phone.

Oh Brother

I spoke to my older brother today. It's been a while since he and I hooked up in a long conversation and, in my feeble minded way, for very good reason.

You see my very married older brother decided to have an affair, and when his wife found out about it and freaked, he came to me for advice on what his next move should be. Here's the abridged version of how that conversation went.

Older Brother: Yo, I need to talk to you man.

Me: Sure. Come on in. Take a seat. Something to drink?

OB: Nah, I'm good bro....(Long pause). I guess there's no other way to say this, but M. and I are having marriage problems.

Me: Really? Why? What happened?

OB: She caught me cheating on her.

Me: Oh.

OB: Yeah, so she told me to leave and I have nowhere to go.

Me: And you want me to put you up.

OB: Well, yeah.

Me: Well, you can stay here a few days but I think you should try and work things out with M. after you've both cooled off a bit.

OB: Oh. I was hoping I could hang here a few weeks.

Me: A few weeks! I don't think so man. E. has to have a say in this too and I don't think she'll go for that.

(Another long pause)

Me: Do this. Go back home and try and work things out with M. If that doesn't work talk to Mom, explain your situation and ask her if you could stay there. She won't say no to you.

OB: Okay. Maybe I'll do that.

Me: Sorry I couldn't help you out man. But it's not entirely my decision to make.

Later that evening, I told E. about our conversation and felt good about my decision to send him to our mother's place in NJ. For that rare moment, I had correctly anticipated what E.'s reaction to the situation would be. What I didn't know was that OB would completely sell me down the river to his wife, essentially telling her that I was the one who told him to go to our mother's place.

What a dick!

This happened early on in the summer and the situation remained static until recently when I went to jam some music with My Oldest Brother. MOB told me that OB was trying to reconcile with his wife; that his affair did not work out (didn't see that one coming...snark), and that he was seeing a therapist.

Me: Is he REALLY? Well, that's a step in the right direction.

MOB: Yeah it is. I'm so glad, too. You should call him.

Me: I don't think so, bro. I'm still kind of pissed.

MOB: You need to let that shit go.

Me: He needs to apologize.

And this is how the conversation went MOB and others with whom I shared the OB story. Somehow, my justifiable rage at OB got turned around. I really didn't want to call him. But in the end, knowing OB as I do, and that I love him despite his faults and mine...I called.

It was a wonderful conversation that covered a gamut of issues we never really covered before. For one, he talked openly about the petty grudges he's held all his life and how they consumed him. He talked about his relationship with the "other" woman and how it was as much about getting laid as it was filling a personal void that his wife was incapable of filling; and that in the end the "other woman" could not replace what 18 years of marriage had built.

At one point, he was prattling on about how he loves therapy and how it's working out well for him, and on and on and on....That's when I stopped him and asked him if he realized how much he was dominating the conversation. I followed up and asked him if it was his natural ebullience that caused him to be so dominant.

It made him pause, which was a rarity for OB, but I took it as my que to make a point. I asked him the questions not to stop him in his tracks to get a word in edge-wise. I just wanted to make him aware of a trait that pretty much everyone in the Spartacus clan, including my own kids to a degree, possesses. You see, I'm not the only one who can't seem to shut the fuck up. He understood where I was coming from and it made me glad to hear him say that. At that point, I even offered to join in on one of his therapy sessions to give the counselor some depth on this issue of ours, all in the hopes of making his situation better. That story will have to wait for a future post.

Finally, I also expressed how pissed I was at him this summer over how things shook out. He apologized and I let it go, but not so much because I'm a good guy and don't hold grudges. That's just not true at all. After all, OB and I are cut from the same cloth. No. I let it go because he's my brother and I love him, and despite all that goes on between us, he will always be my brother.

It's like that Hollies song from the 60's. He Ain't Heavy. He's My Brother.

Oh brother...that was just too corny.

Time to shut the fuck up.

A Real Man Weighs in on the Britney Spears Issue

Freddy Mercury -- Real man. Awesome singer. One of my personal heroes.

Lately, there has been much broadcast and written on Britney Spears' embarrassing performance at the MTV Awards recently. Much of what I heard and read spent lots of time both lionizing and defending Miss Spears' "weighty" appearance.

As I was taking my usual lunch time constitutional through the Flat Iron district of Manhattan a few moments ago, it hit me -- Why not let my hero Freddy Mercury do my talking from the grave. With that, I give you this:



Enjoy!

Shameless Plug for a Talented Family Member

Hey all you cool cats out there in blogsphere. If you're into contemporary jazz, like to attend live performances, and are in the NYC area, please, please, please check out my brother-in-law, David Mullen and his group Butta. He's got as new CD out, cuts from which can be heard on WBLS-FM (107.5) and CD 101.9-FM (101.9).



His website can be reached by clicking on the photo, pasted here. Please make sure that you have a Flash Player plugin installed and allowed to function in your browser. Otherwise, you will not be able to hear the clips from his CD that play as you browse the site.)

Thanks for your support and for supporting live music everywhere.

How I Became an Atheist (Part 2)

About a week after I posted the essay in Part 1, I received an encouraging comment from a blogger named Ran Selig, whose site is no longer up. But in his comments, he gave me a suggested reading list that included Sam Harris's "The End of Faith." It is still the most impassioned and well-reasoned tome on atheism I've ever read.

Since then, I've gone through several works on atheism including those of Richard Dawkins, Daniel Dennett, and Christopher Hitchens. I've even read Spencer Wells (also an atheist) -- who wrote a "genetic" history of humankind -- to gain as much knowledge about who I am and where I came from. But these modern scientists, philosophers and writers are only reviving a secular torch that throughout the years has been carried by the likes of Thomas Paine, Robert Green Ingersoll, Bertrand Russell and Madalyn Murray O'Hair.

The title of the post below is called "Once You Start Down This Road...", which I think is still quite fitting, even now, because it has not been an easy one to walk. There have been times when I have found myself preaching this new choice, and for this, I ask forgiveness of those folks who have suffered my brand of "apologetics" these past few years.

11 October 2004

At Ran Selig's suggestion, I've begun reading "The End of Faith" by Sam Harris and I was amazed at how quickly it "comes out fighting." I'm serious, Mr. Harris gets right to the point of his book regarding the dangers of being faithful to the "untestable" notions purported as truth by all of the world's religions. As I have not completed the book, I will refrain from offering my own biased review of Mr. Harris' work, but it's a difficult book to put down.



And, yet, it's an easy book to put down for those who have not the will nor capacity to confront their own beliefs. More often than not, I find myself positioning my hand so that it obscures the title of the book as I read it on the train or in the cafeteria at lunch out of fear of some religious wacko making a comment or, worse yet, making a physical threat. Such are the times that even in as liberal and "secular" a city as New York, one can feel threatened by the mere reading of a book. But "The End of Faith" is no ordinary book and I feel it will take an extraordinary amount of courage on my part to continue reading it.



I admit it. I'm somewhat of a coward. Always have been. I'd more than likely keep my mouth shut than confront a bully -- be it a physical or intellectual one. I'd rather hunker down and let the storm die down than stand up to it. I wish I weren't like that, but I'm like most people of modest means -- you really can't change the size of your cock. I've learned to live with my shortcomings (or is that "short-cummings"?? ha ha) and fight only those battles worth fighting. I fear that Mr. Harris' book will be my new "field of battle."



As the title of my post states, once you start down the road of reason, you cannot return to being blindly faithful. There is no doubt in my mind that I will lose the company of some friends and, even, family members for holding onto this "faithless" position, yet, I'm determined to see this through. I give a great deal of credit to my wife for allowing me to express my point of view to her. On more than one occasion she's asked me "how do you go from being a faithful church-goer one day to being an atheist the next?" My answer to her is that the metamorphosis was not as sudden as it appears -- that my learning and life experience has led me to this point.



I assured her that I would neither interfere with nor discourage the "religious" education of our children because I feel that it's a rite of passage they must endure. As much as I want to raise my children in a house of reason, I have chosen to continue their exposure to religion because it arms them with the information they'll need to eventually discard it. Again, I have nothing but high praise for my wife on this issue because she respects my position on this matter. While she cannot fathom a life without faith, she also knows that at some point our children will eventually make their own decision on this. If nothing else, I've convinced my wife to let our children "reason" this issue out for themselves.



As for me, I'm too far down this road to turn back. It's very bumpy and difficult to manage and I have no doubt that in the coming months and years, it's bound to get even harder. It's not like I can keep this a secret. I must live and make my living in the same world as everyone else and soon enough, I will be called out on my beliefs or, in this case, the lack thereof. All I ask of my wife, my family, and my friends is that my lack of faith does not make me love them any less than I did when I was faithful; that morality and goodness are not commodities exclusive to the God they worship or religion they follow. I simply have chosen a different path, one based on knowledge and reason, and that they should take comfort in knowing that this is what makes me happy.

Influenza

It's only anger in my veins
An influenza of the spirit
That swells like a river
That rips apart a rural town
After a prolonged torrential rain.

How I fear the power it brings.
I watch as my capillaries
Ripple 'neath my cyanized skin
So thin, throbbing with each terrible pulse
And seeping rivulets of brine.

My vision goes colorless
And is blinded to all nuance.
My jaw clamps tight,
Allowing only terse, seething utterances
To escape my lips.

My notions become absolutes,
Determined like a rogue virus,
Tearing through body and brain
Displacing the pure oxygen of reason
With the putrid mucous of hate.

But nature has her way
Of debilitating my wrath,
Forcing me back to the mean,
Tethering the rampant germ
From its untenable extreme.

Though this strain my re-assort
And lurk in the mire of my pity,
The sequela it leaves behind
Are the lost friends, family, and lovers
Who did well to avoid my plague.

How I Became An Atheist (Part 1)

After writing my last post and possibly pissing off a few people in the process, I felt it necessary to explain the genesis of my atheism. Below is a post from an previous blog I used to write. Not that anyone cares, but hopefully, it provides some context to how I came discard 35 years of Roman Catholic indoctrination. I've seen moved beyond the agnosticism expressed below and I'm very comfortable with the idea that we are born, live, die and turn to dust. Anything after that is speculation without proof. But I digress.

First posted 6 October 2004:

I was raised as a Roman Catholic and to this day continue to attend regular mass with my wife and kids, out of respect for my wife's wishes to raise our children in this manner. I have no objection to this religious "training", but understand that I am no longer of that "faith".


My skepticism began when I learned that a large number of priests were found to have molested children in their care. The Church, in trying to avoid the scandal, tried to cover it up by paying off the injured parties and reassigning the "accused" clergy where they sometimes were left to commit the same crime again. Yet, in nearly every mass I've been to in the last 10+ years, I've heard homily after homily spout on about the evils of abortion, secular humanism, technology, you name it. It stinks of hypocrisy that this "so-called" moral authority can damn acts contrary to their doctrine on one hand, yet offer safe haven for criminals in their midst and call it an act of salvation. I suppose it's not just a human trait to protect your own but a "divine" one as well. But my skepticism runs deeper than that.


Not long after the RC Church scandal broke wide open here in the US, I read a book titled "Guns, Germs and Steel" by Jared Diamond which offered a different take on world history and how we as the highest order of mammals evolved to the present day. This book does not simply espouse unsupported theories, but attempts to explain our development as humans relative to the development world at large. He offered cogent explanations on the the development of plants as food, animal use in farming, languages, trade routes, the rise of political entities and centers of power. This all begs the question: Was the Earth really created by ONE God in seven days as the Judeo-Christian scriptures state? Or is Mr. Diamond right in stating that the earth evolved over tens of thousands of years and that the relative evolution of different cultures rests largely on the ecological, biological, and geological fortunes placed before them?


Finally, what cemented my skepticism was a book titled "Galileo's Mistake" by Wade Rowland. Again, another learned piece which revisits Galileo's trial in 1633 and explodes certain myths about what really happened. But make no mistake, this book is also a defense of the Church and laments the loss of spiritualism (Christian spiritualism, that is) in modern society. While I agree with Mr. Rowland that Galileo made a political mistake in challenging the Church's beliefs (afterall, at the time, heresy was a crime that carried life-threatening consequences), where I disagree with Mr. Rowland is with his notion that we've lost something spiritual by embracing the pursuit of knowledge through science. What I find particularly troubling is that he spent so much time refuting human-kind's evolution towards logical thinking while quoting the same people who developed the model. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Ptolemy, Aquinas, Descartes, Kant, all great philosophers and thinkers on whose thoughts rest the so-called Great Western Tradition relied heavily on logic to develop their views regardless of whether the topic was scientific or spiritual in nature. So I ask, was it wrong for Galileo to question the RC Church's notions of heaven and earth, given the evidence revealed to him with the telescopes he developed by accident? Was it not the logical learning embedded in the Western Tradition that made his discoveries and inventions possible? Or was it God-given and, therefore, lacking the all-knowing divine truth purported to belong solely to God? In practical terms, even if you assume that God is all-powerful and divine, why couldn't the Church reconcile it's views with Galileo's evidence instead of Galileo recanting his Copernican beliefs before the Inquisition? Could it have been God's intention to reveal this new information to Galileo, therefore making the RC Church's position wrong?


I don't portend to know the answers. I don't know who's right and who's wrong. Science or Faith? Christianity or Islam? God or no God? But I've pondered this for a long time and have come to the conclusion that my "faith" in anything must be supported by proof in the same way that all living beings are supported with energy. I simply cannot accept the notion that we simply live, die, and turn to dust as science would have it. Something sparked the energy that now gives us this consciousness we call life and I believe that this energy is inextinguishable. Likewise, I cannot blindly accept the notion that my "soul", which I believe this energy to be, is not really mine; that it is given to me by a "God" and can be taken away by a "God" lest I come to terms with this so-called authority. I am simply unable to suspend my notion of disbelief in this manner.


Let's face it, our capacity to reason as humans is limited by what we see, hear, feel and think. While it's true that people of science have revealed a great many discoveries to human-kind, many people of Godly faith have given us "revelations", made without prior knowledge or observation, that we still hold to be true. So on the question of who's universal view is right and wrong, I don't know. But I do know that I have allowed my mind to accept all forms of knowledge and reasoning, and made it my mission to reconcile that information with what I've known to be true in order to make a judgment for myself on whether to have faith in it or not. If I have taken the wrong track, if all I ever need is to have faith in God despite what I see, hear, feel and think, then I'll accept whatever consequence that follows when I die. Until then, I can only see, hear, feel and think my way through this earthly existence....

Atheism and Houswork -- Is there a link?

Lately, I've trying to figure out new and creative ways to get out of going to church. I am an atheist and E. knows this, but because she is still an Xtian, and a Catholic one at that, I promised her that I would help maintain the the ruse with our kids that I am still a believer.

So what's an un-believer to do? Housework.

As we were sitting at the dining room table noshing on our usual Sunday morning breakfast of bagels and coffee (regular), E. asked me if I was going to church this morning. The conversation ran something like this:

E.: You going to church?

Me: Uh....no.

E. (Letting out an exasperated breath): So what are you gonna do?

Me: Um....aahhhh....I think I'm going to clean the bathrooms!

E.: Really! That's great! I was going to do that today when I got home.

Me: Yeah. They were looking kind of skanky and you've been busting your ass around here lately. I figured...

E.: You sure. I don't mind if you just stayed home.

She saw right through it and played along with me, but you have this little scene was played out for the sake of the kids. It was kind of like keeping up the whole Santa Claus ruse, except that this one has to be played out week after week until I come clean.

Who knew being an atheist would be so much work? Yeesh. The blogger MeThink did when she* posted this little ditty last month.

“I Do” not do housework!– say husbands nationwide

* - no gender noted in profile, but this it is my belief that this is something only a woman would post.


If only for a day, I feel that I can count myself amongst those husbands who is bucking the trend because I spent the better part of the morning scrubbing toilets and tubs and wet-swiff mopping the tile floors. But I wasn't finished there. My hands still smelling of Comet detergent, I went to the basement to get the steam vacuum to clean the carpet in our living room that is Chester's favorite place to recline and chew his rawhide.


I'm no housework slouch. But when you expand the definition of what is and isn't housework, I could point to many "big ticket" projects that were the product of my imagination and doing. This is one such shining example.
Cleaning bathrooms and rugs, cleaning dishes or doing laundry pale in comparison to mammoth effort it took to refinish my deck last year, but I admit, this is not an every day job. Dishes get used everyday as do the bathrooms and clothes, all of which require a daily effort to keep clean; and all of which E. ensures gets done with her effort and her force of will. She doesn't pray for a miracle to keep our clean, she busts her ass.

Listen, I know that I'm not as active or as willing a participant in the daily housework as I should be. In that sense I bow to E. and all she does to make our house livable. I just can't go to church anymore, and if I want to keep up the "believer" ruse for the kids, I think I'll be visiting the bathrooms for alot more than just showering or taking huge dumps.

This is my dilemma -- come clean or clean house. What's an un-believer to do?

A Shout Out To Kelso

Everyone has friends in the blogsphere and fiends of friends. This morning, one of my friends -- DCup of Politits -- clued me in on another blogger friend of hers, Kelso of Kelso's Nuts. As you'll see he is an American ex-pat living in Panama who has alot of good insights into the state of American politics. He knows how the rest of the world sees us. But he's there and not here, which means my shout out to him has to travel many, many miles of category 5, 5e, 6 and fiber-optic cable.



Enjoy it bro!

Everything Can Be Explained With a Beatles Song

Please consider the following points before you check out the YouTube video I linked to this post:

Anyone who knows me knows that I am Beatles fan; even moreso a John Lennon fan.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am in an indescribable state of malaise over everything in my universe.
Politics? I've checked out. Suburban living? Need I make snarky comment to describe what's wrong with it? Respect for religious moderates? Sam Harris is right.

All matters great and small from politics to parental cruelty can be explained in a Beatles song, even the way I'm feeling. Here ya go folks. Spartacus is S'ing TFU....

Spartacus Dishes

A fellow blogger and new friend, Franny, from over at FranIam has decided to interview me. By way of full disclosure, I have to say I asked for this. Really I did. I was reading the interview that Dr. Monkey von Monkerstein of Monkey Muck gave my dear Franny and felt a bit left out. So here I am, a fresh set of questions before me, just because I could not shut the fuck up......

What inspired you to begin blogging and to choose the name Spartacus?
I could lie and say that I was inspired by the disgraced Roman Legionnaire who led a slave revolt against Julius Caesar that was unsparingly crushed. After all, every one loves the underdog, right? But that would be wrong. There's no special significance to the name. I took it from the movie because it's an all-time fave of mine, Kirk Douglas is one of my favorite actors, and I needed something memorable with which to comment online.

However, here are some names that were also given brief consideration: Mick-lovin-spic; McBoriqua; Patatas-hervidos (boiled potatoes). However, none of these do well to describe what happens to a Puerto Rican who fell hook, line and sinker in love with a beautiful Irish lass back in 1988. So, I dropped the whole idea and went with Spartacus. (No...I'm Spartacus! No...I'm Spartacus!!!!!) The tattoo on my avatar is the symbol of my love for E.

Tito Puente - yes or no. In either case, explain why.
Yes and no.

Yes, because the man was, without a doubt, one of the greatest latino jazz musicians to walk this earth. The depth and the sheer size of the musical legacy he left behind makes me proud to be a fellow 'Rican. His influence can still be heard in many of today's salseros.

But no, and sadly no, because while I could hear his music blare from my bedroom window in the projects, and was very excited the day he came to my neighborhood to perform live at a block party, I was too smitten with my oldest brother's interest in sex, drugs and rock and roll. I was a front row witness when Gus first played Lou Reed, the Rolling Stones and David Bowie on my dad's combo TV-Stereo set and I simply caught that bug. By the time I got to my senior year at Aviation High School in 1981, and got past my very brief fascination with disco, I was living in Queens, and too far into The Ramones, The Police, The Sex Pistols, The Clash to have any time for my father's music. I know it's a sad comparison to make with the King of timbales, but at 17, I wasn't really thinking in terms of the cultural significance of my choice.

I regret it now and I've been getting back into it lately, ever since I got the XM satellite radio hooked up to my ride. But I've got a long way to go before I can ever consider myself an aficionado. No time better than the present.


You meet George Bush in an elevator and you have 45 seconds to say whatever you want. What happens?
First, I would push the emergency stop button on the car we are riding in and deliver the biggest ass-whooping that faux-Texan, AWOL, SOB has ever experienced. While I was going thug life on his ass, I'd ask him "Where my money, bruh? I heard you been passin' mad cheddar out in crates over in Iraq and you ain't got shit for us back home? Whas wrong witchu? Whatta about NOLA mu fukka? Whatta about them kidz in uniform with bad equipment?" Then I'd bitch slap him a bit more before pulling out the emergency stop button to let the car come to a landing. I'd then surrender myself to the waiting platoon of SS agents, who would drag me to an isolated, windowless room and beat the living shit out of me. Can you tell I've imagined this scenario? The ass-kicking trade off would be well worth it.


What is the Spartacus top 10 list of important books to read?
The problem I have with this question is that for me, it's much too broad a question. Top10 list of important books? Hmm. On what topic? Religion? History. Literature? Science? Well, I'm going to take liberties with this one because you said I should feel free to change or add a question. So here goes Spartacus's list of the top 10 list of important books I've read since 9/11, in no particular order:

Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies – Jared Diamond

Grand Illusion: The Untold Story of Rudy Giuliani and 9/11 – Wayne Barrett, Marty Collins

The Great Influenza: The Epic Story of the Deadliest Plague In History – John M. Barry

Paris 1919: Six Months That Changed the World – Margaret MacMillan

Downtown: My Manhattan – Pete Hammil

I'm a Stranger Here Myself – Bill Bryson

Truman – David McCullough

Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln – Doris Kearn Goodwin

The Journey of Man: A Genetic Odyssey – Spencer Wells

The End of Faith: Religion, Terror, and The Future of Reason – Sam Harris

Please note that this is an ever-evolving list, as I am always reading something. Ask me tomorrow and the list could change significantly.


What is the most important thing you will leave your kids, and money doesn't count. (not that I thought it would!)
Besides 23 of my best chromosomes? I think what I want to leave my kids is a sense of respect for themselves, their family, and for the world in which they live. I also want them to have a healthy sense of skepticism and to maintain their critical thinking skills. Sure, I'd like them to have fabulous careers at high-paying salaries so that they can support me and E. when we are old, decrepit septuagenarians, but I don't feel any of that is possible without showing them how to stand up and think for themselves. In the end, only they know the path to their happiness. All E. and I can give them now are the tools to get them there and a safe laboratory to help them work out their theories.

Phew! Man that was work. Great questions. Thanks for the opportunity. Peace. (Blows two-fingered kiss to the blogsphere.)

UPDATE: I changed the title of the post. I like the way this one sounds better.

What The Fuck Was I Thinking?

Last night, I endured one of the lowest moments in my life as a parent.

I took all of my kids to see Superbad last night at the nearby multiplex. I knew going in that the film was rated R, so I risked the possibility that there would be a few inappropriate scenes.

A few.

But after sitting through commercials (we now pay to see commercials at the movie theater) and the trailers, the movie came on. The opening scene is with Seth puling up to Evan's house in his Chevy/Geo Metro and honking the horn. Out comes Evan and his hot mom. Naturally, she leans over to show her cleavage, and Seth -- the ever horny teenager -- registers his interest.

You would think at that point, I would have a clue, but I press on. They've been exposed to this type of humor. After all, they saw Dodgeball, Blades of Glory, Talledega Nights, The Wedding Crashers, and You Me and Dupree. I'm thinking that this is nothing new to them.

Nothing new.

But the movie was just getting started. In all there were 186 separate uses of the word "fuck" (84 by Seth alone), not to mention countless references to the male and female reproductive organs, and scenes so scatologically inappropriate that even I was cringing. Clearly, this was a very unwise choice of movies to see.

Very unwise.

I finally decided to pull The Little One out of the theater when guests at a party Seth and Evan inadvertently crash notice a blood stain on his pants leg. Apparently, the girl he was grinding and dancing with had her little friend on his leg. That's when this little exchange took place between me and The Little One:

LO: Dad? What's so funny?

Me: You really don't want to know.

LO: No, really Dad. Did she cut him? Why is that so funny?

Me: C'mon let's go. You really shouldn't be watching this.

He walked out of the theater with me with very little protest. I left The Eldest and 13 there because they understood fully what was going on in the movie and were laughing at the parts that were supposed to be funny. For the Little One, not so funny.

I called up E. to come pick him up at the theater. She knew why, but didn't lower the hammer on me for letting the Little one go or for not choosing a more age appropriate movie. After all, Rush Hour 3 and Harry Potter 5 were playing in the same multiplex. No, I wanted to see Superbad and I wanted company. Talk about having regrets. I was besides myself with them.

While we were waiting for E. to arrive, I bent down to get face to face with him and tell him how sorry I was.

Me: I had no idea that this movie would not be good for you to watch. I should have done a better job of checking it our before letting you go. I'm sorry.

LO: It's okay Dad. I didn't really want to stay anyway. The movie was creeping me out.

I suppose I can take come solace in the fact that he knew he was watching something that isn't appropriate for a kid his age. But I took little solace in that fact. I was still left with the awful feeling that I exposed him to something I shouldn't have. I was left with that ever nagging question -- what the fuck was I thinking?