Saturday, March 23, 2013
The Death of Common Sense
Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape.
He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:
Knowing when to come in out of the rain;
Why the early bird gets the worm;
Life isn’t always fair,
and maybe it was my fault.
Common sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don’t spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults are in charge not children).
His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of an 8 year old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate, teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch, and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.
Common sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children. It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student, but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.
Common sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses, and criminals received better treatment than their victims.
Common sense took a beating when you couldn’t defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.
Common sense finally gave up the will to live, after a women failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.
Common sense was preceded in death, by
His parents, truth and trust
His wife, discretion
His daughter, Responsibility
His son, reason.
He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers
I know my rights
I want my rights
I want it now
I’m a victim.
Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The short life and appalling death of Raymond Zack, an avoidable American tragedy.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Crown Memorial State Beach, Alameda, California is the kind of place you come to breathe and shake off life's trials and tribulations.
The panorama is just what you think the Golden State should be...a place of possibilities, not inhibitions. Here the air is superior to any French vintage... the chill waters are bracing and playful....
Here the very birds fly higher because they are contented at such a place... and in the distance, clearly seen, is the great structure of one of mankind's signature triumphs the Golden Gate Bridge... which sends every spirit soaring...
It was here that Raymond Zack came to die... and where the people charged with protecting life assisted Raymond take his, to the astonishment, wonder and outrage of the world.
Raymond Zack, born July 23, 1959.
Raymond was, like so many millions of us, a son of America's great heartland; Ohio born and bred. His life moved to the rhythm that is so quintessentially ours...
He was a product of Columbus' Catholic schools... where he learned good manners, the importance of being a good man and valuable citizen... and where he glimpsed, at the hands of his dedicated instructors, the reality of God Everlasting. At 6'3" tall, this giant of a boy excelled at track and baseball... people saw him above the crowd and, with a wink and nudge, said the boy had talent.
He went, and went proudly, to Ohio State.... as American as any educational establishment in the land. It was here, upon graduation, that he entered the community of educated men and women... And where he decided to answer Horace Greeley's great exhortation "Go West, young man, Go West!" And he did, attracted by the dazzling sunshine and even more dazzling possibilities of California, the pot of gold at the end of America's rainbow.
But California life, for all that the sun was radiant, gave Raymond Zack more than his share of life's troubles. His family life was turbulent, confusing, never restful though he was the beneficiary of his foster mother's affectionate care and unceasing concern.
He weighed 300 pounds now and, like millions of his countrymen, was challenged by the complexities of food and the clear and present dangers of overindulgence. Chagrined by his bulk, Raymond, bit by bit, withdrew from the body politic and faced the secret sorrows of isolation and loneliness, the abiding reality for too many of his countrymen.
His mother died in November 2010... and though there had been confusions and disappointments there, still she was his mother... and her loss magnified his burdens.
Then, in the midst of a great recession, where California's profound promise was tarnished, Raymond lost his job at the St. Vincent de Paul Free Food Distribution Center where, along with Mrs. Dolores Berry, his foster mother, he had helped everyone who came. Now the man who had helped so many... was himself in need of help. This, too, was, quintessentially American for too many...
Raymond, with a "God helps those who help themselves" attitude, tried hard to do what he'd been taught to do; to keep his chin up and a stiff upper lip; to do what he could... to stay cheerful in the face of adversity.
But bit by bit, like so many, his resilience and hope were worn away. Raymond's dark days were nigh...
In the still of the night...
We shall never know where Raymond's anxious forebodings carried him, alone at the midnight hour. At such a time a man may turn to booze, women, any dissipation to dispel the gloom... but Raymond seems to have faced his great matter alone... and in profound despair. This, too, is reality for millions of the dispossessed and fearful.
At some irrevocable moment in his profound human misery Raymond decided the game was not worth the candle... and that it was time to move again, out of very life itself.
Thus, on May 30, 2011, while his countrymen were celebrating the sacrifices made by others to the benefit of all, Raymond Zack decided to make a sacrifice, too -- of himself, since living life was just too painful and without hope.
And so he waded into the chill waters at Crown Memorial State Beach, about to be the venue of muddle, confusion, bumbling... and death. A great American tragedy was about to commence... unnecessary, scandalous, an event that enhanced no one and left Raymond Zack, floating face down, his life's work at an end.
Seen by many.
Remember, Raymond Zack was a big man, 6'3", over 300 pounds. He moved slowly, deliberately in the shallow waters. He was clearly seen though his purpose, at first, was not. Still, as Raymond walked into deeper waters, residents were concerned; a 911 call was made... alerting police and firefighters that some kind of incident was underway.
In just 4 minutes help was at hand... and at hand help stayed... but without lifting a finger. And here is where an avoidable tragedy morphs into disbelief, reproach, scandal, and incomprehension.
Not one of the many lifesaving professionals on the beach, not a single one, did a single thing to forestall the tragedy that could so easily have been prevented.
Later these officials, pummelled by an incredulous world, worked overtime to manufacture excuses they hoped would appease, mollify and cover.
Fire officials said that because of budget cuts no one knew the necessary rescue procedures. But this excuse was quickly blasted... when it was shown the department had money, but no sense. Other officials said rescue policies did not cover the case in point.
A police spokesman said officers stayed out of the water because Zack was suicidal and posed a possible threat.
A boat was requested to take officers to Zack... but those requesting it never indicated the matter was pressing.
In short, at every moment where judgement, help and assistance were required... the professionals at hand, our honored paladins, were without judgement, help and assistance.
And so, in full view of the world, in full view of his hysterical foster parent, 86 year old Dolores Berry, who unsuccessfully begged for celerity and assistance, Raymond Zack died...
In the way of these things, everything the system could have provided Raymond in life only emerged when he was dead... in such ways does America expiate its negligence.
Now there are flowers on the beach where he died, a crowd gathers daily to reflect and wonder; bishops make Raymond the subject of their learned lamentations. Municipal officials investigate and dismiss the inept. All this is good, right and proper.
But we must not forget the man at the center of it all, Raymond Zack, dead too soon at 50. He meant us well, each and every one of us. Now, prematurely, he rests in the bosom of the Lord; may he find the peace there he never had here.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc. , providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski
Crown Memorial State Beach, Alameda, California is the kind of place you come to breathe and shake off life's trials and tribulations.
The panorama is just what you think the Golden State should be...a place of possibilities, not inhibitions. Here the air is superior to any French vintage... the chill waters are bracing and playful....
Here the very birds fly higher because they are contented at such a place... and in the distance, clearly seen, is the great structure of one of mankind's signature triumphs the Golden Gate Bridge... which sends every spirit soaring...
It was here that Raymond Zack came to die... and where the people charged with protecting life assisted Raymond take his, to the astonishment, wonder and outrage of the world.
Raymond Zack, born July 23, 1959.
Raymond was, like so many millions of us, a son of America's great heartland; Ohio born and bred. His life moved to the rhythm that is so quintessentially ours...
He was a product of Columbus' Catholic schools... where he learned good manners, the importance of being a good man and valuable citizen... and where he glimpsed, at the hands of his dedicated instructors, the reality of God Everlasting. At 6'3" tall, this giant of a boy excelled at track and baseball... people saw him above the crowd and, with a wink and nudge, said the boy had talent.
He went, and went proudly, to Ohio State.... as American as any educational establishment in the land. It was here, upon graduation, that he entered the community of educated men and women... And where he decided to answer Horace Greeley's great exhortation "Go West, young man, Go West!" And he did, attracted by the dazzling sunshine and even more dazzling possibilities of California, the pot of gold at the end of America's rainbow.
But California life, for all that the sun was radiant, gave Raymond Zack more than his share of life's troubles. His family life was turbulent, confusing, never restful though he was the beneficiary of his foster mother's affectionate care and unceasing concern.
He weighed 300 pounds now and, like millions of his countrymen, was challenged by the complexities of food and the clear and present dangers of overindulgence. Chagrined by his bulk, Raymond, bit by bit, withdrew from the body politic and faced the secret sorrows of isolation and loneliness, the abiding reality for too many of his countrymen.
His mother died in November 2010... and though there had been confusions and disappointments there, still she was his mother... and her loss magnified his burdens.
Then, in the midst of a great recession, where California's profound promise was tarnished, Raymond lost his job at the St. Vincent de Paul Free Food Distribution Center where, along with Mrs. Dolores Berry, his foster mother, he had helped everyone who came. Now the man who had helped so many... was himself in need of help. This, too, was, quintessentially American for too many...
Raymond, with a "God helps those who help themselves" attitude, tried hard to do what he'd been taught to do; to keep his chin up and a stiff upper lip; to do what he could... to stay cheerful in the face of adversity.
But bit by bit, like so many, his resilience and hope were worn away. Raymond's dark days were nigh...
In the still of the night...
We shall never know where Raymond's anxious forebodings carried him, alone at the midnight hour. At such a time a man may turn to booze, women, any dissipation to dispel the gloom... but Raymond seems to have faced his great matter alone... and in profound despair. This, too, is reality for millions of the dispossessed and fearful.
At some irrevocable moment in his profound human misery Raymond decided the game was not worth the candle... and that it was time to move again, out of very life itself.
Thus, on May 30, 2011, while his countrymen were celebrating the sacrifices made by others to the benefit of all, Raymond Zack decided to make a sacrifice, too -- of himself, since living life was just too painful and without hope.
And so he waded into the chill waters at Crown Memorial State Beach, about to be the venue of muddle, confusion, bumbling... and death. A great American tragedy was about to commence... unnecessary, scandalous, an event that enhanced no one and left Raymond Zack, floating face down, his life's work at an end.
Seen by many.
Remember, Raymond Zack was a big man, 6'3", over 300 pounds. He moved slowly, deliberately in the shallow waters. He was clearly seen though his purpose, at first, was not. Still, as Raymond walked into deeper waters, residents were concerned; a 911 call was made... alerting police and firefighters that some kind of incident was underway.
In just 4 minutes help was at hand... and at hand help stayed... but without lifting a finger. And here is where an avoidable tragedy morphs into disbelief, reproach, scandal, and incomprehension.
Not one of the many lifesaving professionals on the beach, not a single one, did a single thing to forestall the tragedy that could so easily have been prevented.
Later these officials, pummelled by an incredulous world, worked overtime to manufacture excuses they hoped would appease, mollify and cover.
Fire officials said that because of budget cuts no one knew the necessary rescue procedures. But this excuse was quickly blasted... when it was shown the department had money, but no sense. Other officials said rescue policies did not cover the case in point.
A police spokesman said officers stayed out of the water because Zack was suicidal and posed a possible threat.
A boat was requested to take officers to Zack... but those requesting it never indicated the matter was pressing.
In short, at every moment where judgement, help and assistance were required... the professionals at hand, our honored paladins, were without judgement, help and assistance.
And so, in full view of the world, in full view of his hysterical foster parent, 86 year old Dolores Berry, who unsuccessfully begged for celerity and assistance, Raymond Zack died...
In the way of these things, everything the system could have provided Raymond in life only emerged when he was dead... in such ways does America expiate its negligence.
Now there are flowers on the beach where he died, a crowd gathers daily to reflect and wonder; bishops make Raymond the subject of their learned lamentations. Municipal officials investigate and dismiss the inept. All this is good, right and proper.
But we must not forget the man at the center of it all, Raymond Zack, dead too soon at 50. He meant us well, each and every one of us. Now, prematurely, he rests in the bosom of the Lord; may he find the peace there he never had here.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc. , providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski
Friday, June 10, 2011
Listen my children and you shall hear of Sarah Palin's version of the midnight ride of Paul Revere. So, who needs facts anyway?
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Sarah Palin came to Boston June 3, 2011 with her traveling circus of friends, children, grandchildren, and hangers on... On vacation, she wanted to show herself off to Boston while instructing her claque in the finer points of American revolution history, so much of which took place right here.
Frankly, we were glad to see her since our tourist business was hard hit by the recent recession and is only just recovering, glad that is...
... until she started lecturing us locals on what we know best: our own history, whose facts she so scrambled that she managed to turn Paul Revere from our celebrated hero into a stooge for the British, a spy treacherously working for the very people we were fighting against, our 18th century owners and oppressors.
Here's what she said after a visit to Old North Church when she was asked about Paul Revere's historic ride, April 18, 1775. With the ringing certitude she's made all her own Professor Palin commenced her mangling. Revere, she said, "warned the British that they weren't going to be taking away our arms. By ringing those bells and making sure as he's riding his horse through town to send those warning shots and bells that we were going to be secure and we were going to be free."
Except for the part where Palin says Revere got on his horse and rode... Professor Palin is wrong on every single point.
Revere was not on a mission to warn the British. (Where does the lady get these ideas anyway?).
He rode to warn the colonists to get up and defend themselves for the "British were coming", by sea.
He didn't work alone but as part of a team of brave people who each, once briefed, had to get up and get out fast, to warn the colonists along their appointed route so that they could defend themselves and the arms they had dangerously, laboriously assembled.
If Paul Revere had done what Palin said he did ("warn the British") he would have been snuffed out by the locals as a dangerous snitch, a traitor, not raised to the pinnacle of national respect and admiration.
This entire imbroglio, this tempest in a tea cup, should never had taken place. Palin could have chosen to do what I did when I took my nephew Kyle out to the same historic sites.
First, get a guidebook and read it.
Second, visit the superb visitor centers along the way. They are packed with pertinent detail and good (air-conditioned) films, a real pleasure to see and get out of the humidity, too.
Three, pepper the well prepared park service employees and local volunteers in period costumes with all your questions. They've heard it all and, in my experience (for I've taken friends and family members thither many times) are well qualified, well versed, and always warm and welcoming in the New England fashion.
Sarah, of course, chose none of these sensible alternatives.
Sarah likes "going rogue" about this, as everything else. It means she does things, everything, her own way... and those who don't like it can lump it. She so liked the idea and the phrase that she titled her autobiography "Going Rogue: An American Life". (Simon and Schuster 2009). In Palin's "Alice in Wonderland" world whatever she says, no matter how wrong, is right and anyone criticizing her, however right, is always wrong.
Fox News anchor Chris Wallace, her Fox colleague, was the latest victim of Palin-think. Sunday June 5, he discovered why even suggesting that Palin could be mistaken ever about anything is like fighting with a skunk. And we all know what that means...
The daring but hapless Wallace suggested that Palin had erred in her Boston lecture on Revere. But Palin wasn't about to suffer that. What? Sarah! Make! A! Mistake! Not just impossible... but inconceivable. And what's more, that was just another instance of "gotcha" journalism, bad people out to get her. (In Sarah's conspiratorial world there are always such evildoers at hand for Sarah's world is lined with paranoia.)
"You know what?" Palin spat at Wallace, "I didn't mess up about Paul Revere. Part of his ride was to warn the British that we're already there. That, hey, you're not going to succeed. You're not going to take American arms."
There was more, lots more, delivered with the usual ingredients of her verbal Molotov cocktails... surety, disdain, condescension and her usual "Look brother,don't tread on me. Get off my back" nastiness, which can in an instant turn her smile into a sneer. Make no mistake about it, Sarah's a tough customer and any suggestion that she's not as good as the Virgin Mary directs her firepower at you, while her stiletto comes down hard on your foot, the better to make her point -- maggot, don't mess with me.
And this to Chris Wallace, a professional colleague at the Fox Network!
She went on, fire and brimstone at the ready, for Palin always comes armed with the arsenal of the street fighter:
"Here is what Paul Revere did. He warned the Americans that the British were coming.., and they were going to try take our arms and we got to make sure that we were protecting ourselves and shoring up all of ammunitions and our firearms so that they couldn't take it," Palin said June 5.
"But remember that the British had already been there, many soldiers for seven years in the area. And part of Paul Revere's ride --and it wasn't just one ride -- he was a courier, he was a messenger. Part of his ride was to warn the British that we're already there.... You are not going to beat our own well-armed persons, individual, private militia that we have. He did warn the British."
And that, she suggests, is that. But, most assuredly, that is not that... and not just because she misstated a few facts which are all easily available in libraries and online. Even Boston's own Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in his famous poem "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere" (published 1863) erred in focusing solely on what Revere did, to the detriment of his many other colleagues who also rode hard for freedom that April evening.
No, Palin's fault is the assumption of infallibility with which she now approaches everything, great and small. That every word she mispronounces is faultless; every sentence she twists and destroys is perfect.... and every fact she gets wrong was in fact just previously misunderstood and is now clarified by her. This is not an American citizen and possible presidential candidate. This is the first, infallible American pope... and a woman too. And if you purists in the Vatican suggest that a non-Catholic and a woman will never be pope, Sarah will tell you different, thundering with words like schism and anti-pope at the ready.
For you see, Sarah aims for bigger fish than the White House with its tiresome term limits and insistent people always to propitiate. Sarah aims for the very seat of St. Peter and a lifetime audience commanded to listen and obey...
"A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore..."
The word of our Sarah urbi et orbi "In the hour of darkness and peril and need"... Amen! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Dr. Lant is also a historian and author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski
Sarah Palin came to Boston June 3, 2011 with her traveling circus of friends, children, grandchildren, and hangers on... On vacation, she wanted to show herself off to Boston while instructing her claque in the finer points of American revolution history, so much of which took place right here.
Frankly, we were glad to see her since our tourist business was hard hit by the recent recession and is only just recovering, glad that is...
... until she started lecturing us locals on what we know best: our own history, whose facts she so scrambled that she managed to turn Paul Revere from our celebrated hero into a stooge for the British, a spy treacherously working for the very people we were fighting against, our 18th century owners and oppressors.
Here's what she said after a visit to Old North Church when she was asked about Paul Revere's historic ride, April 18, 1775. With the ringing certitude she's made all her own Professor Palin commenced her mangling. Revere, she said, "warned the British that they weren't going to be taking away our arms. By ringing those bells and making sure as he's riding his horse through town to send those warning shots and bells that we were going to be secure and we were going to be free."
Except for the part where Palin says Revere got on his horse and rode... Professor Palin is wrong on every single point.
Revere was not on a mission to warn the British. (Where does the lady get these ideas anyway?).
He rode to warn the colonists to get up and defend themselves for the "British were coming", by sea.
He didn't work alone but as part of a team of brave people who each, once briefed, had to get up and get out fast, to warn the colonists along their appointed route so that they could defend themselves and the arms they had dangerously, laboriously assembled.
If Paul Revere had done what Palin said he did ("warn the British") he would have been snuffed out by the locals as a dangerous snitch, a traitor, not raised to the pinnacle of national respect and admiration.
This entire imbroglio, this tempest in a tea cup, should never had taken place. Palin could have chosen to do what I did when I took my nephew Kyle out to the same historic sites.
First, get a guidebook and read it.
Second, visit the superb visitor centers along the way. They are packed with pertinent detail and good (air-conditioned) films, a real pleasure to see and get out of the humidity, too.
Three, pepper the well prepared park service employees and local volunteers in period costumes with all your questions. They've heard it all and, in my experience (for I've taken friends and family members thither many times) are well qualified, well versed, and always warm and welcoming in the New England fashion.
Sarah, of course, chose none of these sensible alternatives.
Sarah likes "going rogue" about this, as everything else. It means she does things, everything, her own way... and those who don't like it can lump it. She so liked the idea and the phrase that she titled her autobiography "Going Rogue: An American Life". (Simon and Schuster 2009). In Palin's "Alice in Wonderland" world whatever she says, no matter how wrong, is right and anyone criticizing her, however right, is always wrong.
Fox News anchor Chris Wallace, her Fox colleague, was the latest victim of Palin-think. Sunday June 5, he discovered why even suggesting that Palin could be mistaken ever about anything is like fighting with a skunk. And we all know what that means...
The daring but hapless Wallace suggested that Palin had erred in her Boston lecture on Revere. But Palin wasn't about to suffer that. What? Sarah! Make! A! Mistake! Not just impossible... but inconceivable. And what's more, that was just another instance of "gotcha" journalism, bad people out to get her. (In Sarah's conspiratorial world there are always such evildoers at hand for Sarah's world is lined with paranoia.)
"You know what?" Palin spat at Wallace, "I didn't mess up about Paul Revere. Part of his ride was to warn the British that we're already there. That, hey, you're not going to succeed. You're not going to take American arms."
There was more, lots more, delivered with the usual ingredients of her verbal Molotov cocktails... surety, disdain, condescension and her usual "Look brother,don't tread on me. Get off my back" nastiness, which can in an instant turn her smile into a sneer. Make no mistake about it, Sarah's a tough customer and any suggestion that she's not as good as the Virgin Mary directs her firepower at you, while her stiletto comes down hard on your foot, the better to make her point -- maggot, don't mess with me.
And this to Chris Wallace, a professional colleague at the Fox Network!
She went on, fire and brimstone at the ready, for Palin always comes armed with the arsenal of the street fighter:
"Here is what Paul Revere did. He warned the Americans that the British were coming.., and they were going to try take our arms and we got to make sure that we were protecting ourselves and shoring up all of ammunitions and our firearms so that they couldn't take it," Palin said June 5.
"But remember that the British had already been there, many soldiers for seven years in the area. And part of Paul Revere's ride --and it wasn't just one ride -- he was a courier, he was a messenger. Part of his ride was to warn the British that we're already there.... You are not going to beat our own well-armed persons, individual, private militia that we have. He did warn the British."
And that, she suggests, is that. But, most assuredly, that is not that... and not just because she misstated a few facts which are all easily available in libraries and online. Even Boston's own Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in his famous poem "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere" (published 1863) erred in focusing solely on what Revere did, to the detriment of his many other colleagues who also rode hard for freedom that April evening.
No, Palin's fault is the assumption of infallibility with which she now approaches everything, great and small. That every word she mispronounces is faultless; every sentence she twists and destroys is perfect.... and every fact she gets wrong was in fact just previously misunderstood and is now clarified by her. This is not an American citizen and possible presidential candidate. This is the first, infallible American pope... and a woman too. And if you purists in the Vatican suggest that a non-Catholic and a woman will never be pope, Sarah will tell you different, thundering with words like schism and anti-pope at the ready.
For you see, Sarah aims for bigger fish than the White House with its tiresome term limits and insistent people always to propitiate. Sarah aims for the very seat of St. Peter and a lifetime audience commanded to listen and obey...
"A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore..."
The word of our Sarah urbi et orbi "In the hour of darkness and peril and need"... Amen! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Dr. Lant is also a historian and author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski
Monday, June 6, 2011
'Where the Iris grows... That is where I want to be....' The flower at the end of the rainbow.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. To put yourself in the right mood for this article, go to any search engine and find one of Tennessee's four Official State Songs, "When It's Iris Time In Tennessee," words and music by Willa Mae Waid. It's a lovely, lilting tune, wistful as all songs are which are sung by those far away from home... remembering.
It is early June, and the irises are now to be found in profusion around the City of Cambridge in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. I saw the first one the other day in front of my favorite Chinese restaurant Chang Sho. And though I was busy with one of the necessary errands which constitute too great a part of human life... I stopped. The beauty of this ecstasy in the mud insisted.
There before me was a dazzling thing dressed in cloth of gold, the exact shade of the cream soda I drank too often as a boy fifty summers ago on the humid prairies of Illinois; the cream soda you craved, you gulped, which gave you sticky fingers, but never quenched your thirst; (so clever were its makers).
In an instant omnipotent memory was present, the way unstoppable memory will do. This time it reminded me of something I had read in the memoirs of Sir Henry Channon, the man who had deserted his Chicago roots to find his proper perch in life in London as a Member of Parliament... and collector of royalties. He was a boulevardier, a word for which we have no good English equivalent... a thing which tells us much about the French who do.... and the English.... who don't.
Sir Henry, universally known as "Chips", was a boulevardier, man about town, about London town. As such he attended the first Garden Party at Buckingham Palace after World War II. He happened to be gossiping with one of Queen Mary's relations when this very symbol of "They'll always be an England" arrived, blinding in cloth of gold. "Cousin May," he said, "is rather overdressed", to Chips' scandalized amusement.
And so was the golden iris in front of me, as if some careless maharajah, rushing, had dropped this most expensive of materials in the mud, later to fulminate against the loss, blaming his chauffeur.
But just as Queen Mary had calculated her breathtaking appearance to touch drab lives with grandeur... so did the flower in front of me, largesse for a drab world, overburdened, as I was myself, with the littlest and most nagging things.
The flower's unexpected appearance was lavish, excessive, a sharp pronunciamento, "Good people," it boldly proclaimed. "I have come amongst you to cheer you, to uplift your spirits, to give you the gift of exuberance and excess... of profusion and prodigality. Seize them now... for they are yours for just a moment."
Here was the true work of the iris, the flower that takes its name from the Greek word for a rainbow... and not just any rainbow either... but the rainbow which at its end delivers the treasure you seek at such a place... a treasure of unceasing magnificence without end.
At rainbow's end, you find irises of every color... a gift of superabundance, without limits, where too much and even more is your birth right. This is the place you have sought your entire life... and which the open sesame of the iris delivers with only one command, "Find bliss here."
Facts about iris.
Iris is a genus of 260 species of flowering plants with showy flowers. As well as being the scientific name, iris is also very widely used as a common name for all Iris species.
The genus is widely distributed throughout the north temperate zone. Their habitats are considerably varied, ranging from cold and montane regions to the grassy slopes, meadowlands and riverbanks of Europe, the Middle East and northern Africa, Asia and across North America.
Irises are perennial herbs, growing from creeping rhizomes, or, in drier climates, from bulbs (bulbous irises). They have long, erect flowering stems, which may be simple or branched, solid or hollow, and flattened or have a circular cross-section. The rhizomatous species usually have 3-10 basal, sword-shaped leaves growing in dense clumps. The bulbous species have cylindrical, basal leaves.
Iris is for show.
Other flowering plants have many uses culinary, medical, as balms, salves, to clear the mind and the heart.
Not the iris.
Iris is designed for show... not merely to brighten space... but to change the entire orientation of a place, from mundane to brilliant. This is no trivial thing when you think of the unending multitudes striving to find both meaning and escape from their burdensome, colorless lives. For these people, and they are everywhere on earth, the iris is a plant of resolute optimism. Where there is a single iris, there is hope. And where any iris has once lived... there hope lingers, insistent that things can be better, beauty can be achieved and circumstances entirely altered for the better, one militant iris flower at a time. The revolutionary iris shouts, "Beauty here, beauty now, beauty forever!" It is insistent that you, if you but take the time to stop and perceive, shall derive full measure of this beauty, for a life without such beauty is no life at all.
Poets and iris
All poets have not understood the imperial function of the iris, with its life-changing mission... but poet Chris Lane does. In his poem "Purple Irises with hues of gold and fragility," he writes
"Oh, this beauty with for my eyes to see I cannot keep them for only me with friends true I shall share and next year bring to them the joy I find in a purple world with hues of gold and fragile love."
Lane knows that the iris turns him and every one perceiving it into a devoted zealot, one who must proselytize with so much beauty, earnest in spreading its unbounded joy to friends and total strangers, too. Iris has a mission and when it seizes your attention, you will have that mission, too.
The role of the adamant iris is clear: it beautifies now and finds dedicated adherents to beautify later. Iris exist in a realm of beauty, beauty today, more beauty tomorrow, cycle after cycle of beauty for all who see it, the task to enlighten those who suffer because they have not.
As such the iris reject literary renderings which turn them from their great mission into mere flowers.
They reject Georgia Gudykunst who writes "May your blooms be floriferous and in good form."
They reject Edith Buckner Edwards "Iris, most beautiful flower, Symbol of life, love and light."
They reject the celebrated D.H. Lawrence, in his poem "Scent of Irises."
"A faint, sickening scent of irises Persists all morning...."
These poems do not have and therefore cannot convey and assist the unending work of iris and its significance for improving the lot of people worldwide and enriching their lives. This needs constancy, consistently and profound belief. And it requires the unceasing ability to touch wounded lives and make them bold advocates of universal beauty.
There is a hint of this in Willa Mae Waid's heartfelt song "When It's Iris Time in Tennessee." For she senses the deep power of iris... its ability to revive us... and uplift our spirits. This is the magic of iris.... and it was all present, every bit of it, in the iris dressed in cloth of gold which had my full attention just the other day as it kept steady watch for people like me who required its succor and were the better for it.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski
Author's program note. To put yourself in the right mood for this article, go to any search engine and find one of Tennessee's four Official State Songs, "When It's Iris Time In Tennessee," words and music by Willa Mae Waid. It's a lovely, lilting tune, wistful as all songs are which are sung by those far away from home... remembering.
It is early June, and the irises are now to be found in profusion around the City of Cambridge in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. I saw the first one the other day in front of my favorite Chinese restaurant Chang Sho. And though I was busy with one of the necessary errands which constitute too great a part of human life... I stopped. The beauty of this ecstasy in the mud insisted.
There before me was a dazzling thing dressed in cloth of gold, the exact shade of the cream soda I drank too often as a boy fifty summers ago on the humid prairies of Illinois; the cream soda you craved, you gulped, which gave you sticky fingers, but never quenched your thirst; (so clever were its makers).
In an instant omnipotent memory was present, the way unstoppable memory will do. This time it reminded me of something I had read in the memoirs of Sir Henry Channon, the man who had deserted his Chicago roots to find his proper perch in life in London as a Member of Parliament... and collector of royalties. He was a boulevardier, a word for which we have no good English equivalent... a thing which tells us much about the French who do.... and the English.... who don't.
Sir Henry, universally known as "Chips", was a boulevardier, man about town, about London town. As such he attended the first Garden Party at Buckingham Palace after World War II. He happened to be gossiping with one of Queen Mary's relations when this very symbol of "They'll always be an England" arrived, blinding in cloth of gold. "Cousin May," he said, "is rather overdressed", to Chips' scandalized amusement.
And so was the golden iris in front of me, as if some careless maharajah, rushing, had dropped this most expensive of materials in the mud, later to fulminate against the loss, blaming his chauffeur.
But just as Queen Mary had calculated her breathtaking appearance to touch drab lives with grandeur... so did the flower in front of me, largesse for a drab world, overburdened, as I was myself, with the littlest and most nagging things.
The flower's unexpected appearance was lavish, excessive, a sharp pronunciamento, "Good people," it boldly proclaimed. "I have come amongst you to cheer you, to uplift your spirits, to give you the gift of exuberance and excess... of profusion and prodigality. Seize them now... for they are yours for just a moment."
Here was the true work of the iris, the flower that takes its name from the Greek word for a rainbow... and not just any rainbow either... but the rainbow which at its end delivers the treasure you seek at such a place... a treasure of unceasing magnificence without end.
At rainbow's end, you find irises of every color... a gift of superabundance, without limits, where too much and even more is your birth right. This is the place you have sought your entire life... and which the open sesame of the iris delivers with only one command, "Find bliss here."
Facts about iris.
Iris is a genus of 260 species of flowering plants with showy flowers. As well as being the scientific name, iris is also very widely used as a common name for all Iris species.
The genus is widely distributed throughout the north temperate zone. Their habitats are considerably varied, ranging from cold and montane regions to the grassy slopes, meadowlands and riverbanks of Europe, the Middle East and northern Africa, Asia and across North America.
Irises are perennial herbs, growing from creeping rhizomes, or, in drier climates, from bulbs (bulbous irises). They have long, erect flowering stems, which may be simple or branched, solid or hollow, and flattened or have a circular cross-section. The rhizomatous species usually have 3-10 basal, sword-shaped leaves growing in dense clumps. The bulbous species have cylindrical, basal leaves.
Iris is for show.
Other flowering plants have many uses culinary, medical, as balms, salves, to clear the mind and the heart.
Not the iris.
Iris is designed for show... not merely to brighten space... but to change the entire orientation of a place, from mundane to brilliant. This is no trivial thing when you think of the unending multitudes striving to find both meaning and escape from their burdensome, colorless lives. For these people, and they are everywhere on earth, the iris is a plant of resolute optimism. Where there is a single iris, there is hope. And where any iris has once lived... there hope lingers, insistent that things can be better, beauty can be achieved and circumstances entirely altered for the better, one militant iris flower at a time. The revolutionary iris shouts, "Beauty here, beauty now, beauty forever!" It is insistent that you, if you but take the time to stop and perceive, shall derive full measure of this beauty, for a life without such beauty is no life at all.
Poets and iris
All poets have not understood the imperial function of the iris, with its life-changing mission... but poet Chris Lane does. In his poem "Purple Irises with hues of gold and fragility," he writes
"Oh, this beauty with for my eyes to see I cannot keep them for only me with friends true I shall share and next year bring to them the joy I find in a purple world with hues of gold and fragile love."
Lane knows that the iris turns him and every one perceiving it into a devoted zealot, one who must proselytize with so much beauty, earnest in spreading its unbounded joy to friends and total strangers, too. Iris has a mission and when it seizes your attention, you will have that mission, too.
The role of the adamant iris is clear: it beautifies now and finds dedicated adherents to beautify later. Iris exist in a realm of beauty, beauty today, more beauty tomorrow, cycle after cycle of beauty for all who see it, the task to enlighten those who suffer because they have not.
As such the iris reject literary renderings which turn them from their great mission into mere flowers.
They reject Georgia Gudykunst who writes "May your blooms be floriferous and in good form."
They reject Edith Buckner Edwards "Iris, most beautiful flower, Symbol of life, love and light."
They reject the celebrated D.H. Lawrence, in his poem "Scent of Irises."
"A faint, sickening scent of irises Persists all morning...."
These poems do not have and therefore cannot convey and assist the unending work of iris and its significance for improving the lot of people worldwide and enriching their lives. This needs constancy, consistently and profound belief. And it requires the unceasing ability to touch wounded lives and make them bold advocates of universal beauty.
There is a hint of this in Willa Mae Waid's heartfelt song "When It's Iris Time in Tennessee." For she senses the deep power of iris... its ability to revive us... and uplift our spirits. This is the magic of iris.... and it was all present, every bit of it, in the iris dressed in cloth of gold which had my full attention just the other day as it kept steady watch for people like me who required its succor and were the better for it.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski
Friday, May 27, 2011
Reflections on Harvard's 360th Commencement, May 26, 2011.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Today, for the 360th time in its exalted history, a history far older than the republic itself, Harvard will, with all the colorful paraphernalia of the Academy, send a goodly percentage of the brightest young people on earth on their way to kismet.
Some of these people will become heads of state, women too; that is why the address of Her Excellency Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, the President of the Republic of Liberia is so important. It proves that even in territories inclement towards women, women may rise high indeed.
Some of these people will head corporations and reap billions, some of which will undoubtedly be given to Harvard in the form of very public generosities.
Some of these people will buck the capitalist trend and found worthy causes of every kind. The world has need for every one of them and the people who give up much, the better able to give more.
Others will rise high in the military, in governments of every nation on earth, in education, science, medicine, the arts... there will even be a movie star or two but, perhaps, no rap musician. Not, however, because Harvard would not welcome one; it would. Rappers, however, may demur; it's a matter of image.... and no people on earth are as stringent about image as they are.
One more category may well appear: terrorist, revolutionary. Harvard does not go out seeking such people, but Harvard has helped shape many such. Red John Reed, Bolshevik, (class of 1910 ) is buried in the Kremlin wall... a signal honor for a gentleman of Crimson. Like so many Harvard graduates he rose high, though this time for a cause most every other Harvard graduate loathed and disdained. John Reed wouldn't have cared about that; Harvard graduates are above such trivia. They know that what they do is important, even if no one else on this planet agrees. This profound conviction is part of what the graduates take away today... you can be sure of it. It is one of the best reasons for the very existence of Harvard.
Many of today's graduates will write about their Harvard experiences; I am one of them. Most will cherish happy memories and say so, fudging the truth on which Harvard prides itself and pruning things not quite happy enough. In truth, their classmates were probably never as bright as they will remember, as bright or as dedicated. The faculty never as welcoming and helpful as they will recall. And the university overall not as profoundly influential. But embroidering your Harvard past is winked at since happy memories beget handsome legacies. And there is no need to remind so many, and in print, too, that their time here was not as sun-kissed as they ardently desire it to be. You were young, vibrant, surrounded by possibilities, and you'd been marked with the most winning brand of all. Under the circumstances, the utmost joy and contentment are understandable; indeed mandatory.
There will be some of course, but just a handful who will write otherwise, telling, years from now, of painful isolation, alienation and the persistent thought that they never were, not for a moment, good enough to have gone to Harvard in the first place, that they were a fluke, a sport of nature. Perhaps. But they will write such sentiments in a ringing style, lyric, too, that shows in its careful refinement and clarity another benefit of a Harvard education.
This day, the most important day in the life of virtually every graduate, save only the day on which they were born, will start early; the ceremony commences in Harvard Yard at 9:45 a.m., but Harvard Square is awash with the camera-totting hours before, even from first light. A sign of the times: persons unable to be present can see it all, and clearer, on the Web. There is not a one who so watches that does not wish to be in Cambridge instead... for all that they see more and better than the audience shaded by the great trees in Tercentenary Theater.
Graduates, at once shy and proud, will move today surrounded by their personal claques, the lucky ones invited to see and venerate. Proud parents, who often dipped deep to make this happen, have been admonished, several times, to be prompt and organized. Graduates have conflicting feelings about these folks. They are grateful, of course, though never as grateful perhaps as they should be. It would not do to slight them, but, this is the last day, the very last day, they can see their classmates and friends, similarly burdened, as they will never be again: present, accounted for, resoundingly young; friends, colleagues, lovers, too. This recognition, this sadness is palpable. The pull of the golden past, slipping away forever, against the dawning future, ardently desired... but not this day. This is why the tears fall today for this must be a bittersweet moment for all. In these precincts the past and future truly collide today, to roil emotions. Parting is indeed such sweet sorrow... and now they truly know it.
It is now just 5 a.m., the dawn of this day of days is nigh. It is a day of memories, memories retrieved, memories born. Parents will recall memories unbeckoned of their beloved graduates and their brief lives. They will have, for themselves alone, moments poignant and keenly felt, the more so if they had, once upon a time, a Harvard Commencement of their own. Then Cambridge becomes the best it can be: an ever- renewing place of reverie and remembrance, a place where you are always welcome, for you are part of what has shaped this special place.
The trickle of early comers, seeking parking spaces more valued than gold, will soon grow into serious traffic. Ladies in hats otherwise known only at weddings and gentlemen in ties they will later shake off as gladly as a noose begin to appear as do the marked men of the day... the sheriff of the county who will ride in on white horse to declare the proceedings open; officials in their always ill-fitting cuttaways and top hats... and of course and always the brightly garbed graduates in mortar boards they never wear quite right. With their gowns a Rosetta Stone clearly indicating just where the graduates have been and where they are going, these players gather together, together to march into the ceremonies where they shall become, so the University's president will pronounce, members of the company of educated men and women.
This is what every graduate has earned... and everyone has come to hear. And it is a marvelous thing, not just for those present but for the entire world, soon to benefit from the skills, dedications,and hard work of this renewed company, the company we all rely upon so much.
Think of these new members of this company today. They have much to accomplish and many lives to touch and improve. We must all be glad they have such a day as this to start them on their way, for they go forward for us all.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski
Today, for the 360th time in its exalted history, a history far older than the republic itself, Harvard will, with all the colorful paraphernalia of the Academy, send a goodly percentage of the brightest young people on earth on their way to kismet.
Some of these people will become heads of state, women too; that is why the address of Her Excellency Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, the President of the Republic of Liberia is so important. It proves that even in territories inclement towards women, women may rise high indeed.
Some of these people will head corporations and reap billions, some of which will undoubtedly be given to Harvard in the form of very public generosities.
Some of these people will buck the capitalist trend and found worthy causes of every kind. The world has need for every one of them and the people who give up much, the better able to give more.
Others will rise high in the military, in governments of every nation on earth, in education, science, medicine, the arts... there will even be a movie star or two but, perhaps, no rap musician. Not, however, because Harvard would not welcome one; it would. Rappers, however, may demur; it's a matter of image.... and no people on earth are as stringent about image as they are.
One more category may well appear: terrorist, revolutionary. Harvard does not go out seeking such people, but Harvard has helped shape many such. Red John Reed, Bolshevik, (class of 1910 ) is buried in the Kremlin wall... a signal honor for a gentleman of Crimson. Like so many Harvard graduates he rose high, though this time for a cause most every other Harvard graduate loathed and disdained. John Reed wouldn't have cared about that; Harvard graduates are above such trivia. They know that what they do is important, even if no one else on this planet agrees. This profound conviction is part of what the graduates take away today... you can be sure of it. It is one of the best reasons for the very existence of Harvard.
Many of today's graduates will write about their Harvard experiences; I am one of them. Most will cherish happy memories and say so, fudging the truth on which Harvard prides itself and pruning things not quite happy enough. In truth, their classmates were probably never as bright as they will remember, as bright or as dedicated. The faculty never as welcoming and helpful as they will recall. And the university overall not as profoundly influential. But embroidering your Harvard past is winked at since happy memories beget handsome legacies. And there is no need to remind so many, and in print, too, that their time here was not as sun-kissed as they ardently desire it to be. You were young, vibrant, surrounded by possibilities, and you'd been marked with the most winning brand of all. Under the circumstances, the utmost joy and contentment are understandable; indeed mandatory.
There will be some of course, but just a handful who will write otherwise, telling, years from now, of painful isolation, alienation and the persistent thought that they never were, not for a moment, good enough to have gone to Harvard in the first place, that they were a fluke, a sport of nature. Perhaps. But they will write such sentiments in a ringing style, lyric, too, that shows in its careful refinement and clarity another benefit of a Harvard education.
This day, the most important day in the life of virtually every graduate, save only the day on which they were born, will start early; the ceremony commences in Harvard Yard at 9:45 a.m., but Harvard Square is awash with the camera-totting hours before, even from first light. A sign of the times: persons unable to be present can see it all, and clearer, on the Web. There is not a one who so watches that does not wish to be in Cambridge instead... for all that they see more and better than the audience shaded by the great trees in Tercentenary Theater.
Graduates, at once shy and proud, will move today surrounded by their personal claques, the lucky ones invited to see and venerate. Proud parents, who often dipped deep to make this happen, have been admonished, several times, to be prompt and organized. Graduates have conflicting feelings about these folks. They are grateful, of course, though never as grateful perhaps as they should be. It would not do to slight them, but, this is the last day, the very last day, they can see their classmates and friends, similarly burdened, as they will never be again: present, accounted for, resoundingly young; friends, colleagues, lovers, too. This recognition, this sadness is palpable. The pull of the golden past, slipping away forever, against the dawning future, ardently desired... but not this day. This is why the tears fall today for this must be a bittersweet moment for all. In these precincts the past and future truly collide today, to roil emotions. Parting is indeed such sweet sorrow... and now they truly know it.
It is now just 5 a.m., the dawn of this day of days is nigh. It is a day of memories, memories retrieved, memories born. Parents will recall memories unbeckoned of their beloved graduates and their brief lives. They will have, for themselves alone, moments poignant and keenly felt, the more so if they had, once upon a time, a Harvard Commencement of their own. Then Cambridge becomes the best it can be: an ever- renewing place of reverie and remembrance, a place where you are always welcome, for you are part of what has shaped this special place.
The trickle of early comers, seeking parking spaces more valued than gold, will soon grow into serious traffic. Ladies in hats otherwise known only at weddings and gentlemen in ties they will later shake off as gladly as a noose begin to appear as do the marked men of the day... the sheriff of the county who will ride in on white horse to declare the proceedings open; officials in their always ill-fitting cuttaways and top hats... and of course and always the brightly garbed graduates in mortar boards they never wear quite right. With their gowns a Rosetta Stone clearly indicating just where the graduates have been and where they are going, these players gather together, together to march into the ceremonies where they shall become, so the University's president will pronounce, members of the company of educated men and women.
This is what every graduate has earned... and everyone has come to hear. And it is a marvelous thing, not just for those present but for the entire world, soon to benefit from the skills, dedications,and hard work of this renewed company, the company we all rely upon so much.
Think of these new members of this company today. They have much to accomplish and many lives to touch and improve. We must all be glad they have such a day as this to start them on their way, for they go forward for us all.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski
Monday, May 23, 2011
Harold Camping said the world would end 6 p.m. Saturday, May 21, 2011. It didn't. It wasn't the first time, he was a false prophet. And it won't be the last!
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's note. To get into the right mood for this article, search any search engine and find the well-known gospel tune "I'm on my way (to Canaan land)". (Written by William M. Golden, 1914) . My favorite is the version by the great Mahalia Jackson.
Chances are over the last few days you've heard of a zealot named Harold Camping. He's the originator of Oakland, California based Family Radio... and he's got a bee in his bonnet for sure.
He's a man so fervently longing for the world to end, so that righteous rewards and punishments can be meted out, that he's willing to risk (over and over again) the public ridicule and mockery that inevitably follow when his specific world-ending predictions fail to occur.
Today he'll be especially busy explaining to his discombobulated flock just why he goofed on this occasion and why his absolutely precise prediction for the end of terra firma -- 6 p.m. May 21, 2011 -- was erroneous... but not, he'll aver, wrong,really.... in fact perfectly reasonable once you understand the minute horological calculations and Biblical truths he will be, today, explicating a mile a minute, without apology, embarrassment or any excuse whatsoever.
For you see, divinely appointed prophets like the egregious Camping are never, ever wrong. In Camping's case when he seems to be in error, it is rather that he, for an instant, misunderstood God and His purpose. But shortly and with prayer, God corrects his misapprehension and gives him yet again, total clarity, complete understanding, and a vision which cannot be doubted of how and when rapture will occur -- this (next) time for sure. Eternal damnation and total perdition will come to those who doubt... never mind the muddle that just occurred and the complete chaos and disruption to the lives of the disappointed True Believers who were certain today they would awake to eternal bliss in the bosom of the Lord... but instead heard nothing but the insistent assurances and renewed certainties of the prophet they trusted... the prophet who mislead them, again.
Camping's legacy: lives high jacked, disrupted, shattered without compunction or remorse.
When one is a prophet, with a speed dial to God, one has better things to think about and deal with than the tiresome, annoying but essential realities of life. Those are beneath the notice of the Elect of God. The job of such is to seize your body and soul; to prepare you for revelation, exaltation, rapture, for total immersion in eternal God. These prophets, with the stern message and visage of their ancient prototypes, are masters of agitation, fulmination, damnation and submission.
They -- and Camping is very definitely one of them -- tell a parent whose children are not believers that they shall not be together in the infinity of Paradise, because the children are on Satan's path. Prophets want total submission.... and so, obsessed by their mission, they are happy to spread fears, terrible fears, and profound anxieties, the better to achieve their objective. Believers in a household have an obligation to cause pain to those still at risk... if by so doing they can capture the soul and shepherd it to Heaven and bliss. They are under a moral obligation to do this... and they must act promptly since their leader and prophet has revealed God's specific date when personal choice ends...
And so, with the complete support of Harold Camping believing wives tell still disbelieving and unsaved husbands that they shall be separate through eternity if the husband will not submit. Day and night this argument is made, made again, insistently made, made with sincerity and profound belief, disrupting everything until it is resolved and the soul garnered....
Believing children turn the tables on non-believing parents and, speaking of eternal love and togetherness, work their will on them... and so, worn down, these parents announce, for love of child, their born-again belief. Hallelujah!
And so it goes as each family member using the potent threat of eternal loneliness and isolation, of alienation, despair, profound miseries and the unspeakable pain of Hell fire work tirelessly to capture the souls of the people they most care about. For so important are these people, that the pain Camping encourages you to give must be the greatest pain of all; you love them so and must, therefore, do everything, anything to harvest their souls. And the date, the date when you will be irrevocably placed throughout eternity is coming, coming... a God-given certainty, Prophet Camping says so... and he is a goodly man.
About Harold Camping
Harold Egbert Camping, born July 19, 1921, is a Christian radio broadcaster and president of Family Radio, a California-based religious broadcasting network that spans more than 150 outlets in the United States as well as website. Educated at the University of California, Berkeley, he earned a B.S. degree in Civil Engineering in 1942.
Camping early saw the potential of using media to establish a ministry without walls. His first acquisition was station KEAR in San Francisco; his mission to broadcast traditional Christian Gospel to conservative Protestants. During the 1960s, Family Radio acquired six additional FM stations and seven other AM stations under guidelines established by the Federal Communications Commission (FTC).
Camping went on the air at once and made an impression with his deep, sonorous voice coupled with a slow, emphatic cadence. Right from the start he was fascinated by and often broadcast about Bible-based numerology to predict dates for the end of the world.
Central to Camping's teaching is the belief that the Bible alone and in its entirety is the Word of God, absolutely trustworthy. However, he emphasizes, this does not mean that each sentence of the Bible is to be understood only literally. Rather the meaning of individual Bible passages also need to be interpreted in the light of two factors. The first is the context of the Bible as a whole. The second is its spiritual meaning.
With these guidelines, Camping has moved step by step towards ever more radical beliefs, including his oft broadcast assertion that the date of Christ's second coming can be worked out to a precise moment of time.
He regards three factors as essential to this precise determination:
1) Jewish feast days in the Hebrew calendar, as described in the Old Testament, 2) the lunar month calendar (1 synodic month = 29.53059 days), and 3) a close approximation of the Gregorian calendar tropical year (365.24219 days, rounded to 365.2422.)
He projects these into modern times and combines the results with other information in the Bible. His predictions, based as they are on the infallible Word of God, follow as a matter of course, including both his original prediction that the Lord's return would be in 1994; then when that failed, he lay low for a while, before announcing the amended prediction that this return would be May 21, 2011 with the entire world destroyed in a fiery inferno, October 21, 2011.
Nothing that Harold Camping has predicted with such absolute assurance and ringing certainty has come to pass. But hundreds of people revere him anyway and still pay credence to what he says, no doubt his reassuring voice assisting. But I say this unto these poor souls. Is what you are being asked to do truly what a loving God would ordain? Thus I admonish you:
"Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves". (Matthew 7:15).
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/
Author's note. To get into the right mood for this article, search any search engine and find the well-known gospel tune "I'm on my way (to Canaan land)". (Written by William M. Golden, 1914) . My favorite is the version by the great Mahalia Jackson.
Chances are over the last few days you've heard of a zealot named Harold Camping. He's the originator of Oakland, California based Family Radio... and he's got a bee in his bonnet for sure.
He's a man so fervently longing for the world to end, so that righteous rewards and punishments can be meted out, that he's willing to risk (over and over again) the public ridicule and mockery that inevitably follow when his specific world-ending predictions fail to occur.
Today he'll be especially busy explaining to his discombobulated flock just why he goofed on this occasion and why his absolutely precise prediction for the end of terra firma -- 6 p.m. May 21, 2011 -- was erroneous... but not, he'll aver, wrong,really.... in fact perfectly reasonable once you understand the minute horological calculations and Biblical truths he will be, today, explicating a mile a minute, without apology, embarrassment or any excuse whatsoever.
For you see, divinely appointed prophets like the egregious Camping are never, ever wrong. In Camping's case when he seems to be in error, it is rather that he, for an instant, misunderstood God and His purpose. But shortly and with prayer, God corrects his misapprehension and gives him yet again, total clarity, complete understanding, and a vision which cannot be doubted of how and when rapture will occur -- this (next) time for sure. Eternal damnation and total perdition will come to those who doubt... never mind the muddle that just occurred and the complete chaos and disruption to the lives of the disappointed True Believers who were certain today they would awake to eternal bliss in the bosom of the Lord... but instead heard nothing but the insistent assurances and renewed certainties of the prophet they trusted... the prophet who mislead them, again.
Camping's legacy: lives high jacked, disrupted, shattered without compunction or remorse.
When one is a prophet, with a speed dial to God, one has better things to think about and deal with than the tiresome, annoying but essential realities of life. Those are beneath the notice of the Elect of God. The job of such is to seize your body and soul; to prepare you for revelation, exaltation, rapture, for total immersion in eternal God. These prophets, with the stern message and visage of their ancient prototypes, are masters of agitation, fulmination, damnation and submission.
They -- and Camping is very definitely one of them -- tell a parent whose children are not believers that they shall not be together in the infinity of Paradise, because the children are on Satan's path. Prophets want total submission.... and so, obsessed by their mission, they are happy to spread fears, terrible fears, and profound anxieties, the better to achieve their objective. Believers in a household have an obligation to cause pain to those still at risk... if by so doing they can capture the soul and shepherd it to Heaven and bliss. They are under a moral obligation to do this... and they must act promptly since their leader and prophet has revealed God's specific date when personal choice ends...
And so, with the complete support of Harold Camping believing wives tell still disbelieving and unsaved husbands that they shall be separate through eternity if the husband will not submit. Day and night this argument is made, made again, insistently made, made with sincerity and profound belief, disrupting everything until it is resolved and the soul garnered....
Believing children turn the tables on non-believing parents and, speaking of eternal love and togetherness, work their will on them... and so, worn down, these parents announce, for love of child, their born-again belief. Hallelujah!
And so it goes as each family member using the potent threat of eternal loneliness and isolation, of alienation, despair, profound miseries and the unspeakable pain of Hell fire work tirelessly to capture the souls of the people they most care about. For so important are these people, that the pain Camping encourages you to give must be the greatest pain of all; you love them so and must, therefore, do everything, anything to harvest their souls. And the date, the date when you will be irrevocably placed throughout eternity is coming, coming... a God-given certainty, Prophet Camping says so... and he is a goodly man.
About Harold Camping
Harold Egbert Camping, born July 19, 1921, is a Christian radio broadcaster and president of Family Radio, a California-based religious broadcasting network that spans more than 150 outlets in the United States as well as website. Educated at the University of California, Berkeley, he earned a B.S. degree in Civil Engineering in 1942.
Camping early saw the potential of using media to establish a ministry without walls. His first acquisition was station KEAR in San Francisco; his mission to broadcast traditional Christian Gospel to conservative Protestants. During the 1960s, Family Radio acquired six additional FM stations and seven other AM stations under guidelines established by the Federal Communications Commission (FTC).
Camping went on the air at once and made an impression with his deep, sonorous voice coupled with a slow, emphatic cadence. Right from the start he was fascinated by and often broadcast about Bible-based numerology to predict dates for the end of the world.
Central to Camping's teaching is the belief that the Bible alone and in its entirety is the Word of God, absolutely trustworthy. However, he emphasizes, this does not mean that each sentence of the Bible is to be understood only literally. Rather the meaning of individual Bible passages also need to be interpreted in the light of two factors. The first is the context of the Bible as a whole. The second is its spiritual meaning.
With these guidelines, Camping has moved step by step towards ever more radical beliefs, including his oft broadcast assertion that the date of Christ's second coming can be worked out to a precise moment of time.
He regards three factors as essential to this precise determination:
1) Jewish feast days in the Hebrew calendar, as described in the Old Testament, 2) the lunar month calendar (1 synodic month = 29.53059 days), and 3) a close approximation of the Gregorian calendar tropical year (365.24219 days, rounded to 365.2422.)
He projects these into modern times and combines the results with other information in the Bible. His predictions, based as they are on the infallible Word of God, follow as a matter of course, including both his original prediction that the Lord's return would be in 1994; then when that failed, he lay low for a while, before announcing the amended prediction that this return would be May 21, 2011 with the entire world destroyed in a fiery inferno, October 21, 2011.
Nothing that Harold Camping has predicted with such absolute assurance and ringing certainty has come to pass. But hundreds of people revere him anyway and still pay credence to what he says, no doubt his reassuring voice assisting. But I say this unto these poor souls. Is what you are being asked to do truly what a loving God would ordain? Thus I admonish you:
"Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves". (Matthew 7:15).
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
'For misery, oh, oh, Cherchez la femme'. That's what Dominique Strauss-Kahn,France's prospective next president, did. See what happened next... ou la la!
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's note: Back in 1977 a group lavishly named Dr. Buzzard's Original Savannah Band, recorded a peppy little number called "Cherchez la femme". Its lilt and lyrics are perfect accompaniment to this article. You can find it in any search engine. Then sit back and enjoy a story you'll find yourself shaking your head about... as you tap your toes to the music, ready to jump up and dance...
Dans la nuit...
As a acute student of French history and politics, no doubt Dominique Strauss- Kahn (universally known in France as "DSK" for his initials knows the anecdote about Philippe, Duc d'Orleans, Regent of France (1715-1723). His mother, the dowager duchess, exasperated by his mind-blowing promiscuity (prodigious even by ancien regime standards) asked him why.... His shoulder-shrugging response? "Dans la nuit touts les chats son gris." ("In the night, all cats are gray").
Now DSK has given the French such a rollicking sexual scandal it's outraged even the most insouciant Parisian boulevadier... affronted by the crudity of the alleged event and the charges, appalling to the most style-conscious people on earth. After all, as Professor Henry Higgins noted in "My Fair Lady" "The French don't care what you do, as long as you pronounce it correctly." It seems, judging from the outrage throughout France this week, that in fact there are limits and enough is enough even in the land of ou la la. Here are the facts...
May 14, 2011 Dominique Strauss-Kahn, leader of the International Monetary Fund, was just inches away from becoming president of France, with every public opinion poll showing him trouncing little loved incumbent Nicolas Sarkozy and taking up residence in the Elysee Palace. What happened that night has changed everything -- for himself, for France, and for Europe.
Since the event in question took place in Manhattan (doesn't everything?) it seems appropriate to quote some lyrics from local lad Stephen Sondheim written for "A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum" .(1966).
"Everybody ought to have a maid. Everybody ought to have a working girl. Everybody ought to have a lurking girl... Everybody ought to have a menial consistently congenial."
DSK took the suggestion literally... though Sondheim no doubt meant "a" maid, not "the" maid, a nuance perhaps lost in translation. And Sondheim most assuredly did not mean the 32 year-old chamber maid (from Senegal) who was fluffing DSK's pillows in the luxury Sofitel hotel. Close to Times Square (always the epicenter of sexual squalor and never-tell-your-wife adventures), the cost of this eye-popping suite was either $1300 per night or $3000 per night, both figures reported by Associated Press. What matter? It had more amenities than Hotel 6 and perhaps the pampered and deferred to DSK thought the maid merely one of them... Moreover, when she declined his advances, he may have thought that was part of the service for stimulating a tired 62-year-old to improved performance. He lunged... she resisted... he lunged again. Kinky.
What happened in that luxury suite is (for the moment) only surely known to just the 2 people who were there. However, the maid (who had worked to the hotel's satisfaction for three years), immediately went to the management to report the incident. She may have told DSK as much... and there was perhaps something in her eyes and manner that suggested she would do so indeed.
In any event, DSK decamped (without even stuffing his travel bag with either the high class toilette amenities beloved of hotel guests or his cell phone, which helped track him down) ... racing to the airport for a flight to Paris... and the usual limelight and deference. The doors were being closed when...
... New York law enforcement officials entered the plane, arresting DSK, and charging him (just 4 hours after the incident was reported) with a criminal sex act, attempted rape, and unlawful imprisonment. Then they returned him to the city where, in the police lineup (so unchic) the maid selected him as her attacker, the man from whom she had to break free and escape. It was sordid... it was outrageous... and it broke the code of "do it if you must, but never, ever get caught", something every successful politician with a roving eye needs to remember.... particularly Dominique Strauss-Kahn, whose relations with women were frequent, flagrant, and always feckless.
In 2007, for instance, Tristane Banon, a French journalist and writer, accused DSK of attempting to rape her in 2002, but she did not press charges. In 2008, an independent investigator was appointed following allegations he had had an affair with a married subordinate, Piroska Nagy. She was later made redundant and DSK helped her get another job. DSK issued a public apology for the affair. Le Journal du Dimanche dubbed him "le grand seducteur" (the Great Seducer). It was a sobriquet of distinction, not obloquy, perhaps more useful with voters than his Legion d'Honneur.
Perhaps more importantly, DSK's employer, the International Monetary Fund's board found that his relationship with Nagy was "consensual", doing nothing more than calling his actions "regrettable" and saying they "reflected a serious error of judgement." DSK (this mere hand slapping suggested) was too intelligent, too well connected, too valuable to lose for mere sexual peccadillos.
However, when the current allegations surfaced, the IMF acted at once and decisively, appointing an acting leader, distancing themselves from their man-of-the-hour only hours before. They knew the charges were serious... and high speed exoneration wasn't going to happen. After all, DSK stood accused of jumping out of the bathroom, naked, jarring but hugely appreciated (I'm told) from an aging lothario. The alleged victim, unimpressed, had tried to fight him off as he dragged her into the salle de bain and humiliation.
All this, and the rest, outraged his IMF colleagues... as it outraged the French nation, used to sexual scandals in the highest places, but drawing the line at such behavior with servants.
As the news reached Paris, the talk was wild, often bawdy, and, given the national character, conspiratorial. What's more, given the fact he's Jewish, there were echoes of the nation's most corrosive scandal, the 19th century Dreyfus Affair when the right-wing went out of its way to cover themselves for incompetence by destroying an innocent (Jewish) army officer. Why had two right-wing media sources been the first to release the news; how had they known so fast? DSK, his loyal adherents asserted, was framed. Maybe so. It will all come out in the wash in what promises to be one of the most lurid of trials, one every exultant conservative and every disgruntled,chagrined French socialist will scrutinize with care, the nation having lost a president but gained a steamy reality show.
Whilst he's being held at Rikers Island prison in protective custody (being deemed a flight risk), DSK has time to work on his very expensive defence and connive at his release. Maybe the music and words of "Cherchez La Femme" will cheer him.... but I doubt it:
"This man has learned his lesson, oh hey Now he's alone He's got no woman and no home. For misery, oh, oh Cherchez la femme."
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. He is also a historian and author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/
Author's note: Back in 1977 a group lavishly named Dr. Buzzard's Original Savannah Band, recorded a peppy little number called "Cherchez la femme". Its lilt and lyrics are perfect accompaniment to this article. You can find it in any search engine. Then sit back and enjoy a story you'll find yourself shaking your head about... as you tap your toes to the music, ready to jump up and dance...
Dans la nuit...
As a acute student of French history and politics, no doubt Dominique Strauss- Kahn (universally known in France as "DSK" for his initials knows the anecdote about Philippe, Duc d'Orleans, Regent of France (1715-1723). His mother, the dowager duchess, exasperated by his mind-blowing promiscuity (prodigious even by ancien regime standards) asked him why.... His shoulder-shrugging response? "Dans la nuit touts les chats son gris." ("In the night, all cats are gray").
Now DSK has given the French such a rollicking sexual scandal it's outraged even the most insouciant Parisian boulevadier... affronted by the crudity of the alleged event and the charges, appalling to the most style-conscious people on earth. After all, as Professor Henry Higgins noted in "My Fair Lady" "The French don't care what you do, as long as you pronounce it correctly." It seems, judging from the outrage throughout France this week, that in fact there are limits and enough is enough even in the land of ou la la. Here are the facts...
May 14, 2011 Dominique Strauss-Kahn, leader of the International Monetary Fund, was just inches away from becoming president of France, with every public opinion poll showing him trouncing little loved incumbent Nicolas Sarkozy and taking up residence in the Elysee Palace. What happened that night has changed everything -- for himself, for France, and for Europe.
Since the event in question took place in Manhattan (doesn't everything?) it seems appropriate to quote some lyrics from local lad Stephen Sondheim written for "A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum" .(1966).
"Everybody ought to have a maid. Everybody ought to have a working girl. Everybody ought to have a lurking girl... Everybody ought to have a menial consistently congenial."
DSK took the suggestion literally... though Sondheim no doubt meant "a" maid, not "the" maid, a nuance perhaps lost in translation. And Sondheim most assuredly did not mean the 32 year-old chamber maid (from Senegal) who was fluffing DSK's pillows in the luxury Sofitel hotel. Close to Times Square (always the epicenter of sexual squalor and never-tell-your-wife adventures), the cost of this eye-popping suite was either $1300 per night or $3000 per night, both figures reported by Associated Press. What matter? It had more amenities than Hotel 6 and perhaps the pampered and deferred to DSK thought the maid merely one of them... Moreover, when she declined his advances, he may have thought that was part of the service for stimulating a tired 62-year-old to improved performance. He lunged... she resisted... he lunged again. Kinky.
What happened in that luxury suite is (for the moment) only surely known to just the 2 people who were there. However, the maid (who had worked to the hotel's satisfaction for three years), immediately went to the management to report the incident. She may have told DSK as much... and there was perhaps something in her eyes and manner that suggested she would do so indeed.
In any event, DSK decamped (without even stuffing his travel bag with either the high class toilette amenities beloved of hotel guests or his cell phone, which helped track him down) ... racing to the airport for a flight to Paris... and the usual limelight and deference. The doors were being closed when...
... New York law enforcement officials entered the plane, arresting DSK, and charging him (just 4 hours after the incident was reported) with a criminal sex act, attempted rape, and unlawful imprisonment. Then they returned him to the city where, in the police lineup (so unchic) the maid selected him as her attacker, the man from whom she had to break free and escape. It was sordid... it was outrageous... and it broke the code of "do it if you must, but never, ever get caught", something every successful politician with a roving eye needs to remember.... particularly Dominique Strauss-Kahn, whose relations with women were frequent, flagrant, and always feckless.
In 2007, for instance, Tristane Banon, a French journalist and writer, accused DSK of attempting to rape her in 2002, but she did not press charges. In 2008, an independent investigator was appointed following allegations he had had an affair with a married subordinate, Piroska Nagy. She was later made redundant and DSK helped her get another job. DSK issued a public apology for the affair. Le Journal du Dimanche dubbed him "le grand seducteur" (the Great Seducer). It was a sobriquet of distinction, not obloquy, perhaps more useful with voters than his Legion d'Honneur.
Perhaps more importantly, DSK's employer, the International Monetary Fund's board found that his relationship with Nagy was "consensual", doing nothing more than calling his actions "regrettable" and saying they "reflected a serious error of judgement." DSK (this mere hand slapping suggested) was too intelligent, too well connected, too valuable to lose for mere sexual peccadillos.
However, when the current allegations surfaced, the IMF acted at once and decisively, appointing an acting leader, distancing themselves from their man-of-the-hour only hours before. They knew the charges were serious... and high speed exoneration wasn't going to happen. After all, DSK stood accused of jumping out of the bathroom, naked, jarring but hugely appreciated (I'm told) from an aging lothario. The alleged victim, unimpressed, had tried to fight him off as he dragged her into the salle de bain and humiliation.
All this, and the rest, outraged his IMF colleagues... as it outraged the French nation, used to sexual scandals in the highest places, but drawing the line at such behavior with servants.
As the news reached Paris, the talk was wild, often bawdy, and, given the national character, conspiratorial. What's more, given the fact he's Jewish, there were echoes of the nation's most corrosive scandal, the 19th century Dreyfus Affair when the right-wing went out of its way to cover themselves for incompetence by destroying an innocent (Jewish) army officer. Why had two right-wing media sources been the first to release the news; how had they known so fast? DSK, his loyal adherents asserted, was framed. Maybe so. It will all come out in the wash in what promises to be one of the most lurid of trials, one every exultant conservative and every disgruntled,chagrined French socialist will scrutinize with care, the nation having lost a president but gained a steamy reality show.
Whilst he's being held at Rikers Island prison in protective custody (being deemed a flight risk), DSK has time to work on his very expensive defence and connive at his release. Maybe the music and words of "Cherchez La Femme" will cheer him.... but I doubt it:
"This man has learned his lesson, oh hey Now he's alone He's got no woman and no home. For misery, oh, oh Cherchez la femme."
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. He is also a historian and author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/
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