Comments for Maddie in Response to Her Blog Post (which had too many characters to post as a response on her page)

Sis,

I read this post, and as always I appreciate your willingness and ability to share your deep, personal beliefs about the world. Most people prefer to keep such thoughts to themselves, holding them close, and in doing so never exposing them to the light of day. This always keeps us safer, but generally creates incredible naivete, for our ideas are never tested against the ideas of others.

So, thank you for sharing. It is always welcome.

I do, however, have some comments (I always do, don't I?).

First, I wonder about your definition of humility. From the few lines you quoted, what stands out in my mind is the concept of absolute dependence, and this constant need you speak of, which apparently can never be removed. It would seem to me then that God's goal in creating humanity was to create a race of beings who can never be whole and can never be free from their utter, complete and groveling dependence on their creator. It would seem, by this definition, that God intended to create us so that we would be little more than pathetic beasts who would always come begging to God.

Does it not strike you that a kind and loving God would want to create a race of beings who can learn through God's teachings to be strong, powerful and independent? Creatures who, being made in God's image, might learn, through his guidance, to be like Him?

Also, while I agree that the concept of one's talents coming from God seems like a good and safe bet, upon further reflection this strikes me as rather silly. Talents and gifts are neutral, neither good nor bad. It is what we do with them that matters.

Hitler had incredible talent, formidable gifts. He was a brilliant thinker, a gifted strategist, an unequaled speaker and motivator of men, and a man who had an unerring understanding of the way in which to craft a national story for his people to take part in (namely Germany's rise from the ashes of WWI). All of these, by your definition, would be talents and gifts given to him directly from God, and by your definition we would be forced to imagine that because they came from God they are good.

I would offer that if God gives us anything it is opportunity, and to say that these possibilities come from God means that they are neither good nor evil, but only the opportunity for either.

Moving to your concept of weakness, I find this particularly troubling. First, your list of weaknesses is rather broad and, sadly, harshly judgemental.

While to cheat and steal are certainly unworthy, lying is often for the good of the world. If an overweight child approached you and asked you how she looked, would you tell her she was a fat, ugly pig, because you believe lying is a weakness and a sin?

To not pay tithing a weakness? So all who are poor are weak? Is that your definition? That to be too poor to pay your tithing is a weakness? Not only is such a definition cruel and damning, it is without any question directly counter to the teachings of Jesus. To be poor is not a weakness, nor a sin.

And, while I agree that we all have our weaknesses to overcome, and that in overcoming them we may become stronger or even better people, the argument that God instills us with weaknesses for our own good strikes me as far too close to the argument I hear from abusive parents: Well, Johnny, I only beat you because it will make you stronger. One day you'll understand that I kick the living hell out of you because I love you, and when you're older you'll appreciate what I did for you.

It's a crap argument coming from a parent, and quite frankly the only way it ever sounds even remotely decent is when we attribute it to God, because then we can always claim we don't know the mind of God. But to argue that God loves us and then to argue he afflicts us with weakness for our own good is a rather thin argument.

Especially, considering, that many so-called afflictions can not be overcome. From your short list above, would we consider compulsive liars, kleptomaniacs, or people suffering from bi-polar disorders to fall into the category of the weak God created so they may overcome their afflictions? Because each of these is caused by chemical imbalances in the brain, and they literally cannot be overcome. Did God give them these weaknesses so that he might watch their pathetic and impossible struggle? Is that the sign of a loving God?

I do agree with you that constant attention to scripture and prayer can help lead you to better decisions (although my reasons for believing this are no doubt vastly different from yours, as I would not attribute this to God). But I draw the line at believing that a life spent praying and reading scripture will necessarily lead to good living. It may point to a path, but traveling that path is something else entirely.

And I would also argue that truly reading scripture will raise far more questions than it answers. If you read your bible every day and you never question your faith, it is because you have turned off your brain.

Let me give you an example. When I was speaking with the missionaries who came to my apartment, one girl made the comment that God is always constant and never changes His mind. He is God because He does not change, according to her view.

Even a simple reading of scripture would put this idea squarely in doubt. Take the fabled Ten Commandments, which were written on the stone tablets Moses took down from the mountain, given to him by God. Most people are familiar with this story and actually believe that our Commandments come from these tablets.

But most people also don't read their scripture very carefully. Reading with your brain turned on would reveal that Moses smashed the original tablets, returned to the mountain, where God gave him a whole other set...with different commandments on it. God, it turns out, does change His mind. The first and second sets are vastly dissimilar (check this out in Exodus if you like). This says nothing, either, about the commandments we take from Deuteronomy, some of which are also different.

Daily reading of scripture should be a guide, but it should raise many, many questions and, yes, doubts. If it inspires nothing but blind faith in God, then the reader is a fool. And if it never once inspires doubt, then the reader is an idiot, which probably cannot be corrected. Because for all of your talk of knowing this and knowing that, the truth is that faith is separate from knowing. To say that you know something does not make it so.

To know is to be in the field of science. We know of gravity because we can test it and prove it. To have faith is to be in the realm of religion. We have faith in that which we cannot test and prove. This does not make one better or worse than the other, only different, because each addresses a separate and distinct portion of our existence.

The Mormon insistence that one knows that which cannot be known is, quite frankly, ridiculous. It is also self-defeating. If you knew then you would have no need for faith, and your belief in God would be absolutely no different from your belief in gravity. God is unique and special because we do not know.

Unless, of course, you are arguing that God really is just like gravity. A natural force, easily explained and just as quickly forgotten.

You keep saying that you know, and every time you do you accomplish two things: You lessen the importance of your faith, and you strengthen your self-righteous assertion that you are right while everyone else is wrong.

Neither, I think, are worthy goals.

If you trust your faith, then trust it wholly and completely. Give yourself to it, and understand that if God wanted you to know He would have given you proof. He did not, because He expected your faith, not your knowledge. If the stories in your scripture tell anything at all, it is certainly this. God's followers are different and distinct because they have faith and not because they have knowledge. If there was a way to absolutely know then everyone would believe in God, just as everyone believes in gravity, which would mean that there is no need for your prophets and your teachings. I need no prophet to watch an apple fall to the ground and deduce there is a force which pulls things earthward.

Further, to know would make every single act of faith absolutely meaningless. Take an act such as Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego allowing themselves to be thrown into the fire. If they knew God existed and would protect them, then this act has no courage, has no purpose, has no meaning. It is because they have faith (distinct and different from knowledge) that this story has meaning.

Or Peter's fear of walking on the water, even as Jesus stands atop it. Peter himself was there, with Jesus in his presence, and he knew Jesus. But he was afraid, and lacked faith, and began to sink into the water instead of standing atop it. And what did Jesus say to Peter?

“O thou of little faith, why didst thou doubt?”

God does not ask for your knowledge. In fact, he purposely denies it. He asks for your faith.

To say otherwise is to deny God's purpose. The only reason, in fact, to say that one knows is to serve the purpose of man, for if a man feels that he knows then he may justify his actions in hating and judging other people (the Mormon church knows homosexuality is a sin, therefore they have no quarrel with funding Prop 8 with the goal of denying basic human rights to gay and lesbian couples...just as Southern plantation owners knew blacks were inferior and inhuman, thus justifying slavery).

Be strong in your faith, and always, always careful of what you think you know.

Philosophy of the Good Life

I recently picked up a book, "The Importance of Living" by the Chinese philosopher Lin Yutang. I found in the table of contents many subjects which engendered me greatly to this wise man I had never heard of. Considering some of the topics he chose to articulate, I came to the conclusion he was, to put it in current slang, a brother from another mother.

Such topics, given entire chapters, included:

The Scamp as Ideal
On Having a Stomach
On the Sense of Humor
On Being Wayward and Incalculable
How About Mental Pleasures?
The Cult of the Idle Life
On Lying in Bed
On Sitting in Chairs
The Inhumanity of Western Dress
On Flowers and Flower Arrangements
On Going About and Seeing Things

What follows is a long, but worthwhile, selection from the chapter On Smoking and Incense. Yutang's point of view, I think, is an invaluable contribution to the world literature on this particular topic, and ought to be given some credence within every high school health book in the nation.

For your pleasure, Mr. Yutang:


The world today is divided into smokers and non-smokers. It is true that the smokers cause some nuisance to the non-smokers, but this nuisance is physical, while the nuisance that the non-smokers cause the smokers is spiritual. There are, of course, a lot of non-smokers who don't try to interfere with the smokers, and wives can be trained even to tolerate their husbands' smoking in bed. That is the surest sign of a happy and successful marriage.

It is sometimes assumed, however, that the non-smokers are morally superior, and that they have something to be proud of, not realizing that they have missed one of the greatest pleasures of mankind. I am willing to allow that smoking is a moral weakness, but on the other hand, we must beware of the man without weaknesses. He is not to be trusted. His habits are likely to be regular, his existence more mechanical and his head always maintains its supremacy over his heart. Much as I like reasonable persons, I hate completely rational beings.

For that reason, I am always scared and ill at ease when I enter a house in which there are no ash trays. The room is apt to be too clean and orderly, the cushions are apt to be in their right places, and the people are apt to be correct and unemotional. And immediately I am put on my best behavior, which means the same thing as the most uncomfortable behavior.

Now the moral and spiritual benefits of smoking have never been appreciated by those correct and righteous and unemotional and unpoetic souls. But since we smokers are usually attacked from the moral, and not the artistic side, I must begin by defending the smoker's morality, which is on the whole higher than that of the non-smokers.

The man with a pipe in his mouth is the man after my heart. He is more genial, more sociable, has more intimate indiscretions to reveal, and sometimes he is quite brilliant in conversation, and in any case, I have a feeling that he likes me as much as I like him. I agree entirely with Thackeray, who wrote: “The pipe draws wisdom from the lips of the philosopher, and shuts up the mouths of the foolish; it generates a style of conversation contemplative, thoughtful, benevolent, and unaffected.”

A smoker may have dirtier finger-nails, but that is no matter when his heart is warm, and in any case a style of conversation contemplative, thoughtful, benevolent, and unaffected is such a rare thing that one is willing to pay a high price to enjoy it. And most important of all, a man with a pipe in his mouth is always happy, and after all, happiness is the greatest of moral virtues. W. Maggin says that “no cigar smoker ever committed suicide,” and it is still truer that no pipe smoker ever quarrels with his wife.

The reason is perfectly plain: one cannot hold a pipe between one's teeth and at the same time shout at the top of one's voice. No one has ever been seen doing that. For one naturally talks in a low voice when smoking a pipe. What happens when a husband who is a smoker gets angry, is that he immediately lights a cigarette, or a pipe, and looks glum.

But that will not be for long. For his emotion has already found an outlet, and although he may want to continue to look angry in order to justify his indignation or sense of being insulted, still he cannot keep it up, for the gentle fumes of the pipe are altogether too agreeable and soothing, and as he puffs the smoke out, he also seems to let out, breath by breath, his stored-up anger. That is why when a wise wife sees her husband about to fly into a fit of rage, she should gently stick a pipe in his mouth and say, “There! Forget about it!”

This formula always works. A wife may fail, but a pipe never.

"I'm the president...but he's the Boss."

Springsteen received the Kennedy Award this last weekend. The Kennedy Center gives the award to artists each year, and is one of the rarest and most significant honors bestowed on artists by the national government.

President Obama noted of Springsteen, "I'm the president, but he's the Boss."

Bruce has been mighty busy lately. He wrapped up his two-year tour for the Working on a Dream album, finishing off a series of concerts in which he played entire albums from his career. He played, on separate nights, in their entirety Born to Run, Darkness on the Edge of Town, Born in the USA, Greetings from Asbury Park, The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle and The River.

The final show consisted of a gargantuan set list:

Wrecking Ball
The Ties That Bind
Hungry Heart
Working On A Dream

Greetings From Asbury Park, N.J.
Blinded By The Light
Growin' Up
Mary Queen Of Arkansas
Does This Bus Stop At 82nd Street?
Lost In The Flood
The Angel
For You
Spirit In The Night
It's Hard To Be A Saint In The City

Waitin' on a Sunny Day
The Promised Land
Restless Nights
Surprise, Surprise
Merry Christmas Baby
Santa Claus is Coming to Town
Hang Up My Rock and Roll Shoes
Boom Boom
My Love Will Not Let You Down
Long Walk Home
The Rising
Born to Run
Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out

I'll Work For Your Love
Thunder Road
American Land
Dancing in the Dark
Rosalita
(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher and Higher (w/ Willie Nile)
Rocking All Over the World

Bruce and the band also made a stop off for the historic two-night extravaganza for the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame 25th Anniversary. Bruce closed out the first night with a rocking show, playing with guests Billy Joel, Tom Morello, Sam Moore and others.

And the guy's up for four Grammy awards.

Not bad for a guy that just turned 60.

Rock on.

A Little Bit of Dickens

The NY Times has displayed an interactive viewer of Charles Dickens' manuscript (the one and only manuscript) of A Christmas Carol. It is generally under lock and key all the year round, given that there are no other copies.

Here you can see the first page, beginning the famous tale. "Marley was dead: to begin with."

And you can check out the rest of the manuscript and zoom in and out to your feverish heart's delight at:

http://documents.nytimes.com/looking-over-the-shoulder-of-charles-dickens-the-man-who-wrote-of-a-christmas-carol#p=1

Context-Free Selections from Lawrence's Essay "Obscenity and Pornography"

I recently read DH Lawrence's famous "Obscenity and Pornography," a literary essay in which he lays out a defense of sex in literature and gives some rather interesting opinions on what is obscene and what is pornographic.

However, fascinating as Lawrence's essay is, it is even more entertaining to read various sentences out of context.

If you haven't read Lawrence, give him a whirl. Lady Chatterly's Lover is a fine place to start, but all of his novels are worth the effort, including The Rainbow, Women in Love, and Sons and Lovers.

SELECTIONS:

Even Michelangelo, who rather hated sex, can't help filling the Cornucopia with phallic acorns.

The man who said to his exasperating daughter: “My child, the only pleasure I ever had out of you was the pleasure I had in begetting you” has already done a great deal to release both himself and her from the dirty little secret.

But Hamlet shocked all the Cromwellian Puritans, and shocks nobody today, and some of Aristophanes shocks everybody today, and didn't galvanize the later Greeks at all, apparently.

The real masturbation of Englishmen began only in the nineteenth century.

When the police raided my picture show, they did not in the least know what to take.

Yet I find Jane Eyre verging towards pornography and Boccaccio seems to me always fresh and wholesome.

If a woman hasn't got a tiny streak of harlot in her, she's a dry stick as a rule.

And why a man should be held guilty of his conscious intentions, and innocent of his unconscious intentions, I don't know, since every man is more made up of unconscious intentions than of conscious ones.

When the grey ones wail that the young man and the young woman went and had sexual intercourse, they are bewailing the fact that the young man and the young woman didn't go separately and masturbate.

Sentimentality is a sure sign of pornography.

Anybody but a masturbator would have been glad and would have thought: What a lovely bride for some lucky man!

Ooray then for public opinion!

It's My Party & I'll Cry If I Cry If I Want To

It's My Birthday!

I will be born in twenty-two minutes from this post!

Obviously, I'm special, cause I'm not born yet but I can type and put together literate sentences.

No doubt that means I will be primo-attractive too.

If you would like to be present at my birth, please put yourself on the nearest plain, train or automobile and ignore all traffic regulations and flashing lights. You've got 18 minutes (and counting) and if you ain't here to catch the baby you ain't gonna be in the will (exceptions for those present when we did this once before and who posted cute, non-revealing pictures of my childhood at times when I was fully clothed).

Mom has decided to go this without the epidural--obviously I'm being born to a lunatic--so bring your ear plugs and don't forget your gloves. I like to make an entrance, so it's likely this won't be pretty.

As for ground rules:

No smacking my ass.

No comments about the size of my penis.

And only qualified surgeons get to use the scalpel.

Ah! 14 minutes!

Hurry!

I'm on the way!

Great American Writer: Don Robertson

There's an old idea in literary circles that some of the greatest writers to ever grace the earth are actually out there amongst us, but that no one reads them. And thus they remain unpopular all their lives, die, and due to the conjoined forces of the market system, inept promotion and the hand of fate, the writer's work is never widely read and simply disappears into the dust.

It's a theory that allows a whole lot of shitty writers to get to sleep at night.

But it's not entirely untrue. I don't buy the idea that great writers don't get read at all, but really damn fine writers do, on occasion, for whatever reason, end up with a much smaller circle of fans than they deserve.

These are referred to the Writers You're Not Reading (But You Should Be).

They're out there, really stellar writers that you've never heard of, but not just you...writers that almost no one has heard of.

Consider: Pete Dexter. John Keeble. Richard Price. Mark Hammon. Pat Frank. Jim Thompson. Thomas Williams. Larry Brown.

I can go on, but how much would it matter...cause it's not likely you've heard of any of them.

But the one I want to talk about here is another.

His name is Don Roberston.

And he deserves more attention, too.

I recently completed what makes up a trilogy of sorts, the three novels which encapsulate and narrate the life of Roberston's fantastic character Morris Bird III. The books, in order, are The Greatest Thing Since Sliced Bread, The Sum and Total of Now, and The Greatest Thing That Almost Happened.

Independently, each book is excellent, fine writing, crafty storytelling, powerful magic in small packages. Together, they rank out as one of the best pieces of literature I've ever read.

ITEM: Republicans were terrible people. Everyone said so. Or anyway, almost everyone.

ITEM: Errol Flynn's indictment for statutory rape did not mean he had raped statues.

--From The Greatest Thing Since Sliced Bread

The three books chart Morris Bird III's adolescence and ascension into manhood, dipping into three periods of his life, at age nine, then thirteen, and finally seventeen. As coming of age novels, they fall into that category with novels such as To Kill a Mockingbird and The Catcher in the Rye.

In my estimation, Roberston's work holds its own easily with these much better known works, and in many ways his books are more honest, more realistic, and in the long run more compelling. And they're a damn sight funnier.

“A what?” said Grandma.

“An oar,” said Morris Bird III. “When June Weed went away, Mamma called her a filthy oar.”

“Oar! Oh. Oar. Well now.”

“You know what it is?”

Something was pulling and grabbing at the corners of Grandma's mouth. She turned away from Morris Bird III and began fussing with a pot. “Uh, well,” she said. She cleared her throat. “Uh. A oar. Yes indeed.” Then she shook her head from side to side. Her voice was pinched. “No. No. Can't say as I do.”

“Maybe it's like something you row a boat with?”

“Maybe,” said Grandma, fussing with the pot.

“Or maybe it's like what they dig in Wisconsin.”

--From The Greatest Thing Since Sliced Bread

Roberston writes of adolescence with a deft touch, and he shies away from nothing. It is fascinating to contemplate the novels as a whole, because while each is narrated around the same character, there are differences in the tone, frame of mind, and world view as Morris ages. It is the same effect JK Rowling pulled off as Harry Potter aged, and it is a minor literary miracle when it works.

What is also alters from book to book is the subject matter, for obviously as Morris ages Robertson must account for puberty and all that comes with it. Here, again, Roberston really shines, for he finds a way to address dating, masturbation, and sex head on, not edging around any of it, but also without cheapening any of it, making it tawdry or voyeuristic.

Often, he does this through humor, as in the following passage. Throughout The Sum and Total of Now Morris has abstained from masturbation, finding that when the urge really hits him he can keep his hands off himself by grabbing his headboard, squeezing, and waiting for the urge to pass (mind, Morris is growing up in the 40's and 50's, so masturbation is a moral sin). By The Greatest Thing That Almost Happened, Morris finds the urge too much.

But all this changed one night in the summer of 1949, when he was fourteen and about to God damn explode, one hot July night with the window open and the dull anonymous midnight sounds whirring and pumping out there where lives were being lived, not endured, and the entire world was all hot and bothered and lonely and loving and sad, one night when, while gripping the bedposts so tightly that his hands were fishbelly white and his palms were all tingly and sore from the friction, he, Morris Bird III, that master of virtuous Goody Twoshoes selfcontrol,

actually

and irretrievably

and for once

and for all

and forever

and for good

squeezed the bedposts so tightly that he caused them—both of them, simultaneously—to come loose from the headboard. Which caused the headboard to pitch forward and hit him across the forehead. Which also caused him to yelp like a puppy with its tail caught in an electric fan. Which also caused the bed to collapse. Which created a sound that was like World War III. He knew it all would cause his mother and father to come rushing into the room (which they did, his father hopping on his one good foot). Morris Bird III was sitting up on the fallen mattress, and he was rubbing his head, and he supposed his mother and father would figure he had been jacking off. Which they did. His mother called him Nasty, and his father said: Don't you have any control over yourself? And Morris Bird III wanted to jump out of the window and catch a slow freight to Butte, Montana, and that was the truth. It was a week before a carpenter came to fix the bed, and in the meantime Morris Bird III slept on the mattress on the floor. He jacked off every night, and he slept very well, and his hands developed neither warts nor hairs.

--From The Greatest Thing That Almost Happened

And, finally, Roberston threads an emotional honesty and wisdom throughout each novel. He leaves us with no easy answers. People die, and relationships fail, and love turns to hate, and hate turns to love, and the world is senseless and cruel, but he holds fast onto hope, and onto decency, and onto doing good to others. Like the bravest of writers, Roberston shows us how terribly unfair and hurtful the world can be, especially the world of the very people we love and who love us, and yet he has the true courage to compel us to believe in dignity, love and goodness.

That's a rare gift.

He pressed his fingers against his eyesockets. He saw all sorts of colored lights. He wondered if he still was bleeding from his asshole. (HERE LIES MORRIS BIRD III: HIS RECTUM WRECKED HIM).

--From The Greatest Thing That Almost Happened

I hope you might find the time to track down these works. All three have been republished recently (although Roberston's other work is damn hard to find). Don Roberston is a writer to be admired, and one who deserves to be read, and widely.

If you do, I believe you'll be delighted. Morris Bird III isn't a character you're likely to forget.

Bruce and Books

This is the video for "Wrecking Ball," a new song Springsteen wrote as a tribute to Giants Stadium. Bruce and the Band played the last shows ever at Giants Stadium, which is in E. Rutherford, New Jersey. The stadium is being torn down.



Also, some new books out this fall that folks might enjoy. I haven't read them yet, myself, but I figure I'm not the only one wandering through bookstores looking at the new releases and wondering what's what. Here are my recommendations for what's new in Fall 09.

Spooner by Pete Dexter

Under the Dome by Stephen King

Manhood for Amateurs by Michael Chabon

Last Night in Twisted River by John Irving

Wild Things by Dave Eggers

Pirate Latitudes by Michael Crichton

The Greatest Show on Earth by Richard Dawkins

U is for Undertow by Sue Grafton

Text of My Speech Given in Communications Class

This is the text of my speech given last Thursday to my communications class. We were assigned to give a "conflict" speech, detailing a conflict which we had been involved in, and to bring to bear various methods and terminology from the course.

As to the actual events which transpire within the speech, I can only refer you to John Irving, who once wrote: "A fiction writer's memory is an especially imperfect provider of detail; we can always imagine a better detail than the one we can remember. The correct detail is rarely, exactly, what happened; the most truthful detail is what could have happened, or what should have happened."

Conflict Speech

Act I

I was once mistaken for Tyler Durden.

I'm in a bar in my hometown, just me and my cousin JR having a drink, Bruce Springsteen playing “Glory Days” on the jukebox. Red Sox kicking the Yankees ass on the flatscreen. A good night, you know. Nothing happening.

This guy comes sauntering across the bar, short guy, older, lanky kind of hair and a shirt with a little dashed line across the chest, says Must Be This Tall To Ride This Ride, which puts him in the market of midgets and twelve years olds. He gets up real close, looks right at me.

“You're Tyler Durden, aren't you?” he says to me.

My first thought is maybe I heard him wrong. He got my first name right, so maybe the guy actually knows me, one of those scenarios, you know you know the guy but you don't know where from, or maybe the whiskey's messing with my ears, I just heard him wrong.

So I give the guy a look.

(look)

“You're Tyler Durden,” he says.

This time it's not a question.

See, the problem with being mistaken for an imaginary character in a movie is you're not really sure if the guy thinks you're actually a fictional character, or if he thinks you're the actor who played the character in the film. There's a world of difference. In the one case, you're dealing with a drunk. In the other, you're dealing with a looney.

There happens to be an added layer when you're mistaken for a fictional movie character who isn't even real in the movie, a character who's actually a split-personality. In which case, it's possible you're talking to a crazy man who honestly believes that you're the fictional figment of the imagination of a crazy fictional movie character.

This whole line of thinking only occurred to me later, after the fight and after a few more whiskey sours. You drink enough whiskey you get philosophical, but at first the only thing I was really thinking was whether the guy thought I was Edward Norton or Bradd Pitt.

“You got the wrong guy,” I tell him.

Well, now he thinks about this a while. His eyes go kinda blank and watery, and I'm thinking this is the end of it, he's just gonna go away and get a little more plastered and go on home and sleep it off and forget about the whole thing.

Finally, his eyes focus and he's looking at me again.

“I'm gonna kick your ass,” he says.

Act II

Upon reflection, this was really the first escalation, that first turn which eventually led us out of the bar. I mean, we were all on our way to being best friends. Think about how many friendships start out in a bar, drowned in whiskey, Bruce rockin out, the Red Sox kicking ass. The guy already thought I was Brad Pitt. I admit, it would have meant building our relationship around a lie, but it's not like it's the first time in recorded history that would have happened.

Unfortunately, when a guy tells you he's gonna kick your ass, it kinda derails that Feel Good Train.

Way I figure it, the best thing to do is play like I didn't hear him. Maybe if he thought I hadn't heard he'd just forget he said it and be on his merry way.

This is the Non-Confrontational Approach to Conflict Management. In a bar in my hometown, this usually works. You keep your mouth shut, drink your drink, the night goes on

The guy leans in, says: “You wanna fight, Mr. Durden? I'll kick your ass.”

JR hears him this time. Takes a clean look at the guy and then says to me:

“You want me to kill this guy?”

JR just did two tours in Iraq. Sometimes I get the feeling he isn't happy to be home, being peaceful.

As a way of comparison, JR's suggestion could be headed under the Aggressive Approach to Conflict Management.

I tell him no, the guy's just got the wrong person. Mistaken identity. Not a problem.

“Let's go outside and punch each other.”

The guy seems to have a one track mind.

“That's alright, buddy,” I tell him. “I'm not in the mood.”

He thinks about this a minute. His eyes squint up again, getting all watery. It's like a little storm is going on inside his head. A small storm, and eventually it clears and he comes back to the world.

“Let's go out back and punch each other,” he says. “You can hit me first.”

Now, at this point I think it's worth illustrating various communication models. You've heard about the Action Model, the Interaction Model and the Transaction Model. I would like to add another communication model which I think the textbook has neglected. I call it the Missing in Action Model, and it looks something like this.

(model drawing)

It is this particular communication model which I was dealing with, and it was rather wearing my patience pretty thin.

Act III

This is really where the second major escalation occurred. We said a few more things to each other which just got bounced off into outer space, the messages not getting through. Eventually, we decided that JR had a set of boxing gloves out in his truck and we ought to go out back and clear this all up.

Now, I want to say that I could have stayed right there on that bar stool. I could have, and there wasn't much chance of any further escalation. But a number of events transpired which, when put together, made it hard to stay seated. First, the Yankees scored three runs and tied up the ballgame. This was a dark omen. Second, Elton John came on the jukebox, claiming that Saturday night was alright for fighting.

Third, and most importantly though, was that I was Tyler Durden. And the Tyler Durden Approach to Conflict Management didn't include going out the front door.

So out the back we went.

If you've never boxed with only one set of gloves, it works like this. Each guy gets a glove. If you get the left handed glove and you're right handed, well you're just SOL. So you got one hitting hand, and the other goes behind your back.

It's a laborious way to fight. With one hand behind your back you got your chin wide open for the other guy to chop away at. This means if you want to avoid getting hit you gotta shuck your head or move your feet, neither of which are things you particularly feel like doing when you're intoxicated.

What it boils down to is you get hit a lot.

I hit the guy a few times on the nose. You hit a guy square, between the eyes, sting him a little, he usually calls it quits. No one really likes getting hit. Some guys think they do, but nobody really likes it.

My buddy, however, well, he's been staring down the bottle all night, so he ain't feeling anything at all.

He's just taking it, like he's got no place else to be, nothing else to do all night.

So, finally, I cheated.

I felt bad about it afterward. But I felt like it was the kind of thing Tyler Durden would have done.

I faked him a few with my gloved hand, and then came round and clocked him with him bare hand.

It wasn't gentlemanly, but it worked. The guy went down on his ass, his nose a little bloody, and that was the end of it.

I helped the guy up and we took off our gloves. I told him to come back in, I'd buy him a drink, but he said he couldn't stay and he wandered off.

Dénouement

JR and I went back into the bar and ordered another whiskey.

I thought about it for a while, and I could have done it differently.

Even though my Non-Confrontational Approach wasn't accomplishing much, I could have stayed on my stool.

Or I could have walked out the front door, an Avoidance measure, still Non-Confrontational.

I could have attempted a more Cooperative Style, could have asked the guy if there was another solution that would have suited him. We could have brainstormed alternatives on a cocktail napkin, passed it around the bar for votes on the best course of action.

I drank my whiskey and thought about all of this. And I determined two things.

First, it's a well known adage that in nine fights out of ten the guy who wins is the guy who throws the first punch. So, next time someone comes up to me in a bar and asks if I'm Tyler Duren, I'm gonna hit him right there and then.

Second, the guy definitely thought I was Brad Pitt. I don't look anything like Edward Norton.

October Shivers

It's October, and all the nights of lonesome October would not be complete if one didn't spend at least a half dozen hours or more watching horror movies. With this simple and yet essential truth in mind, I've drawn up a list of the flicks you ought to be seeing with your eyeballs and feeling in your veins.

This is not a “best of” list or a “favorite” list. If I made such a list it would be all too likely that you'd have seen all the films and would therefore be rather bored. Instead, this is a List for the Season 2009 (yes, with other lists coming in later years).

For this compendium, I've mixed some favorite films, which you may have seen, with other classics you may have not, and with some smaller cult films where there's a good chance you haven't even heard of them.

Also, my own conception of horror extends rather broadly (since I write horror myself I feel I've got a right to do this). It includes genres that may not actually be horror, but which contain elements and strains of the horrific strong enough that I felt they could be included. Throughout history, horror has been a color on the palette often mixed with other genres, be they science fiction, fantasy, mystery or otherwise. It is thanks to this blending that we have received innumerable classics as diverse as Macbeth to Lord of the Flies.

Well, enough ballyhoo from me. Here's the list.

I expect everyone here to reply with at least a few suggestions of their own.

Creepshow
1982
George Romero

“I drove out there with the remains of three human beings...well, two human beings and Wilma.”

A unique presentation of three separate stories, each roughly half an hour long, written by Stephen King and directed by Romero (of Night of the Living Dead fame). A rare combination of horror and comedy, what's important to remember, here and elsewhere in horror film, is that you're supposed to have a good time. Each tale is presented as a comic book story, and the whole film has the feel of the old EC horror comics.



Child's Play
1988
Tom Holland

“We're friends to the end, remember?”
“This is the end, friend.”

Chucky is one of the many instantly recognizable horror icons. But how many of you have actually seen this first film? Here, in the original, Chucky is a menace and a terror, not the object of laughable derision he became in later films.


The Blob
1958
Irvin Yeaworth Jr.

“At least we've got it stopped.”
“Yeah, as long as the Arctic stays cold.”

The first film of Steve McQueen's career. Low budget graphics and an amorphous blob that just doesn't want to quit eating people. Get past the rather unbelievable and goofy story line and this is still an enjoyable film. Can't beat it for it's closing line, quoted above, which take on a rather different meaning today.


Psycho
1960
Alfred Hitchcock

“A boy's best friend is his mother.”

The all-time classic. People ran out of theaters screaming when they saw this. Hard to believe today, but Hitchcock's most famous scene is a brilliant study in filmmaking power. Watch it in slow motion. Though thousands of people swore they'd seen Janet Leigh slashed and ripped open, you never actually see the knife touch her skin. All you do see is Hitch's magnificent film editing.


Soylent Green
1973
Richard Fleischer

“You're a helluva piece of furniture.”

A fantastic sci-fi, post-apocalyptic film, the paranoia that fuels it and the deeply horrifying ending gives it the boost to make my list here. A wonderfully creative movie, especially in its wry bits of black humor, such as the way in which young women are sold as part of the package deal of buying a rich man's condo. A prostitute really, but she comes with the house. And what do they call her? Furniture. Wicked, but priceless.


Friday the 13th
1980
Sean Cunningham

“He neglected to mention that downtown they call this place Camp Blood.”

Again, classic, identifiable, but how many of you have seen it? This first film beats the pants off every Jason slasher that came after it (which many people claim with certain series and which is not always the case). Moody, atmospheric, and ahead of its time.


Bride of Frankenstein
1935
James Whale

“I hope her bones are firm.”

Frankenstein was a massive hit in the early 1930's, but it was this sequel which stands out as the true masterpiece, probably the most stylistically accomplished and most brilliantly filmed horror movie of that decade. On display once again is the genius of Boris Karloff, who never outdid himself as this particularly un-jolly green giant.


Night of the Living Dead
1968
George Romero

“He's coming to get you, Barbara.”

Romero's first masterpiece. Shot in black and white in an era of color (just like it's famous predecessor, Psycho) this film stunned audiences and became one of the small handful of enormously influential horror films. Throughout what is apparent is Romero's flair and style, the brilliant camera angles, the noir touch, and his gift for letting the camera tell the story.


The Fog
1980
John Carpenter

“Are you going to give the benediction tonight, Father?”
“Antonio Bay has a curse on it.”
“Do we take that as a no?”

Carpenter is one of the greatest horror directors, and was a sad day when Hollywood butchered the remake of this fantastic film. Forget the new crap. Get your hands on this masterpiece. It is classic Carpenter (who also directed Halloween), eerie, disturbing, and filled to the brim with tight, chilling suspense.


Idle Hands
1999
Rodman Flender

“Oh, man, the lefty's a keeper. I mean, I guess it wasn't idle enough.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah, man. I mean, I hit the remote with it, light up with it, relieve a little tension.”

Disgusting. Fun. Outrageous. And Jessica Alba. Reminding one of other horror/humor mixes, ala Creepshow, this is horror for the youth generation. The plot line sounds unbelievably silly, a kid wakes up with his hand possessed by the devil and it starts killing people without his consent, but it's actually an update on a silent-era thriller The Hands of Orlac. If nothing else, it's worth watching the kid strap his hand down to the bedpost, mock-bondage, so that he can have sex with Jessica Alba without his hand killing her.


Shadow of the Vampire
2000
Elias Merhige

“Go ahead! Eat the writer! That will leave you explaining how your character gets to Bremen.”

Nosferatu was a wildly popular and influential film in its time, and this movie is an homage to that silent film. Here, John Malkovich plays the director actually making Nosferatu. Except, in a twist, the vampire of the famous film isn't really Max Schreck the actor. It's really a vampire.


Prom Night
1980
Paul Lynch

“It's not who you go with, honey. It's who takes you home.”

The original. Again. Jamie Lee Curtis had the dubious honor of starring in multiple horror films, some of which were ultimately definitive (this film and Halloween). This movie is all about build-up, the killing only coming near the very end. Funny, amusing, and rather interesting as the killer bumbles through numerous killings, having quite the hard time acting out the revenge. This film too would be butchered in the remake, but before that it would set the stage for a legion of films, from Scream to I Know What You Did Last Summer.


Alien
1979
Ridley Scott

“This is the worst shit I've ever seen, man.”

Like Psycho, this film promises a scene you will never forget. Not even on your deathbed. You'll remember it forever, and if you haven't seen it I won't spoil it for you. A beautifully done story, a scientific team trapped in space with a monstrous killing alien being which stalks them down and can't be stopped. Wow.


They Live
1988
John Carpenter

“I've come here to chew bubble gum and kick ass. And I'm all out of bubble gum.”

Another Carpenter. Imagine if you had a pair of special sunglasses that when you put them on revealed what the world was really like. And what it revealed was that all the people in power are really grotesque aliens with skull-like faces. And their running the world. And they've manipulated us all into compliant, apathetic submission. This one is outrageously funny.


The Omen
1976
Richard Donner

“Wrong? What could be wrong with our child, Robert? We're beautiful people, right?”

There was yet another remake of this film, which originally spawned two sequels, but this original screenplay is truly creepy. A well-balanced act of eerie scenes, religious paranoia, and graphic violence. October isn't complete without at least one movie about the anti-Christ, and this one does the trick.

Dylan Rocks Seattle

A man doesn't choose his heroes.

He may choose who he wishes to admire, who he wishes to emulate, but his heroes speak to some portion of his character and personality where he does not rule and his vote does not count. It has been the good fortune of my life to have seen all of my heroes in the flesh (those still alive, anyway).

On Oct. 5^th, 2009 I saw the last of the three great heroes of my life, Bob Dylan.

Dylan is the kind of artist who gets under your skin. I don't mean it in the derogatory sense. Rather, once you start listening to Dylan, once he slips past whatever walls you've thrown up in his way, he goes straight for the bloodstream, and you can never be free of him. His music haunts you, showing up in random places and attaching itself to half-formed thoughts in your mind. You dream him. You think him. And, in the end, you are irrevocably changed by him.

If there was ever any question about Dylan's ability to still influence a wide and diverse body of people, it would easily have been laid to rest last night in Seattle. The audience ranged far and wide, and relatively few of the concert-goers could have been called Baby Boomers, the era which Dylan falls squarely inside of. Last night's audience was surprisingly young, some half of it under forty and a good quarter or more between 15 and 30.

More, this was an excited crowd. People were laughing, having a good time, and verily eager to see His Bobness appear on the stage. When he finally did, the place erupted.

The other issue that was nailed in its coffin was whether or not Dylan could still rock. The music he's produced in the last twenty years is mostly blues/folk/Americana, which would leave some pondering if Dylan still has it in him to rock out.

The answer?

My god, does this band ever rock. Half a dozen times Dylan about ripped the roof off the WaMu Theater, hailing the crowd with numbers that were louder and filled with more rockin' energy than the work of artists a third his age. The depth of Dylan's journey through early American roots music forms has tapped the vein of what makes the foot stomp, the heart pound, the hips sway. If an entire generation seems to have forgotten how to dance to anything other than computer generated drumbeats, Dylan is here to remind us just why we rock n roll in the first place.

What follows is the setlist, lyric excerpt and a few notes.

Enjoy.

Gonna Change My Way of Thinking

From: Slow Train Coming

I got me a God-fearing woman

One I can easily afford

This is one of the few tunes Dylan still plays from his Christian-convert days in the early 1980's. He released two albums of Christian rock, rather a surprise at the time to his fans, who didn't exactly picture their hero as a Believer. While he abandoned the convert pose, this song still fits within Dylan's end of the world, world gone wrong repertoire of blues.

Lay Lady Lay

From: Nashville Skyline

Stay, Lady, stay

Stay with your man awhile

As classic as it gets. One of Dylan's most popular songs. Dylan sounded a bit scratchy here, but his delivery now, in his late 60's, gives this song a whole new kind of meaning, and is a rare kind of pure romantic note in Dylan's current show. However, it is his raw, blues-drenched voice that is able to convey the depth of feeling in this song now, which is missing from the album track.

Beyond Here Lies Nothin

From: Together Through Life

We'll keep on lovin pretty baby

For as long as love will last

From his new album, this song really rocks. It is short, sweet and to the point. From this song forward it was obvious that Dylan wrote the new album with the live performances in mind, because their blues foundation gets kicked into high gear on stage, and they bring down the house.

Spirit on the Water

From: Modern Times

Sometimes I wonder

Why you can't treat me right

You do good all day

And then you do wrong all night

A ballad of broken love, one of Dylan's most tender and beautiful songs. On the album it is moody and long, a meandering meditation on heartbreak and love. Sped up in concert, it still moves, but the band seemed to be rushing.

Honest With Me

From: Love and Theft

I'm not sorry for nothin I've done

I'm glad I fought

I only wish we'd won

If they were rushing it was to get to this song, because the band tore the place apart with it. This song showcases Dylan's brutal sense of irony and his acerbic wit. He is one of the funniest lyricists in rock n roll, and this number, along with all of Love and Theft, attest to his mastery of humor.

I Don't Believe You (She Acts Like We Never Have Met)

From: Another Side of Bob Dylan

But now something has changed

For she ain't the same

She just acts like we never have met

A classic Dylan song, I've heard this done half a dozen different ways over the years, and yet Dylan reinvented it here again for his current show. It may be the best recreation, as he slowed it down and parceled out each lyric, giving it more weight and more grove. And, I think, more sorrow.

My Wife's Home Town

From: Together Through Life

State's gone broke

The county's dry

Don't be lookin at me with that evil eye

Another of Dylan's funnier tunes, as he quips about his wife's hometown, Hell, and confesses how much he loves her anyway. The band played this one just right, and Dylan ripped into it on harmonica, an instrument that he has used for years but which suits him best now as he plays primarily blues-rock at this later stage of his career.

Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again

From: Blonde on Blonde

An I say, 'Aw, come on now

You must know about my debutante'

And she says, 'Your debutante knows just what you need

But I know what you want'

This is a great song. Dylan has recast it for his new band, but this old sixties tune is the first apex of the show. The band plays on and on, rolling out one flourish after another, and they hit a high note here that won't be reached again until the end of the show.

Forgetful Heart

From: Together Through Life

What can I say

Without you it's so hard to live

Can't take much more

Why can't we love like we did before

A slow, mournful dirge, Dylan took center stage and worked the crowd like the master that he is. This is a quiet, painful tune, and after the crescendo of the last song, its timing in the lineup is perfect. Dylan held the crowd in the palm of his hand.

If You Ever Go to Houston

From: Together Through Life

If you ever go to Austin

Fort Worth or San Antone

Find the bar rooms I got lost in

And send my memories home

A fun number, midtempo, a kind of Tex-Mex swing that shows just how far Dylan can push this band. The musical variety in Dylan's shows is always stunning, and here he plays with freewheeling sense of Americana that few other bands can pull off.

Highway 61 Revisited

From: Highway 61 Revisited

God say to Abraham, 'Kill me a son'

Abe say, 'Man you must be puttin me on'

God say, 'No'

Abe say, 'What?'

God say, 'You can do what you want Abe but

The next time you see me comin you better run'

Abe say, 'Where you want this killin done?'

God say, 'Out on Highway 61'

Another high point, the band broke out again into full rock n roll. This is one of Dylan's best songs, and his vocal performance here was superb. He growled his way through the story of God and Abraham and howled through the mishaps and misfortunes of the fabled Highway 61. A perfect rendition.

I Feel a Change Comin On

From: Together Through Life

Dreams never did work for me anyway

Even when they did come true

Another midtempo number in which Dylan wisecracks about being told that he has “the blood of the land in his voice.” As perhaps the only musician to be seriously held as the voice of his generation, this isn't a far stretch, and Dylan has played against this stereotype his whole life. Here, with some humor.

Thunder on the Mountain

From: Modern Times

I did all that I could

I did it right there and then

I've already confessed

No need to confess again

This song never quite reaches its full height on the album, but live it gets the blood pounding. With a name drop nod to Alicia Keys in its opening lyric, Dylan wonders just “where in the world Alicia Keys can be,” after which he growls a lecherous “oh yeah.” Another rocking song.

Ballad of a Thin Man

From: Highway 61 Revisited

Because something is happening here

And you don't know what it is

Do you, Mr. Jones?

One of Dylan's great epic songs, the band focuses in on the darker quality of it here, stressing again and again that you don't really know what's going on, do you? Over the years this has become one of Dylan's more subversive and weighted songs, as history has added echoes to its original intent.

Like a Rolling Stone

From: Highway 61 Revisited

You used to be so amused

At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used

Go to him now he calls you

You can't refuse

When you got nothin

You got nothin to lose

Rolling Stone called it the greatest rock song ever written. Nuff said.

Jolene

From: Together Through Life

Well it's a long old highway, don't ever end

I got a Saturday night special, I'm back again

A rollicking romp, Dylan takes the high road here instead of woman-done-me-wrong. Here he insists he's going to get what he wants and make old Jolene his. This is one of the most upbeat numbers from his new album, full of good times.

All Along the Watchtower

From: John Wesley Harding

'No reason to get excited,' the Thief he kindly spoke

'There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke

'But you and I we've been through that

'And this is not our fate

'Let us not talk falsely now...the hour is getting late'

There's a few folks out there who felt that Jimmie Hendrix outdid Bob when he released a rock n roll version of this song, which originally was a quiet, almost country like tune. Well, Jimmie's probably rolling over in his grave, because the version Dylan performs today is harder and more rockin than even Hendrix could have envisioned. The perfect way to end a show.

It was a great night, one of the best concerts I've seen. And I'd say if you have any doubts about Dylan, check out a live show. You won't have any doubts any longer.

'El Sol es el Mejor Torero'

Leading the Arts section of the New York Times Thursday was the headline: “In a Spanish Province, a Twilight of the Matadors.”

The article outlined what might just be the final performance—ever—of a bullfight in the Catalonia region of Spain. The great and mysterious matador Jose Tomas (he of the double-barreled first name), once retired at the height of his fame and prestige, packed the 19,000 seat Plaza Monumental, the first sellout there in over 20 years. But outside the dust and the brick of the plaza, the Catalan Parliament is considering a referendum that would ban bullfighting in the region, which includes the capital, Barcelona.

Bullfighting is considered a Spanish tradition, and the Catalans of the region are largely opposed to being seen as Spanish. For them, it is both culture and politics. They have, in recent years, gained plenty of momentum and support from animal rights activists, who for reasons of their own decry the long, bloody history of the bullfight.

Now, I do not pretend to fully grasp and understand the Spanish or Catalan people, and my own knowledge of bullfighting is limited. I have never attended such a spectacle, as they are not held here in our country. However, if they were, I would very much wish to see one.

And should the Catalan Parliament pass this referendum, I would mourn the loss.

For it seems to me that what we stand to lose, this brutal, violent sport, is not what it appears at first, certainly not to the outsider, the non-Spaniard. I fear that it's disappearance might only be understood in distant retrospect, on a day and at an hour when we no longer recall what living is for and all that we remember is a fading echo of something that once reminded us we were alive.

You can count on one hand the places you can go to see a violent death.

Our theaters, what Bradbury called the “cave of winds,” do not count. For the winds that blow here are not real and do not scratch at the skin or tangle in the nose or sting at the eyes. Neuroscientists have shown that the areas of the brain activated when watching film are the same activated during sleep. The brain processes film as a dream. Literally. And thus our notion of filmic catharsis vanishes before our waking eyes as we come to understand that death on screen never was and never can be a rehearsal for death.

Actual death, especially violent death, is an experience your brain cannot hedge around. And while prescribing such viewing sounds morbid, there is something to be said for it within the bullfighting ring. For inside the ring, death is given meaning through ritual.

Bullfighting reminds us coldly and without any doubt that we will die, and that the color of life is red. It reminds us of what we wish most not to see and not to know, that every breath is fragile and someday those breaths will become ragged and run out.

The average person does not want to contemplate the end. In fact, the average person will do almost anything they can to prevent contemplation. This condition grows ever worse as years pass, when the fearlessness of youth gives way to the uncertainty of old age.

But a great deal of our disease with death comes directly from the fact that we have removed all references to it in our daily lives. We have no contact with it, and as with everything unknown we fear it all the more because we do not know it.

Consider:

Almost none of us hunt. What used to be a regular, daily interaction with death is gone. Someone else kills our food for us, and the vast majority of us do not know how that death occurs or what it looks like (and what little we do know comes almost exclusively from animal rights groups, who portray only the worst and most extreme cases which support their cause).

We do not even put down our own pets. We bring them to veterinary clinics so someone else may kill them for us.

We do not handle the bodies of the dead. Specialists take our loved ones away, clean the bodies, dress them for funeral, take them away and put them in the ground. We have no part in this, and thus we who possess the most duty to those who have died reject our obligation and turn it over to someone else.

We put our near-dead in housing facilities where we do not have to look at them, and once out of sight they remain also out of mind. Our fear of death is so strong we can not even face the reminder of our mortality the elderly bring with them.

We pass laws granting animals similar rights as humans, not out of an honest appeal to the sanctity of life, but because we can not bear the reality that for us to live something else must die.

It is nature's law that all that live must die, but we shield ourselves so completely from this truth that it creates psychosis. It creates undeniably bizarre and irrational behavior, such as sentencing minors to twenty years in prison for killing cats.

Worse, it creates a culture in which we cannot come to terms with truth, and the worst lies are the ones we tell ourselves.

Bullfighting is a candle in the dark. It stands as a last remnant of an earlier time when death walked more comfortably among us, and we knew its face better because we could not so easily turn away.

The ritual of death within the bullfighting ring, however, is only half the story. Death is the tale, but the matador provides the context.

Proper bullfighting is an enactment of the proper way to live. The proper bullfight, and a true matador, illustrate courage in the face of danger, grace in the face of death, calm and poise and control of emotion when it is needed most, and honor in flawless execution. There is no pride in fakery over true form, no honor in showmanship over character, no dignity in ends outweighing means.

Killing the bull is not the point. The point is an honorable death, which can only be achieved by honorable and correct form.

The bullfight, though it brings us face to face with death, is not about death.

It is about life. About how to live knowing that we will die.

To live correctly, rightly, so that we may meet death with grace.

So I hope the Catalan Parliament chooses wisely, and that if it does not such decisions to not spill over to other regions where the bullfight still holds on. For too often we try, in our ignorance, to abolish the very tools which we need most to live and to live well. Too often, because something is not pretty or because it is upsetting we believe it cannot be good.

But goodness and beauty should not be confused to be the same thing, nor good intentions and wisdom.

“The spectator going to a bullfight for the first time cannot expect to see the combination of the ideal bull and the ideal fighter for that bull which may occur not more than twenty times in all Spain in a season and it would be wrong for him to see that the first time. He would be so confused, visually, by the many things he was seeing that he could not take it all in with his eyes, and something which he might never see again in his life would mean no more to him than a regular performance. If there is any chance of his liking the bullfights the best bullfight for him to see first is an average one, two brave bulls out of six, the four undistinguished ones to give relief to the performance of the two excellent ones, three bullfighters, not too highly paid, so that whatever extraordinary things they do will look difficult rather than easy, a seat not too near the ring so that he will see the entire spectacle rather than, if he is too close, have it constantly broken up into bull and horse, man and bull, bull and man -- and a hot sunny day. The sun is very important. The theory, practice and spectacle of bullfighting have all been built on the assumption of the presence of the sun and when it does not shine over a third of the bullfight is missing. The Spanish say, ‘El sol es el mejor torero.’ The sun is the best bullfighter, and without the sun the best bullfighter is not there. He is like a man without a shadow.”

--From “Death in the Afternoon” by Ernest Hemingway