Howard's blog

I've moved my blog. You can now check out all of my recent musings by heading on over to http://howardhanger.wordpress.com/

So what if God is a band? As in, say, a dance band? You gotta admit that “God” would be a pretty fine name for a band. A bit edgy, perhaps; but it would get your attention. There is a band (I’m not making this up) called, “Abstract Evil Barbies” and one called “People With Chairs Up Their Noses.” There’s one called, “Rainbow Butt Monkeys” and even one called, “God’s Girlfriend.” But as far as Google knows, there is not currently a band named, “God.” Could the name be copyrighted? Think of the royalties you’d have to pay.

Peter Gomes was a black man. Peter Gomes was a gay black man. Peter Gomes was a gay black Baptist man. Peter Gomes was a gay black Baptist minister man. And when you stir all those elements together, you might get an explosion. Or an insurrection. Or, at the very least, an ecclesiastical expulsion. In Peter Gomes, you got a brilliantly articulate defender of gay rights, intelligent biblical scholarship and the Christian Faith.

“One can read into the Bible almost any interpretation of morality,” the New York Times quoted him as saying, “for its passages have been used to defend slavery and the liberation of slaves, to support racism, anti-Semitism and patriotism, to enshrine a dominance of men over women and to condemn homosexuality as immoral.”

I like everything about camping, except… well… the camping. I enjoy eating outside. I’m keen on bonfires. Hiking?-Check. Waterfalls?-Wonderful! Woodsy sounds?-Splendid. Sunsets?-Spectacular. And there are few more delectable delights than snuggling with your honey on a warm rock in the middle of a rushing mountain stream. (I had a honey once. I remember.)

But, when it’s beddy-bye-time, Lil’ Buckaroo, gimme clean sheets, a toilet and a shower. You can hold the TV, hold the mint on the pillow, hold the turn-down, hold the complimentary java, juice and bagel in the morning. Just clean sheets, a toilet and a shower. That’s it!

The chapel was her favorite place to dance. On the west side of the hacienda, its clerestory ran some 20 feet above the floor which enabled it to catch the gold of the setting sun and bathe the ancient limestone walls with its grace.

It was almost always at sunset when she danced there in the chapel. Other than her 2-the-morning "Worry Romps" as she called them. Her sleepless nights (and there were plenty) were spent there in the chapel. In dance. If you have never seen an official "Worry Romp" performed, you should know that it is not the most elegant of dances. The movements are often staccato, angular and punctuated with long, droopy silences. Martha Graham may have performed a Worry Romp or two. But never for an audience.

Some of my favorite New Years’ resolutions are:
I resolve not to play bagpipes even if I can.
I resolve to possibly make firm decisions.
I resolve to remember that a wasted weekend isn’t necessarily a wasted weekend.
I resolve not to believe everything I think.
I resolve that if I can’t do something well, to learn to enjoy doing it badly.

For the last few New Years, I have resolved not to make any more resolutions. But, the time when our calendar years bump up a notch is only one of the times when we silly humans make resolutions.

Amanda Jane couldn’t decide what she wanted to be. It had nothing to do with career. Nor did it involve any meta/psycho/physical mumbo-jumbo. Amanda Jane was seven years old. It was almost Halloween. And she was stumped.

For those who have graced this planet for seven years or less, Halloween costume decisions can be excruciating. Agonizing. Costumes must be just right.

Last year, Amanda Jane had come as an anteater. She thought she looked pretty cool. Unique, but not outlandish. Funny, yet not over-the-top. But everyone thought she was an elephant. “Oh, look at the cute little elephant,” the candy-conduit neighbors would say. “Is it true that an elephant never forgets?”

“I’m not an elephant!” Amanda Jane would respond. “I’m an anteater.”

“So what do you think happens when we croak?”

“When we what?” I asked.

“When we bow out,” he responded. “You know, when we go into the fertilizer business. Take the big dirt nap. Kick the oxygen habit.”

My friend and I were hiking in the mountains on an October day. Headed for a waterfall our guidebook indicated was 1.4 miles from the trailhead. The leaves had just begun to timidly blush at the lower elevations – like a junior bridesmaid when the wedding couple share a big, open-mouth kiss. We weren’t in the mood for timid. We wanted brazen. Forget pubescence. We wanted Mae West, Madonna, Bette Midler, Lady Gaga. We wanted flashy and flamboyant. So we decided to see if the leaves might be a bit more gaudy and audacious up a bit higher.

Looking as if they were plucked from the patchouli-perfumed paisley pattern on a hippie shirt, squatty droplets resembling pudgy middle-aged sperm, the Yin and the Yang curl into the other, each adorned with matching monocles. (The better to see you with, my dear.) Looking like twins born from two different daddies – one, black and one, white - the chubby dewdrops gaze at you with owl eyes of color.

The average 2009 salary for CEO’s of the Fortune 500 was $11.4 million. That is, if you take the salaries of the top 500 dogs of the top 500 companies, add them all together and divide by 500, you get $11.4 million dollars. Per CEO. Per year. And that one year was 2009 – a year when the United States economy was struggling with unemployment, foreclosures and bankruptcies. Oh yeah, and there’s this: Of the 500 top executives in the U.S., 12 of them are women. 488 men/12 women. (Source: Institute for Policy Studies)