Chief O’Hallorhan: We’ll go down by rope. We’re gonna rappel down to 65, get on top of that elevator, use it as an exit.
Young Fireman: I can’t make it. I’ll fall. I know I’ll fall.
Chief O’Hallorhan: Okay. Then you better go first. That way when you fall, you won’t take any of us with you.

— The Towering Inferno

There are really two ways to fail:  lack of ability and failure to try.

If someone lacks the ability to do a task, it can usually be corrected through coaching, and practice.  “I can’t” normally equates to “I can’t, yet.”  This may even be a case where someone cannot imagine doing something, so they assume that they aren’t able to do it.  When pressed either by gentle coaching or harsh reality, these people always seem shocked when they realize the extent of their capabilities.  That’s probably where the “New Shooter Grin” comes from.  True, there are limits to what anyone can do, no matter how much they learn and train, but those limits are usually beyond where they will normally have to perform, be it on a playing field, in a job, or in a classroom.  Their limits are usually far beyond what they themselves thought they were.

The second way to fail, failure to try, is infuriating to me.  In this case “I can’t” means “I don’t want to.”  I’m not talking about the occasional urge to sleep in or go fishing on a nice day.  I’m talking about the lifelong habit of letting others carry the weight, or at most, doing the minimum to get by.

These people usually need a psychological slap to get them moving, and telling them exactly how they will fit into a larger plan will sometimes do that.  That goes double when you explain how their self-confessed inability is going to delegate them to something unpleasant.   It’s amazing how quickly someone grows an ability when lack of it makes their lives harder.  “I can’t” becomes “I’ll try”, which in turn becomes “This sucks.  What do I have to do to get a better life?”

Of course, there will always be those who find a way to live with being on the bottom rung, but then again, the world needs tackling dummies and impact pads too.

Marshal William T. O’Neil: How deep are you in?
Security Sergeant Montone: Not too deep… I’m paid to look the other way.
Marshal William T. O’Neil: I get it. You don’t do anything bad, you just don’t do anything good, right? 

— Outland

It’s time to pick sides.  It’s time to decide with whom you will stand when the votes are counted.  It’s time to force the same kind of commitment on the part of our political candidates.

Primaries for the election this fall are starting.  Will you side with the status quo, or will you help us go another way?  Even if you’re fed up with both major parties, you need to find candidates you can support.

I’m becoming a single issue voter.   My issue is this:  Do you trust the average American to be responsible for his or her own life?  It could be how you look at drug policy, or free speech, or abortion, or gun rights, or whatever, but if you’re not ready to loosen the grip of the government around our necks, then you don’t get my vote.

We all need to figure out what’s important to us and then vote for the people who share those values.  We’ve been compromising long enough.  We’ve gone too long electing and re-electing people who just want to profit from the public trough.  It’s time to put people with steel in their spines and fire in their eyes into office.

I took a course in art last winter. I learnt the difference between a fine oil painting, and a mechanical thing, like a photograph. The photograph shows only the reality. The painting shows not only the reality, but the dream behind it. It’s our dreams, doctor, that carry us on. They separate us from the beasts. I wouldn’t want to go on living if I thought it was all just eating, and sleeping, and taking my clothes off, I mean putting them on… — Harvey

Americans, at least, seem fascinated in knowing what the world of the prophets looked like.  We spend hours reading and watching material about how Jesus grew up.  It seems that every week there is a new scroll or tablet or tomb that is found that gives us a little more insight into the world of the Bible. There are advertisements for trips to the Holy Land that regularly show up in my email and websites.  “Walk in the footsteps of Jesus!”  “See what Moses saw!”.  A lot of people want to be baptized in the River Jordan or say a prayer at the Wailing Wall.  It seems that we think that by learning about the ancient world and experiencing it ourselves, we will know more about our faith.

I think that such things are interesting, but they miss the point.

Faith does not require evidence, or at least not the kind of evidence you dig up out of a hillside in Israel.  Archeologists could dig up a Roman record that read “On the third day of Venus, in the month of April, on the orders of Pontius Pilate, governor of Judea, a Jewish preacher and carpenter from Galilee, going by the name of Jesus, was crucified in Jerusalem for the crimes of treason and blasphemy.”, and it wouldn’t change my beliefs at all.

My faith is the faith that I gained through reading the Scripture, through talking about it with elders and friends, and through what I have seen and done in life.  Relics and ancient buildings are nothing more than curiosities for me.  They don’t hurt, but neither do they help.  I don’t need anything concrete upon which to base something that is anything but concrete.

As we celebrate the rebirth of Jesus Christ today, we must remember that the important thing is not the rock that was rolled away from his tomb, rather it is the act of its being moved.  The hill on which he died and the tomb in which he lay are nothing but places.  The shroud he wore is nothing but linen.  The reason he died and the reason he rose again is what we need to concentrate on.

After all, the wool from the black sheep is just as warm. — The Sound of Music

This weekend, Christians are celebrating Easter.  This is the season where we remember that God walks among us, and that no matter how sinful we become, we can always be redeemed.  Christ did not come only for those who already believed.  He also came for those whose hearts are as black as night.  He also came for those whose hearts are torn with grief and anger.  He came for all of us.

I think this is one of the places where the modern church fails on a regular basis.  At several times in my life, I have known people who were basically shunned from their communities of faith.  One was a young woman who became pregnant out of wedlock.  Another was a man who got in trouble with the law.  Several have been entire families that have, for one reason or another, split up.  In these cases, their church families turned their backs on them, viewing their situations as too outside the tenets of the faith to allow them to remain.  In most cases, this was done with the approval of the minister, if not their active participation.

I’m as guilty of this as the next guy.  A lot of the things I write about here include the phrase “get a rope” and other condemnations of others’ bad acts.  I forget the teachings of the Gospel when I do so, and I need to do better.  To do anything less is a repudiation of Christ’s message of love and forgiveness.  Yes, the sinner needs to acknowledge their guilt and make amends, but the church should be there to help them find their way back into the fold.  Once that is accomplished, the sin should be forgiven and forgotten.

The homeless drunk has as much place in the church as the living saint in her Easter bonnet.  The murderer in prison deserves forgiveness as much as I do for my transgressions.  We have to remember that Christ comes to us as a shepherd in search of lost sheep, and it doesn’t matter to him what color the lamb is.  It shouldn’t matter to any of us, either.

Mary Ellison: You must be mad.
Major John Smith: If I wasn’t, what would I be doing in this job?

— Where Eagles Dare

It’s a rare and lucky person who has the perfect job.  I’ve been that guy for short stretches of my life, when I had to marvel at the fact that someone was paying me to do something.  Most of the time, I haven’t been that fortunate.

Don’t get me wrong. I have a good job, and I work with a great group of people.  I just wouldn’t do it for free, and it makes me crazy on occasion.

I guess the trick is to find that one or two facets of your job that interest you, and try to emphasize those as much as you can in your day.  If I can’t find those, or if they come around too rarely, I start looking for another job.  Life’s too short to let the day job take away the pleasure of the other half of your life.

Young Gru: Look, Mom, I drew a picture of me landing on the moon.
Gru’s Mom: Eh.
Young Gru: Look, Mom, I made a prototype of a rocket out of macaroni.
Gru’s Mom: Eh.
Young Gru: Look, Mom, I built a real rocket based on the macaroni prototype.
[Fires rocket]
Gru’s Mom: [holds her breath in amazement for a moment] … Eh.

— Despicable Me

Every parent has been there.  You’re trying to do something, and the kid wants your attention.  You may be enjoying your first quiet moment in weeks, and suddenly some child wants you to look at something.  You want nothing more than to ignore them or tell them to be quiet and go away.  You’ve worked hard.  You have things to do.  You deserve some peace.

But you can’t, or at least you shouldn’t.  I’m as guilty of this as the next dad, but you need to listen to your kids.  You need to look at what they think is important, because it tells them that they’re important.  You can’t make them feel like there is anything more important than them.  I’ve been that dad, and the results suck.

My chest hairs are tingling! Something’s wrong. — Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs

Listen to your instincts.  That little voice that says “Look over your shoulder” or “Don’t go in there” just might be your brain picking up on something that you’re not consciously seeing.  That tingling sensation on the back of your neck just might be the difference between “Whew, that was close!” and “Ma’am, I’m sorry to bring you this news…”.

It’s giving life that counts. Until you’re ready for it, all the rest is just a big fraud. All the crazy haircuts in the world won’t keep it turning. Life isn’t a love in, it’s the dishes and the orthodontist and the shoe repairman and… ground round instead of roast beef. And I’ll tell you something else: it isn’t going to a bed with a man that proves you’re in love with him; it’s getting up in the morning and facing the drab, miserable, wonderful everyday world with him that counts. — Yours, Mine, and Ours

Last night, Irish Woman and I showed each other just how much in love we are.  We didn’t go out to a nice restaurant, nor were there gifts exchanged.  We showed our love by getting out of bed at 3 in the morning, going out in 25 degree weather, and getting a sprinkler to work so that our fruit trees wouldn’t get burnt by the frost and freeze.  We had finished our evening by turning on heat lamps and firing up charcoal fires under them at 11 PM.  You never know how much you love a woman until you’re on your knees in frozen grass, feeling around in the dark for a black plastic cap to a sprinkler so that she will have home-grown cherries and peaches this summer.  She put up with my grumbling and growling and worked just as hard as I did because she knows just how important having fresh fruit in the house is to me.*

Love is not Romeo and Juliet.  That was infatuation.  Same goes for Titanic and most of the other ways in which romantic love is portrayed in movies, plays, and TV.  Love is getting up at 2 in the morning and feeding the baby so that your wife can get some rest.  Love is making a hot meal and bringing it to your husband while he’s working outside in an ice storm.  Love is The Gift of the Magi, where both of you sacrifice for the benefit of the other.

If only I’d learned that lesson earlier in life.

*I’m a lace curtain Norwegian.  We have fruit in the house even when nobody is sick.

• From the “How Dare You!?” Department – Congressional busybodies are taking the electronic cigarette industry to task for having the gall to actually advertise their product.  They also take issue with the way in which e-cigarette manufacturers tailor their product to the tastes of their customers, particularly where they make it taste like something that people want to taste.  Their assertion is that all this is done as part of some nefarious scheme to get kids hooked on tobacco and take us back to the bad old days where a carton of Lucky Strikes was shipped, at no cost, to each and every school child in America.  How dare these companies try to advertise a product to young adults that might get them hooked on nicotine, but probably won’t give them emphysema or cancer?  I mean, yes, prohibition of tobacco, in any form, would work so well, and making its use a taboo will make 19 year olds not want to have anything to do with it.  Bravo for those brave Congresscritters who took time out of their busy days to demand that something be done for the just-a-little-too-old-to-be-children.  Of course, it has to be couched in terms of protecting underage youths, but until we find a way to keep a 17-year-old from not seeing an ad while allowing an 18-year-old to see it, we just have to get rid of all advertising of potentially harmful products, such as tobacco, alcohol, fast food, fast cars, and politicians.
• From the “In A Mirror Darkly” Department – Remember my screed a couple of days ago about us needing more taxes so that people might get outraged and demand reform?  This article over at the New Republic looks at the same issue from the other side of the political coin.
• From the “Facepalm” Department – A local Louisville florist is selling prom corsages that come with a gift certificate for Kentucky Fried Chicken so that the young man can hang a leg or a wing on the corsage before he pins it to his date’s breast.  You know, I remember my little girl sitting at the dinner table just the other night, wistfully speaking of her dream of going to prom or the JROTC ball smelling of fried chicken and having grease stains on her gown.  Something tells me that if a boy ever tries to hang one of these on Girlie Bear, he’s going to need me to protect him from her, rather than the other way around.
• From the “Overreaction” Department – Several children in Chicago were rushed to the hospital recently when a restaurant mistakenly served them alcohol spiked punch.  It appears that after the staff realized their mistake, they swooped in and retrieved the children’s cups.  The parents then became irate, and this apparently freaked out the kids enough that several of them became physically ill.  Because, you know, a couple of ounces of Hawaiian Punch with a bit of rum in it is enough to dissolve the kids from the inside out, and the only antidote is to induce vomiting through parental outrage.  And to think, my father took my young life in his hands on multiple occasions by letting me take sips of his beer, even to the point that I took a nice, long nap afterward.  My thoughts and prayers are with these kids, because with parents that uptight, they’re going to need them.
• From the “Outrage” Department – Two men in California have been accused of raping and killing at least four women while wearing GPS tracking bracelets and being under supervision of the state for previous sexual crimes.  Gee, it’s almost as if sex offenders can’t be rehabilitated and will tend to re-offend if let loose as wolves among the sheep.  The really outrageous thing here is that both men were arrested in 2012 after cutting off their ankle bracelets so they could party in Las Vegas.  I guess putting a little bracelet on someone and making them check in every 30 days isn’t as effective as 10 feet of good hemp rope.
• From the “Indefensible” Department – A miscreant in Chicago is in custody after he pointed a gun at people in a store over the sales tax on his soda.  Apparently Captain Success feels that he should be exempt from taxes and tried to make his point with a .22 semi-automatic.  Personally, I’m insulted by his actions, and if he’s guilty, I hope he’s put away for a very long time.  The constitutional right to keep and bear arms does not mean he has the right to use a gun to be a dickhead.  We’ve made a lot of progress in the past few years, but jackasses like this make things hard for everyone, especially gun owners in Illinois.  Oh, and unless that thing had a happy switch, someone needs to get in touch with the journalists in this case and ask them to stop calling what he pulled out of his waistband a “submachine gun”.

Jake: How often does the train go by?
Elwood: So often that you won’t even notice it.

— The Blues Brothers

It’s amazing what you can get used to, even to the point of being hostile to something that is arguably better.  My favorite car ever was a 1991 two-door Dodge Shadow, with a little four-cylinder engine and a five speed manual.  It had absolutely no get up and go, topped out at 92 miles an hour (clocked by Arizona state trooper one beautiful afternoon in 1994), leaked more fluids than I do, and went through clutch cables at the same rate that I go underwear.  But I loved that car, and always regret trading it in.

The same can go for guns.  My favorite gun is my Mosin Nagant 91/30.  It’s heavy, was invented before the advent of ergonomics, kicks like a mule, and has to be slapped around like it owes me money to cycle.  It’s also so much fun to shoot that I’d probably part with 3/4 of my gun collection before I’d consider parting with it.

Familiarity breeds acceptance.  Acceptance breeds comfort.  Comfort breeds affection.