You don't have to like Sports...

...to like this post. Apparently, UNC's basketball players have become fans of the pedicure. Makes sense. I wonder what Shavlik Randolph would think.

I got an email from my grandfather, a person I admire perhaps more than anyone else I know, saying that he had been daydreaming about the two of us being back in Virginia, spending the day crabbing off of the neighbor's pier. I dropped the net in the water one time, and we watched as it very slowly drifted away with the tide (one did not swim in Chisman Creek in the summer time, unless one enjoyed getting stung by jellyfish). Grandpa's email said that he thinks I could hang on to the net by now. If I wasn't homesick already...

Long post, several subjects.

Not long ago, I posted my assessment of the state of the debate over all things homosexual in the Episcopal Church and Anglican Communion. BC predicted that the Primates' meeting in Tanzania would not go well. Good call. I stand by what I said in that post, but I think my reaction to the communique is well summed up by my EDS seminarian friend Weird Bird In Love's post, and not just because she favorably quoted my blog. The Episcopal Church is in an odd place, as a colonial power that does not cherish the pain caused by that heritage, and as a newfound minority in global conversation. So how do we respond to a "cease and desist" from the primates?

I think that the content of the Communique is a slap in the face to the Episcopal Church. Yesterday a lesbian classmate of mine explained to non-Anglicans what has been going on in the Communion lately. As she spoke, I could see her lip quivering, and couldn't help but think of the abandonment she must be feeling, and would further feel if our church accepted the ultimatum we've been given. "Schism" is a frightening word to use. Parting ways over differences in opinion is hardly a reflection of the unity God calls us to. This of course must be conditioned with knowledge that the Anglican Communion is itself a breakaway group, but schism is still terrifying. It's an end to a major mandate for dialogue, and it jeopardizes the opportunity for mutual learning and mutual ministry that a global communion provides. That said, maybe it's time. That said, it's not as if there is consensus in our church about this issue. The communique further polarizes that conversation, as well. Basically, I'm angry about it, and while there are many things in the history of our church that I would apologize for, trying to treat gay people fairly is not going to be one of them.

Late edit (2/23): Bonnie Anderson, president of the House of Deputies, has put out a very good statement.
--------------------------------------------------
Deep breath. Moving on to other subjects.

The 10 o'clock news on a local channel here reported that the Anglican Communion is considering reunification with the Roman Catholic Church. Not sure where that came from, but the resulting adrenaline rush filled me with the power to lift three popemobiles.

My thesis is currently in the hands of my advisor, folks. It's written, and I think it's pretty decent. At 86 pages, it's the longest thing I've written by a good amount, and though the process of writing it has been psychological hell for me, it's a nice feeling to have it done. Trepidation remains, though, as I have been thus far unable to predict the reactions of my advisor.

Lotus, a live album recorded by Santana in 1973, is my current musical indulgence. It reflects a serious engagement in the jazz-rock fusion Miles Davis was creating at the time, and it pleases me greatly. Many people do not like Miles' fusion work, and I have mocked them for that as only a drunken pompous music snob can do. Those people would not like Lotus very much.

K and I saw "Breach" last night. It's a solid spy movie that breaks away from the ploys of violence and torture that we in the "Arranging your lamp..." household have a hard time stomaching. I read the article about torture in "24" in the current New Yorker in bed the other night, which was a mistake. Anyway, having that as a frame of reference made me especially appreciative of the psychological focus of "Breach."

This post is brought to you by ESPN, which is showing an NBA game and a Big XII game instead of State-Carolina tonight, and Fox Sports Net, which is carrying what must be a very important hockey game.

Thanks to my brother for alerting me to this...

A 2 Post Day

This sucks. What makes less sense than denying the Holocaust? Attacking Elie Wiesel to in some way prove your point.

Purple shirts, funny hats, and gay people too...

Big Country's post generates this one, which will pretty much harmonize with his sentiments. Katharine Jefferts Schori (Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church in the USA) went to my school and has served on numerous committees and boards here as the Bishop of Nevada, so I've bumped into her once or twice, but not really talked to her. See, she's generally surrounded by a sycophantic mob of seminarians and faculty hoping to touch the hem of her garment or be granted some cushy national church position. I can't compete with that.

Anyway, a while ago she did a 10 questions sort of spot for the New York Times magazine, in which she implied that the Episcopal Church is losing membership in part due to the fact that our highly-educated adherents understand the pitfalls of overpopulation more clearly than our less-informed Mormon and Catholic brethren. Clearly, she didn't mean it to sound so elitist or condescending, but she said what she said. She caught the appropriate crap for that in the following week's letters to the editor (I'd link to these things, but it's old enough that the NYT wants you to pay for it now), but the point here is that she makes me a little nervous when she tackles a sensitive issue. I think she's done well on the homosexuality debate, but then again, I'm on her side.

I whole-heartedly agree with the Presiding Bishop on striving for equality for everyone in the church, regardless of race, gender, sexuality, etc.. Anyone who reads this blog knows that about me, but there it is, just to be clear. As a student at a seminary in Berkeley who hails from the South, I often find myself defending the region's conservative tendencies to West Coast cosmopolitan types, several of whom are good friends of mine. It's hard for many of them to really ingest the idea that Southern conservatives are not necessarily mean or ignorant, but are generally good people doing what they and their community believe is right. It's also hard for them to grasp that liberals are not as rare in the South as they would think.

To my mind, the chief issue behind the homosexuality debate, at least on the global Anglican scale, is Scriptural Authority. US Episcopal theologians, advocating the majority view in our church, have argued that when the Bible is unclear on an issue (or simply does not address it), we must prayerfully turn to tradition and reason for guidance. Here in the US, that has in general led to a progressively minded church which ordains women, has begun ordaining practicing homosexuals, and perhaps most radically of all, revises its liturgies on a fairly regular basis (England still relies on the 1662 edition of the Book of Common Prayer; we use one from 1979, with a new one in the works).

For those in the Anglican Communion who see Scripture as a broader authority, the actions of our church are difficult to accept. I think Scripture is ambivalent toward homosexuality, but it's easy enough to understand the conservative viewpoint. It's the difference in the sort of authority we ascribe to the Bible that really makes this issue difficult and painful, though. The Episcopal Church's aforementioned response to the global criticism leveled in the 2004 Windsor Report (.pdf files available here), a document entitled "To Set Our Hope On Christ" (.pdf) was viewed as condescending. Many conservative Anglicans felt that the ECUSA was saying, "We're cutting edge; you're not. Some day you'll understand this. Until then, trust us." I think they're right. That is what we're saying. Some day they will understand this. At the same time, I can hardly blame them for being put off by our tone. That's why this is going to be so hard.

Sports

I'm not sure that I could reliably distinguish between Herm Edwards and Tony Dungy if they weren't always shown wearing their team's apparel.

I did not realize that Barry Bonds used to demand multiple lockers in the Giants locker room. I cannot imagine that the money generated by ticket sales at AT&T Park this season will offset the colossal bore that will be the repetitive media hype about asterisks, integrity, and a batting helmet so big that it apparently does not fit in one locker. My official response to all things Barry from here on out: yawn.

SF Mayor Gavin Newsome was outed today for knocking boots with his campaign manager's wife. He apologized like a man who felt bad about nailing his friend's wife and then not telling him about it.

Rather than talk about how I no longer care a tiny bit about the Super Bowl (but will still watch) because it's been analyzed beyond all reason, I will simply say that the NFL's relationship with its fans could be improved upon.

What does watching this clip do to you? Does that blow your mind? That really happened! I was seven years old, watching the game at my grandparents' house, wearing a Redskins sweatshirt and happy as hell. I spent the next several seasons arguing that the 'Skins should always just go deep, since it always seemed to work.

Mess with Texas- get needled

This from POTUS (and the Washington Post):

I am surprised, frankly, at the amount of distrust that exists in this town, and I'm sorry it's the case, and I'll work hard to try to elevate it. So the idea that somehow I was trying to needle the Democrats, it's just -- gosh, it's probably Texas. Who knows what it is? But I'm not that good at pronouncing words anyway.

Life in thesis land is what I thought it was. A whole lot of writing that eventually loses its luster, because it becomes a series of hoops to jump through. I'm proud of the ideas in my thesis, but am growing weary of sucking the life out of them through academic writing. I'll be happy to get this done, because my classes this semester look pretty good.

K and I booked a Spring Break trip to Seattle and Vancouver, fulfilling a goal we had when we moved out here (to do some West Coast travel while it was easier to do). Stay tuned, as the "Arranging your lamp..." household may also visit England this spring/summer. I have not been to England, despite holding a degree in English literature and closing in on a theology degree from an Episcopal school.

I think that the SEIU (which has 3 Bay Area locals- everything is unionized in CA) is having a little too much fun deciding who to endorse for the nomination. Each candidate has to spend a day working with an SEIU member after spending a day interviewing with union leaders. The term "self-important" comes to mind. Mark Cuban worked in a Dairy Queen for a day, which was funny. Any of the presidential candidates donning a jumpsuit with their name on it and spending a day cleaning a building, or wearing scrubs and working as a Nurse Assistant, well that's just hilarious.

Julian Wright is an excellent basketball player on a team that I like a lot, but this is funny:

Hyphy is a style of hip-hop that has emerged from the Bay Area and is gaining national attention. This is not hyphy.

Almost done.

Post #100 comes on the day that my childhood idol is voted into Cooperstown. My comments on the misery that is thesis writing, the rabid illegitimacy that is the BCS Championship process, Mitt Romney's $6.5M phon-a-thon, the iPhone, or Carolina's rise to #1 in both polls will have to wait for another day. Cal Ripken, the guy I tried to play like, the guy I watched nearly every night growing up, the guy whose home run in game 2,131 is the only sporting event that ever made me cry, got elected to the Hall of Fame today. Thomas Boswell wrote a column about him. You can read it here, or maybe I'll just paste the whole thing into my blog (you need a login for the Post, and though they're free, some of you are lazy), and promise that this is my last post on this subject until the induction this summer. Thanks, Cal.

Again Batting Cleanup

By Thomas Boswell
Wednesday, January 10, 2007; E01

Perhaps Cal Ripken epitomizes essential human values, like fidelity to a code of duty and honor. Or maybe he's just a decent guy who showed up for work every day, signed a lot of autographs and didn't cheat -- a very low hurdle for sainthood. Either way, Ripken always has been exactly what baseball needed, especially in its darkest times.

From his first day in the big leagues in 1981 until he was voted into the Hall of Fame yesterday with the third-highest percentage ever, Ripken always has been baseball's perfect answer -- even before the sport knew the ugly question. Yes, he's at it again. In an age when jocks show up at midnight in a white Hummer limo, Ripken will ride into Cooperstown in July on a white horse at high noon.

As Barry Bonds stalks Hank Aaron all summer, like Rambo on Bambi's trail, Ripken is positioned to steal the stage: the accidental antidote, the hero by happenstance. In '95, after the sewage spill of a canceled World Series, baseball needed a stench-free symbol of dependability, a hometown boy who understood responsibility and an adult who grasped that players simply were custodians of a game owned by its fans.

The sport got all those things, as the Orioles shortstop broke Lou Gehrig's record for consecutive games played. Now history is seeking him out again. The steroid-soaked stage is set. Baseball's need for a man with a simple sense of honor is profoundly obvious. Cue Cal. Now we realize that all those years when it never crossed Cal's mind to skip even a single game, something else never crossed his mind either -- cheating. Now, his 431 home runs look larger as the totals of others seem smaller. And we know why Cal never hit a ball 475 feet in his life. "I don't think my numbers are deflated because some other numbers may be inflated," Ripken told me last week.

Just as Mark McGwire brought more unwelcome headlines to the sport yesterday -- by receiving a dismal 23.5 percent of the Hall vote -- Ripken's election immediately helped the cleanup process. There to aid him was Tony Gwynn, the eight-time batting champ who led the league in smiles for 20 straight years.

How does baseball catch these undeserved breaks? For much of the last 20 years, baseball's bosses, owners and union have tacitly condoned and virtually encouraged an epidemic of illegal and dangerous performance-enhancing drugs. And the two superstars of the last quarter century who are least likely to have cheated -- who, if anything, were nagged for not having quite enough "power" -- arrive right on schedule. On an occasion when he was universally contrasted with Too Big Mac and Balco Barry, Ripken tried to make one point perfectly clear -- in his mind, at least, virtue had nothing to do with it. "To me there was no fork in the road. There was no choice. Those things scare me to death," Ripken said last week when asked about playing clean.

Lest he get too much credit for mere honesty, he adds: "I never had the options. The Orioles were thought of as a bunch of goody-two-shoes. After those guys in Kansas City had [cocaine] problems, our team voluntarily agreed to have drug testing. Eddie [Murray] said, 'Just go along with it.'

"When I came into the big leagues [in 1982, his first full season], the locker room had ashtrays, spittoons and candy bars," adds Ripken, chuckling at a lifestyle little changed since the days of the Babe. "Then the blenders for the protein mixes replaced them. Maybe I had the old-school naive view. People think I had this nutritional regimen. Yeah, my regimen was the four food groups."

Ripken may know plenty about the use of performance enhancers in baseball. What veteran star player wouldn't? "The truth has started to come out. But only parts have come out to this point. The overall thing just saddens me. But it's reality. It is what it is," Ripken said. "I don't resent being asked about it. It's all part of the process of cleaning up. The truth will be known. Unfortunately, all the stories probably haven't come out yet. I'm for the stories being told."

But don't expect to hear them from him. "I don't think it's my place to judge," he said.

However, the day of his election to Cooperstown was the proper time for Ripken to put the primary moments of his career in perspective. Making the Hall ranked only third.

"Catching the liner for the last out of the '83 World Series was my best moment as a player because you have the joy of completion. But taking that spontaneous lap in '95 was my best human moment," Ripken said.

Playing in his 2,131st consecutive game on Sept. 6 that season, Ripken circled the Camden Yards warning track, shaking the hands of countless fans, many of whom already had his autograph under glass back home. Or did they all? If they did, they probably received that souvenir near midnight in a darkened ballpark with just enough light left to allow the line snaking beside the Oriole dugout to find its way to Cal's indefatigable pen.

"I didn't want to delay the game," Ripken said. "But Bobby [Bonilla] and Raffy [Palmeiro] pushed me out of the dugout. They said, 'If you don't take a lap, we'll never get this game started again.' At the end of the lap I could care less if they started the game or not."

"We need each other in this life," said Ripken, referring to the bond between players and fans, which baseball constantly seems to stretch to the breaking point. "Taking the lap helped to pull the experience together. I was the beneficiary."

Ripken always feels like he's the beneficiary. And he usually is. To a point, his good luck -- his knack of being in the right place at the right time to fall into a bed of roses -- even embarrasses him. But other people, and baseball, always seem to be getting even more in these sappy Ripken love-fests. Is the simple life the win-win life?

These days, Ripken builds baseball at the grass-roots level by teaching the game to kids and owning minor league teams. It's work he loves and it suits him. "When you're a player, the good seasons go by fast. The bad ones seem to take forever," Ripken said. "The last five years have seemed like the fastest of my life."

To summarize what he does these days and how people should imagine his various projects, Ripken puts his fingers a fraction of an inch apart. "This many can be major leaguers," he said. Then he spreads his arms as wide as he can and grins. "This many can love the game."

Asshat.

From an article in the Bal'mer Sun:

Of the 178 members of the BBWAA who answered the question about Ripken's induction, only one, Paul Ladewski, a columnist for the Daily Southtown in suburban Chicago, said he didn't vote for Ripken.

"In an attempt to uphold the Hall of Fame standards established by their predecessors, I will not vote for anyone who played in the 1993-2004 period, which I consider to be the Steroids Era," Ladewski wrote in an e-mail to The Sun last month. "That includes Tony Gwynn, Mark McGwire and Cal Ripken Jr."

Nevermind that Rip's power numbers declined during the era in question, that Tony Gwynn never had power numbers, or that someone willing to write off 11 years of baseball ought not to be employed as a baseball writer, much mess given a vote for the Hall of Fame. Paul Ladewski seems like the kind of guy who voted for Nader, twice, just to ruin everybody's fun. He also seems like the kind of guy who has no columns posted in his online archive. I think we all know where he needs to get punched. Let's just say that McGwire's probably doesn't work like it used to.

A better coach, and a better guy. There was never a controversy about Dean Smith's character. He didn't get fired, because he never choked anyone. He got to 879 with 99 fewer losses, at 2 fewer schools and in one more privately funded arena which he reluctantly allowed UNC to name after him. Win all you want, Knight. You'll never measure up.

Thanks, Cal.

A Pre-emptive strike

880 wins, 3 national titles, and not fit to shine Dean's shoes. Congratulations, Knight. I salute you.

Whirlwind holiday

Here's the brief rundown of the "Arranging your lamp" family trip to NC for Christmas. This post is sponsored by Xanax, palindromic alleviator of Pteromerhanophobia.

K and I took the redeye to Dulles on Friday, connecting to RDU at about lunchtime. Many people at SFO were trying to reach Denver and were being told that they probably wouldn't get there. Funny how it sometimes takes a holiday blizzard a time zone away to remind us how interdependent we are these days. Anyway, it was a sad scene, and I hope they found a way home.

Our first Triangle stop was K's father's house, for a celebration with that side of the family. From there, we headed to K's mom's farm, for another great family visit. Christmas Eve at the Advocate was beautiful; a reminder that I really do like church. It was great to see a bunch of people we've missed, at least those who were not in MS. Church was followed by the traditional dinner at a Japanese steak house- always good times. While there, I ordered bourbons for K and myself. After about 10 minutes, we noticed a fly in my bourbon, and five (5!) in K's. Back at the bar, the bartender asked what bourbon I had ordered. Knob Creek. His reply: "Knob Creek? No wonder." My reply: "Why do you keep a bottle at your bar if you know it's slap full of insects?" He had no answer, but I was happy to return to the table carrying a couple of drams of the bourbon for which I am an ambassador.

After a fine Christmas morning and brunch with K's family, we headed to the 'boro, center of hotness, to visit my folks. We had a good time with them, including checking out the new 'boro hotness, which consists of hanging a ton of lighted balls in trees, turning the whole neighborhood into something out of a sci-fi movie. Almost certainly not unique to Greensboro, but very cool. Enjoy.


The trip home was highlighted by a 2-hour delay at O'Hare caused by a diaper lodged in the plane's plumbing system. A device called the Super Sucker was summoned, and was partially effective. We made the flight to San Francisco with only half of the lavatories fully operational. My good friend S generously picked us up at the airport, and we returned home to our cats, our bed, and our sweet-ass new TV.

Buster Olney at ESPN.com, who is an excellent baseball writer, has published a column stating that he thinks Tony Gwynn ought to be elected to the Hall of Fame. Thanks for stepping out on a limb, Buster. As a Ripken fan, what do you think his chances are? Do you think he'll make it? I'm going to roll the dice and suggest that Roger Clemens will be elected first-ballot as well, if he ever retires.

Thirty pages of writing to do this week, on a paper that has been giving me fits. I think people who are not subject to the whims of institutes of higher learning enjoy Christmas more than people like me. My Christmas looks like this: overnight flight to NC, Day and a half with K's family, Day with my family, flight back to CA. That's not a holiday. That's a punishment. This will absolutely be the last time I move to CA to work on my Master's.

Every couple I know is now officially pregnant, or has pulled the goalie. For those who are anxious about such issues, the "Arranging your lamp" household has left its goalie in the game, and is counting on him to do what he is paid to do. Big Country and his wife make me happy. I've not been this excited about a pair of parents and the kid who gets to be raised by them.

Oh yeah, let me say this for the record: I do not think Borat is funny.

Way too much work to do to really write a good post. Enjoy this video in the meantime.

Quick update

Had a phone conversation with the aforementioned professor I would like to study with at a fine institution of higher learning that shall remain nameless so I can claim that it was wherever I end up. It went well, if not smashingly. I remain encouraged, and yet more prepared for a letdown.

No classes next week, thanks to the American Academy of Religion meeting in DC. That means more reading and a second date with the GRE. Go crazy folks. Go crazy.

Butch Davis will leave UNC for a better football program. This I know. Where will he go? Will UNC become Texas' AAA club, much like Kansas is for us in basketball?

With the first day of truly shitty weather in the Bay Area now upon us (mid-50's and a nice, blowing sneeze from God), it is now officially higher-proof whiskey season. My beer selections will be getting darker as well. I like rainy days. Adam Duritz lives in my neighborhood, you know, 'round here.

What a week.

When last we spoke, it was Monday, and I was being very quiet about my hopes for Tuesday. Well, they were all pretty much realized. I now look forward with a modicum of optimism and a whole lot of cynicism. None the less, seeing Macacawitz concede in VA, and having it specially set aside as the official end of the battle was beautiful.

Today, I emailed a man I've never known, in hopes that he has some interest in taking me on as a doctoral student. I'll be doing this a lot in the coming weeks. I'd like to go on record as stating that applying to doctoral programs in a field not covered by U.S. News & World Report, et. al (read: a field that won't put you in line for Bush's tax cut) is an experience that will keep you constantly regular. You have to pretty much shoot your qualifications off into the void, in hopes that someone will at least read them. Nonetheless, my advisor and other faculty here are being very helpful, and are rooting for me, which boosts confidence. Spontaneous offers of recommendation letters are the best affirmation a graduate school boy could get. Reminders that Duke is sooo close to home are not helpful.

Thesis research is progressing. Currently on the table is a collection of works by Octavio Paz. There are worse things to have to read for research. I'll get to them soon.

Bay Area professional sports franchises are joining the rest of the business in showing little regard for their fans, though it is in their interest to head for the South Bay if they want to jack up ticket prices. Silicon Valley folk will pay a premium for anything if you tell them it makes them special. At times like this, I am proud that UNC owns the Dean Dome, built it with private money, and is extremely unlikely to move the team to Burlington if Chapel Hill won't shell out for a new building that will generate no additional revenue.


Thanksgiving is around the corner; possibly my favorite holiday. Tons of food, highlighted by a smoked/grilled turkey, plenty of alcohol, a football game, and a righteous nap make for a fine way to spend a day. It's a great way to commemorate the false harmony between Europeans and Native Americans.

Dancing about Architecture

Keith Jarrett's The Carnegie Hall Concert is an amazing recording. One man, one piano, and he improvises for over an hour, before being called out for 5 encores by the crowd. It was his first US solo concert in a decade, due to a struggle with chronic fatigue syndrome. When Keith Jarrett improvises, it's not seemingly random notes strewn in a structureless void. He lays out beautiful music. This is a fantastic release.

In the spirit of Big Country, I have decided to list my 5 favorite Grateful Dead tunes. It's my blog. No rankings assigned.

Scarlet Begonias > Fire on The Mountain: This counts as one because the Dead, with only a couple of exceptions, always segued from the former to the latter after '77. Any of the versions in my collection brighten my day. 2/5/1978 is a barnburner.

Dark Star: Quintessential Grateful Dead, played hundreds of times over their career, different every time. Dark Star is to the Dead as IPA's are to beer; you might have to work up to it, but then it's the best thing in the world. Current favorite is 11/11/1973. Subject to change.

Ripple: Just a great song. It's become somewhat cliche over time, but it may be the best piece of songwriting in the Dead songbook. The version on "Reckoning" is nice; this song was really only played on the two tours that featured acoustic sets, so there's not a lot to choose from, but this one from Fall 1980, when great people were born, is really good.

Eyes of the World: I love the jazzy feel of this song and the lyrics that no one knows the meaning of but everyone understands, and I love where the Dead took it. The version from 3/29/1990 with Branford Marsalis is so good it's not worth writing about.

Stella Blue: Clearly Jerry loved to play this song. Sweet lyrics with an even sweeter tune, beautiful solo from Jerry. The version from the Grateful Dead Movie (10/17/1974) always seems to sneak up on me. Sometimes the room gets a little dusty.

Honorable mentions go to Morning Dew (my favorite song about the apocalypse) and Sugar Magnolia (the best song ever about an enabler... "Wonderful Tonight" is dreck). Sugar Magnolia is the only song on this list sung by Bob Weir. Go figure...

We're gonna re-elect the Kindergarten Cop to the governorship of the most populous state in the union tomorrow. Once the results go final, look for Phil Angelides, the Invisible Democrat, on a cockpunch list near you.