Boko Haram

Here’s some advice for you early risers out there. Don’t start reading through news headlines before having your first cup of coffee. There I was a few days ago waiting for mine to brew, scrolling through the headlines on Drudge. I saw the big screaming letters but didn’t believe it could possibly be true. I mean, sometimes you see some weird stuff on Drudge, but this was off the chain weird. Procol Harum had gotten back together and kidnapped 300 Nigerian girls? The band that gave my generation, “A Whiter Shade of Pale” had turned into a terrorist group? For crying out loud, has the world gone mad? Then I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a freshly brewed cup of Gevalia traditional roast, sat back down and read the full story. It was actually a legit group of Muslim thugs called Boko Haram who had kidnapped 300 Nigerian girls. What a relief!

Now that Terry Reid and the boys had been exonerated, I could concentrate on the actual story. So, apparently this Boko Haram bunch is a charming collection of Muslim men who desire to create an Islamic State in Nigeria dedicated to Sharia law. Their particular area of grievance is over “western education” and the pesky western habit of allowing girls into the classroom. The preferred strategy of guys who dress like this:

 

usually involves violence of some sort, so as sure as night follows day, a girls school was attacked and nearly 300 girls disappeared. It took Hollywood and the rest of the left several days to get around to registering its outrage, being as how they were all busy turning on Donald Sterling. But once they did, their response was both powerful and profound:

The millions of Nigerians who have Twitter accounts have surely felt the love and concern of everyone from Michelle Obama to Angelina Jolie. Now that they know that Progressive America is on the case, surely it’s just a matter of time before the kidnappers are brought to justice. Once your cause has an official hash tag, you’ve hit it big. Pretty soon someone will organize a benefit concert to raise awareness. Hip Hop artists who have made millions writing lyrics that objectify woman will be transformed into concerned members of the artistic community, performing in hastily arranged 24 hour telethons dedicated to #BringBackOurGirls.

Meanwhile, Boko Haram turned up its charm offensive with the release of a new video claiming that Allah had commanded the group to sell the girls into slavery. Now, far be it from me from my position of western privilege to criticize Boko Haram or any other group caught up in the struggle against western education, but I thought that slavery was a uniquely western pathology?

The thought does occur to me that this latest tactic opens up an opportunity for Bill Gates, or Warren Buffet or even Oprah Winfrey to add a Nobel Peace Prize to their mantles. If Boko is looking to sell, why can’t one of these billionaires swoop in and offer top dollar, then grant the girls their freedom in a ceremony at the United Nations?

When I read a story like this one, it cuts into me. The thought of 300 innocent young women being held hostage in some hell-hole by the likes of Boko Haram all because they had the audacity to try to get an education is the sort of thing that takes a little bit of the life out of you. I try to imagine what it would be like if it was my daughter and I simply can’t. The very idea is preposterous to the mind of this southern man a mere 150 years after raging battles were fought not 20 miles from my house to end slavery. That’s a lot of progress in a relatively short period of time. But the Boko Harams of the world remind us that we’ve got a long way to go.

Cowardice

If I were to write a book entitled, “Fun Times with Dad at the Nursing Home” it would be a short book indeed, something like, “Famous Jewish Athletes” or “Greatest French Army Battles of World War II.” But last night, I actually got a joke out of him, a brief moment of warmth and humanity. Looking back on it, it wasn’t much of a joke, but it came from my Dad and it made him smile so it’s worth repeating.

I arrived just as the nurse was exiting his room. She had been attempting to get him to eat his dinner without much success. I took a look under the brown plastic dome and saw that he had made only a small dent into his mashed potatoes and that was about it. But in fairness to Dad, the rest of it didn’t look fit for human consumption. Since my brother had spent much of the day with him, I had learned that he had eaten two big meals earlier in the day so I wasn’t too concerned. Still, I rummaged around in his “pantry” and found some Ritz crackers with peanut butter. He ate a few of those with some grape juice and seemed content. Then I probably did the wrong thing by asking him if he wanted me to round up something sweet for dessert. He looked over at me and with a clear, relatively loud voice said, “I need all the sweetening up I can get.” Then he smiled broadly and a twinkle came to his eyes. Those nine words redeemed the entire visit.

Most of the time when I’m with Dad his eyes seem vacant, like he’s never entirely in the room with me. But last night was different. We sat and chatted back and forth about normal things and he added remarks here and there and smiled a lot. In a season of defeats, this felt like victory.

After our visit, my task was to escape the “gauntlet” that is the long hall between Dad’s room and the lobby. Tonight the halls were more full than usual, with wheelchairs filled with some of the most heart-wrenching people I’ve ever encountered. I don’t know them or their stories, but I’ve learned not to make eye-contact. To admit this shames me. I should have a bigger heart than that. But, it’s the only way I can deal with this one particular woman. During one of my first visits I noticed her bright, alert eyes. She looked younger than the rest of the patients, and there was the unmistakable evidence that she was once quite beautiful. I made the mistake of smiling at her and saying “hello.” Suddenly she shouted out with a young sounding voice, “Are you going to take me home with you?!” Temporarily horrified, I stammered, “No Ma’am, not this time.” Then she let out an anguished scream as if I had shattered what was left of her heart into a million pieces. I quickly moved along down the hall and out the door. Later I was told she asks everyone she sees this same question and responds the same way to everyone. This was supposed to make me feel better, but all it did was make me avoid eye contact with everyone in the place, probably the worst, most un-Christian coping mechanism in history. Whatever gets me down the hall in one piece is my preferred approach, an embarrassing utilitarian refutation of Christ’s command to care about the “least of these.”

Maybe I’ll get better at this. Maybe with experience, these visits will become easier. Maybe at some point I’ll be able to overcome my cowardice and look these people in the eye.   

24 Revisited

For the first time in four years, I sat down in my living room with the Fort family to watch a live episode of 24. We were all a bit nervous since it’s always difficult to revisit a fond memory from your past. Sometimes during a second look after the passage of time old shows disappoint. It’s like the time I stumbled upon a rerun of The Rifleman a couple of years ago and was dumbfounded at how horribly dull it was. But when I was 12 years old, it was riveting television. Don’t you just hate growing up?

Anyway, there we were last night in our familiar seats when the ticking sound pounded through the screen with the yellow highlighted number 24 flashing like a warning. Then the famous split screens filled with sinister men of varied ethnicities skulking about with bad intent, and just like that, I was hooked. These guys were up to no good in London’s south side and one had the feeling that pretty soon somebody was going to get spectacularly killed. Sure enough, within 5 minutes of the opening credits, there was Jack mowing these pathetic wannabees down with nothing more than his trusty Glock. But wait, just as Jack is about to wiggle off the hook, he pulls the classic bonehead mistake of NOT heading for the roof, clearly his preferred escape choice from Seasons 3,4,5,7 and 8. Something wasn’t right. Was he getting old? Had he lost a step? I blurt out instinctively, “Jack wants to be caught! It’s a setup.” When he is arrested and hauled into the London headquarters of CTU somebody else says, “Yep, Jack’s got em just where he wants em!”

And herein lies the problem with the new season of 24. After eight years, and 238 confirmed kills, 37 miraculous escapes, and 28 bullet wounds, is there anyone alive who believes that the Brits are going to be a match for Jack Bauer? If Jack could make mince meat out of the ChiComs and the Russians, not to mention everyone of Arab descent thrown at him, we’re supposed to believe he’s being put in mortal danger in a land where even the cops don’t carry guns? The scariest part of the first episode had nothing to do with any danger Jack faced, it was Chloe’s new Goth haircut and mascara.

No, the writer’s have their work cut out for them coming up with a villain sinister enough to actual threaten Jack. By hour number two, Jack has already received his first bullet and killed at least 4 lesser henchmen, and the bad guy seems to be a woman, and we all know what happened the last time a woman tried to get the drop on Jack. Yeah Nina, how did that work out for ya?

So far, the safest person to be is President Heller, since he’s the guy Jack is trying to save. The best the writer’s have right now are drones…somebody has figured out a way to commandeer American drones for nefarious purposes. Drones? That’s all you got? Flying technological wizardry armed to the teeth with precision guided missiles that can be fired from miles away at unsuspecting targets…vs. Jack Bauer?

Relax people. The President is safe.

Humor Kills

World famous smart guy, Stephen Hawking, recently opined on the subject of Artificial Intelligence. He warned that AI may end up being the very last thing human beings invent. His line of reasoning contained long run-on sentences filled with multi-syllabic scientific words which after a while I got tired of Googling. The bottom line is this, there is no way we can invent AI that won’t end up killing us all.

Meanwhile, over at the White House Correspondents Dinner last night, the very best argument for going full steam ahead with AI was on display…human intelligence. Yes, once a year, all of the very best and brightest of what Washington DC has to offer gather together in their best tuxedos and cocktail dresses for a night of self-congratulatory narcissism. The “nerd prom” has become the hottest ticket in town in recent years. Established in 1920, the WHCD used to be an event attended by the President and leading public figures from his administration along with all of the reporters assigned to cover them. It used to feature musical performances between courses from the likes of Frank Sinatra, Duke Ellington and Nat King Cole. Starting in the mid-eighties a comedian was invited to host the event and it became a roast of the current president and administration. Somewhere along the way, people from Hollywood were invited, not to perform but rather just to attend and be seen with their favorite politicians. That’s probably when all the trouble started. Now it symbolizes for many the inappropriately cozy relationship that exists between politicians and the ostensibly adversarial press.

Of course humor is a subjective business. Whenever I watch the highlights of one of these things I get the sense that the jokes flow more naturally and with more bite when the President is a Republican. This is unavoidable when one considers that all of the joke-writers and 90% of the reporters in the room didn’t vote for the guy. Humor is easier when the jokes are on someone you can’t stand. But, it takes an entirely different set of comedic skills to rip apart a man who most of you worshiped as a transcendent, messianic figure 5 short years ago. But, from what I saw, some of it was actually pretty funny.

The thing is, I would rather the whole thing just go away. At least stop flooding the place with Hollywood types. Whatever happened to the intrepid reporter speaking truth to power? Whatever happened to the free press as a fourth branch of our government that exists simply to be a thorn in the side of the powerful? I prefer the press to be made up of the sort of men and women who would never receive an invite to something like the White House Correspondents Dinner.

Maybe one day in the future there will be an artificially intelligent computer program tasked with writing the jokes for the evening. Humor kills, right?

Da Bunn

There’s a rabbit in my back yard and she is up to some serious business. She appeared about a week ago, moving slowly and cautiously about. Over the past ten years or so our backyard has not been a safe place for rabbits what with the great hulking presence of Molly patrolling the place. But now “Da Bunn” has the place to herself.

Just before the three days of rain came she was seen digging furiously, lifting her head up from the depths every thirty seconds or so to give the air a healthy sniff. Then she would continue her excavations. When the rains came she disappeared along with every other living creature in the neighborhood, which brings up an interesting question; where exactly do all of the millions of birds squirrels and rabbits go when it rains? Wherever it is, it’s a fantastic hiding place because they all vanish without a trace.

Well, yesterday Da Bunn reappeared, this time in a different section of the yard and showing not the slightest bit of interest in her hard fought hole in the ground. She picked a spot towards the back fence in the sun and sprawled out cat-like, seemingly unaware and unconcerned with her surroundings. Inasmuch, Da Bunn is the most chill rabbit of all time. We have concluded that she is “with bunny” and therefore is preparing for the blessed event in the best way she knows how and not much differently than her human counterparts…laying around waiting for something to happen.

The last time a rabbit was stupid enough to have her babies in our backyard, Molly celebrated the event by finding them, sticking her big behind in the air and tossing the terrified newborns into the air, thrilled to have found two new playmates. Soon there was blood everywhere and Molly quickly lost interest in her stiff and lifeless friends.

This time we are hoping for a happier ending!

A Bad Day

Taking care of my Dad has robbed me of the ability to write anything even vaguely interesting. Before all of this hospital/nursing home business began, I would browse through the news every morning and before long something would jump out at me that I found either hilarious or ridiculous or both. Now, I search for Linda’s latest e-mail update on how Dad’s day went. The news always seems to be bad, and after contemplating what his life has become for ten minutes, nothing in the world seems hilarious anymore.

Yesterday I saw him for the first time in three or four days, I lose count. I have had the flu and had to stay away. I didn’t think it was possible, but he looked even more weak and frail than I remembered. It was one of his bad days, a day where he sleeps all day, unable or unwilling to rouse himself. I got close to his ear and spoke loudly to him in attempt to wake him up. Although he never opened his eyes, he did acknowledge me with several grunted responses to questions I would ask. Every day isn’t like this, but these types of non-responsive days are becoming more frequent.

It’s the oddest thing. Every time I go over there, I feel the need to talk to all of his nurses, to tell them all what an incredible man Dad was, that he hasn’t always been like this. I don’t want them to think of him as a crumpled heap of weakness. I want them to know of his life and great accomplishments. Then it hits me just how ridiculous I’m being. Of course they know that he hasn’t always been like this. Everyone in these beds used to be something greater before. This is their job, to manage what is left of their lives. Still, if I had pictures with me I would be handing them out, “Here’s one of Dad with his Navy buddies holding a 12 foot python they caught inside their Quonset hut in the New Hebrides Islands during WWII,” I would say. They all need to know what kind of life he lived.

When this is all over, I am going to wipe every memory of these past 6 months out of my mind forever. I will not recall these days when I think about my Dad. I will be able to do this because as a human being I possess that most uniquely human quality…the great capacity for self-deception.