There was a time when I would have called in sick, and I would have missed it.


Last night, I stopped by a bachelor party for a friend in my bowling league. ("Bowling league?" you ask. "Yes, my bowling league." I reply, scowling a little at you for your tone). It was a surprise for him...the party, not the marriage...and it was held at a bar down on Main Street.

I'd been in a work-related-social-meeting-thing-with-beer in Newport until about 9:00 or so, and picked up a ride from a friend over the bridge into downtown. I walked into the bar on Main Street where, apparently, everybody but me knows the owner. I was greeted with a rousing chorus of guy-heeey! and about two-dozen handshake-into-hugs. (Hyphens were on sale this Wednesday, you'll have to forgive me). I've seen these guys 35 out of 52 Thursdays a year for the last two years, and they greeted me like I've been in their group of friends since high school.

In my khaki pants, blue ox-cloth button-up, and dark brown blazer, I stood among a sea of ripped jeans, pierced what-have-yous, and t-shirts with cuss words on 'em. I felt grossly out-of-place, and very naively dopey. I felt like a whitewashed condo built in the cool-brick arts district, the new Hyundai you regret trading your beat-up college car for. I really like these guys, and though they accept me as one of them, last night it was clear to me that I am still not...not because of them, but because of me.

You see, I'm still afraid of things...things I don't know much about. Included in this category are (but not limited to): poverty, manual labor, dance clubs, perpetually-hot cities, alternative sex, real illness, hard drugs, and most of Asia. And strippers.

For a long time, things like drugs and strippers and hard drinking and smoking and [insert your favorite un-Christian-sounding vice here] were just plain wrong as far as I was concerned, and therefore deserved no further exploration or learning. But I'm starting to think that's not the case. Are strippers/prostitutes/random hookups wrong? Jeez, I don't know. They're pretty damn wrong for me; I'd prefer to be married, and to be married I need to not be doing those things. Hence, wrong.

Are they wrong for everybody? I'm guessing they feel kinda gross for most of the strippers and prostitutes and people who are being used. Or not, I don't know, I'm not them. Maybe it's not wrong at all for them. Maybe the strippers who showed up at last night's bachelor party (OK, "showed up" is euphemistic...as if my friends hadn't paid hundreds of dollars for them to be there) are confident, self-actualized women who feel free to express their sexuality and make a ton of money at the same time. Again, I don't know, I'm not them.

Whether it's wrong for the strippers, or wrong for the guys who paid them to come, or the guys who stayed to watch, I don't know, and it's not the point. I hope all had fun, and that my buddy felt well-loved by his friends as he got ready to get married. I like him, and I want him to be happy. The point is that, a few years ago, I wouldn't have gone down there to begin with. For me, as ridiculous as it may sound, even going to the bar on Main Street to meet up with a bunch of guys having a raucous bachelor party was pretty risky...pretty scary. It's not my world...at least, it never has been. But I've been afraid of things for a long time, and while it may have saved me from doing things I might later regret; I've also missed a lot of good learning experiences...and I regret that, too.

I think I made a good choice last night. I stopped in and drank with these guys until the strippers showed up, then I took off. I wished them a great evening, gave 'em a goodbye-man-hug, and headed off. That was probably a really good choice for me. [Again: married and happy]. I'm proud of the way I was raised, and I'm proud that I keep to one woman. At the same time, I'm proud that I went down there. I stretched myself a little, and in some ways I aspire to be a little more like them. Without judgement, without condemnation...and in spite of the fear of the unknown that would have prompted both...I went down there to an unfamiliar place and a more unfamiliar situation to celebrate with my friend.

I hope everyone had a good time last night...the guys, the strippers, the bartenders. I hope all wrapped up well, and I'm looking forward to seeing everyone again next Thursday. And when I do, I'm going to go in knowing these guys just a little better; and, more importantly, knowing a little more about the world.

That's just slightly less to be scared of, and that's good.

Peace,
Justin

It's not often that American Idol gets profound.

But tonight, somehow, it got there.

The picture you're looking at is a guy named Jonathon. Jonathon is, without a doubt, mentally retarded. I don't mean that as a rude figure of speech...he actually was mentally retarded. Jonathon tried out to be the next American Idol.

He was horrible.

But...

Jeez, I can't help it, I was really touched. Jonathon could barely put a sentence together...he was awkward, overweight, and sung very poorly...but he was so excited. He really believed he could do it. Like, not in a manic "I'm so hot, I'm 'bout it, so step off" kind of way...like in a "why couldn't I do it?" kind of way. It had never really occured to him that he couldn't do it.

Something tells me that his parents and family told him to go do it, and that something was a big poster he brought with him that said "Go Jonathon!" and "Follow Your Dreams!" He made friends with the very creepy-looking guy next to him, and the two of them, in all of their ignorance and total lack of self-awareness, supported each other through the whole waiting, auditioning, and failure process.

They hugged each other before they went in. They listened intently to the door as the other one sung poorly for the judges. They encouraged each other as they walked out without a gold slip. They railed against the judges together, and told each other that they would make it.

It was sad, and it was beautiful. I got sad because some people are mentally retarded, and I got sad because I wonder what it would be like to have friendship like that. Seriously. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it was pretty incredible. It was pure love...simple, stupid, and kind of perfect. It's probably most what friendship should look like, at its very best.

I'm not going to write more about that. But if you get a chance, watch it.

Peace,
Justin

A murderer of millions was killed a few days ago.





My friend Keith wrote a blog entry linking to a list of 11 reasons not to support the death penalty.

I wrote a response to his post...and I wanted to post it on my blog as well.

So, here it is.

---

Keith,

I was deeply satisfied to watch Saddam Hussein face the gallows. He was hung, without ceremony or fanfare, in a building that he used as a base of operations for his genocidal regime. He is a murderer on a mass scale, and he committed unimaginable crimes for which no punishment could possibly atone. He deserved death at the hands of those he oppressed.

And yet, I believe killing Saddam Hussein was a mistake. I think the death penalty is wrong.

Throughout nearly every philosophy and idealogy that I am attracted to, the notion of killing an unarmed person who poses no threat to others is deplorable. Saddam Hussein deserves death, yes...but that justice is not ours to mete out. We should stop him, and if killing him is the only way to do that, fine. But we did it without killing him. We caught him, desheveled and dirty, hiding in a spiderhole. We disarmed him, we cut off his communications with his regime and network, and we put him in jail where he can't hurt anybody. We didn't have to kill him to neutralize him.

Killing Saddam Hussein felt very, very right. But we made a martyr of him...the same way we did to Timothy McVeigh, and to David Koresh. They can't get old and weird looking and publicly nutzo like Charlie Manson is. They die "at the hands of [insert anti-American derogatory term (i.e. - Western Devil, Great Satan, etc.) here]," and it gives them an immortality that growing old and batty wouldn't. Dying by noose in the prime of your megalomaniacal tyranny is romantic and strong; dying of bladder cancer in your late 80's isn't.

I read a bumper sticker a while back that I liked. It said, "Why are we killing people who kill people to show other people that killing people is wrong?"

I wanted Saddam to die, because it makes me feel better. But I think it's the wrong choice.

Peace,
Justin