What Price (Fantasy) Glory?

 

My fantasy football league is switching to an auction style draft this year.  Instead of selecting professional football players for our respective fantasy “franchises” in a pre-determined order, each fantasy  “team owner” will have a chance to bid on each and every available player, each using an equivalent pool of imaginary money.  I am a little uncomfortable with the auction format, as it brings the fantasy “team owner” too close to the unacknowledged shadow side of professional sports, which is the symbolic master/slave relationship between “real-life” professional sports franchise owners and their players.  The mind-numbing salaries paid to these players by their “owners” does nothing to destabilize the master/slave relationship, in fact, it chains them ever more tightly to their “owner”, as it is only in the “owner’s” keep that the players can ever amass the vast fortunes that in turn provide a false sense of liberation to the player. 

 

Of course, a professional football player is theoretically able to walk away from the lure of those millions of dollars in a way that really existing slaves never could, at least without risking life and limb.  But of course, they almost never do, and the rare exceptions, Robert Smith leaving the Minnesota Vikings to pursue a medical degree, Pat Tillman leaving the Arizona Cardinals to “fight terrorism” in the US military, simply prove the rule.  Smith and Tillman answered a higher calling, and in doing so found an authentic state of liberation, in direct contrast to the false liberation of professional football’s obscenely inflated slave’s wages.

 

It will, then, be with a sense of trepidation that I engage in my first fantasy football auction draft.  The lighthearted fun of picking players for my fantasy squad, “Dr. Thunder”, transposed now into the auction format, with bids defining an attendant price for each and every player, including zero dollars for the undesirable players, has too much the trace of the really existing slave auction.  The price of entry into my fantasy league has never seemed so high, a price which has nothing to do with the seventy-five really existing dollars necessary to join league play (although I complain about that too).

 

 

Interpreting a Freudian Split

 

            Slavoj Zizek, the renowned Slovenian provacateur and Lacanian psychoanalyst, describes the (in)famous rupture between Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung thusly:

“(T)he difference between Freud and Jung is insurmountable: the fundamental premise of Freud’s ‘Civilization and its Discontents’ is that the universe is utterly meaningless- it is not structured in compliance with human desires, there is no harmony between microcosm and macrocosm- whereas Jung reinscribes a psychoanalytical problematic into the frame of ‘cosmic principles’ which guarantee correspondences between human life and the universe at large (yin and yang as psychic and cosmic principles, etc.).”

 

            But perhaps the meaninglessness of it all, which was so evident to Freud, is, paradoxically, the very guarantor of meaning.  Jung wrote extensively about the symbolism of the alchemical effort to transform base metals into gold; for Jung the alchemical process represents the process of individuation, the maturation of the soul.  But the process of individuation, melted down (to extend the metaphor) is nothing other than a byproduct of the individual’s day-to-day reckoning with suffering, a suffering which is rooted in the meaningless void into which we are all thrust as human beings.  Freud’s meaningless ground of suffering becomes the fertile soil out of which grows, respectively, the human soul, the insights of history’s religious geniuses, and civilization itself.

 

            Against Zizek, then, the irreconcilable split between Freud and Jung can be recast as a divergence of exploratory interests.  Freud remained until the end transfixed by the problem of human suffering and its relations to the peculiarities of human sexuality.  His vision of psychoanalysis is announced in his famous statement that the best he could do with the psychoanalytical cure was to deliver his patients from the misery of their neuroses to a state of common human unhappiness (not a small accomplishment in and of itself, to be sure).  As pessimistic as Freud’s insistence on meaninglessness and the inevitability of suffering appear, it is a perspective absolutely vital to the endeavor of psychoanalysis, and appropriate to its founding father.  Freud grounded psychoanalysis in the fact of the meaningless void in which humans suffer.  Everything that we humans accomplish grows out of the encounter with existential suffering.  To deny that is to obscure the profound insight of Freud, and to lose psychoanalysis in the process. 

 

            Jung’s ability to comprehend “man and his symbols”, what Zizek labels “cosmic principles”, comes from standing on Freud’s shoulders, as must all psychoanalysts worthy of the name.  That Jung found meaning where Freud found none simply indicates where Jung’s genius differed from Freud’s; Jung’s genius lay in his willingness to bring psychoanalysis with him as he made the leap that each of the world’s great faiths inspire.  The leap to discover what mysterious, ineffable meaning emerges from the shivering, suffering human soul’s encounter with the meaningless void.  If God exists anywhere, it is there, in the least likely of places, right in front of us in our eternal suffering.  That Jung finds God in the best hiding place of all, the very place that Freud, and Zizek, believe obliterates the very possibility of God, is a testament only to Jung’s willingness to follow Freud’s lead up to the edge that Freud defined as the limit of psychoanalysis, and walk right over the cliff.

 

            We are left, inescapably, with one question: where would we have psychoanalysis lead us?

 

Horseshoes, Anyone?:  Towards an Understanding of Male Sexuality

 

            There is more than meets the eye when it comes to the game of horseshoes.  Traditionally played by men gathered in social settings such as backyard barbeques or VFW halls, horseshoes is the quintessential male bonding activity.  Horseshoes, as a reenactment of the sexual chase, unites men in the shared experience of sexual follies and triumphs.  Each toss of the horseshoe represents a pass at a female of the species.  Inevitably, most tosses of the horseshoe miss their mark, just as in real life most male efforts to attract the opposite sex result in failure; were this not the case we males would all tout Wilt Chamberlainesque sexual resumes.  But the law of averages is with the male, and if he persists in the hunt eventually a female shall, ahem, succumb to his charms.  Throw enough horseshoes and eventually you will score a ringer, horseshoe wrapping itself suggestively around the post.  Bringing us to some rather obvious and unavoidable symbolism….

            

There is a common saying, “close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”  Leaving aside for the moment the implications of this phrase for the endeavor of warfare, it is a key marker of the importance of horseshoes as a male bonding activity.  In horseshoes, the ringer, while sublime, is not the only way to score points.  Get close enough to the target, and points are accrued.  What this tells us is that what brings individual men into the community of men is not the achievement of sexual conquest; you don’t have to get laid to be a man.  As always, the journey is far more important than the destination.  To enter the community of men one must simply make a reasonable effort to get laid.  This participation in the sexual hunt is all that is required to enter the realm of socially defined manhood.  Whether, or who, you’re shagging is beside the point.  Along these lines, not only does “close count” in horseshoes, one ringer is as good as the next. 

Perhaps this explains the general acceptance of the ideal of lifelong monogamy among heterosexual men.  Marriage, as permanent symbol of participation in the sexual hunt, stabilizes membership in the male social bond.  All hunts that end in marriage achieve, in the language of horseshoes, the never-ending ringer, elevating all married “hunters” to the same sublime status, at the same time defusing potentially destructive sexual rivalries among the hunters.  If all ringers are equal, and if all marriages bestow the never-ending ringer, then the community of men is ideally one of equals.  Unmarried hunters are granted full equality of membership, as long as they are engaged in the hunt.  Close DOES count in horseshoes.

The stability of the male social bond is problematized by the presence of the homosexual male.  The homophobic male fear of being labeled a homosexual is nothing other than the fear of being excluded from the male social bond.  The act of male homosexuality is, within the heterosexual male framework, the act of exiting the heterosexual male social bond.  This was illustrated in the famous Seinfeld episode when Jerry and George repeatedly and emphatically proclaim themselves not to be homosexuals, on each occasion adding “not that there is anything wrong with that” (i.e. wrong with homosexuality).  George and Jerry were clearly voicing the truth of heterosexual male homophobia.  From a heterosexual male perspective there is “nothing wrong” with sexual relations between men, in and of itself.  What is “wrong” with male homosexuality, the “threat” that exists in being perceived as homosexual, is the very real danger of being excluded from the heterosexual male social bond.  In the heterosexual male universe, male homosexuality only functions to mark off the boundaries of membership in the heterosexual male social bond. 

This logic is on display with the “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy of the United States military.  “Don’t ask, don’t tell” specifies that there is nothing inherently wrong with the gay male soldier; he is the straight male warrior’s equal in every respect, just as long as his sexuality remains unstipulated.  Even if his sexuality is an open secret, the gay male warrior is accorded full membership in the heterosexual male bond which is the symbolic glue that binds the US military into a cohesive fighting force, an Olympic horseshoes team, if you will.  But once the gay warrior is formally unmasked, his sexuality revealed to the big Other, the symbolic order that maintains US military cohesion is destabilized.      

The instability of the heterosexual male social bond comes into further relief when compared to the rock solid stability of the female social order.  Unlike men, who must compete in horseshoes in order to be accepted as men in the social bond, females must simply achieve menses in order to achieve womanhood.  In this sense, there are no “gay” or “straight” women, just women.  This is why women’s sexuality is frequently and insightfully referred to as “fluid” in a way that the male social bond would never sanction in a man; a woman can sleep with whomever she wishes without ever endangering her status in the female social bond, a status guaranteed by the fact of her biology, while the male’s status as man is stricto sensu defined by who he is sleeping, or attempting to sleep with.   The same reasoning explains not only why men are turned on by “lesbian” porn (granted that the on-screen “lesbians” are of the male fantasy variety), but why it is acceptable in the male social bond to be turned on by hot “lesbian” sex, i.e. there are no “gay” women, just women, so the shadow of homosexuality, the shadow of social banishment, never intrudes on the straight male’s arousal.  In fact, it is said that the truth serum for a man’s sexuality is his arousal, or lack thereof, in response to (male fantasy) “lesbian” porn.  All of this to say that there’s only one kind of horseshoe, the kind that is to be tossed at the post.  It is completely irrelevant, from the horseshoe player’s perspective, why a toss misses the post.  You simply move on to the next horseshoe.  If two errantly tossed horseshoes happen to land on top of one another and intertwine, well the game just goes on as if nothing happened at all.  And, according to the rules of horseshoes, nothing really has.  

Gay males, by definition, can’t play horseshoes.  And, like it or not, for the straight American male in 2009, horseshoes remains the only game in town.  If, as Freud famously postulated, we humans are all actually bisexual, perhaps it is time for a new backyard barbeque pastime.  Tiddlywinks anyone? 

If It Sounds Too Good To Be True....

Apparent wellness, or the absence of observable neuroses, is most often an advanced capacity in the individual for complying with social norms, and is, as such, its own (well disguised) form of neurosis.  Social norms are indispensable in helping us manage to get along with one another, but strict conformity to these norms does nothing to broaden the soul.  A life defined by social correctness dressed up as "sanity" is as stable as the first little pig's straw house when, as they inevitably do, things fall apart.  The extreme exemplar of this phenomenon is the "perfect" college student: straight A's, varsity sports, good looking in a typical fashion, socially and sexually successful, paired with an attractive boyfriend or girlfriend.  But the process of achieving social perfection can so utterly alienate the late adolescent from the process of suffering and enduring everyday pains and humiliations (think bad acne, unacceptable fashion, prolonged virginity, the list of transgressions is almost endless, making the "perfect" adolescent's "accomplishment" all the more astounding and shedding light on where this is headed) that little by little chisel a human soul.  This process of achieving  true social, i.e. external, "perfection" hollows out the late adolescent's soul or internal life with a brutal finality, so that in the end her only means of retrieving her lost soul from its imprisonment in the social sphere is by violating the sine qua non of the social order, the suicide taboo.  Suicide, here, is a tragic act of liberation.

Translated into Buddhist language, this (in)sane figure is similar to the master practitioner of Samsara, who lives a life of comfort and ease, safely sealed off from suffering and assorted discomforts.  Deep in the womb of Samsara, he will be birthed into trauma when things fall apart, as they inevitably do.  Even, and especially, if this birth is the moment of death.  

Something to Tell You by Hanif Kureishi

Kureishi breathes new life into that old jalopey, psychoanalysis. "Something to Tell You" will make you want to dive onto your nearest analyst's couch and dig into your mad, sacred neuroses. Or at least go read some Freud. Kureishi's storytelling is good, but his feel for the half art/ half science of analysis is uncanny. My favorite line, spoken by the protagonist's analyst: "We are here to cure the well, too." Wherever you fall on the continuum of wellness and neuroses (or psychoses, for that matter), read "Something to Tell You", if for no other reason than to be reminded, or as in my case, re-inspired, that your unconscious has something to tell you. And well should we listen, because as any analyst worth her salt will tell you, a letter always reaches its destination, and your unconscious probably doesn't use e-mail.

Buddhist thought of the day:

The pain will never end until you realize that the pain will never end.

The Quest for the Historical Jesus

            

My quest for the historical Jesus has been an attempt to make sense of this strange, wonderful religion in which I have been raised.  But before I go any further, let me put all of my cards on the table.  The son of an Episcopal clergyman and his theologian wife, so needless to say a baptized Christian, I have married a beautiful Jewish woman.  Together my wife Jennifer and I are raising our two daughters in the Jewish tradition, and I have been blessed with a firsthand appreciation for the depth and light of the Jewish faith.  And the primary spiritual practice in my everyday life is Buddhist sitting meditation.  I like to think that I am practicing Buddhism in order to be a better Christian.  Put another way, the Episcopal Church has not lost a Christian, instead it has gained a Buddhist.  This postmodern tableau is, quite simply, religion in the 21^st century.  Whatever your comfort level with religion as collage, the Episcopal Church must continue to build in the flexibility necessary to meet the spiritual needs of people for whom the possible avenues of faith are virtually infinite.

           

So, the historical Jesus.  In many ways Christianity asks more from its believers than any other major world religion.  The virgin birth, God walking the Earth as a man, and, of course, the resurrection, each of these is mind blowing enough in its own right.  Put them together and you have a landscape of events that leaves the post-Enlightenment western individual with few choices:  maintain a safe remove by labeling the Gospel stories as “myth”, chuck the whole religion as absurd, or choose to believe precisely because it is all so unbelievable. 

 

The quest for the historical Jesus, then, is an attempt to save Christianity by providing it some much needed ballast.  Imagine Christianity as a hot air balloon.  The beauty of Christianity as a mystery religion, with the feeding of the five thousand, water into wine, walking on water, and, of course, the salvation of human kind via the resurrection, is really what Christianity is all about.  But this stuff is all lighter than air and threatens to float away into the postmodern ether without something more substantial to hold it all down.  The quest for the historical Jesus, boiled down to its essence, is nothing other than the emphatic insistence that Jesus of Nazareth actually walked the Earth.  Without this fundamental grounding of Christianity, with the quest as rational pilot suspended in a basket beneath the hot air balloon of those mysterious Gospels, it would all just float away.

 

In this context, it matters little which Jesus historian you read, or which theories you find most credible, as the act of engaging in the quest for the historical Jesus is an end unto itself.  But most of the fun to be had on the quest is in immersing one’s self in the material, wrestling with the implications of each possibility, and coming out the other side with a position one is willing to stake one’s faith on.  A perfect jumping off point for a freshly minted “quester” is The Meaning of Jesus: Two Visons, coauthored by Marcus J. Borg and N. T. Wright, the leading lights, respectively, of liberal and conservative Jesus scholarship.  In this work, Borg and Wright engage in a gentlemanly butting of heads regarding the central mysteries of the historical Jesus.  Among the topics up for debate is Jesus’ resurrection.  The effect of reading Wright and Borg consecutively is psychedelic, as their contrasting analyses distort the reader’s perceptions as she attempts to bend her mind around these ultimately irreconcilable Easter gestalts.  A closer look at both is necessary to determine which fork in the path leads to hallucination, and which to enlightenment.

 

Wright, first up to bat in the text, insists upon a corporeal resurrection.  Jesus is resurrected in the flesh:  “What the early church insisted about Jesus was that he had been well and truly physically dead and was now well and truly physically alive.” (p. 116)  But this simple equation is complicated by Wright’s next move, the assertion that the resurrection “is, rather, the transformation of the existing body into a new mode of physicality.” (p.120)  Wright postulates his theory of a “transformed physicality” in opposition to the translation offered by some of Jesus’ resurrected body as a “spiritual body”.  However, Wright is completely unable to elucidate what exactly this transformed physicality consists of, other than that it is “still concrete and physical” (p. 120) and that it is assuredly not a “spiritual body.”  I am left with the impression that Wright would be more than happy if the only “transformed physicality” to be found on the resurrected Jesus was the addition of a vestigial third nipple, thereby affixing Jesus’ bodily stamp of approval to Wright’s theory as if it were the Shroud of Turin.

 

Wright’s insistence on a bodily resurrection privileges Wright’s apparent fantasy of living in an impossible reality.  In his classic work Merely Christian, none other than C. S. Lewis, Wright’s conservative forerunner, explained that God is bound by the rules of logic that govern existence in God’s creation, and that this necessary limitation in no way detracts from God’s glory or dominion.  Even God, then, must play by the rules if the “game” is to have any meaning.  Wright, ignoring Lewis with his insistence on a bodily resurrection, would discard the rules that frame creation.  His is the classic mistake of fundamentalism; by insisting that Jesus’ resurrection conform to his set of doctrinal priorities, Wright negates the very possibility of a really existing world for Jesus to save.  “Well and truly” dead bodies return, irrevocably, to ashes and dust.  Such is the price of admission to creation.  By refusing to pay this price, Wright loses his grip on reality and any possible insight into how the resurrection is, for lack of a better term, really real.

 

Fortunately, Borg’s chapter on the resurrection comes after Wright’s in the text.  Post Wright, the relief one feels in the encounter with the basic sanity of Borg’s stance, “I see the empty tomb and whatever happened to the corpse of Jesus as ultimately irrelevant to the truth of Easter” (p. 130), is akin to being told that your loved one is going to pull through a difficult emergency surgery.  Such is the strength of Borg’s reassuring grip pulling us back from the abyss of Wright’s astonishing literalism. 

 

Borg expertly contrasts resurrection with resuscitation, though his endorsement of resurrection as “entry into a new kind of existence” (p. 131) may at first glance appear in danger of veering towards Wright’s “transformed physicality”.  But Borg steers a steady course towards something potentially far more transformational than Wright’s Zombie-Christ.  Borg’s most important step is in framing the resurrection “beyond the categories of space and time” (p. 131), in doing so he sagely takes us beyond the realm of the physical body.  Wright’s greatest failure is a failure of the imagination, as he is unable to envision a resurrection that does not hinge on a simplistic undoing of human mortality.  It is Borg who takes the real leap of faith by elevating his conception of the resurrection beyond the obvious.  As always, God works in mysterious ways, and there is not even the hint of mystery in Wright’s clockwork universe.

 

Borg’s reading of the risen Christ’s appearance on the road to Emmaus is a synopsis of how one can experience the resurrection story from a place of sanity, which is the necessary clearing in mental and spiritual space for the experience of Jesus’ saving grace:  “Most centrally, the story makes the claim that the risen Christ journeys with us, whether we know that or not, realize that or not, even as it also affirms that there are moments of recognition in which we do realize that.” (p. 134)  In comprehending the “post-Easter Jesus as an experiential reality” (p. 135), Borg maintains the link with really existing creation necessary for Christianity to attain to its healing mission, a healing necessary due in part to what Borg calls “the establishment of a new set of requirements” (p. 141) found in Christian doctrinal requirements.  This new set of requirements would bind us bind us to Wright’s resurrection narrative, which would be like living in a mirage.

 

Having fenced with Borg and Wright, I am compelled to reveal the ground from which I currently encounter the resurrection story.  In doing so I do not propose a definitive final answer as to what occurred on the third day; when it comes to the resurrection I adhere strictly to the maxim Zen mind, beginner’s mind (the Christo-centric are referred to Thomas Merton’s Zen and the Birds of Appetite).  Instead, my kaleidoscopic relationship with the resurrection is simply an example of the spiritual adventure awaiting the enthusiastic “quester”. 

To build my own bridge to the resurrection I turned to the least likely of sources, the psychoanalytical theory of Jacques Lacan.  One of Lacan’s greatest contributions to the psychoanalytic understanding of the psyche was his concept of the human subject.  Understanding that the ego is ultimately a necessary fiction, Lacan found the subject always obscured behind the ego, but at the same time constantly speaking through the ego.  This motif of simultaneous presence and absence bears an uncanny resemblance to how we human subjects encounter God.  In his brilliant explication of Lacanian theory, Lacan, Lionel Bailly includes this insight into the nature of the subject:  “(T)he subject could exist whether or not the person is alive.  This is not just a philosophical fancy: it has clinical relevance, as one may see how a dead child or a past patriarch may still act like a Subject within the dynamics of a family.” (p. 67)

 

When I was a child my family traveled every summer to a beach cottage owned by my paternal grandmother and her siblings.  In the cottage was an ancient chair, timeworn but given pride of place.  The chair was always referred to as “Darling’s chair”, in reference to the family matriarch who had ruled uncompromisingly for decades from that chair.  Darling’s body had been in the ground for an equal number of decades, but her subject, represented by “Darling’s chair”, continued to organize the dynamics of my father’s side of the family. 

 

Now I must ask you, if Darling’s subject was potent enough to rule from her chair for decades after her death, then what might Jesus Christ’s subject, present in the cross, be capable of? 

            

Why I Loathe Roger Federer

            Let me begin by saying, as the father of two lovely daughters, I would love for them to bring home a man with Roger Federer’s qualities.  Federer is, by all accounts, a gentleman, a mensch even, faithful to his wife, and, perhaps the highest compliment, well liked by his competitors whom he generally dispatches with ease on the tennis court, and by Rafael Nadal, the only player who generally dispatches with Roger Federer.  My beef with Federer has nothing to do with his qualities as a human being, as these traits appear to be generally beyond reproach. 

            My rabid cheering for all of Federer ‘s opponents also has nothing to do with tennis aesthetics.  Federer is often described as an “artist”, his play is graceful and seemingly effortless.  He creates brilliant shot-making as a matter of course.  In tennis-speak, his ability to move from defense to offense is almost unrivaled (except, of course, by Nadal).  Watching Federer you have the feeling that you are watching tennis as it was meant to be played.  Again, nothing wrong with this.  

            What bothers me about Federer is how happily he wears the mantle of “Greatest Of  All Time”; the pleasure he exudes in winning tennis matches and being #1 is palpable.  Federer is the best.  He knows this.  This much I can live with.  The fact that this makes him so bloody happy is what makes me absolutely loathe him, and why I dance a jig every single time Nadal takes Federer to the woodshed.  So basically I am jealous of Roger Federer for having the good sense to enjoy the fruits of his talent and hard work.  Were he a tortured genius with a bad temper like John McEnroe, a grinding workaholic like Ivan Lendl, a lesbian like Martina Navratilova, an underachiever like Andy Roddick, if he had just one single trait to humanize him I could let go of my jealousy and enjoy the genius of Roger Federer.  But no, he is perfect and he wears gold trimmed outfits at Wimbledon.   Roger Federer, like Michael Jordan before him, has become temporarily immortal. 

            Federer is so perfect unto himself that his humanizing element had to manifest externally.  Rafael Nadal was put on earth for one reason, to beat Roger Federer.  By doing so repeatedly he made Federer human again, and allowed us to begin to love him.  But the second Rafa’s knees began to ache, in the blink of an eye Federer claimed his long coveted Roland Garros crown, recaptured Wimbledon (after teasing poor Andy Roddick), and dispatched Pete Sampras and his major title record to the dustbin of history.  Nadal’s human frailty catapulted Federer back to the heavens, where he is at his nausea-inducing happiest. 

           

            Please come back Rafa, and bring Roger Federer with you.  We miss him here on Earth.  

Towards an Awareness of Samsara

Buddhism is at its most radical with the concept of Samsara, the human cycle of birth, death, and rebirth fueled by the never-ending, neurotic pursuit of pleasure and avoidance of pain.  The thirst for pleasure and its accompanying aversion to pain is so ingrained that it has become invisible, like a lens through which we see everything, at the same time forgetting that everything we see has been filtered through that lens.  

 

I recently hit upon a metaphor that has helped me to become aware of my own immersion in Samsara:  Seeking pleasure and avoiding pain is like seeking the day and avoiding the night.  Pleasure and pain, like day and night, are two sides of the same coin; you can't have one without the other.  Both are unavoidable, inevitable.  You might have difficulty taking someone seriously who told you that she planned to spend her entire life in the sun.  Picture her frantically hopping planes to stay ahead of the sunset and you begin to get a sense of how ridiculous is the effort to pass our days in pleasure without the interruption of pain.  But we are all caught up in this mad game, almost all of the time.  It is what we humans do.

 

Many Behaviorist theorists will tell you that all human behaviors are ultimately mechanisms for power and control.  The Behaviorists, understanding that we are all doing our absolute best to increase our power to control our experience of pleasure and pain, have simply described Samsara.  The Behaviorist theory resonates, as it is something we are already intuitively familiar with from our own experience of Samsara.

 

Buddhism is so radical precisely because Samsara is so potent.  The Behaviorist version of Samsara feels unassailable, because from the depths of Samsara it feels impossible to even imagine a behavior that does not directly relate to our effort to regulate our own pleasure and pain.  Even the Golden Rule, a moral compass if ever there was one, has echoes of Samsara in the "as you would have others do unto you" half of its equation.  Choose Frankl's search for meaning over Freud's pleasure principle, and you still find traces of Samsara;  finding meaning in suffering presumes the alchemical transformation of suffering into fuel for personal growth.  Somewhere in "No pain, no gain", the suffering is lost.   Seen through the lens of Samsara, the Behaviorist notion of human behavior, and its implicit limitations, appears to have won the day.  At the very least, in 2009 the Behaviorists are running out the clock.

 

But the Buddha taught another way of being in the world.  A Zen legend shows what this might look like:

A Zen monastery was overrun by a marauding gang of murderous pillagers.  One of the attackers approached a monk, put his sword to the monk's chest and threatened the monk, saying "I could kill you right now and I wouldn't even care".  The monk calmly replied "you could kill me right now and I wouldn't even care".  The aggressor became enlightened on the spot.

If anyone comes at me with a sword I'm running away as fast as I can.  But I am working in my meditation practice on not hating my next door neighbor who, among many other shortcomings, refuses to speak to me or my wife because he feels that we have not done enough yard work (ah, suburbia).  I must admit that I have yet to access the wellsprings of compassion for this man, but I have kept my tongue in check.  With lifetimes of work ahead of me in order to gently exit the cycle of Samsara, I consider this progress.  

 

Master and Commander by Patrick O'Brian

Excellent character development, rousing battle scenes, a bit heavy handed on the 19th Century naval minutiae, but all in all a page turning trip on the high seas. Recommended.

Song lyrics of the day:

"Some of these troubles just find me

Most of these troubles I've earned"

Todd Snyder

Keeping It Real (Quantum Gravity, Book 1) by Ju...

"Keeping it Real" gets off to a strong start, with interesting dynamics surrounding newly minted cyborgs along with elves in America. However, the story bogs down as soon as the scene shifts to the elvish realm, and the story never recovers. Particularly painful was the final act; what dragged for fifty pages could have been neatly done in five. Nevertheless, the story has enough spunk to make it readable, and a few lively sex scenes never hurt. Recommended, but for sci-fi/fantasy fans only.

The Judas Goat by Robert B. Parker

In this installment, Parker sends Spenser to London, Copenhagen, Amsterdam, and Montreal. It feels a bit as if Parker took a vacation and wanted to include all of his stops in this novel. Only London really shines as a meaningful locale for Spenser's adventures, and he could as easily have been in New Jersey and Cleveland for his stops in Copenhagen and Amsterdam. All that said, Spenser and Hawk get the bad guys, Spenser gets off a solid number of wisecracks, and Spenser's love for Susan is in full bloom as absence makes the heart grow fonder. In other words, the standard Spenser fare, which is high praise indeed, as Parker's Spenser is the tough guy every good guy always wanted to be. I hope Parker writes thirty more. Recommended.

Hamlet by William Shakespeare

In between turning some of the most memorable phrases in the English language every three pages or so, Shakespeare provides the archetype for the individual existential crisis. As the play begins, suddenly nothing in his world is what Hamlet thought it to be. For Hamlet, the essential human condition of uncertainty must now be confronted. By engaging with Hamlet, the careful reader is invited to do the same. Most highly recommended.

The Sunset Limited by Cormac McCarthy

Outstanding. McCarthy takes two opposing world views and transforms them into flesh and blood with two heartbreakingly human protagonists. McCarthy's prose is taut, as if he included every necessary word and not one more. A must read for anyone interested in The Big Questions. Very highly recommended.

Everyman by Phillip Roth

Roth zeroes in on infirmity, infidelity, and loneliness in this rather gloomy little novel. Roth, assuredly, knows how to write a sentence, and his characters are nothing if not heavy. And so is this work. If the last two recent Roth works I've read are any indication, Roth is busy grappling with his own mortality. And for Roth, apparently, this means the shattering realization that one can not go on copulating indefinitely. Roth is as accomplished as a writer could possibly be, and he's got the chops to back it up. I just hope I age a little more gracefully.

Death Note: Another Note by Ishin Nishio

This quirky mystery is a prose spin-off of the Death Note series of graphic novels. I came to this novel without having read any of the graphic novels, and it stands up quite well on its own. The story appears to serve as a prequel to the graphic novels, and if this is your first taste of Death Note you may well find yourself dipping into the graphic novels. Recommended.

No Death, No Fear by Thich Nhat Hanh

Thich Nhat Hanh engages with the most basic of assumptions: that we are born from non-existence, that we exist as mind and body for a limited number of days, and that we die and return either to non-existence or move on to a heavenly or hellish afterlife. In their place Thich Nhat Hanh offers a deeply compelling account of no-self and impermanence. Take the time to read Thich Nhat Hanh's gentle teaching of these Buddhist ideas, and you may just find yourself on a meditation cushion for the first time. Or like myself, back on one for the first time in years. Most highly recommended.

Super Spy by Matt Kindt

This graphic novel jumped off the library shelf at me; there is no resisting the attractive covert agent on the front cover. And the inside of this book is no less of a treat. The non-linear plot progression, vivid artisitic renderings, and the complex ensemble cast of characters bring undercover life in World War II to life in a way I have not previously experienced. Recommended.

The Lemur: A Novel by Benjamin Black

This novella is supposedly a thriller, but is really a brief meditation on marriage, family, and all of the accompanying emotional pain that occurs if these spheres are not in harmony. The plot of the thriller is wafer thin, and Black introduces characters that might have become interesting if he had fleshed out this slim piece. But the protagonist's marital and in-law relationships are just interesting enough to get the reader to the plot twist at the end. Mildly recommended.

The Book of Dahlia: A Novel by Elisa Albert

Gut and heart wrenching, in the best possible way. This story is the life and death of Dahlia, a beautiful, neurotic, and heartbroken slacker you will never forget. Albert delivers some of the most intense passages depicting familial pain and longing that I have ever read. Sustained brilliance from beginning to end. Very highly recommended.

The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman

The grand finale of a magnificent trilogy, The Amber Spyglass lives up to the promise of the first two installments. Pullman's fantasy world is vibrant, so much so that it leaves me wondering what animal form my daemon would take. Highly recommended.

No Time to Lose: A Timely Guide to the Way of t...

The section on anger is not to be missed. It helped me work through a trying situation with a supervisor at work. Pema has such a gift for getting right to the heart of the matter. Most highly recommended.

White Noise by Don Delillo

I was perhaps too amped up by the "Best book of the 20th Century" hype. Delillo is at his best satirizing academia, at his worst when the "Airborne Toxic Event" takes over the plot. The very best passage, and one of the briefest, occurs near the end of the novel with the Hitler conference. If Delillo had focused his sights more narrowly on academia, this might truly have been one of the best books of the century. As it is, it is nevertheless a worthwhile meditation on the "postmodern condition."

Death With Interruptions by José Saramago

A meditation cum fable on death, and death's relationship to love. Can death and love coexist? Saramago plays with this question with delightful results. His work gets much stronger once he digs into this question, and the first half of the novel drags a bit getting there. Nevertheless, a recommended read.

Each Moment Is the Universe: Zen and the Way of...

Katagiri explains how simply being present in the moment can alter the structure of time and space. I am reminded of the scene in "The Matrix" when time slows down for Neo, and bullets seem to float in the air. Katagiri shows how sitting in meditation and being present in the moment will allow us to disarm the bullets flying at us in our lives. Most highly recommended.

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

Zafon gives us a meditation on the pain of unrequited and/or forbidden love, disguised as a mystery. If ever you have loved that which could not or would not love you back, and if ever you have then found solace in words on a page, then this a story for you. One major plot twist (you'll know it when you read it), feels a bit forced, but all in all Zafon delivers a fine yarn. Recommended.

Nothing to Do, Nowhere to Go: Reflections on th...

Thich Nhat Hanh, working with the teachings of ancient Master Lin Chi, demonstrates how practicing mindfulness and sitting Zazen are like watering the seeds of enlightenment that already exist within us. For those, like myself, who are perhaps too eager in their efforts at spiritual growth, Thich Nhat Hanh offers this timely teaching of Non-attainment. Thich Nhat Hanh helps us to see that there is no enlightenment to be attained, only mindfulness of our true nature, which already is enlightenment. The book's subtitle, "Waking up to who you are", encapsulates this refreshing, essential guide to simply stopping and being. Thich Nhat Hanh puts it best, "Being fully present is enough to occupy us our whole lives." Most highly recommended.

Hardcore Zen: Punk Rock, Monster Movies, & the ...

Warner knows Zen. Of course, he would immediately deny "knowing" Zen, since as he so entertainingly explains in "Hardcore Zen", Zen enlightenment is all about direct experience, and can not be "known" by anyone, but can be directly realized by all those willing to put in consistent hours on the meditation cushion. Warner's is a refreshing perspective, as he draws on his experiences in punk rock and monster movies to arrive at the same insights that have at times seemed stifled by more traditional presentations. Warner's only serious mistake is his insistence on Zen Buddhism's superiority to other forms of religion or spirituality. If we are to collectively survive the 21st Century, then people of all faiths and spiritualities must join together in a spirit of peace and cooperation. Making a joke out of the faiths that people are willing to die for only increases the chance that they might choose to do so, and Warner too frequently falls into this trap. But when Warner sticks to his Zen basics he offers much that is helpful. Recommended.

Downtown Owl: A Novel by Chuck Klosterman

Klosterman does fiction! He's still got the same unmistakable voice, but shows off some adroit storytelling. Of course, like Klosterman, I am a thirtysomething white American male who played high school football and watched the mid-80's Georgetown Hoya basketball team, who are referenced multiple times; i.e. I can relate to everything Klosterman says. But I wonder how this book plays to those who do NOT know that the Hoyas were famous for, among other things, wearing t-shirts under their basketball jerseys, which was a big deal back in 1984, and which Klosterman riffs on at least 2 or 3 times. Finally, I'm not sure about the ending. It works reasonably well, but something a tad more subtle might paradoxically have had more impact. Nevertheless, Klosterman maintains his postmodern punch throughout, and has made the transition nicely from the guy you'd want to get drunk with and talk about sports and music, to the guy you want to tell you about your life in his fiction. Highly recommended.

Red Harvest by Dashiell Hammett

Hammett practically invented the hardboiled crime genre, and in "Red Harvest" he shows everyone exactly how it's done. Hammett provides a hero, the Continental Op, who struggles internally with the dirty work that must be done if he is to do the right thing, but at the same time never hesitates in the clutch; a femme fatale whose potency outstrips those of the male gangsters she manipulates like marionettes; and a plot that stays one step ahead of the Continental Op (and the reader) until the mystery explodes to a conclusion. The Continental Op's dry wit holds it all together. "Red Harvest" shows exactly why they've been riffing off of Hammett for decades, but never surpassing the original. Highly recommended.

Kissing in Manhattan by David Schickler

There is always something surprising about love, and Schickler nails this quality in his enchanting Manhattan romance. Read this book and you will want to go find the love of your life, or go kiss her (or him) if you are fortunate enough to have already found her. Schickler throws in an unexpected suspenseful ending that elevates "Kissing in Manhattan" from an ode to romantic love to a statement of the redemptive power of love in all forms, including the love of one's enemy. Highly recommended.

Speed Queen by Stewart O'Nan

Oddly enough, I was most struck by the fact that the main character in this novel references indie/alternative bands from the story's time period, but otherwise seems more like the type to listen to Top 40. The novel presents a regular gal who picks up a bad drug habit that leads to self (and other) destruction. Perhaps the incongruous indie rock stands out because O'Nan otherwise does such a good job of crafting his protagonist, Marjorie, as a typical small town girl whose life got derailed by a serious drug problem. Had she listened to The Cars instead of Husker Du, I would have bought it hook, line and sinker. Still, O'Nan delivers a fine addition to the noir genre. Recommended.

The Plot Against America by Philip Roth

As we continue our honeymoon with Barack Obama, who, among many other things, is the symbolic repudiation of our spectacularly unpopular 43rd President, it is easy to forget that as recently as 2004, when "The Plot Against America" was published, George W. Bush was at his zenith. Convincingly re-elected by an American public still aching from 9/11; landing on aircraft carriers in full "Top Gun" regalia, mission, ahem, accomplished. Whether Roth intended it or not, his work speaks as much to the time it was written in as it does to the time it was written about. In portraying an America that went haywire in 1940 by following a famous aviator to the brink of partnership with Nazi Germany, Roth sheds light on an America ready to follow its Air National Guardsmen cum Commander-In-Chief to Iraq, Guantanamo, and Abu Ghraib. By showing us where America might have gone in 1940, Roth, with his accustomed storytelling mastery, takes us exactly where we were headed in 2004. Very highly recommended.

Atmospheric Disturbances: A Novel by Rivka Galchen

There comes a time in every marriage when you realize that your spouse is in many ways not the same person that you fell in love with and married. Debut novelist Rivka Galchen takes this symptom of impermanence to its logical extreme in "Atmospheric Disturbances", with a protagonist, Dr. Leo Liebenstein, who believes that his wife has been replaced by an impostor. This conceit works magnificently, as the rupture in the Liebensteins' marriage bursts from the page like a sliced-in-half orange popped open by inverted peel, with all the juicy bits sticking out. For Galchen, the juiciest parts of intimacy are the little things, the shampoo-laced scent of hair, the tidal shifts of a partner's moods. Reading Galchen, one is convinced that intimacy is nothing other than the constant sharing of a thousand of these little details per second. One is also convinced that if enough of a couple's details begin to diverge, whether from madness or just a dull drifting, then the thread of intimacy is lost. And this unraveling, as in the case of Dr. Leo Liebenstein, leaves us at our most vulnerable. Galchen gives new meaning to that classic rock cliche "love the one you're with," i.e. intimacy is all that prevents your wife from becoming a complete stranger, which is just a short step from a total collapse of meaning, a dangerous line straddled by Dr. Leo Liebenstein. Galchen is riveting in her debut. Highly recommended.

Madame Mirage Volume 1 by Paul Dini

If you like your superheroes built like Jessica Rabbit, then "Madame Mirage" is for you. The story takes some interesting twists and turns, but it is the heroine's jawdropping silhouette that keeps the pages of this graphic novel turning. Think pin-up girl on steroids. Recommended.

Miles from Nowhere by Nami Mun

In excruciating detail, author Mun tears the protective skin of family from her teenage protagonist Joon. Joon, left utterly exposed, is thrown to the wolves of sexual violence and addiction, among other perils. Mun's rich layering of Joon's character prevents "Miles From Nowhere" from becoming just another cautionary tale, e.g. Joon gets high not just to escape the misery of her conditions, but to get high. As a social worker I would love for the "counselors" who would have helped Joon to have come off a little less pathetically, but Mun plays them as another sad shortcoming in an adult world that does little to protect its own children. Depressing, beautiful prose. Highly recommended.

Spook Country by William Gibson

Gibson weaves several compelling storylines together in this thoughtful thriller. The hook for me was the indie-rock-star-chick-as-investigative-reporter bit; imagine Kim Deal on the beat for "Wired" magazine- what fun! Plenty of thought provoking nods to post 9/11 murkiness keep things deeper than they might otherwise appear. Highly recommended.

The Sacred Book of the Werewolf by Victor Pelevin

Pelevin has little use for that rule of good writing, "show, don't tell", as his characters often seem little more than props for Pelevin's extensive metaphysical soliloquies. However, Pelevin's respective takes on existential dilemmas, the Russian soul, and globalization have enough flair and substance that one can forgive him for using this novel as his personal soapbox. Throw in some horny were-creatures and a lot of intellectual name dropping (Camille Paglia!) and you've got the makings of some fine beach reading for the intellectual set, or is that the intelligentsia? (read the book and you'll get the joke) Recommended.

Strokes of Genius: Federer, Nadal, and the Grea...

A must read for tennis and sports fans, Wertheim's "Strokes of Genius" takes you inside the greatest match in tennis history. Wertheim is at his best when he goes behind the scenes to add depth and texture to Nadal and Federer's clash. Just one example among many, Wertheim describes a tennis researcher's finding that Federer consistently wears a different facial expression in matches with Nadal, a grimace rather than a Mona Lisa smile, than he does against any other player. Wertheim would have been wise to delete, or at least significantly append, his many lengthy play-by-play recaps of big points in the match; they add little to our understanding of the match and can not begin to capture the awe inspiring nature of these athletes competing with one another. With Nadal vs. Federer we finally got to see what would happen if the unstoppable projectile collided with the immovable object. The result: indescribable beauty. So read Wertheim to understand why this was not only the best tennis match ever, but perhaps also the finest single sporting contest in memory. Then go watch the match on DVD and marvel at what we humans at our best are capable of.

Anansi Boys: A Novel by Neil Gaiman

Gaiman's "Anansi Boys" rests almost entirely on the tension between the protagonist Fat Charlie and his brother, the god-like Spider. Unfortunately, Spider is an all too obvious metaphor for the aspects of Fat Charlie's Self that are secluded in his unconscious, his Jungian Shadow. Gaiman's attempt to dramatize depth psychology via mythology is just too heavy handed to surprise and delight the reader. Gaiman also drops the ball with his villain, who is a caricature and contributes little to the novel's tension. "Anansi Boys" does pick up steam as it goes, and comes to life as the action segues from London to the Carribbean island of St. Andrew's. But as my first exposure to Gaiman's work, "Anansi Boys" did not leave me thirsting for more.

INSIGHT

I tell myself that the reason that I have a television is not because I enjoy much that's currently on TV, but because I fear being the guy who can't help but mention in conversation that he doesn't have a television. Basically, that means my fake self image is that of a closet snob.

The real reason that I have a televison is that it is a remnant from my prior life as a TV sports junkie. I am currently in recovery not by choice but because I have sacrificed my viewing pleasure to the higher calling of raising my children in a TV-free environment (it sits behind a curtain in the basement, waiting for the day when all of my children have left for college), while also preserving the family coffers from the cable bill. Which means my real self image is that of a martyr.

A SHORT POEM

Bring back
the exclamation point.

Why Ohio State Lost to Florida in the So-Called National Championship Game

Like most sports fans, I was surprised to learn of Florida’s upset of Ohio Sate in the current version of college football’s mythical national championship, the BCS National Championship Game. Seemingly every expert, pundit, or oddsmaker had installed the Buckeyes as prohibitive favorites. It came as a collective shock when Florida managed not just to pull off the unlikely upset, but instead opened the proverbial can of whoopass in a 41-14 rout, with observers commenting that the final score could have been much worse had Florida not gone out of its way to not score in the 4th quarter.

Upsets dot the sporting landscape. David does beat Goliath, from time to time, when his slingshot is true. What David doesn’t usually do is crush Goliath so bad that David has to go easy on the suddenly gentle giant, lest he embarrass the big fella. Had Ohio Sate lost a nail biter, a la Houston’s Phi Slamma Jamma getting stunned at he Buzzer by NC State in the NCAA final in 1983, or had they simply been defeated decisively in a competitive but losing effort, like heavily favored Green Bay to Denver in the 1998 Super Bowl upset, none of us would be wondering “what happened to Ohio State?” But after the beat down last Monday night, the question lingers.

The most popular theory floated to date is that the 50 day layoff between the Buckeyes’ last game and the BCS final, the longest layoff between regular season and bowl game in college football history, was the root cause of Ohio State’s listless performance. By all accounts, the Buckeyes were as dull as the Gators were sharp. If there is a word for the Buckeyes’ play, it is one of the most damning words in sports, “flat.” According to the 50-day layoff theory, an extra week off somehow translated into an emotional no-show by college football’s number one team in the biggest game any of the Buckeyes had ever played in. You’re telling me that an extra week of practice leading up to the game meant that the Buckeyes somehow couldn’t get up for college football’s Super Bowl, the game for All The Marbles?

As they say across the pond, bollocks! Ohio State did get up for the Super Bowl, and they won. Only the Super Bowl happened 50 days earlier, in the state of Ohio, when the Buckeyes defeated their archrival, the Michigan Wolverines. It says here that the reason Florida wiped the field with the Buckeyes is because the Gators played as if the national championship was the biggest game of the year, and the Buckeyes played as if they had already won the biggest game of the year 50 days prior. Intellectually, all of the Buckeyes’ players probably realized that the national championship was supposed to mean more than the Michigan game. But emotionally, they knew that it did not.

Did the Buckeyes’emotions, or lack thereof, betray them when it seemingly mattered most? I’d argue that the Buckeyes’ EQ was working just fine last Monday, despite the misinformation that their intellect was supplying. Because at Ohio Sate, especially in a year when the Buckeyes and Wolverines are undefeated and ranked, respectively, #1 and #2, the Ohio State-Michigan game IS the Super Bowl. College players get their signals from three primary sources, their coaches, the fans, and the media, and all three of these sources were sending the message to the Buckeyes loud and clear that the Michigan game was the one they absolutely had to win. I am not privy to what Coach Tressel tells his players, but I know that his predecessor won something like 90% of his games but couldn’t beat Michigan, and was unceremoniously fired. As long as he beats Michigan, Coach Tressel can lose every single bowl game and he’ll still have his job. Knowing this, Coach Tressel would be a fool not to treat the Michigan game as the Super Bowl. Any smart employee puts his greatest efforts into the area his boss says is job one.

As for the fans, I’d love to see the results of a poll asking the Buckeye faithful how they would choose between beating Michigan or winning a bowl game. Put it this way: if the Buckeyes go 12-1 and win the national championship during a year there is no undefeated team, and their one loss was to Michigan, many Buckeye fans would call that a bad year.

And the media, more than anyone, was invested in turning this year’s Michigan-Ohio Sate game into the next installment of The Game Of The Century. The media lives and dies by stories, and nothing makes a more compelling story than sworn enemies slugging it out for absolute supremacy. This year’s Ohio State-Michigan game gave the media the equivalent of USA vs.USSR in World War III, whereas Ohio State vs. Florida was more like Great Britain vs. Argentina for the Falkland Islands (only this time Argentina won). To think that such signals from the all-pervasive media did not influence the 19 and 20 year-old Buckeyes is hopeless naivete.

One final ingredient can not be ignored in the flatbread Ohio State served up Monday night. Call it a missing ingredient: the non-existent playoff system for Division I college football. As long as there is no playoff in college football, Ohio State-Michigan will always be bigger than any bowl game, no matter how they dress it up and no matter what they call it. In college basketball North Carolina vs. Duke is every bit the rivalry Ohio State vs. Michigan is in college football. But North Carolina could, God forbid, lose to Duke three times during the regular season and ACC Tournament, and if they went on to win the national championship everyone would act like they just won the lottery and paint Chapel Hill Tarheel blue. The losses to Duke would be chalked up as part of the competitive gauntlet that prepared the Tarheels to capture the greatest prize of all. All that because in college basketball the national championship is as real as real gets in the make-believe world of competitive game play. In college football the national championship remains a myth. Which means that whatever happened last Monday night, Ohio State can end the season with a resounding and genuine Mission Accomplished (although that might smack too much of another mythical victory, i.e. the mission in Iraq declared accomplished by our commander-in-chief that day aboard the aircraft carrier, a “Dewey Wins” scenario with far graver consequences for us all).