Looking for a Great Mystery / Thriller series?

Looking for a terrific new mystery / thriller series? Then check out Dan Streib's sleuth Michael Hawk. Hawk is an investigative journalist with a knack for getting the scoop. Part Anderson Cooper, part Indiana Jones, with all of James Bond’s magnetic charm, he saves the day and gets the girl in the end. http://www.amazon.com/s/?ie=UTF8&keywords=dan+streib&tag=googhydr-20&index=stripbooks&hvadid=5690793501&ref=pd_sl_3pphg98rbf_b

Wherein I’m Reminded of My Place in the World

Without a doubt, my strongest (and one of the fondest) childhood memory is the multi-sensory experience of walking through the autumn woods, trees blazing with color, leaves crunching underfoot and the sweet, earthy smell of humus filling me up. (My second strongest memory is being handed over by parents to clowns at the circus, but that’s another column.)

This week, the thermometer on our back porch topped out at 101F on Thursday. Everyone I talked with was divided between the opposing positions that we were either simply experiencing the usual late blooming “summer in Los Angeles” or it was “the catastrophic effects of global warming.”

Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn WHY it was so hot. Just that it was. In mid-October. Somewhere buried deep within my mongrelized DNA, a simple, clear message was created and distributed to my brain – Something is Wrong.

Yes, I understand much of the world exists without four distinct seasons. And since the age of fifteen, I’ve lived in every time zone in the United States, much of it out of the country’s regions that boast all four seasons. I’ve been gone long enough that it would be reasonable to expect this seasonal response to have faded. And yet, it’s stronger than ever.

Why?

Even at only eight or nine years old, autumn made clear to younger me I was connected to the earth’s – and life’s – major cycle of birth/death/renewal. While I certainly couldn’t articulate it back then, during the fall I knew I was part of something much bigger and more profound.

A ha. Methinks there’s a clue here.

Yes, I miss the season’s crisp air, the smell of leaves, and apple cider. But what’s missing during this time of year is that building urgency, the sense of needing to clean house and prepare for the coming winter. Put another way, fall was the beginning of Nature’s annual demand that we live without nice weather, longer days and an easier life. It was this demand and subsequent winter that made the beginning of spring so welcome and anticipation of summer so deeply meaningful.

I’m not going to go into the usual blather – positive or negative – about the 300+ days of sunshine here in southern California because that’s not what’s got me riled up. It’s about wanting to reestablish my personal connection with the world’s bigger rhythms.

Anyone have any good ideas?

The thought of remembering your own childhood bit too daunting today? Instead, why not read a copy of Hell House: The Awakening. It’s guaranteed escapism as its finest! That’s not enough fodder for procrastination? Then follow me and my hyperbolic tendencies on Twitter at @rbripley.

Wherein I Give You a Wedgie

Anyone else sick to death of the relentlessly unending stream of “social issues” being shoved down our throats? With the 24 / 7 / 365 election cycle there’s just to rest for the weary.

As you recall, this approach to politicking was breech-birthed back in 1994 with Newt Gingrich’s deformed brain child “Contract With America” (or as it should be called Contract ON America) that led Republicans to a sweeping mid-term victory during President Clinton’s first term. Fast-forward almost twenty years and our political discourse has virtually no substance, let alone produce substantial action. Instead, we’ve become obsessed almost solely with “social issues,” those wildly personal characteristics and decisions that, frankly, ought not to matter to one another. In truth, the Right displays more of a mental disorder about this (having spawned the Teabaggers), but those on the far left certainly aren’t innocent.

It is exhausting.

Rather than rail against this – which is as effective as using a teaspoon to remove floodwaters of say, Hurricane Katrina – instead, I think we should, in a manner of speaking, lay back and think of England.

I propose a third political party with a platform made up of only meaningless social issues and whose singular purpose to create divisiveness and intolerance. By having this party exist, those so compelled can have a legitimate and codified outlet for their ignorance, hate and foolishness.

Meanwhile, the Dems and Reps can stop pretending most of this shit actually matters, escape from their self-erected loony bin and get back to the business of doing good stuff like fixing infrastructure, creating jobs, and returning America to a country that made shit instead of acting like the massive glutton of rapacious consumption we’ve become.

This new party shall be called The Wedgies. 

And here is their proposed platform for the 2012 election.

We, the Wedgies, do hereby declare war on all of the following; we shall pursue each with the greatest vim and vigor to the ends of the earth and the end of our days, through comprehensive legislation to minimize and ostracize these people who, based on our beliefs, have wildly unimportant beliefs or characters traits but are nevertheless ruining these United States of America:

• Anyone with a tramp stamp. It’s impossible to not look like a whore with one of these and their IQ is always dips below that of a Lepidoptera.
• Redheads. For centuries these people have been proven to be evil. Let’s just make it official.
• Left-handed people. Stop trying to cultivate an aura of mystique to make up for your freakishness. Join the circus already.
• Anyone who wears clothing with writing or images on the ass. This looks absolutely moronic, even if you’re J-Lo. At the very least, get the company to pay you for advertising space.
• Hunters. Go to the fucking grocery store. Or release your own kids into the forest and track them. Two birds with one stone.
• Those who insist on using cell phones while driving, in restaurants, or while drunk. Basically, you’re just an asshole. The penalty for this should be the loss of an arm and being forced to use two cans connected by a string to communicate for the rest of your life. Besides, no one wants to talk with you.
• Athiests. We’re embarrassed for you because you can’t seem to have faith in anything bigger than your own simple ideas. And stop talking about science like it’s religion. That’s just stupid.
• Organic farmers. We know you’re out in your fields at night drowning those plants with Round Up. Stop pretending otherwise.
• The poor. You don’t pay taxes! What’s to bitch about!?
• The super-rich. You don’t pay taxes! What’s to bitch about!?
•  People who believe they’re hip and clever by peppering their sentences with unnecessary “likes,” “ums,” “rights” and then do that gratingly annoying thing where they make all of the sentences sound like questions. You are less useful than colon polyps and should be eliminated.
• NASCAR. Not only is this a colossal waste of resources and awful for the environment, car racing is the dumbest sport ever created, ranking below even competitive Jenga. Go suck Kyle Busch's tailpipe.
• Nuns. For the fashion choices. It’s 2012 for the love of pete. Go to TJ Maxx. Or Goodwill.
• “Right to Lifers” who endorse the death penalty. Generally these are the same boobs who rail against abortion and then kill doctors who perform them. There’s a major gap between their medulla oblongata and cerebellum and thus should be ignored.
• Small businesses. You will never win the battle with Economies of Scale as long as there are lobbyists, so stop cluttering up our lives, government, and legislation with your incessant whining and demands for special treatment.
• Gated community dwellers. Your perspective is too narrow to begin to describe and generally, you’re a bore. Get out of your McMansion and mingle a little. The rest of the world doesn’t have cooties.
• People who complain about receiving texted photos of someone else’s genitals. We ALL love seeing these. Especially if it’s from a celebrity. So, just enjoy it and then Tweet it to the world. Or at least blackmail the sender for some coin – cha-ching!

Do you know of another offender who should be added to the Wedgie's list? Let me know!

Thinking about how to make the country a bit too daunting to tackle today? Instead, read a copy of Hell House: The Awakening. It’s guaranteed escapism as its finest! That’s not enough fodder for procrastination? Then follow me and my hyperbolic tendencies on Twitter at @rbripley.

Wherein I Learn The Meaning of Grace

Over the past  years, I’ve been a devout follower of singer/songwriter Rosanne Cash. And I, like anyone who’s been fortunate enough to have been steeped in her amazing talent, understand the meaning of grace.

Generally speaking, I’m in awe of grace.

It’s not a trait I possess, though one I deeply admire and have been on a 25-year quest to develop in myself. And when my life is touched by grace it’s almost always profound. It sticks with me, teaches me, and incrementally opens my heart, making just a bit more room for the grace I long for.

Last week, I finally got this print, signed by Cash, framed and hung up on my office wall. It makes me happier that nearly any material possession I’ve had in my lifetime; not just because of the quote’s sentiment, which is powerful and accurate beyond measure, but because it makes me feel just a bit closer to grace.

As a little background, Rosanne Cash – daughter of the late icon Johnny Cash – was one of the most popular female country artists of the 1980’s, but walked away from a career trajectory so many people disgrace themselves to achieve, relinquishing what would have surely provided her a perennial slot on country radio. She did this in exchange for full creative freedom. That she recognized this at all is grace.

Recently, she released The Essential Rosanne Cash – thirty years after her hit “Seven Year Ache” climbed to number one. This album is a stunning, career-spanning compilation featuring 36 songs hand-selected by Cash herself.

The single “I Was Watching You” from her 2006 album Black Cadillac is one of the most exquisitely wrought songs in the modern canon. It creates one of those moments that inspires, enriches, and conveys the essence of humanity.

Of grace.

There’s a sense of humanity and, even in her darkest songs, optimism running through her work that’s a rare gift. Her ability to observe as well as understand that which makes us human and put it down in poetry and melody is a rarer gift, and one that’s inspired me over the years to continue striving for grace, which always seems just beyond my outstretched fingertips. Her music’s always on my playlist and I count on Ms. Cash and her songs to help me retain perspective, to understand my own world a bit more clearly.

But what makes Cash so remarkable is what she also does outside the studio or concert hall and how she does it. That she chose her own artistic path instead of simply following the footsteps of her father and that the music that came naturally and had already put her in the limelight was simply the tip of the iceberg.

Her longtime charitable work is as impressive, worthy, and yes, as graceful as her music. Whether its her work with Pax (founded in 1997 to bring new and effective solutions to the problem of gun violence in America – a public health crisis that claims the lives of 8 children every day), Children, Incorporated (a non-profit international organization assisting children of all races and creeds, administering to their physical, emotional, and educational needs), or SOS Children’s Villages(focuses on family-based, long-term care of children who can no longer grow up with their biological families) Cash contributes to the world in a way that’s inspiring, necessary and yes, graceful.

It’s rare that I’m moved to foist my own artistic loves upon readers, but Rosanne Cash is simply a person worth creating a connection with even if only through her music. Her music and intellect, her kindness and warmth create a beauty and sense of grace that’s rare and deeply inspiring.

And that kind of grace is something the world can never have enough of.

If you don’t know Rosanne Cash’s music, I joyfully invite you to explore.

Developing or displaying grace a bit too daunting to tackle today? Instead, read a copy of Hell House: The Awakening. It’s guaranteed escapism as its finest! That’s not enough fodder for procrastination? Then follow me and my hyperbolic tendencies on Twitter at @rbripley.

Wherein I Learn the Meaning of Forever

Forever.

When you actually think about it, forever is a concept that’s tough to get your head around. Even if you believe in an afterlife, forever is still a bit of an abstraction.

This came into startling clarity when, several weeks ago, I decided to officially break my ties with the church in which I was raised, a task that’s been cluttering my to do list for about 25 years. My decision to finally take action came after learning that I am counted as an “active” church member in statistics used by religious lobbyists in Washington.

No, thank you.

I called the church at which I was ceremoniously dunked in the water at the age of four months (and as I never let my father forget without my consent!). The priest insisted that only the bishop could judge if I genuinely intended to leave the Church, despite my assurances that my intentions were indeed such.

He explained that single acts of apostasy, heresy or schism (which can be repented) do not necessarily involve a decision to leave the Church, and so “do not in themselves constitute a formal act of defection if they are not externally concretized and manifested to the ecclesiastical authority in the required manner.” I assured him that my heresy was indeed, a formal act of defection, which would not be repented.

I then asked him to nutshell this for me.

Loosely translated, he said, I needed to write a letter to the bishop and tell him why I wanted to defect. Then in a hushed voice (I could picture him checking to make sure he was alone) he told me that I should make sure my letter was derisive of the church to ensure my intent was clear and unwavering.

I hung up, a little perplexed at having been advised by a priest to deride the church. But hey, this is the group that came up with the Crusades and transubstantiation. I shouldn’t be surprised by anything.

So, I penned my letter:

Dear Bishop Zubik,

This letter today is to inform you of my defection from the Roman Catholic Church.

I was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and baptized at a very tender age at St. Mary of the Mount without my conscious agreement. At 14, I was confirmed into the Catholic Church at St. Valentine under intolerable pressure from my family, peers, and the local priest.

As a committed atheist I strongly regret both ceremonies. I believe I was brainwashed at an early age and I am deeply grateful that I found sense, reason, and logic before the age of twenty. I now understand that formalized religion is responsible for untold suffering in the world and believe it to be the single largest impediment to humanity achieving its potential as a species.

I have made this decision – unilaterally, irrevocably, and finally – in sound mind after years of deliberation, meditation, and study. I appreciate the meaning and gravity of my decision and its ramifications, and hereby affirm that I have no desire to participate in the Catholic sacraments, including Last Rites and funeral services out of respect for those who sincerely believe in its truth and power.

I acknowledge that I make this declaration under solemn oath, being of sound mind and body, and in the presence of a witness who can testify as to the validity of this document.

Can you please tell me exactly what steps I need to take to become un-baptized and unconfirmed? I am happy to pay a small fee to have my name removed from whatever records are in existence – especially if you can provide a certificate that verifies my new non-church member status.

Thank you in advance for your time and assistance in this important matter. I look forward to receiving official confirmation of this action at your earliest convenience.

Should you require further information to proceed, please advise accordingly.

Very Truly Yours,

R.B. Ripley

I received a letter from the bishop indicating that he did, in fact, believe I had made a formal act of defection from the Catholic Church and that this act would be noted in the baptismal registry just like other “events” such as marriage (oh, the irony).

Victory!  I began to uncork the champagne. Until I read the next paragraph…

He was clear to point out that my defection was unrelated to the fact of the baptism: it was not a “de-baptism.”

Huh?

“The fact of having been baptized remains a fact, and the Catholic Church holds that baptism marks a person with a seal or character that “is an ontological and permanent bond which is not lost by reason of any act or fact of defection”.

Of course the event of being baptized took place, I don’t dispute that. There are embarrassing pictures of baby-me wearing a white dress proving it happened. Despite the fact that I reject everything the church believes, and even believe that there’s no higher power to bond me to in baptism, I am unable to undo this thing I didn’t ask for in the first place.

In other words, according to the Church, I’m stuck with them forever.

We’ll see about that.

As always, you can read my column on Fierce & Nerdy.

Planning out what to do for eternity a bit too daunting to tackle today? Instead, read a copy of Hell House: The Awakening. It’s guaranteed escapism as its finest! That’s not enough fodder for procrastination? Then follow me and my hyperbolic tendencies on Twitter.