This letter below was written by my father, James M. Couts, two years ago, addressed to the church council, of which he was a member. Before writing the letter, he was a Lutheran Minister for 28-years, and now runs the largest rural summer-feeding program in the United States.

He was born ouside of Mansfield, Ohio, the youngest of six children, to one of the poorest families in the state. He didn’t have electricity until age 12, when nearly everyone he knew already had a line connected. He is white.

I post this today, because I believe it explains a perspective rarely taken into consideration in today’s Jeremiah Wright-driven politics–and politics-driven religion. Also, I hope it sheds some light on the theological camp from which Rev. Wright was preaching; he was preaching from God’s side, not America’s.

Enough with my blathering, here’s the letter:

Flags or No Flags; a Biblical Perspective

Biblically, I believe this issue is easy to resolve. God does not recognize flags and Worship should help us see the world as God sees it. But congregations and members often have strong feelings of nationalism and patriotism as well as a desire to honor troops, past and present. While these feelings should be respected the New Testament witness must take precedent. That witness is clear, that God sent his Son into the world with the specific intent to eliminate divisions of race, culture, and national boundaries.

The Old Testament witness presents Israel as God’s instrument to unite the world under His reign. But the New Testament declares that the New Israel is the Church and the Church is, by definition, Catholic, universal.

Let’s revue the basics. Galatians 3:27ff: “As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is no longer Jew or Greek, slave or free, there is no longer male or female; for all of you are one in Christ.” That verse summarizes a significant portion of the New Testament witness, namely, Christians are called to break down the barriers that divide races, cultures, and nations.

In preparation for his public ministry, Jesus’ resolve was tested in the desert. Luke 4:5ff: “Then the devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. And the devil said to him, ‘To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours.’” Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only Him.’” All three synoptic Gospels include this passage. It rests at the heart of understanding Christ’s mission in the world.

Two points are important regarding this temptation: First, Jesus refused the offer because taking power and exercising it as head of state was counter productive to His mission to unify the world. Second, the devil was able to offer all the kingdoms of the world because they belong to him. The world’s governments, like all human institutions, are bound to sin and should never be elevated to a status beyond what God assigned to them. The principle role assigned to government is to keep order; without government, in a world of sin, chaos reigns.

But governments, all governments, sooner or later, will act in an unjust manner requiring Christians to resist injustice and to help bring the nation to repentance. Refer to Romans 13 and then to Revelation 18 at this point. These two chapters draw opposite conclusions. Romans presents a positive view of Church/State relations because it was written in 45 AD when there was little conflict between the Church and Rome. Revelation 18 the Church is called to pray for the total destruction of the Roman government because it was written late in the 1st century when mass persecution was taking place.

When the Church and State share a common understanding it is to be celebrated. But the Church remains loyal to its Lord at ALL times. Matthew, Mark, and Luke (The Synoptic Gospels) are all clear that governments, when acting in a just manner, are part of God’s plan, but that the Church must always view government with skepticism, i.e., as a part of a sinful world. The Church is often warned to never become too closely allied with any one government or nation. The Gospel of John is even more clear. Chapters 18 and 19 in John’s Gospel are critically important. (the entire Gospel is worth studying)

I’ve chosen just a couple very important incidents. John 18 and 19 describes the trial of Jesus before Pilate, the Roman governor. “Don’t you know I have the power to crucify you or to set you free,” Pilate asked. (John 19:8ff) I suspect he was offering Jesus a way out of this predicament by playing to Pilate’s sense of power. He wanted Jesus to say something like; “You’re right Pilate. You do have this power and I appreciate all you’re doing for me. Set me free I will be a loyal follower.” Instead, Jesus’ response sealed his fate; “you have no power over me whatsoever except that which has been given to you by God….” (Dumbest thing you could ever say to a politician.)

A few verses later describes an incident that Christians should burn in their hearts and minds and should always remember whenever we are tempted to place flags in Church. Pilate was quite angry with the leaders of the Jewish people who put him in the uncomfortable position of having to crucify Jesus. Even Pilate’s wife had warned him not to compromise his leadership by giving in to their unjust demands.

But Pilate couldn’t get himself out of the dilemma so he made the accusers pay dearly. (Read John 19:12ff to get the full impact.) After several attempts to set Jesus free, Pilate finally felt he had no choice so he presented him to the accusers, “Here is your king!” Pilate announced. “Crucify Him!” they shouted. “Crucify your king?” Pilate asked. (He was setting them up.) “WE HAVE NO KING BUT THE EMPORER!” they declared. Pilate got what he wanted.

They humiliated themselves, compromising their fundamental belief that God and God alone is their ruler. They inflicted this humiliation on themselves just so Pilate would carry out their dirty deed.
Every government, sooner or later, will demand loyalty from its citizens in a situation that requires Christians to compromise their beliefs to satisfy those demands. Sometimes it comes in extreme forms such as when Hitler demanded that every Lutheran Church in Germany place the Nazi flag in sanctuaries. That historical moment is extremely important to Lutherans.

During the 1930’s, perhaps even the smallest resistance might have prevented the Holocaust. Instead Luther’s Birthday was celebrated on November 9, 1938 by reading anti-Semitic passages from his sermons. After worship Lutherans charged into the streets smashing windows. 1668 Jewish business were destroyed, over 100 Jews were killed, 30,000 were shipped to concentration camps. That night became known as “Kristalnacht”, the Night of the Broken Glass, the official beginning of the Holocaust, Luther’s birthday. That reality will always remain a dark cloud over our Church. Above all God’s people, we must remember how important it is to declare that Christ and Christ alone is our Lord.

Our first creed has always been, “Jesus is Lord.” Before there was ever an Apostle’s or Nicene Creed, Christians simply declared, “Jesus is Lord.” All governments, sooner or later, will hear that statement as an affront to secular power. “ If Jesus is Lord, that must mean I’m not,” Nero stated as he ordered Christians into Rome’s Coliseum.

Am I an extremist in this matter? Doesn’t the U.S. Constitution protect American Christians from tyranny and shouldn’t we acknowledge that? Can’t Christians in the U.S. celebrate freedom by at least placing our nation’s flag in Church? Those are good questions and many congregations have decided to do just that but too often without giving careful consideration to the Biblical witness. Surely there are other more faithful ways to approach this whole matter beginning with giving ourselves one hour a week during which time we are reminded that we are called to love all people regardless of their national and cultural heritage, especially our enemies. That’s difficult to do in this world which seems to be hell bent on killing every living person who is different from us. So, please, let’s give ourselves this one gift – one hour a week to be reminded that God sees no flags.

Should we give thanks for our freedoms? Of course, and we can do that without violating the Biblical witness. Should we honor our troops? Yes, and there are dozens of ways of doing that. Every Friday night at 7:00 p.m. hundreds of Christians gather at Walter Reed Hospital to pray for the 41,000 American Soldiers who have been wounded, maimed, crippled by this war, as well as the 48,000 who have sought psychological help from having spent their time in Iraq, as well as the families of the 2900 American Soldiers who have died, as well as the tens of thousands of Iraqi families who have lost loved ones since the war began. Why don’t we hold a weekly vigil to join in solidarity with those Christians who gather at Walter Reed on Friday evenings? I can think of no better way to honor our troops.

Indeed, we are American Christians, and we can legitimately celebrate our freedoms as well as the reality that our Constitution is, by an large, in accord with the values expressed in the Scriptures; for that reason the Church has relatively little conflict with our government. But first and foremost we belong to Christ and Christ alone. We are bombarded daily with political messages calling us to be loyal to our country and our country’s government. Each week we must give ourselves the gift of worship when we are reminded where our true loyalty lies.

When I was still dancing, I worked with this girl. Her name was E. We new so many E’s at the time, we started attaching adjectives to their names, when conversing about them. There was Cool E, Hippie E, and the E that we worked with. She came to be called Dumb E.

E Had a serious lisp. Seriously, the worst lisp I’ve ever heard. She was also incredibly stupid. She was a year older than me (20 at the time) but she had the I.Q. of an 8 year old (maybe). And when you talked to her in the dressing room, you just thought of her as an eight-year-old, and everything was OK. It was the strangest thing.

However, ten minutes later, that same little girl would be completely naked (it was an all nude club) climb up a 30-foot pole, flip upside down, slide to the floor and show the guy in front her pussy for a dollar. She had surprisingly good motor skills, for a complete moron. No rhythm, but she didn’t fall and bash her head, very often.

I feel that I should also mention that E bore a striking resemblance to Robert England. Robert England played Freddie Kruger. She was not an attractive girl. Titty-bar lighting can do wonders.

When Dumb E first started working at the club, she didn’t know how to use a tampon. When dancers are on their periods, they have to use tampons and cut or tuck in the string. There’s no other option. I felt bad for Dumb E. so I sat her down (on the toilet) and tried to explain it to her. As we were doing this, we heard the d.j. announce her name. This meant that she was next and had about a half of a song to go. She jumped up and ran out of the bathroom with the string hanging out of the back of her thongs.

The d.j. booth was my favorite place in the titty bar. It was quieter and the d.j., who I will refer to as DJ, was awesome. To this day, he is one of my best friends. He’s a doctor, but not in practice anymore because he hated it. It seems strange, but it was my common practice to bend over and have DJ check out my stuff with a flash light to make sure there was nothing on me, such as toilet paper, lint, etc. It was a practice adopted by most of the girls. DJ had no complaints.

So, I followed E downstairs to the d.j. booth, even though she had rejected my attempts at tampon education. Dumb E was bent over, with her hands on the floor saying,”Can you thee it? Ith it in?”. And it is not in. Half of the entire tampon is hanging out, not just the string. DJ didn’t know what to say. We’re both just staring at this girls pussy with a flash light and there’s like 15 seconds before the next Kid Rock song. I mean, this was an art I had mastered long before I was dancing for dollars. Why couldn’t she figure it out?

When Violet got off stage, E just stood up and was ready to go on stage. Tampon, string and all. I told her that she should wait until she got this whole vagina business sorted out, but she wouldn’t listen. I think the last bit of advice I gave her was, “Just keep your legs together!”, as she was walking through the curtain.

Violet and had to see this! We tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen. Violet threw on her clothes and we ran upstairs to the balcony. We knew we had at least two songs until she brought out the goods, but sure enough, when we got to the top of the stairs, she was already spread eagle in front of some wasted dude with her underwear down. the most hilarious part was that we could see the guy pointing to her crotch and mouth the words “What’s that?”. In her defense, the guy did have a sweet mustache and she probably couldn’t help herself.

I don’t know if everyone is aware of this, but strip clubs are full of black lights. Under a black light, pretty much everything white glows. This definitely includes tampons. DJ turned down the lights especially low when E was dancing, for obvious reasons, but this didn’t hide the glowing tampon. In fact, it was the only thing you could see. It was so bright white, it was distracting. It might as well have just been a giant tampon dancing up there.

We watched and made inhuman sounds of disbelief, the kind that only a situation such as this can bring on. We stood there squealing back and forth until the end of the last song and she was picking up the dollars she’d dropped. At that point, it was more sad than funny. (Actually, it was still pretty funny)

So, we found our way through the dressing room and back down to the d.j. booth, where she was making her exit through the tinsel curtain. We acted like we hadn’t been laughing hysterically, seconds before. I didn’t really know what to say, so I just smirked at D.J. She didn’t seem phased by the experience, at all. She seemed, in fact, proud. Like she had accomplished some stripper feat.

I was wondering how someone could survive to the ripe old age of 21 with an I.Q that would not allow the comprehension required to use a tampon applicator. I mean, monkeys can create and use more complex tools than that.

While I was contemplating all of this, a real gem snapped me back into reality. “Yeah, he thaid ‘Wha’th that’ and I wath like ‘it’th a puthy glowthtick’ and he believed me. Ain’t that great?” but I don’t think that guy believed her. I think he saw the same thing that I saw; a giant tampon just dancing away. Spinning and kicking her legs up in the air. At one point, the tampon climbed to the top and crawled like a worm down to the floor. It had surprisingly good motor skills, for a tampon.

I used to be a stripper. To specify, I used to be a stripper in West Virginia, and it sucked. The economy is horrible there. So, every time my best friend, Violet (who also used to be a stripper) and I got the chance, we would make the long trek to the mystical land of Columbus, Ohio. The city contains, not only a giant building in the shape of a basket, *gasp* but is also the home of the first Wendy’s! Anyway, I’m not a fan of Columbus.

We used to drive there, get all dolled up in the car, dance and then get a hotel room at 5:00a.m., because five was the cut-off to a new day and this meant that we could get the room until the next morning at 5a.m. It was a pretty sweet set-up because the club where we worked had a deal with the Best Western (?somehow?) and if we told the guy at the front desk that we worked there, we would get an $80.00 room for $40.00. They had an indoor pool and everything. It was awesome.

Usually, we were exhausted by the time we got off of work and back to the hotel, but this one night, we were feeling particularly fearless because we had our friend Sita with us. Sita’s fucking awesome and sexy as hell. She’s pure muscle, but not in a gross way, with big real tits and a big shelf ass (you could sit your precious knick-knacks on Sita’s ass). She’s a kick-boxer and has a license to carry a gun, which she does. She’s always laughing and is a really fun girl to be around. She also used to be a stripper.

Anyway, as soon as we pulled into the parking lot, this big, muscle-bound dude walks up to our car. I was pretty fucking scared, but we had a gun and all he had were fliers. I rolled down the window and when he peered in, he eye-fucked all of us, but then he smiled and handed us a flier. It was for an all male review. He was a stripper too! I immediately felt for him and tried to be nice, even though I have no interest in seeing a man dance naked. It’s funny, but it’s not sexy. I think that we all felt bad for him and we were all trying to be nice and ask about the show.

Suddenly he was like “I’ll tell you what Ima’ do. Ima’ bounce for you. Ima’ bounce for you right here.” He walked a few feet from our car and climbs into a shiny, brand new SUV. I was starting to feel a little less sorry and a little more weirded-out by this guy, but my curiosity was begging me to stay. He rolled down the front drivers side window and was still talking to us. What kind of hilarious speedo-clad dance was this guy going to do for us in the parking lot? We were laughing the whole time. You could tell he was struggling with his tear away pants. It took him a really long time to get those pants off, but he did and when he finally stepped out of the vehicle, he was naked. I don’t know why, but none of us had really anticipated that he would get out naked. Not only was he naked, but he was ROCK HARD! He wasn’t taking his pants off for that long, at all. He was stroking his giant cock! It was fucking huge! It literally looked like he had a 15 inch rubber tree stump growing from the tops of his legs. We were all laughing hysterically at this point and I drove away as fast as I could.

I don’t remember what I said to the guy, but Violet later told me that I screamed “That’s terrifying!” out the window as we were driving away. But I was stoned and I don’t remember that. All I remember is looking back at the giant naked black dude in nothing but white sneakers, standing there with two of his arms spread, yelling, “Where you going, baby?” and another, slightly smaller arm waving good-bye to us in the breeze.

Later, we examined the flier more closely and in the light and realized that it wasn’t even his flier. He had stolen someone else’s flier and written over it with Sharpee marker. What the fuck was wrong with that guy?

If your life is anything like mine (e.g. you’re on the Internet, all day), you already know the ins and outs of the race for the Democratic nomination. Day after day, columnists and pundits play Hot Potato with home-spun topics, and we watch and read in return. So I’m not going to waste our time here with all the twists and follies. (Look them up if you like.) But Democrats, listen, we are seriously fucking this up. Sen. McCain, a Republican, is leading both Sen. Obama and Sen. Clinton, nationally. This, after only two weeks of the Republican machine throwing stones at Obama, as Clinton stood silently on the sidelines. The Democratic National Convention begins five months from tomorrow, leaving only two months until the general election.

The Republicans won’t disappear, no matter how many times we underestimate their viciousness. But their angles of attack are only made more effective by the Clinton campaign’s willingness to let Obama drown in order for her to resurface victorious with super-delegate support. By the time we reach the convention, Senators Obama and Clinton will be so badly bloodied, we won’t be able to tell ass from elbow. Independents will vote for McCain just because he still resembles a human being.

This slash and burn strategy gambles, not with Sen. Clinton’s own pot, but with the entire bank of the Democratic party. Nobody expects Sen. Clinton to drop out of the race on her own volition; indeed, a loyal base supports her tenacity. Only an unlikely loss in Pennsylvania, along with the remaining states where Obama leads, could one imagine her forfeit. So the only remaining remedy is that we, as a party, look towards our long term goals and survival, by embracing Sen. Obama as the Democratic nominee, immediately and in full-force.

Obama leads in delegates, states and votes–something increasingly likely to hold, going into the Convention. He’s gained 62 super-delegates to Clinton’s five since Feb. 5. Even her own campaign admits she has a mere 10-percent chance of coming in ahead in popular votes, and even less in pledged delegates. But none of this matters, for one reason or another. She seems to be going all-in with twos when her opponent has aces; her only chance at winning is to have something up her sleeve.

Still, I understand Clinton supporters rejecting this argument as purely political blathering–I supported her once, too. But imagine, for a moment, if the Republicans were in our shoes–If Sen. McCain and Gov. Romney were currently hacking each other to pieces, doing our dirty work, we would laugh at their own undoing. And that’s what they’re doing to us, right now.

If this unnecessary civil war within our party is to continue, it will, at best, put in jeopardy the White House and valuable seats in Congress. At worst, it threatens to disenfranchise and dispirit an entire generation of new Democrats now heavily invested, with time and money and hope, in this year’s particularly arduous process. Ending this inevitable bloodbath stands as our best chance at victory in November. Just because you can find reasons for Sen. Clinton to stay in the race doesn’t mean it serves our party, or our nation, in the best way possible.

Sen. Clinton is fighting for her political life. But in doing so, she is helping build the coffin of the entire Democratic party. She would serve both herself and her country better by giving her full support to Sen. Obama immediately. However, I fear political shortsightedness and reckless ambition will end in a head-on collision for the Democratic party.

Supporters of Sen. Barack Obama, Democrats, Independents and supportive Republicans: NOW is the time to fight. Now is the time to dig in our heels and demand our country be greater than it’s one fickle dimension–put-on or put-off. Let us realize a greater politics that can only serve to strengthen our nation, our economy, our standing in the world. Our lives right now. Be proud of yourself and your country by standing up on shaky ground; by beating back the criticisms of hypocrites and box blathering fools. Now is the time to fight.

We have one chance, right now, to prove to ourselves and to the world, that we can recognize quality when we see it. Not the static quality of “America is Great.” For today, in this changing world, that is not enough. Instead, let us embrace a dynamic quality, an energy constantly moving forward, that challenges us to greatness beyond what our past has afforded thus far.  It is this “dynamic quality” that Sen. Obama embodies. And that guarantees the change we demand. Now is the time to fight.

Sundays always nudge my eyes open with their lonely daylight. Those mornings after wet and sloppy nights; useless regrets abound. This Sunday, I awoke to a forceful dose of Irritable Bowel Syndrome, helped along by a charred concoction of eggs, liquid smoke, garlic powder, MSG, salt, sesame oil and bacon, consumed late the night before.

The dog waited by the bathroom door until I finished, got dressed and let him have his turn, on the sidewalk. On the way back inside, I saw HC for the first time in a week. He’d been in Ohio with JO, planning the next movie. “Man, I didn’t realize Athens was in the middle of the woods. There’s really nothing there. And the whole place is like a college dorm,” he commented.

“Yeah, that’s all it is,” I told him, having spent some time there with friends.

“And people are getting fat! It’s really sad, actually. It’s like suicide. They’re committing slow suicide, with obesity.”

I agreed and we went inside. Said goodbye to HC at the 3rd floor, and took Cash home to feed him. CC and EH and EH’s best friend EA were preparing to go to breakfast. I wasn’t yet ready to eat. They said they’d bring me back a sausage-egg-and cheese, and I gave them three dollars. Once they left, I finished a boring article about Obama, published it, and looked around to see what else was new in the world. Nothing, really. Tomorrow, people will resume their colliding affairs, I thought. But on Sundays, we all seek to settle into a blissful state of needed isolation. A place where phones lay silent; emails go unsent; time steadies. Where life snuggles up with death, and each slows its breath.

After 30 minutes, the breakfast crew returned with my sandwich. I thanked them, ate it, then met up with SE down the hall. “Beatific Soul: The Jack Kerouac Collection” was showing for the last day at the New York Public Library, on 5th ave. So we smoked a little and headed to The City.

“Hey…,” SE began, “is this library that we’re going to right now the same library that’s in Ghostbusters?” His forehead crinkled in curiosity as he leaned against the back door of the subway car, the train thundering through a sharp left turn.

“Yeah, it is,” I answered, hanging on to the bar with one hand.

“Fucking sweet! I’ve never been in there before. That’s all I know about it.”

I laughed, agreeing.

On the front of the library hung a huge banner advertising the exhibition. Inside, cool marble stretched across the floor and up the walls in every direction. We found our way to the exhibit room. Admission was free, but I still felt anxious, like I was guilty somehow, as we passed a security guard sat at the entrance. The room was dimly lit, with small spotlights shining down upon glass cases. SE pointed to the ceiling, intricately carved dark mahogany from corner to corner. “Now, that’s the kind of ceiling I’d like to have in my room,” he exclaimed in a polite whisper.

Directly in the room’s center lay the highlight of the exhibition: the famous, original, 120-foot scroll, the transcript from which On the Road was edited. They’d stretched out 60-feet for display, which was accompanied by an instruction pamphlet for how to read the damned thing–an entire book, without paragraphs, on one piece of paper. Also in the collection were private letters to and from many of the Beats: Ginsberg, Burroughs, Cassady (the whole Columbia crew), others I’d never heard of. Pictures hung everywhere of Kerouac’s many sad-looking homes. There were piles of poetry, notepads filled with everything, photographs (many by Ginsberg), and drawings that only seemed complex because they were created by a genius–if I’d done them, you would have laughed.

The room was crowded with UE/WS-ers and NYU students, copying diligently into notepads of their own. A few foreign tourists mingled, speaking quietly in native tongues. Squeezing in to see everything was difficult because of how close you needed to be to read anything at all. (It didn’t help that I’d lost my glasses at a party a few nights before.) So I let my impatience guide me, taking in all that I could.

Half-way through the exhibit, I grew distractedly thirsty. I exited to the large entrance hall, past the security guard, again. But the only water fountain I could find was all brass, and had been installed long before Ghostbusters; it no longer worked. I found a floor plan at a desk manned by the most librarian-looking librarian I’ve ever seen. She wore horn-rimmed glasses over old, pale eyes, a white, high-buttoned blouse and her hair in a beehive–gray and frozen in place and time. But there was no indication of a water fountain anywhere. And my guilt for not returning a few books to the library in Sunnyside prevented me from asking the woman for any help.

I did find the bathroom, located up a maze of marble staircases, on the third floor. I figured I could drink from the faucet, though the idea of sipping from a New York City public restroom seemed mildly repulsing. I still held hope that there would be be a fountain near the bathroom. When I reached the entrance, no fountain. But as I turned the tight corner into the dark facility, bam! There it was: Old style, like the type in elementary schools and churches. I pressed the cold metal button and drank as much as I could, my broken tooth aching from the water’s delicious cold. I drank in a last mouthful, held it, and made my way down the winding stairs, letting the water trickle down in small doses.

Past the security guard again, I found SE still a few sections from the end of the exhibit. He said he was tired and ready to go, but wanted to skim the last few sections. “My eyes hurt. They hurt from all this reading…Yours must be killing you!” he exclaimed, thinking of my lost glasses. We shuffled past a crayon drawing of Van Gogh. “Yes,” I said, but didn’t really mean it upon second-thought.

Near the end, I noticed our neighbor, Paul, standing directly behind us. He is a weird son-of-a-bitch with an extensive VHS collection of terrible movies, a bat-shit crazy girlfriend and a horrible tupé. Child molester face and nylon jacket.

“Yo, that’s that guy,” I whispered to SE, tugging on his sleeve to turn around. He looked at me again with his curious brow. I continued, “That creepy dude who lives on the first floor. Cash always growls at him.”

He still didn’t know who I meant, but recognized him when he turned around. A strange feeling that this guy was following us came over me, and I wanted to leave, before he had a chance to strike up a conversation, and discover he and I have anything in common.

We turned our heads away from Paul, breezed over the last section of Kerouac’s fantasy sports games that he’d invented as a kid, and were out the door. Back in the subway station, I had to put more money on my Metro Card, causing us to just miss a train. We waited 15 minutes for the next one, each of us growing wearing from standing for the past two hours. When the 7 finally came, we already knew from an announcement that we’d have to take it all the way to Woodside before being able to make it back to 40th street. Fucking weekend trains will get you every time.

The ride went quickly, though we did have to wait again at 61st to catch the ride back. We stood in the cool wind underneath a gray, exhausted sky, atop the open platform. Just as we could see the train moving towards us down the tracks, a seagull laded on a rooftop directly across from SE and me. He had a fish in his mouth. We boarded the train watching the seagull struggle with the fish.

“That’s a strange sight, so far from the Ocean,” I said, trying to calculate the distance in my head. The train pulled up. We boarded, having to stand against the far-side doors.

“I think it’s frozen solid,” SE said behind a breath, still staring at the bird. “He can’t get it open.” The train pulled away.

When I arrived back at the apartment, the door was locked. I watched through the uncovered eye-hole as EH scampered away from the door, as if she were running from the scene of some unseen crime. I worked the lock with my key and entered to an excited dog and CC’s grinning guest. CC was sitting at the computer, next to the door.

“What time is our dinner thing with Rob and Stephanie?” I asked CC while fighting off a rambunctious, 75-lb beast who was now jumping to lick my face.

“Seven,” CC said. “They’re watching 3:10 to Yuma down at MC and HC’s place, if you want to go.” I said I’d rather take a nap before dinner. So I left them and sat down on my soft futon bed in my small, cozy room; smoked a little more and tried to settle Cash, who was now next to me, gnawing on my sweater sleeve.

I heard CC’s door shut and, a few minutes later, could hear suspicious sounds from the other side of our adjoining wall. Maybe not everybody wants to be alone on Sundays, I thought, leaning back, landing close enough to Cash’s head to feel his now-sleeping breaths on my face. The sun was still up; the clouds had thinned. Soon it would be Monday, when we’d all come rushing back in. I turned away, towards the clock, lit a cigarette, and closed my eyes at 6pm.

I stole my headline from a Chicago Tribune article, by Cass R. Sunstein, a colleague of Sen. Barack Obama at the University of Chicago Law School. Though they’ve been friends for “nearly 15 years,” Sunstein raises few points about Obama that many of us don’t already know: He’s a good listener; he’s interested in hearing all sides of the issue; he rejects the Red State-Blue State dichotomy, etc… Mr. Sunstein does, however, speak particularly highly of Sen. Obama’s grasp of “policy and detail,” and gives specific examples of his refusal to bow to Washington’s operational status-quo.

On this occasion, [Senator Obama] had an important topic to discuss: the controversy over President Bush’s warrantless surveillance of international telephone calls between Americans and suspected terrorists. I had written a short essay suggesting that the surveillance might be lawful. Before taking a public position, Obama wanted to talk the problem through.

In about 20 minutes, he and I investigated the legal details. He asked me to explore all sorts of issues: the president’s power as commander in chief, the Constitution’s protection against unreasonable searches and seizures, the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act, the Authorization for Use of Military Force and more…After the issue had been exhausted, Obama said he thought the program was illegal, but now had a better understanding of both sides. He thanked me for my time.

This was a pretty amazing conversation, not only because of Obama’s mastery of the legal details, but also because many prominent Democratic leaders had already blasted the Bush initiative as blatantly illegal. He did not want to take a public position until he had listened to, and explored, what might be said on the other side.

Now imagine for a moment that the Bush Administration had taken this approach, even mildly, while encountering the truly new challenges we’ve faced as a nation over the past seven years. I predict: The war in Iraq would have never happened; Bush would have listened to the weapons inspectors (and much of the world). We wouldn’t have a $9.4 trillion debt; some economists believe that spending $12 billion per month wasn’t/isn’t such a good plan. We wouldn’t be torturing people, or stripping habeas corpus from our societal standards, or still be dependent upon foreign oil and all but ignoring the now beyond-immediate problem of climate change. Our civil liberties would still be intact.

The world wouldn’t hate us (or at least think we’re so douchey). Al-Qaeda wouldn’t be in Iraq. We would have caught or killed Bin Laden by now. But instead we empowered a group of ideological, power-hungry, greedy sons-of-bitches, who have abused and twisted our brilliant Constitution–the only social contract that holds together the threads of our mish-mashed nation. They sent our soldiers to peril without the proper protection we demand, especially when we dish-out nearly half the total military spending of the entire world. Not to mention increasing terrorism worldwide, all the while inflating our national psyche with an air of home-brewed fear. If there is justice beyond our attention-deficient world, history will shine a harsh light upon their legacies.

But today, in the constant barrage of talking points and talking heads, personalized news, relentless bloggers, and the everlasting need for the new, we’ve developed a disastrous form of domestic “cultural relativism,” rendering anything repeated too often meaningless. Our memories last a matter of days, not centuries. Every drop of our media is politicized. We divide our attention into smaller circles of information until we’re properly comfortable or properly pissed. Character assassinations aren’t merely tolerated, they’re expected of our politicians.

This is the only America those able to vote for the first time in this upcoming election know. They’ve become aware of their political surroundings during an unhealthy era. But as many before them missed, we’ve learned that it does matter whose president. We’re not invincible. Our Constitutional rights cannot be taken for granted. And watching American Idol does not count as participating in our democracy.

With that knowledge, we are seeing a new kind of politics emerge through the life and policies of Sen. Barack Obama. The challenge of keeping everyone interested and everyone inspired, especially those new to the political process, through November still remains. But thus far, seas of newly active citizens are rising to the challenge of reclaiming our country, turning-out for primaries and caucuses in record numbers. I worry these seas will evaporate if, through some stroke of political manipulation, Obama fails to receive the Democratic nomination.

But regardless of who takes office, the incoming president must wash the sticky, putrid, caked-on mess off the desk of the Oval Office before taking a seat if we are to see any improvements to our national life whatsoever. And the only hope for getting even that far requires not just hard work, but honesty, transparency in government, reduced lobbyist influence, a responsible end to the war in Iraq, restored respect from the world, superior judgment, a new name, a new face and a finely tuned ear, listening to the heartbeat of an anxious nation. And most of all, progress requires an atmosphere in Washington where ass-kissing proves fruitless; where loyalty is earned, not bought; where honor and dignity matter and where the best idea wins. What better an ideology than that?

As if I weren’t a big enough sinner already, The Pope released his new list of sins this week. I’ve been using the Lord’s name in vain and partying hard on Sundays for a while now. So I already knew I’d bought my ticket to Hell, but thanks to The Pope, I’ve got a first class seat now on an express train to the fiery flames of evil. Here are the new sins that were literally INVENTED this week. (By the way, who really believes this sh*t anymore?)

YOU ARE NOW A SINNER IF…

-You support bioethical violations; like birth control (CHECK)

-You are “morally dubious” in your support of experiments like…stem cell research. (CHECK)

-You use illegal drugs or abuse drugs. (Uh…CHECK).

-You pollute the environment (I don’t WANT to, but I’m not gonna stop using hairspray OR my air conditioner…so…CHECK).

-You contribute to the widening divide between rich and poor. (WTF does this even MEAN? Am I now a sinner because I don’t drop quarters in the cups of the homeless? I mean, I’m sorry, but they’re on every single corner in NYC!)

-You are excessively wealthy. (Oprah is supposedly a Christian. And now she’s a sinner too thanks to this one…)

-You are creating poverty. (uh….ok)

I will be the FIRST in line to declare my belief in the fact that much religious law has been fabricated from the minds of authorities in order to have a more convenient society. However, that is one of those topics that people could endlessly debate at a bar all night long. But how can you debate THIS? The Pope just sat down and made up his own sins. And they’re ridiculous!

I’m seven times the sinner I ever was now thanks to these additions. Who else is with me?

I was never sure what I thought about love. I was always sure, however, what I was supposed to think about love. Raised by two apocalyptically wrong for each other parents, relationships were hardly defined by compatibility and support for me. In fact, looking back on those innocent high school boyfriends, I really have no idea at all what sort of fruit I was seeking from those still then foreign trees. When I look back at those songs I was writing for guy after guy after guy, I can’t make sense of it. I would scribble passionate lyrics across an oh so cliche napkin. I would pronounce my aching devotion, which yes, the two have always gone hand in hand for me. It seems as though I have always been quite masterful at giving everything there is to give and feeling everything there is to feel instantaneously with a person. It could be my impatience or fear, or both, that has kept me from letting anything marinate.

I’m frightened by the idea of the much-better-by-comparison meal that would surely come from the marination. As everyone would be sitting at a dinner table, I would count the kitchen tiles. I would bite my nails hoping that I hadn’t overlooked an essential ingredient through the process. I would hope that I hadn’t undercooked it. But I would just as anxiously ponder the thought that I would be overcooking it, burning all that I’d worked for. I would fear that another guest would bring something much more delicious to the table. Something that would melt in my mouth and still be aesthetically pleasing throughout my consumption of it.

And it is this constant worry that has forced me to always turn off the stove minutes before the wine is poured. Why not just order in? I needn’t invest time or effort or, god forbid, any part of my SELF in what I order from a kitchen other than my own. This is someone else’s doing. And if it is to be of a taste I savor, I will brag about how exactly I found this wonderful place. And if it makes my stomach sick, I will bitch about exactly how I found this awful place. Clearly, having been mislead into thinking it was something that it was not.

Ironically, you pretty much always know precisely what you’ll get when you order in. It doesn’t take much to decode a menu. And so I sit with stacks of menus, wondering which meal can satisfy me quickly enough. I seem to always order from the places that I know can make it to my apartment in 10 minutes. Even if the food is worse. I can’t sit still for 25 minutes. Heaven knows I’d regret the wait. Even when I feel it melting in my mouth, the thought of “This was worth the wait” evaporates as quickly as the food itself. And at the end of the night, I am full and sitting on the couch. And I’m waiting to be hungry again.

And this is the only way I know how to paint a picture of how my roller coaster love life has come to be what it has been over the course of a simple four years. A should have been simple four years.