IMAX pulls Science movie fearing Christian fundamentalist backlash; New Company ClearPlay edits "questionable" content from popular DVDs

Roger Ebert is one of my most trusted companions along this road we call life. Because I like movies, I like reading Roger Ebert talk about movies. I've learned to trust his instincts, and appreciate his intelligence and thoughtfulness. I usually can tell all I need to simply by the way he crafts his reviews: if the movie moves him to eloquence, then the movie is a good one, and I should consider going to see it.

Ebert doesn't like editing of any sort when it comes to movies. There was a company called ClearPlay a few months back run by this Christian guy that somehow created this box that hooks up to your DVD player. Not sure how this works, but there are dozens and dozens of titles in the ClearPlay database that have been edited to take out moments of nudity, or extreme violence, or whatever. Like in Titanic, the boob scene. ClearPlay doesn't delete the scene: just took out the gratuitious boob shot. Or whatever.

Ebert about had a hissy fit, mainly because he thought it was messing with content, and making money from the unauthorized alteration of someone's artistic work.

Now, the trump card according to Ebert here, is artistic integrity: what the director wanted, you aren't allowed to alter. I understand the slippery slope idea: I mean, the last thing I want is for some Board of Christians somewhere giving the thumbs up or the thumbs down to make some movie because it doesn't have "Christian" ideas in it, and therefore should not be allowed to be made.

But that's not what ClearPlay does. It's not changing themes or ideas: just taking out a few graphic moments. And if you think that those seconds of Kate Winslet's boobs really makethe movieTitanic, then man...you've got issues.

My personal thoughts on this is that I need to, with all diligence and thoughtfulness, take God's commands and demands for purity in my life really seriously. A lot of Christians go radical on this and say "No Movies that are R" but I don't know. That seems too...extreme. I love movies, but I would be better off if a few scenes had been deleted from "The Thomas Crowne Affair" or "The Cooler" or "The Pledge" or "Better Luck Tomorrow" or any number of films.

I mean, what do you do in situations like that? What would Jesus watch?

Ebert is not a big fan of unthinking fundamentalists, and in his recent article he bemoans what he sees as one more step down this dangerous road, where art is altered or not even produced because of pressure from uppity Christians. In this case, the movie is an IMAX film called Volcanoes of the Deep Sea. According to a recent news report, IMAX is not going to show this movie in certain segments of the nation because of fear of backlash from Christian fundamentalists, who might object to some ideas presented in the film.

Notice I said "might". There hasn't been a protest. Just some folks at IMAX who fear that some Christians might not like the implication in the movie that there is a connection between human DNA and microbes found at the bottom of the sea that might provide the clues to the origins of life. Evolution, basically.

Ebert went off on this.

I have no idea what to make of this, so ring in and tell me your thoughts.

More Reading:
For more reading on this, read the offical condemnation of IMAX pulling the moive by the head of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. He has a point.

Or this site, called LiveScience which is run apparently by the AAAS as an educational resource. It's a little too flippant about God, if you ask me.

Pictures of my Justus Alan Tieche

Okay, okay.

I know this is a lot like posting your vacation slides online, but I promise, some of these are pretty darn cute. And I've included some funny captions (I think they're funny) to go along with them.

The link to the Ofoto site is here, I think.

Tell me if it doesn't quite work.

NCAA Tournament: Maybe the Best Sporting Event in the World

Okay, this has nothing to do with Easter. But can I just say that this past weekend of basketball in the NCAA Tournament was some of the best basketball I have ever seen.

Three of the regional finals went into Overtime. Three. One went into Double Overtime. That's four total overtimes in four games. That's almost logic-defying.

The Louisville/West Virginia game was simply unbelievable. West Virginia's basket might as well have been as large as a trampoline, because no matter where they threw up the ball from, it went in. Bank shots from the side corner. From 35 feet away at the "B" in the Lobos logo near halfcourt. Straight away threes from the center!.

Down 20, the Cards just chipped their way back into it. I kind of feel bad for the Mountaineers, because they were an exciting team to watch and West Virginia has so few things to make life exciting (official state motto: Uh.)

You could kind of tell that the West Virginia team was a bit backwoods. I mean, just by the names of the players. I was checking online, and they had a team roster on the school's website with a pronounciation guide. That's kind of funny. Two in particular stood out:

Johannes Herbert: Pronounced Air-Bear, but it everytime they said this guy's name, I thought they were saying "Care Bear." Which is not exactly the most masculine name. Neither, I suppose, is Hair Bear.

Kevin Pittsnogle: This has to be one of the most rural names I have ever heard. It just conjures up images of eatin' possum, don't it, Jeb? But this guy can play. A center who can shoot threes. What a boondoggle. No, not a boondoggle. A Pittsnogle.

Illinois Makes Some Noise
The Illinois game was probably my favorite. I'm a big fan of the Illini, ever since second grade when I discovered that orange was both a color and a food. I like to root for overdogs, like Duke because I like to see good basketball programs build up a dominance, and then recruit all the good players, sucking out the equity and parity in the sport, leaving the collegiate game as a matchup of money-making bohemeths that eventually suck all the joy and surprise out of the game. But that's just me.

The thing that's changed college basketball in recent years, I think, is the lure of the pro game. Think about it: Syracuse should still have Carmelo Anthony. Imagine the Cincinatti Bearcats with Lebron James. So in some ways, the rise of the greed and lure of money has helped the college game.

But still, it's kind of sad to see so few four-year seniors, or guys who have stayed and played together for four years. So it's nice to see a couple of seniors at Illinois and Michigan State staying together and getting it done.

So what do you think? Is March Madness the best sporting event on the planet?

DAT

Rick Warren Talks to Larry King about How His Book Talked A Killer Down

Couple of talking points. In his latest column, Leonard Pitts compares two "Smiths," each in the news for their particular expression of Christianity. One "Smith" was a US officer at Gauntanamo Bay, who beat a man imprisioned for suspected terrorist activity. When the detainee asked his guard why he was beating him, Smith replied, "Because I'm Christian."

Juxtapose that to another Smith, Ashley, who made headlines after she was taken hostage by Brian Nichols, the man who shot up an Atlanta courtroom, killing four people. This Smith talked her way out of the situation by quoting Nichols Scripture and passages from Rick Warren's A Purpose Driven Life book.

BTW, Warren was interviewed by Larry King last week about the improbable story. I thought his responses were pretty interesting. The full transcript is available here.

Russell Stover Selling Chocolate Crosses To Reinforce the Real Meaning of Easter

Thanks to my best bud, Jon Fortt for pointing out this kind of disturbing story about Chocolate Easter Crosses that Russell Stover is selling just in time for Easter.

First off, let me say to Jon that I love nibbling on pagan fertility symbols. They're fantastic. But this story just reveals, I think, how people fundamentally misunderstand Christianity and think of it as a "demographic" or a "voter base" or a "market" to be exploited.

The crazy thing is, I can imagine Christian Bookstores selling these. I suppose the rationale would go something like this: if you're going to give out Easter Baskets, and you're going to eat something chocolate, might as well give your kids something that has actual significance, as opposed to little duckies.

Kind of like parents give their kids "Resurrection Baskets" instead of "Easter Baskets." I'm not sure how I feel about that. I mean, think how messy that could get. I wonder what other bad ideas Russell Stover execs turned down?

Chocolate Shrouds of Turin: made from premium white chocolate, with raspberry glazed icing.

Dark Chocolate Roman Nails: Nine-inches of melt-in your mouth goodness.

Popcorn Ball Tomb Boulders: Made from Tutti Frutti flavored popcorn, you won't need a legion of Romans to move these tasty treats off the shelves.

Judas Bag of Chocolate Coins: 30 pieces of betrayal never tasted so good.

Peeps: You know about Peep's Bunnies and Duckies, but now meet "Triple" the Marshmallow Rooster. He won't have time to crow three times, and he'll be gone by dawn.

Chocolate Hyssop Stalk: Don't offer this to anyone else, keep it for yourself and quench your own thirst for that perfect blend of award-winning chocolate and premium liquers.

I can see this as a skit.

Philip Yancey's Look at Easter: What Implication Does Christ's Resurrection Have On Us Now

This is one of the best things I've ever read about Easter.

It's by a favorite author of mine, Philip Yancey who has this way of blending his own, personal stories (which are so universal and relatable in their appeal) to spiritual truths that are often hard to grasp.

You can read it here.

One Evangelical Christian's Perspective on the Terry Schiavo Case

I was thinking the other day about an old episode of ER that I saw. I used to love that show -watched it every week. In 1999, George Clooney left the show, and the plot line surrounding why he left continues to resonate with me.

In the final episodes, Clooney risks his job, his medical board certification and all his relationships to steal morphine for a mother who's son is dying a very painful death from a rare disease. She wants him to not suffer. So does Clooney. So he steals a machine from the hospital, which is a captial offense, I think. I'm unsure whether the show implied that the boy's mother killed him with an overdose, or just upped the dose to make him peaceful, and he died naturally.

My close friend, Jonathan (who is an up-and-coming theologian who will soon have his Masters of Divinity and his Phd in Theology - so watch for him) wrote this article articulating, I think better than anyone I've seen, why this Terry Schiavo thing has struck a nerve with so many people.

Jonathan's theory is that people fear death. If all we have is this life, and this world and this body, then suffering is to be avoided at all costs.

But. But. If there is something beyond this world, and this life is simply the opening chapter in a book where each chapter gets better and better - then maybe suffering and dying isn't so horrific. Especially if we know that our part has been written by a master storyteller.

Check out Jonathan's article here.

Part IV: I Drive My Pregnant Wife to the Hospital, Hoping for a Police Escort

This is part four of a series I am posting chronicaling the birth of my son, Justus. It's episodic, so it's kind of Dickensian that way, don't you think? No? Okay, me neither, I just thought I'd use a big word.

PART V: DON’T STOP SO COMPLETLY

After the Labor and Delivery nurse told me that it was time to bring Nicole into the hospital, the next challenge Terry and I had to face was how to get Nicole into the car. Our home is kind of weird in that the garage doesn’t really have direct access to the master bathroom. Nicole was having a really difficult time moving. I got all her stuff into the car while Terry helped Nicole dry off. How she accomplished this without touching Nicole, which as you will recall was rule number 1, I do not know. But mothers are miracle workers. I got all of Nicole’s hospital bags into the car, grabbed a soda for myself, and got ready to go.

When I got into the bathroom, Nicole had managed to slide herself into her pajamas. But she still had bare feet. I grabbed her slippers, and in between contractions I helped her put them on. Terry then left to get herself ready to go to the hospital while I attempted to help Nicole down the hall. In retrospect, I should have borrowed an appliance dolly and rolled her down the hall and into the garage like a fridge. But sadly, I didn’t have one. So we had to do the whole walking thing. This was a challenge because Nicole couldn’t walk when she was having contractions, and by the time she recovered from the contractions, she only had a few seconds until they started again.

It took us four contractions to get her into the kitchen. Two more, and she was leaning on the car. Terry was now ready, and all three of us were in the car. I attempted to open the car door to let Nicole in, but then a contraction started.

“WAIT!” she said through clenched teeth.

I backed up and waited for the contraction to be over.

I then made a tactical error.

I thought, while she was having an contraction, why don't I get things ready and unlock the door. I attempted to hit the key for the car to unlock all the car doors, but I accidentally hit the panic button. The car alarm echoed in the garage. Keep in mind, this was during Nicole’s contraction.

Technically, this was not a violation of rule number 2, because no one was talking. But I wasn’t about to attempt to explain the logic of this to Nicole. After the contraction, I opened the car door, and then wondered how Nicole was going to sit down, since every seated position seemed incredibly painful.

“I’m not sitting down in the car,” she said.

This left few options, since most cars have seats, and what most people do in seats is sit. While I was thinking of some polite way to tell Nicole this, she climbed in the car, rested her butt on the dash and gripped the headrest of the front seat.

Good enough for me.

Now, the question in this situation is, “Do I speed, to get to the hospital quickly, or do I drive slowly, so that we’re safe.”

I opted for safety. This was a good choice.

You never really realize how many potholes there are in the road until you are driving a pregnant woman having contractions at 20 mph to the hospital. It was as though the Marines had used the road for grenade practice or something.

It was about 2 a.m. at this point, so there weren’t many people on the road. And we only had to go about two miles, so this trip wasn’t going to take long.

At one point, a light turned red ahead of me, and I had to apply gentle pressure to the brakes.

“Don’t stop!” Nicole barked.

“I have to, honey” I pleaded. “It’s a red light.”

“Well…” she said, “Then don’t stop so completely.”

Isn’t that the definition of a stop? The complete cessation of movement? Not in contraction-land. Terry just patted me on my shoulder. I was hoping that I could run the red light and then get pulled over by a cop, and I could shout to him, “My wife’s in labor!” and he would say, “Okay then! Follow me!” and he’d give me a police escort. But no such luck. The only guy I saw was a Asian guy in a pick-up truck, who looked over and saw my wife’s butt sticking up on the windshield. He gave me a really weird look, as if to say, “Uhh, is that lady mooning me?”

The light to turn to the hospital took about 19 minutes to turn green. I looped around the back of the hospital to the emergency room, which was the place for after-hours labor and delivery admission.

Here’s where it got interesting. As I was approaching the ER, Nicole says, “I feel sick to my stomach.”

To which I reply, “Good honey. That means it’s working.”

I have no idea what that meant. What “it” is and how one can tell if “it” is progressing well by the presence of stomach cramping is beyond me. But it sounded nice and reassuring at the time.

“No,” Nicole said. “I mean, I’m feeling nauseous.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I mean, I think I’m going to throw up,” she said.

“We’re almost there,” I said. “It’s like 20 feet away.”

“STOP the car,” she said.

So I stopped the car. Completely. And I rolled down the windows.

Nicole got out of the car, took one step, spit on the ground, and then proceeded to spew what I can only assume were the remnants of that evening’s quesadillas. Now I went to college, so I have seen people vomit. But never like this. We saw that dinner from “Unamas” uno mas, if you know what I mean. This was intense vomiting. I think it may have damaged the asphalt.

I stopped the car in the middle of the road, literally 10 feet away from the emergency room ramp. Now, I was on a mission. I ran like a madman to the ER, showing freakishly quick movements for a land animal of my size. I then got to the automatic doors, which never open fast enough if you’re running. I rushed to the front counter. The nurses all looked at me.

“My wife is out there. She just vomited. And she’s pregnant. And she’s having contractions!”

“How far is she?” the nurse asked. She was asking me how “far along” my wife was in the pregnancy. My mind did not register this question.

“She’s right out there,” I said, pointing. “Like literally 15 feet away.”

“No,” the nurse continued. “How far along is she in the pregnancy?”

“All the way!” I said. “She’s having contractions!”

“No, how many weeks is she,” the nurse asked.

“Oh,” I said. “41.”

“41!” all the nurses all said together. You would have thought I just told kids at a fat camp that the cake truck was coming. They all jumped up. One of them grabbed a wheelchair. I ran alongside her.

“Does she feel any bearing down?” the nurse asked.

“Yes,” I said, having no idea what that meant. “Lots of bearings. And they’re all down.”

Terry, who is a nurse, understood the question. The term “bearing down” means that the woman thinks they’re going to deliver at any moment. The last thing these nurse wanted to do was deliver a kid in the parking lot. Labor and Delivery rooms tend to be more sterile. The nurse put Nicole into this wheelchair and let me tell you, I have never seen anyone move so adroitly with a wheelchair. She was running down the halls. If there were a NASCAR for wheelchairs, this woman would be sponsored by Tide or Nabisco. I thought that was an oxygen tank on the back of the wheelchair there, but I guess it was nitrous, or something.

We were in Labor and Delivery in about 30 seconds. Four hours earlier we had gotten kicked out because my wife wasn’t really in labor. Now, she was really in labor. As I walked into the wing, I could tell it was pandemonium. Nurses were scurrying around like cats running away from giant rolling blue yoga balls. A nurse came out of one L&D rooms, and I heard a woman yelling. I heard someone else yell, “Push!” A door across the hallway opened and another nurse came out. I heard another woman yelling. This one was accompanied by a chorus of people counting. It was enthusiastic counting, like on Sesame Street. Only with more screaming in pain.

“We should have a bed for her at any moment,” the receptionist said, with a slight smirk. In the meantime, they put Nicole into an auxiliary birthing room.

By the time I had gone downstairs to grab all the bags and stuff, Nicole had been switched into a hospital gown, and had reverted to her previous sink position, this time grabbing the edge of the bed.

I tried to tell the nurses about the two rules of contractions, but I didn’t get a chance before one started.

“Okay, Nicole,” the nurse started…

“QUIET!!” Nicole screamed. “Everyone…just…SHUT…UP!”

The nurse took a step back. Tough job.

A few seconds later, another nurse, also unfamiliar with the two rules came in to the room. Her name was Thelma and Thelma’s job was to get an IV going in Nicole’s arm in between contractions. Thelma attempted to swab Nicole’s arm with iodine during a contraction. I tried to warn her, but it was too late.

“Don’t TOUCH ME!” Nicole screamed.

Thelma took a step back. Tough job.

Thelma then did the amazing. My wife is not the easiest person to give an IV to. She often faints when she gives blood, and is really squeamish. Thelma, however, was a super nurse. She was like, part Filipino, part Flash Gordon. She had this IV in Nicole’s arm in like 20 seconds.

Then the nurse midwife came in. Roseanna had gotten off work at 9, so this was a new lady. Her name was Elizabeth. She was a Latino lady, probably about 40. I liked her immediately. She was the kind of woman who measured her words, brimmed with intelligence, and carried with her a kind of authority. You got the feeling that in she hadn’t been a midwife, she could have been running a large company. Or, something tougher, like a middle-school principal.

Elizabeth examined Nicole.

“She’s at 7 centimeters,” she told us. It was now 2:40 a.m. In four hours, Nicole had dilated 4 centimeters. Normally, it’s about two hours for every centimeter, but not with Nicole. Elizabeth told us she’d be back in an hour to check on Nicole again. Another contraction hit.

Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack.

We were heading up the first big hill.

Part III: The Beginnings of The Beginnings of a Beginning

The following post is a follow-up to the episodic story I'm writing on my blog chronicaling the birth of my first son, Justus.

PART III: Who has the hot water and the towels? We need hot water and towels!

So after being discharged from the hospital at around 8 p.m. because there weren't enough beds (!), Nicole and I and Nicole’s mom went home and ate that meal that Jonathan and Kari had bought for us. Now, the good news was that before Nicole was discharged, they checked and found out that she was now 80 percent effaced and 3 cm dilated. Which was a good sign. The hormone was working. What we didn’t know was how effectively that hormone would work, or how quickly cervixes could ripen.

Kari and Jonathan left our house about 10 p.m. At about 10:20, Nicole was getting ready for bed and started complaining. Now, for those of you who have had pregnant wives, you know that complaining is nothing new. It’s kind of par for the course. Especially if the baby is late. But Nicole’s complaining was a bit atypical. She seemed more…edgy. Not edgy like Bjork's fashion, but more edgy like a pissed-off Doberman.

She insisted that this really hurt, and it felt like she had to go to the bathroom. I wondered if she was going into labor, but then decided that it would be impossible, mainly because the pain wasn’t coming at regular intervals. Anyone who has ever watched a movie or the Cosby Show, knows that contractions are spaced apart. First they’re 30 seconds long and are 7 minutes apart. Then they last 45 seconds and are 5 minutes apart. Then, finally they’re a minute long and are 3 minutes apart. This is when you call Dr. Huxtable in the middle of the night.

But Nicole’s pains weren’t like this. They seemed to last anywhere from 30-45 seconds and were only about 3-4 minutes apart. There was no way that Nicole was having contractions 3-4 minutes apart.

So I figured it was Mexican food, or the baby tap dancing on her small intestine or something. The numbers just didn’t make sense.

Nicole’s conditioned worsened until she was fundamentally unable to lay down or get comfortable in any manner. The big problem was that she was ready for bed, and was exhausted. To make matters worse, she had just taken two Tylenol PM, which always knocks her out. So the pain was coming on top of her being really tired. Which is a bad combo. In general, I always try to avoid two things: Menudo reunions and tired women who are in pain. Both are bad news.

Nicole laid down on the floor and I briefly considered just sleeping through this whole thing. I mean, no reason for both of us not to get any sleep, right? Then I realized that would be something a sitcom character would say, so I laid down on the floor next to her and began massaging her back.

Nicole was quickly turning into Cruella d’Ville. Not that I’m blaming her. I’ve never had a uterus, let alone a uterus that is expelling a large object through a hole the size of a rice cake. But Nicole was getting kind of mean. I knew it was bad because at one point, I was rubbing her back, which apparently felt good. I thought the pain was over, so I stopped rubbing for a second.

“MASSAGE,” Nicole screamed, as though she were a beauty school drill sargeant.

I continued the massage.

Nicole found that the only position that was even remotely tolerable was to stand in the bathroom, gripping the counter-top with both hands. During the times of contractions, Nicole made up a list of several rules. They were as follows:

Nicole's Rules:
1. No one is allowed to touch her during a contraction.
2. No one is allowed to talk to her during a contraction.

Eventually, talking in general would be disallowed, and then, breathing loudly. I woke up Nicole’s mom.

“Uhh, Terry,” I said, talking into the darkened guest room. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think we’re going to be getting much sleep tonight.”

I called the labor and delivery department and they told me that Nicole was probably having contractions, and that she should take a long, warm shower to relax her. Eager, I rushed to tell Nicole this advice. In my haste, however, I forgot about the “no talking during contractions” rule. I would pay dearly.

After the contraction was over, I suggested that Nicole get into the shower. She did, and Terry sat on the toilet lid while I ambled up on the vanity. This was the smallest room in the house, and all three of us were in it.

Nicole didn’t talk much in that shower. She braced herself on the shower walls. At one point, she indicated that she would like to lean on something.

Kari had lent us her birthing ball, this large blue inflatable yoga ball that I loved and used frequently as a chair. It was huge, and barely, just barely fit through doors and our hallway. Sometimes, I would find our cat Madison asleep in the living room and roll it toward him and chase him down the hallway with it. I called it “playing Indiana Jones with the cat.” From the way he scampered, I think Madison called it “traumatic.”

Anyway, I rolled this down the hall and into the shower. For the next 50 minutes, Nicole was hugging this thing. She only said four sentences the entire time she was in the shower. They were:

“Water!”
“Quiet!”
“This sucks!”
“This really sucks!”

The fourth sentence is related to the third one, but I think, syntactically, is enough of a variation to count as a completely different expression.

Anyway, after about an hour, I called Labor and Delivery again, and they told me to bring her in.

“Now, hold on a minute,” I said. “You realize that you folks sent us home because you didn’t have enough beds. What are you going to do now? I mean, do you have a bed for her?”

“We’ll figure something out,” the nurse on the other end said.

We'll figure something out? Not exactly the warm reassurance I was hoping for.

The ride was fixed, we were all strapped in, and all the attendants were standing to the side giving the thumbs up sign to the ride operator.

This was going to be something else.

A Journal of My Thoughts And Reflections About The Birth of My Son, Justus Alan Tieche

The following is an excerpt from a series I'm writing chronicling the birth of Justus, my son. I hope you enjoy it.

Part II: Is Your Cervix Ripe?

At 1:30 p.m. on Friday, March 11th, the hospital called and told Nicole that they were ready for her to come in for her induction. Nicole took a nice long bath, ate lunch, and I leisurely packed the car. Of course, on the inside, my heart was racing because this was it!

I have to admit, however, that my conception of induction was a little bit off. I thought it was a little like giving someone Syrup of Ipecac, that bizarre substance in most emergency kits that you drink if you’ve consumed something poisonous. Anyway, after about 15 minutes, it makes your stomach cramp up and then you puke your guts out. I thought they’d give you something like that, only for your uterus.

I’m not saying this makes any logical medical sense. I’m just telling you what my expectations were. Nicole would be given drugs, she’d go into labor, and by early evening, we’d be parents. So when the nurse midwife came in, we were bouncing with expectation.

Now, a couple of words about the nurse midwife: she was a bit strange. Her name was Roseanna, and she had long straight hair that was white-gray, like a cross between a 70s hippie and Gandalf. And she was one of those people who end the majority of their sentences with the phrase “mmm-kay.” I suppose she thought she was clarifying comprehension, but really it was just annoying.

“Now we’re going to just take a look and see how dilated you are, mmm-kay?”
“After that, we’re going to look at all your options, mmm-kay.”
“But before we make any decisions, we’ll discuss this in great detail, mmm-kay?”

I wanted to say, “Hey lady. It’s OK, not MK.” But I didn’t.

Anyway she told us that they couldn’t just have Nicole go into contractions because her cervix (the opening of the uterus) was too rigid.

“Right now it is like frozen silly putty,” she said, “and if the baby is going to squeeze through, it needs to become more like warm taffy.”

I was unsure how I felt about these comparisons. But I got the picture.

Then came the bizarre medical terminology. The midwife said that they were going to take a piece of gauze that had been “impregnated” with a particular hormone and put that on Nicole’s cervix. First off, I was unaware that gauze could be impregnated. I’ve always thought of gauze as asexual, without sexual organs. Kind of like Big Bird, or Margaret Thatcher or Prince. Guess not. I kept picturing nurses putting two pieces of gauze in a lab, turning down the lights, and playing a little Barry White. “Just do what comes naturally. Just do what comes naturally.”

Anyway, the next bizarre medical term Roseanna used was that she said this hormone was a “cervical ripening agent.” A “ripening” agent. Now, I am familiar with the word “ripe.” I also have heard of a few things that can get ripe. An avocado. Yes. A plum. Yes. But a cervix?

Anyway, they put this piece of gauze with the hormone on my wife’s cervix. Then the midwife said the words that made Nicole and my jaws drop.

“We’ll come back and check on you in 12 hours, and see how things are progressing. Then we can get started.”

Twelve hours?

Twelve hours?

And then we’ll come back and get started? Are you kidding me? I have to tell you, this news was pretty deflating. It’s was like we waiting in the line for a roller coaster, and then, right when we were about to get on, the ride broke down and had to be stopped for repairs.

March 12, 2005: The World Welcomes Justus Alan Tieche

Well. I am a Dad!

I'm going to try to insert some pics here.

Click here to see a cute, but brief slideshow I put together.

Here's the brief information:

Name: Justus Alan Tieche
Mother: Traci Nicole Tieche
Father: David Alan Tieche
Born: March 12, 2005 at 7:50 a.m.
Labor: 10 hours, starting at 10:20 Friday, March 11
Epidural Given: Heck yeah.
Duration of Pushing Stage: 1 hour, 50 minutes - 6:00 a.m. - 7:50 a.m.
Length: 21.5 inches
Weight: 7 pounds, 11 ounces
Hands: Ginormous
Feet: Size 11 already
Appetite: Strong. Takes after Daddy.
People Present at Birth: Mom (obviously), Dad, Kari Ziman (best friend of mom), Grandma Tubbs (mother of mom)
People Present in Hospital at Birth: Nana and Papa Tieche (parents of Dad), Grandma and Grandpa Kozma (dad and step-mom of Nicole), Jonathan Ziman (husband of Kari)
First Gift: Books from Uncle Jonathan Fortt and Rabbit from Grandma and Grandpa Kozma
Significance of the Name: Find out here.

More info soon.

Notes, Quotes and Billy Goats: Billy Goats Eaten By Gigantic 16-foot Man-Eating Crocodiles

Well, first of all, I want to say thanks to RG (whoever you are), Josh Keller, Jonathan Ziman and Ken VanMeter for your words of encouragement. Your perspectives were superbly helpful. I truly appreciate them.

Not only did the words from those men help give me perspective, but I read something else that made me think that maybe becoming a parent isn't the scariest thing in the whole world.

I read this story about a 16-foot crocodile that some wildlife experts caught in Lake Victoria in Uganda. Local fishermen think this thing was a serial killer and estimate that it had eaten 83 people over the past 20 years. You can see a pic of this beast here.

The crazy thing? The guys who caught it, caught it using rope. Rope! And, in a move that would have made Richard Dean Anderson proud, the dudes used duct tape to keep the 2000 pound man-eating croc's mouth closed.

Duct tape!

3M and Scotch needs to get on this. This is a serious marketing dream. I can see the tag now:

"If it's strong enough to stop a 16-foot, one-ton man-eating killer croc, we think it can handle the arm of your swirly chair."

So, I suppose that in comparison to these Ugandan dudes, becoming a parent is an easy task. Imagine your boss coming in to you and saying, "Okay, see, there's this crocodile..."

Third of all, I found by accident an interesting and insightful posting from a guy attending Harvard Law School about the Supreme Court's Ten Commandments case. Might make you think.

Fourth of all, I had a horrible experience with the District Office on Monday. The Director of Education came into my classroom at the beginning of the period to visit my AP English class. We were in the middle of playing a team building game we had just done at our Staff Development meeting. Apparently this "game" made the class look like a joke, and I got reamed for making Gunderson (and its staff and its AP coursework) look bad. Of course, nobody bothered to ask me why I was doing the activity, or how it related to my curriculum or up-coming Poetry Unit. But anyway. Someone can go ahead and call me a bad teacher. Doesn't make it true.

Anyway, it got me thinking about a funny story about impressions that are false.

Four years ago, when I first started teaching at Gunderson, our Assistant Principal of Discipline was this cut black man named Darik Jackson. I was teaching sophomores at the time, and we were studying the book To Kill a Mockingbird. We were having a class discussion about it, and we talked about how one of the reasons why the townspeople of Maycombe, GA treated Boo Radley and Tom Robinson so poorly is because they weren’t viewed as people. Just then, Mr. Jackson walked into my room to get a student. He looked at my room, and then made a very strange face at me. He then walked out, and I couldn’t figure out why he had given me the look.

I turned around and saw my board, where I had written, in large letters the phrase:

Boo Radley is Not Human! Black People Are Not Human!

Talk about bad timing.

I say this as an example of how sometimes, brief glimpses of something give entirely false impressions.

Soon-to-Be Fathers Apparently Aren't Supposed to Feel Like I'm Feeling Right Now

When I was 13, I went on my first roller coaster. It was at King's Island Amusement Park in Ohio. I had been there a couple of times before, with my dad and stuff, but I'd never been on a roller coaster. I mean, I went on the "Beastie" but that was in Hanna-Barbara Land, with the kiddie rides and the blue smurf ice cream. It was in a whole different section of the park, worlds away from those giant, hulking metal structures that twisted and turned above you. Sometimes, you'd hear the roar of the cars as they raced over your head. People were always screaming. The sound always freaked me out. People screaming. I didn't like it. It scared me.

So, I had never gone on any of the giant coasters. I was too scared to. It'd been that way for years. All my friends had been on them, but not me. No way.

The reason I was in line was because I didn't want to look like a wuss in front of this girl, Sarah Wujick and her friend Renee. I remember standing in line as it snaked to the front of the Blue Racer, one of the fastest wooden roller coasters in the world. And I can remember what I felt. The fear was so thick, I couldn't think straight. There was this metallic taste in my mouth, like when you touch your tongue to a 9-volt. My knees wouldn't lock.

I remember looking around the line at the people laughing, holding hands. People seemed like they wanted to get on this ride. Getting into that seat, I felt the panic bar (what a terrible name), come over my lap and lock in place. My stomach did this thing. Some people call it butterflies. They say cute things like, "Oh, do you have butterflies in your tummy." It's not like butterflies. It's more like someone is inside, punching you in the gut from the inside. It's not cute at all.

I say this because I'm getting similiar feelings in my stomach. It's in knots. I have been eating Tums like candy.

Here's my to-do list of things to do this week:

1. Clean leaves out of gutters.
2. Mow lawn.
3. Organize desk in den.
4. Become a father.

It's difficult to believe that I'm going to be a father sometime during this week. Not next month. This week. In five or less days. That's mind-blowing to me.

I don't think I've ever had this mixture of anxiety and eagerness. What's the difference between "anxious" and "eager", anyway? I think it's that "eager" is like Christmas morning and "anxious" is like, if someone walks into the room with a gun. So both emotions are coursing through me. Anxiety is winning most of the fights between the two.

It's hard to deal with this stuff, these major life changes. I'm kind of surprised how little people - guys in particular - talk about these things. Like, when I got married, I was pretty scared too. But then I felt guilty for being scared, and I didn't want to talk about it, because I was afraid that I was, you know, the only guy in the history of weddings to have doubts, and get scared. So I just kind of pretended that everything was okay, but it wasn't. I was terrified. I mean, this was forever. What if I got it wrong? What if there was someone out there better? What if I messed up? What if I got into marriage, and it was too much work and wasn't much fun?

But everyone just kept clapping me on the back and saying, "Congratulations, old boy! Aren't you excited." So I figured that must be the attitude that everyone has, so mine must be totally off. So I pretended not to think what I was thinking.

That doesn't work too well.

I have a lot of friends who are dads already, and most of them have done the same thing. They clap me on the back and say things like, "I'm so excited for you. It's going to be awesome!"

Which is good, because I know these men are good men who have said these things to me. And they know better than I how it will turn out. And so their positive attitudes are contagious, in a sense. They help me remember how I should be. They've been on the coaster. They know how cool it is.

But still. That doesn't make the fears go away. One of my students told me that she was at a barbecue like two years ago, and they ran out of drinks, so her cousin got in his car and backed up really quick to go to the store. And somehow, his two-year old son had gotten out of the backyard and saw his dad going to the car and so he followed him. The guy back over his son and killed him.

I had a friend in elementary school named Donny Creekmur. When he was 2, he crawled out of his crib and up on the ledge of the window of his bedroom, which was on the second floor. He fell two stories and landed on his head on the grass below. He had brain damage, and was able to function, and now is a teacher for deaf children in a private school. And he's married and is a great man, with a great heart. But can you imagine being his parents during that day?

This stuff keeps racing in my head so much it's almost paralyzing me. I try to walk around the house and do stuff, fold clothes, iron stuff, clean the car. Anything to keep my mind from concentrating on this, because when I slow down, when I'm quiet, my mind goes to places I can't handle thinking about.

What if I drop the kid?
What if the kid is developmentally really behind?
What if the kid won't stop crying?
I'm pretty selfish. What if I resent the kid for sucking all my free time away?
Does the selfishness just die, or do you have to kill it?
And what if it's hard to make the self-centeredness go away? Or what if I kind of don't want it to go away?
Will I be able to write anything anymore?
Will I have time to create anything, or will I be so tired, I won't even be able to collect my thoughts?
What if I'm giving the baby a bath and it slips out of my hands or something?
What if the kid is really ugly, and everyone knows it, but doesn't say anything because it wouldn't be polite.
What if I lose my friendships because I am so busy with the kid.
What if I lose my sense of humor because of the stress of this?


Am I the first person to ever have these thoughts?

I mean, I'm freaking terrified here, and everyone seems to be smiling, and excited. They clap me on the back and say, "Isn't this exciting!" and I want to yell, "I don't have the slightest clue what the hell I'm doing."

I just want to know that I'm not the only one who's ever been this scared of roller coasters.

The Wrong Side of History: Social Conservatism Has Never Been a Friend To Black People. And an Enemy of My Friend Is...

I recently read that Strom Thurmond tried to get the FBI to build a case against Martin Luther King Jr. His tactic: get King arrested as a Communist.

It's hard for me to believe that anyone was against Martin Luther King. But a lot of people were. A lot of Christians. I lot of white Christians. As a white Christian, this is a real sore spot for me. It was for King, too, and he lays it out in his "Letter from Birmingham Jail."

The words he wrote in the middle of that letter cut me to the core, when I read them in my bedroom, one February morning in 2000.

"I must make two honest confessions to you, my Christian and Jewish brothers. First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action"; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man's freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a "more convenient season." Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection."

In light of that, I wanted to print a quote from a recent column by Leonard Pitts, Jr., a Pulitizer Prize winning columnist for the Miami Herald.

Let me point out something that ought to be obvious: Social conservatism has never been a friend to black people. And here, I am not talking about the conservatism of small government, low taxes and strong defense. Rather, I refer to the self-appointed defenders of so-called traditional values.

Once upon a time, those folks called themselves Southern Democrats. These days, they are Republican religious conservatives. Not that it matters. What's important is the simple fact that the traditional values position on matters of specific importance to African Americans has never once been validated by history. Whether the issue was slavery, segregation, lynching, voting rights or housing discrimination, social conservatives have always taken a postion that history later judged to be ignorant and flat-out wrong. They have a similarly abysmal track record with regard to women's rights and anti-Semitism.

Which leaves me at a loss to understand why any African American possessed of a functioning brain would give this atavistic bunch the time of day.

Because the Bible tells them to?

Would this be the same Bible that once told social conservatives they had a divine duty to kidnap and enslave Africans? The same one that justified them in hacking to pieces any black man who cast a stray glance toward a white woman?

Give me a break.

HEIGHT OF HYPOCRISY

It would be the height of stupidity for African Americans to align themselves with those whose philosophical forefathers maintained the machinery of our subjugation. It would be the height of hypocrisy to do so in an effort to deny someone else their civil rights.

But I can see it happening. Homo-hysteria is sweeping this country like the Red Scare did in the 1950s. Then, as now, opportunistic politicians are not above using unreasoned fear to further their careers.

Still, shame on any African American who joins this retrogressive crusade. Social conservatives have been on the wrong side of virtually every previous American freedom movement.

News flash: They're on the wrong side of this one, too.

Because I teach "the poor," I care about them. Which is why I distrust social conservatism. Which today, would mean Republicans. Rich Republicans. Rich white Republicans. I'm not saying that the other side is much better. But I fundamentally distrust social conservatism.

They have a history of getting it wrong.

The Serpent Has Left the Building: Why Did Jesus Deliberately Compare Himself To The Snake

Okay, this isn't going to make much sense to anyone else, I'm sure, but I wanted to throw something out there.

Jesus specifically compares himself to the snake that Moses killed in the desert when the people of God were being attacked by poisonous snakes. That story is in Numbers 21.

Jesus says in John 3 that just as the snake was "high and lifted up" and that everyone who looked at it would be saved from physical death, so it will be with anyone who looks at Jesus, who will also be "high and lifted up," only on a different type of stake.

But then I started thinking that it's kind of weird that Jesus compares Himself to a snake. Then I started thinking, "What would that image have meant to a Jewish person."

I think, though I'm not for sure, that an ancient Jew would have thought about serpents and would have linked it to The Great Tempter in the Garden of Eden. This serpent would have bee linked in a Jew's mind to Satan, the Evil One, I suppose.

Unsure about above point: Did the Jews have a firm concept of Satan? Does anyone know?

In the Book of Revelation, around chapter 12, it says that Satan is like a serpent. It strikes at the heel of Jesus, but that the Son of God will crush the head of the serpent. I've always took this to mean that Jesus will be "hurt" by Satan (the crucifixion) but that Jesus will "end" Satan. Crushing one's head is a mortal wound, after all. Striking the heel isn't. It also says in Revelation that the Serpent pursues the children of God.

When He died, Jesus took on the sins of the world. He took on all the evil. So, in a sense, he was killing all the things that lead us to death. All the things that "strike at our heel" and not only make our lives miserable, but lead us, eventually to death, both physically and spiritually.

Maybe Jesus is comparing himself to the snake because upon his death, the "Serpent" is dead. Death and sin are dead ((or, more accurately, will ultimately be killed) when Jesus is dead, because he took those things with Him on that Cross.

So maybe Jesus links himself to the snake because he wants people to know that the snake is dead. The serpent has left the building. And now, because the serpent's dead, life is possible.

What do you think?