Believe Half of What You See and None of What You Hear

“We got the bubble headed bleached blonde comes on at five, she can tell you 'bout the plane crash with a gleam in her eye. It's interesting when people die, give us dirty laundry.” Dirty Laundry—Don Henley

Recent reports of terrorism and stories of terrorism have been greatly exaggerated, but that has not stopped Americans from buying guns, forgetting religious freedom and buying into a media-fueled frenzy that has a terrorist hiding in every closet. However, the fear of terrorist attacks in the United States is largely a media and political construct. Media outlets repeat the same stories day after day and make mountains from molehills. Meanwhile, politicians use the disaster to advance their standing and help promote more fear. Is there any reason for fear? Absolutely!

However, the clear fact is the chances of dying in a terrorist attack are about 1 in 20 million. A person is more likely to be killed by his or her own furniture, and more likely to die in a car accident, drown in a bathtub, or in a building fire than from a terrorist attack. In fact, the chances of a person dying because of an asteroid strike are 1 in 200,000.”[1]

“Despite propaganda to the contrary, the odds of any given person being killed by a terrorist attack are incredibly low. While terrorist attacks, in the end, are a near certainty, the odds of “you” getting killed are very low. It’s like the lottery: someone wins every time (eventually), but chances are it won’t be you. Worrying about preventing a terrorist attack is a good idea, but (unless you work in a high-risk job) worrying specifically about dying in one is not. Incidentally, you have about the same odds as being killed on an amusement park ride.”[2]

Today, the media uses an “If it bleeds, it leads” philosophy, which is part of a fear based reporting that constantly keeps the viewer or reader worried or in suspense about the reality of the news reports. Staying tuned into the televised news or newspapers keeps consumers on edge and picks at the viewers anxiety about current events. Most people forget that newspapers, television and radio are for-profit enterprises, with the key word being “profit.” One way to maintain profits is to keep a large readership or viewing audience, which directly translates into advertising dollars and ratings continuing the cycle.

“Well, I coulda been an actor, but I wound up here. I just have to look good I don't have to be clear Come and whisper in my ear, give us dirty laundry” Dirty Laundry—Don Henley

Today's television news is geared to look to the spectacular, the stirring and the controversial as news stories. It's no longer a race to break the story first or even get the facts right. Fact checking comes in second to ratings. The race to be first and right are only Clark Kent and Jimmy Olson stories long ago swept into the fantasy trash can.

Even the annoying crawler across the bottom of the screen are designed to promote anxiety and raise viewership by increasing fear, which brings the subject of terrorism back to the forefront. Again, 1 in 200,000 people stands a chance being struck by an asteroid while persons expected to be killed in a terrorist attack is 1 in 20 million.

Then why the concern? Sadly, because of the nature of our political and media system, it is difficult to get any honesty in the news. Today, reporters are not the “muckrakers” of old where corruption and unfairness were exposed. Instead, the news works on a celebrity system, which is the same as having no news. Some media outlets are little more than propaganda machines for various political views, regardless of Party or their multinational owners. The United States’ political system is a collection of self-serving, rich and entitled men and women who bark at when their masters in big business or their lobbyist pull the leash.

The current posturing by politicians talking about banning “Muslims” from the country is premature and harmful for international relations, especially considering that of the more than 300 American deaths since 9/11 only 33 came at the hands Muslim perpetrators.

In addition, it dishonors the 14 people killed in the San Bernadino terrorist attack on December 2 of this year. Words are a poor comfort for the family of those killed that day, but their deaths is not a time for political haymaking and media speculation.

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^[1] 2010 lifeinsurancequotes.org

^[2] Phil Plait, Death by meteorite, Discover Magazine, October 13, 2008, http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/badastronomy/2008/10/13/death-by-meteorite/#.Vm-MrkqDGkp

Religion & Racism: In His Image But . . .

by Donald R Barbera

In His Image But . . . Racism in Southern Religion, 1780-1910 is an eye-opening book for those unaware of how the Christian Church played a key role in promoting white supremacy, slavery and racism in general. There will be those who deny the connection, but at every turn, the church in the South found ways to support slavery while bringing the slaves to salvation. The book by was written in 1972 by former Duke Professor, H. Shelton Smith and leaves no doubt how the Church not only approved of slavery, but supported it.

“Our nation has been full of white racism from the start; blacks have been counted as inferior and degrading, even if useful. Thomas Jefferson wanted blacks out of slavery but also out of the country. Patrick Henry could lament the slavery of Negroes but be "drawn along by the general inconvenience of living without them" (p. 23).

Shelton meticulously documents the flow of support for slavery by the white church. Interestingly, one of the supporters of freeing the slaves, but send them back to Africa was Thomas Jefferson, most likely with the exception of Sally Heming. From the Methodist and Baptist churches, the pressure on slaves was relentless and Shelton captures the connection.

He shows that any regression in racist issues tied with the church would never be settled fairly. The documentation of how the Church helped lead the South into the Civil War all on the part of losing their free labor.

THE NEGRO MOTORIST GREEN BOOK

I wrote this several years ago at the insistence of a few friends who that I needed to share information that I assumed everyone knew. Of course, we all know what comes of assuming. So, here it is.

Today, most folks wouldn’t believe unless they saw it, but “The Negro Motorist Green Book” was a necessity for African Americans traveling around the United States during the Jim Crow era when discrimination against “people of color,” especially blacks, ran rampant in the United States. I remember fingering my way through it and asking my father why we needed it. Always, his answer was cryptic and mysterious, but my older made it clear “white folks don’t want us near them.”

Growing up in the Jim Crow era, I knew that in my tiny hometown of Independence, Kansas, that was exactly the case. I saw the signs that said, “White Only, Negro Section and Colored Drinking Fountain,” but I assumed that was just in our town. Traveling with my family to Chicago and St. Louis let me know that the same rules applied and were even worse.

When the first version the “Green Book” appeared in 1936, the level of car ownership among African Americans was expanding rapidly as many blacks drove to avoid segregation and humiliation on public transportation. The black “middle class” was in its infancy and having a car was a way to find work or get to a job without the usual humiliation of sitting in the back of the bus or being harassed while waiting for it.

Racial profiling started long before the term required invention during the late 1980’s. Since blacks could drive and afford cars, African Americans had a long history of inappropriate stoppages, arrests and brutality by the police, especially in the South. In addition to the police, blacks faced real dangers such as physical threats of violence and armed expulsion from “sundown towns,” which posted signs saying, “Niggers be gone by sundown.” The “or else,” was understood by both blacks and whites.

In addition to danger of physical violence, blacks faced a variety of inconvenience and humiliation ranging from being refused accommodation or food by white-owned hotels to white-owned businesses refusing to serve Negroes or even repair their vehicles

Victor H. Green, a New York mailman and travel agent, published the first “Green Book” in 1936 to help African American drivers avoid running into difficulties or embarrassments and to help make trips more enjoyable and safe. The first “Green Book” was New York focused but eventually grew to cover the entire United States and portion of Canada, Mexico and the Caribbean.

The book allowed us to find lodgings, businesses and gas stations that would serve us as we traveled. We often stayed at boarding houses or someone’s home on long trips. We were always welcome even though we didn’t know most or any of the people we stayed with. We often went off the main highway into small “Negro” towns where we could refuel and use the bathroom without needing to “go out back” to a privy for “coloreds.”

The “Green Book” was largely unknown in white America, but for black drivers, it was a necessity. Taking a trip during the Jim Crow era could easily end in disaster and even death. Organizations such as the NAACP and the Urban League reported lynchings in towns where whites thought of Negroes with new cars as too “uppity” or prosperous. “See the USA in a Chevrolet,” was a popular advertisement during that era, but African Americans, it didn’t make a difference if they drove a Chevy, Ford or Chrysler, seeing the USA was like being a pioneer in early America.

The “Green Book” stopped publication shortly after the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which outlawed the types of racial discrimination that had made the book necessary. Nevertheless, long after the Civil Rights era, black drivers in the United States faced major problems when traveling. To this day, large numbers of blacks avoid small towns when traveling, especially in the South. Nevertheless, the Negro Motorist Green Book served a useful purpose and in many ways, a book of that type could be useful today for every traveler.

A PDF of the 1949 edition can be downloaded from this site. (Warning: It is quite large) http://www.autolife.umd.umich.edu/Race/R_Casestudy/87_135_1736_GreenBk.pdf

Selfies: Narcissism or Just Fun?

The Internet is literally flooded with “selfies” and mostly it is just plain fun taking pictures of yourself, friends or alone at a historic site, beautiful backgrounds such as forests and mountains and definitely including all the family and yourself. However, at what point do “selfies” turn into narcissism?

Narcissism as it is known today outside of psychiatry is reflected in “excessive interest in oneself and one's physical appearance. Other words used to describe include, vanity, self-absorption, conceit, self-centeredness, egotism and egoism."

To keep up with demand, “selfie sticks” were invented to hold a telephone camera at a distance to eliminate foreshortening so common in arm’s length shots. Alone, that innovation helped increase and improve the quality of “selfies” and “selfie” group shots. It was an excellent idea, especially for the person holding the patent. In Las Vegas, the gadgets are in nearly every store along the new strip.

Nice shots of couples that previously couldn’t be taken without asking a stranger to shoot a picture with your camera, disappeared with the “selfie.” When with that special person, early everyone wants to document that special time. It is a memory captured digitally that may last forever in some form. They are especially good at capturing moments never imagined like standing with a celebrity, the Pope or even the President of the United States.

Yet, the personal facial “selfie” seems to say something probably not intended, but gives others who view them on social websites on a regular basis wonder what it is so special about you that you want to share your new head shot on a constant basis. Obviously, there is nothing wrong with loving yourself if for no other reason that it is difficult to love others if one doesn’t love themselves.

For many, the “selfie” is a tool to capture unforgettable moments with friends, family and loved ones. It has also proved a great resource for grabbing pieces of history, landscapes and even shots at Madame Tussauds Wax Museum standing with Muhammed Ali or Abraham Lincoln. It provides a means to do something nearly impossible to do without the use of tripods, timers or remote shutters.

Still, there is the individual “selfie,” which more than likely is little more than sharing changes in style, photographic effect or before and after shots. However, at what point do they become intrusive "I love me" expressions?

So, the question persists, is it narcissism or just fun?

Embrace Your Ignorance

Ignorance is a word often used pejoratively as a broad-brush approach to paint individuals, groups and entire races, with misidentification, mistrust and disenfranchisement. Even today, it is used as a negative term to indicate stupidity, mindlessness and imbecilic. Yet, it means none of those things.

According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, ignorance is defined as a lack of knowledge, understanding or education: the state of being ignorant.

In other words, ignorance has little to do with intelligence. It is the state of being unaware or not cognizant of a multitude of circumstances, situations and events. Although often used to denigrate others, ignorance is little appreciated as a means to acquiring knowledge. Too often, ignorance is hidden behind minds thirsting for knowledge. The masquerade is an empty façade that is easily revealed in the company of the next least ignorant man or women.

Sadly, the benefits of ignorance are given short shrift because of the negativity associated with it. Instead of embracing ignorance and embracing it for just what it shake its hand and recognize it for what it is—lack of knowledge. Many pretend to all knowledge without embracing their own ignorance. A person recognizing their own ignorance already has head start in finding knowledge and erasing a portion of ignorance because of their openness and readiness to gain knowledge.

Ignorance is what brings breakthroughs in science, medicine, agriculture and many other fields. If not for ignorance and the desire to end it, today would be an empty ball of confusion where the one-eyed man would rule the kingdom of the blind. Interesting, as deeply as man and women have strived to end it, they have found that ignorance is an on-going event that continually leads to the discovery of more areas of ignorance. It is the discovery of one’s ignorance that sparks the desire to know.

Stupid as defined the Merriam-Webster Dictionary: lacking intelligence or common sense. Self-imposed ignorance

“Stupid is as stupid does.” Forest Gump

However, not all ignorance is beneficial. Self-imposed ignorance is of a type where subjects refuse to accept reality or understand answers, as with racists, homophobes, history revisionists and religionists. It is not that the data are wrong; it is the unwillingness to cede fact to fiction.

Ignorance is never to be confused with stupid, idiotic, dimwitted, moronic, imbecilic, dimwitted, dumb, half-witted, lame brained, daft, simpleminded and a host of other description who are truly are unable to think past primordial need.

Huge masses are ignorant of astrophysics. However, the number of astrophysicist on-chip programming is small. Producing a recording requires knowledge that few have. On the other hand, playing a musical instrument is an area of ignorance to most. What are the most prominent ocean currents? Surely, most would be ignorant of the answer. Even the most learned have gaping holes of ignorance, but it is that ignorance that brought fire and the wheel into civilization.

Embrace Your Ignorance

HALLOWEEN IS NOT SATANIC! PERIOD!

Ghosts, ghouls and demons do not exist. PERIOD! Evangelistic preachers and ultra-religious parents come to the surface to shout and vilify a day they should lifted by its meaning. Halloween is not a Satanic celebration, but to know means a little historical study and laying aside audio input to reach the truth.

If you didn't know, Halloween was originally known as "Alls Hallowed Eve," which alone is filled with tips as to why this celebration has nothing to do with Satan and his demonic forces. "Hallowed," out right reveals the holiness of this eve. Interestingly enough, many of those shouting for the removal of Halloween from calendar as as Satanic celebration are simply universally wrong.

Quick research would reveal that Halloween is a Christian celebration, but you'd have to read to know that. On October 31 "All Saints Eve" is celebrated in the Western world. Notice the word "saint." "Saint represents a person especially holy in Christianity one of God's most faithful.

Does Halloween have any connect with Satanism? Yes, but it the connection is largely peripheral and minimal.

"In ancient Britain and Ireland, the Celtic Festival of Samhain was observed on October 31, at the end of summer…. The souls of the dead were supposed to revisit their homes on this day and the autumnal festival acquired sinister significance, with ghosts, witches, goblins, black cats, fairies and demons of all kinds said to be roaming about. It was the time to placate the supernatural powers controlling the processes of nature. In addition, Halloween was thought to be the most favorable time for divinations concerning marriage, luck, health, and death. It was the only day on which the help of the devil was invoked for such purposes." Encyclopaedia Britannica,

However, that description exceptionally misleading and at least reckless in that Saheim was originally part of a Gaelic celebration from sundown October 30 until sunset November. It signaled the end of harvest and the coming of darkness (winter). A shift of belief in 9th Christianity changed the date of "All Saints Day" to November 1, which gradually morphed into "All Souls Day" celebrated on November 2. Eventually, Saheim and All Saints-All Souls came together to create halloween.

There is more drivel on a subject hardly worth discussing in a world of moderniity. Perhaps, the real evil here are the companies that profit from candy and costume sales. There are others, but the is made. By the way, kids don't give a rat's ass about demonic influences and satanism. It's goody night!

Deer In the Headlights

Trouble is always easy to find especially if you're looking for it. If the devil searched for idle minds to set up his workshop, he found three in James Frisco, Lewis Vann and me. The only things on our minds during those days were girls. Sure, we occasionally thought of school, but only as a place with more girls. We did class work because ass-whippings all around awaited each of us if we didn't produce.

Since I mentioned school, it is a good place to start the story at Independence Junior High School where my buddies and I sort of attended school. Changing classes was always a sex-drenched event for "copping" a feel or looking down the blouse of some girl who was aware there were testosterone fueled teenage boys in the flow of students. We were part of them.

Of course, to stoop to such low behavior was not an issue for us. Carl Carter and Harold Adams provided excellent examples of the "sneak grab," the "accidental grind" and the "let me help you with those books titty brush." Using today's standards, we were little more than high school perverts excused only by our terminal stupidity.

Oh, the story. It was time for the annual "Spring Sing." There were plenty of pretty girls at our school, but there was only one time each year that nearly all of them would be in one place and that was the annual "Spring Sing." The "Spring Sing" was a choral fantasy featuring the school's best singers, which held only a small contingent of boys. However, plenty of teenage boys attended because that's where the girls were.

Lewis, Jimmy and I already planned to go to the event, but we had ulterior motives. We planned a secret  rendezvous meeting with several girls we knew who weren't adverse to our idea. The guys all met at my house the night of the "Sping Sing," where we slipped out of our stocking caps, brushed the sparse mustaches we had and slapped on too generous splashes of Hai Karate. 

Once we arrived at the school, we went straight to the auditorium where the "Spring Sing" had just started, which was part of the plan. Each one of us would leave the concert one by one and the girls would do the same then meet with us at the rendezvous point. It all went as planned.

With each of us holding hands with our favorite girl, we made our way in the darkness to the emptiness of the top floor. Once there, we split up and headed to recessed doorways leading to the classrooms. Upon reaching the sunken openings, the fireworks began. I don't know what the others were doing, but my girl and I were locked in a tight embrace swapping spit, bumping and grinding.

In the darkness, the mood was heavy with romance, youthful sexuality all tinged with perfume and cologne. I remember her lips being especially soft and warm. She tasted like Colgate tooth paste, which wasn't a bad thing. Between the two us, a factory of mouthwash flowed making the prolonged kisses even more arousing. I was entering dangerous territory, hidden on the top floor of the school, in the dark, with pants pulling tighter and not sure of what to do next.

Suddenly, I didn't have to worry about meeting in the wrong place as bright lights assaulted my eyes.

"I'm gonna tell, I'm gonna tell," San Frisco shouted as she ran down the hall.

There we were in the light of truth wishing Jimmy's little sister to be struck mute on the spot, but it was too late. We were frozen like deer in the headlights in our embarrassment, not that we thought we did anything wrong because we didn't. It was because of our stupidity in thinking we had privacy in a public place.

We ran from the school to discuss what we would say if the news leaked to our parents. We all decided the best thing to do was play it straight and we did. Of course, by the time we got home the news had arrived. We were all strictly reprimanded and grounded, That was it. I guess our parents wanted to give us time to kick ourselves in the ass for being so stupid. The consequences for our bad behavior were not bad, but neither were they good, because all eyes were on us.

There Is A Storm (Fiction)

I wrote this 12 years ago and have come back to finish it for publishing. I've got to update it for 2015, but other than that I'm ready to go. This a small excerpt from the first chapter of the book. Don't read too much into the first chapter, after all, it is just the beginning. Read on!

There Is A Storm

It was Sunday morning and the church was unusually quiet. Bishop Bailey sat slumped in his chair at the front of the choir. He looked tired and beaten. Usually, there was a light in his eyes but this morning his eyes were dark masks of mystery and anonymity. The radiance of the smile that usually lit his face was gone, replaced by a look of weariness and fatigue. It seemed that he might be angry or even sad, but his body movements said defeat. Whatever battle he fought, he lost and it showed on his face.

All eyes were riveted to the troubled figure as he stood and walked to the podium. Despite his appearance, his step was measured like a soldier’s and steady as if a silent cadence kept a rhythm that only he could hear. Draped in the long folds of his robe, his arms moved with deliberate motion and helped push him toward the podium where the microphone waited as if a challenge to his approach. With each step, strength seemed to enter his body as his robe flared behind him like a leaf in a breeze. By the time he reached the podium, he was walking erect like a general leading his troops into battle. His nose flared slightly and there was a light behind the eyes where there had been trouble moments before. Bishop Bailey did not have a deep voice but when he spoke that day, it was like thunder crackling in the rafters. The power and intensity of his voice pulsed and reverberated throughout the church.

“Church. I’m tired today. My bones are weary and my heart is heavy today. I don’t exactly know what I’m going to say, but I hope that somewhere and somehow that I give you something to leave here with. I hope I give you something to leave here with that will stay in your mind and stick to your bones. I want to give you a bone to chew on that has some meat on it.

You see, I’ve been fighting for a long time. I’ve won some battles and I’ve lost a few, but that never mattered because even when I was defeated I always did my best and a man that does his best cannot be defeated even when he falls as every man must. No, it is not that we didn’t win the fight; it is that we fought well and carried our beliefs before us like a mighty sword.

Still, there are times when there is something more troubling than our fall. There are things that upset us much more than losing. There are times when even victory is not enough to carry you forward. It is times like these when we pull on the reins of the almighty and ride the winds of faith. It is times like these when we forget about what we can’t do and call on someone who can do. I have been there and I have ridden the horse of glory and tasted that sweet wine.

Just like you, I have stood in the raging winds and the driving rain and dared it to put me down for I knew I was protected. Just like you, I have stood among the mighty forest of lightning and thunder and I have not been afraid. I have withstood the mighty torrents of temptation and avarice, just like you. Just like you, pain and suffering have been in my life but I have always made it through the storm, just like you. Just like you, I have braved the violent and furious whirlwind of today’s world with only my faith as armor and I have returned again and again and I have not wavered.

But today—today, I am much tired of the world. I am tired to the bone. My armor is too heavy to carry any longer and it irritates my skin. My sword is chipped and bent and my buckler is broken. I’ve been in one battle too many. I’ve stood against the raging winds of reason and logic too long. I’ve been battered and bruised too long by the whims of fortune and curious happenstance. I have been in the storm too long. So, this will be the last time I stand before you as your pastor and spiritual leader. I’ve already turned in my letter of resignation effective as of this day.

But before I go, I’d like to thank you for allowing me to help; thank you for allowing me to be part of your lives; thank you for being there for me as I’ve stood in the storm. And, most of all thanks for all the love you've shown and given without reservation.”

With that, Bishop Bailey left the pulpit and marched down the middle aisle and out of the church without looking back. As he passed, tears glistened at the corner of his eyes but his step was firm and resolute. And, then he was gone.
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Surrounded by the few things I had collected during my stay at St. Mark’s, I reclined in the leather easy chair and stared at the ceiling as if some answer was waiting there, but I knew better; I’d already searched this room and every other one in the rectory and there was nothing here except more rooms filled with doubt and disbelief.

I would miss the comfort and warmth of the old manse, but I had to leave. We had outgrown each other. The house was now only growing old while I was growing tired of looking into the mirror each day and seeing a fraud. I am surprised no one else saw it when it seemed so apparent to me. It was in my face, eyes and everything I said and did. I felt it living inside of me as surely as my heart pushed blood through my veins and my lungs sucked oxygen from the air. It was alive inside and finally allowing my suspicions and doubts come to the surface.

The doorbell didn’t surprise me. I had been expecting this call for months. I knew who it would be as I started walking toward the front door. As I looked through the yellowed sheers covering the door’s glass, I saw the troubled faces of Rev. Cooke and Rev. Berry. They were responsible for my tenure at St. Mark’s. They had chosen me to lead St. Mark’s flock, put their trust in me and supported me throughout my tenure and now were here there were questions they wanted answered and rightfully so. As I looked through the door glass it was difficult to miss the dismay registering on their unbelieving faces.

“The Mississippi Chinese: Between Black and White," a book written by James Loewen in 1971, is an important look at race in the United States, especially in the Deep South.

You may know of Loewen from his popular "Lies" books including "Lies My Teacher Told Me," "Lies Across America" and "Lies My Teacher Told Me About Christopher Columbus." Mississippi Chinese examines a much overlooked minority in the United States and how they melted into the racially charged a

tmosphere of the Old South. A part of American history that frequently slips between the cracks is how white plantation owners imported Chinese "sharecroppers" hoping to replace their recently lost slaves following the Civil War.

Loewen, reveals the Chinese initially were classified with blacks, but later transitioned from "colored" to white. Part of the move from black to white came at the insistence of the plantation owners that the newly imported Chinese cut ties with "part-black Chinese and those married to colored wives." Loewen's scholarship reveals a part of American racial history rarely if ever discussed publicly and essentially unknown to the majority of Americans.

For any wanting to explore the history of race relations in the United States, "The Mississippi Chinese: Between Black and White," is an informed, intelligent look at what really happened in American race relations.

Don't be misled by the four-star rating, as this book is easily a five-star effort. Because of its scholarly nature, it isn't always the easiest read, thus, the four-star rating. However, "The Mississippi Chinese: Between Black and White," is an important analysis of race in the United States.

In the Belly of the Beast

Over the years as a reported, I’ve written on a variety of topics and situations. I specialized in going places that most people stayed away from and knew little or nothing about.  My work has appeared under the Associated Press heading and various other places. Here's a peek at what many hear about, but don't know about.

Everybody knows the reason men go to strip clubs—to see naked women. If you thought something else, you been living in a hole, but actually that’s only partially correct and in some cases, dead wrong. Depending upon the age, status and financial means of the male, naked women may be only a small reason why men go to strip clubs.

Crowds at strip clubs vary by location and cost. Generally, the more upscale clubs draw patrons with varying amounts of disposable income, including movies stars and professional athletes. These clubs generally offer top shelf liquor, a variety of cuisine and the best looking women. They also are more expensive and out of the range of teenagers and “I just got my first job” men. “There no competition at these places like that of the local "meat markets." You can get all of the time you want with any dancer if you pay. Sealy, a long time patron a one particular strip club said, "The best part  of coming here is  that rarely is any man judged." Dennis, 35, another longtime patron, who is married with children told me the same thing. He sees  no conflict in patronizing a strip club.

"Man, this is all fantasy. None of these women is going home with me and I know that just like they do. I talk to them about some of my fantasies or just anything that comes to mind. It’s a good way to be in the company of a pretty women without becoming involved.” He is not alone in his assessment. There is research to show that one of the main reason men go to a strip club is for the personal interaction with the dancers in the form of conversation and attention.

“I appreciate a beautiful female body. Over here I get to see all I want and I also get the feel of walking on the edge,” Pete said. Pete is what they call a “regular.” He has been coming to the same club for more than a year and always spends his time with one particular dancer. “Walking on the edge” is another common reason for strip club attendance. Because mainstream society sees strip clubs as part of an unsavory subculture actually gives appeal to many men even though it is legal.

Make no mistake, at many skin clubs real sexual activity occurs raging from oral sex to actual intercourse. Many patrons are louts, but they are asses any other place they go. Drugs can be a problem at many strip clubs, both selling and using.

I’m talking with “Sparkles,” obviously not her real name, and she is telling me how the other girls hate because she is more beautiful and more talented. I’m looking at her and thinking, “You’re loaded and probably drunk.” Drug addiction and alcoholism run rampant in many of the less savory clubs. Many of the women have children, often two or more.

Going to a strip club to talk has the same wring as reading Playboy for the articles, but there is truth in both ideas. Playboy Magazine actually had interesting interviews with celebrities, authors and sports figures, including Norman Mailer, Gore Vidal and Arthur Ashe. According to some regulars, strip clubs offer the same opportunity—only it is live.

“I’ve been married 20 years and there isn’t much happening sexually between my wife and I. It’s not that I don’t love her,  because I do, but this gives me a chance to have a little variety without stepping outside of my vows,” Pete said. “I know none of it is for real but that makes it even better because when I leave—that’s it. I go home and some of that exotic atmosphere stays with me.”

Talking with the exotic dancers leaves no doubt that the majority of men come for companionship and talk. “I have several friends who stop by a couple of times a week, BJ said. “Sometimes they just want to talk and other times they may want a dance, but talking is always a big part of it,” she said. BJ who is 29, which is old by exotic dancing standards, said it is not unusual for men to spend their money for talk.

“I’m a cheap psychiatrist or expensive bartender, depending upon how you look at it. Taking off my clothes is a small part of this job. My real job is making customers happy and usually that means listening,” she said.

It is clear that female flesh sells, something that Wall Street advertisers have known for years as they use the female body to sell everything from Summer’s Eve to Mercedes-Benz. Now it is starting to move into the mainstream as stripping is becoming more acceptable. The crowds differ in all the clubs ranging from a blue-collar manual labor clientele to white collar business executives and women. Women are increasingly patronizing upscale clubs because many of their business clients want to go there.

Once, women were required to come with a male escort to enter traditionally male oriented strip clubs, but that requirement disappeared when clubs became more upscale and now women frequently drop in for a drink or just to talk with the friends they came with. Now, they have strip poles at work-our classes. In fact, many athletic establishments actually teach how to dance like a stripper.

What did I learn from my little tour through the skin business? Nothing I didn’t already know. As a reporter I’ve interviewed prostitutes, death row inmates, cancer victims, sports figures, politicians and more. So, I learned nothing I didn’t already know, but I hope I passed along a little information about a subject few know anything about.

Riverside Park--Independence, KS

Many moons ago I did something I dreamed of doing since my 15th birthday. The Fourth of July in Independence found me sitting on a park bench, away from my friends watching the flashing silver streamers and gold twinkles of the annual fireworks display. As the aerial bombs exploded into light, I felt the hot summer breeze drift over my damp skin, but I didn't care because I sat there with my first serious girlfriend.

Straight up Park Street, past the Girl Scout House, the baseball fields and about 35 feet past the two lions guarding the entrance to Riverside Park, there it sat. We used to call it the waterworks, but the Kodachrome fountain that sat about 40 yards from the Shelter House put on its own display, shooting bright plumes of water high in the air and all the while changing colors in a soothing rainbow of red, blue and green.

Holding hands, there were as many stars in our eyes as in the sky. Although I was sitting on the bench, I was far away on another planet watching the silver rings of Saturn and awesome diamond studded belt of the Milky Way. I was in love for the first time in my life; I mean smitten, swept off my feet and overcome with emotion.

Although neither of us spoke, communication flowed through the gushing pipelines of our hearts. With what is now known as Logan Square fountain playing its music on the catch pool surface, even though it must have been nearly 100 degrees, I felt nothing except the smoothness of her skin touching mine.

"There you are," Larry Morrison said. "We've been looking for you for more than an hour. Johnny told us you were out here."

Bucket head Johnson chimed in, "DB doesn't want to be bothered." Leroy wasn't known for startling insights, but even he could see the lost look on our faces. Before I could get a word out my partner Gayle Anderson and Jo Ann Pringle walked up.

"You guys gonna sit here all night? I thought we were going to drop the top and head out to Six-Mile-Junction?"

Even as hot as it was, riding with top down at 70 miles an hour cooled you off quickly. Finally, we got up and stood looking at the fountain until I pulled her close to me and gently brushed her lips with mine.

That was many years ago, but that night in front the fountain is still in my mind, locked away in my personal treasure chest and my memories of a special night in Independence, KS on the 4th of July.

Men and Lesbian Women

What’s the deal with men and lesbian women? Why are so many men sexually interested in lesbian women? Think it’s not true? Go to personal websites and notice how many lesbian women post warnings—“If you are a man don’t write!” Nevertheless, they persist. What is it?

It is not the first time I’ve seen it. I have friends who think that getting involved with a lesbian would be a “great” relationship. What prompts this thinking? I have several lesbian friends who tell me they are constantly pursued by heterosexual men who just won’t take no for an answer.

In some cases, I understand simply because a good-looking woman is always an attraction for a man before he finds out that she is a lesbian. After that, the dance of seduction should end. I would be the first to admit that any male in his right mind would be interested in my friends, BUT—although I love beautiful women, my interest suddenly wanes when women aren’t interested in me—no matter their sexual persuasion, although I'm sure at some time in my life I've been one of those retrogrades. Nevertheless, why go through the hassle?

I’ve seen men who can’t take "no" for an answer even in heterosexual situations and they are the bane of disinterested women everywhere, but to pursue a woman who’s interest clearly is in other women seems like an obvious chance to stay out of a no-win situation. Yet, they persist.

Why? I am not naïve, but it so clear-cut. Why would any man even waste the effort? Still, they persist. I’m sure some straight women try to seduce gay men, but without taking a survey, I’m sure the number is minute compared to men purposely trying to seduce lesbian women.

I try my best not to judge anyone, but in this case I’m going to make an exception by saying that men who knowingly pursue these women either have no idea of what it is they are doing, which I doubt, or they don’t care that they are invading another person’s space. In other words, they are not only shortsighted and insensitive, they are the same misanthropes who also persecute foreigners and participate in mob violence.

Is it just me? Or, am I too sensitive to the needs of others? Any woman who doesn’t want my attention is spared my interests no matter how strong they may be. I would expect the same treatment from any woman whom I did not want. So, again, what is it with men chasing after lesbian women? Is it ignorance, ego or lust? I suspect all three.

A Barrel Full of Laughs, A Life of Sorrow

A Barrel Full of Laughs, A Life of Sorrow

According to some Negro folk tales, at one time slaves were not permitted to laugh in public. Legend says that

 if slaves found something to be funny and there were white people around, they were to run to the nearest “laughing barrel” and wipe the smile off their face before they peered out. Many believe the practice was the genesis of the term “barrel of laughs”

Wesley Brown’s award-winning novel, "Darktown Strutters," gives a vivid description of the practice that implied there was a potential of insult to white people who may be in the presence of black folks laughing. The unspoken insinuation that blacks might possibly be 'snickering' at white people. Presumably, the unwritten Jim Crow law was enacted on Southern plantations that did not permit whites to be insulted by Negro laughter.

As a side note, Brown also explains the term Jim Crow derived from a minstrel song entitled “Jump Jim Crow.” The book also tells of the inhumanities suffered by slaves before, during and after the practice died out thanks to the Emancipation Proclamation, even though many of the laws continued well into the 1950’s.

As the story goes, during slavery times, blacks were not allowed to laugh on many plantations. When the urge to laugh became irrepressible, the slaves had a “laughing barrel” into which they would lean way down, place their head in the barrel and laugh; then go back to whatever it was they were doing.

Here one discovers that before and even after the American Civil War, there were such things as barrels placed around the streets of southern cities or the pathways of plantations for black people to stick their heads into should they get the urge to laugh in public. It seems that local white people didn’t want to hear their laughter, lest they gain the sense that it might be aimed at them.

Author and poet Maya Angelou, in her book “Discovering Family Roots in Slavery,” writes about how on many plantations slaves were not allowed to laugh. There was a rule against it. So, when the urge to laugh became uncontrollable, when the urge to laugh became irrepressible, they had what they called “the laughter barrel.” At the moment when they couldn’t hold it in any longer they would, under the pretext of getting something out of the barrel, lean way down inside and let it all out. They would laugh and laugh and laugh, then wipe the smile off their face and go back to what they were doing.

“Many churches had ‘shouting barrels’ into which overjoyed slaves would place their heads in order not to disturb the church services,” Daniel Lane and Roy Cunningham write in their book, “Notable Blacks of the Pee Dee Section of South Carolina.”

There is little hard evidence to prove the stories other than those passed along in the oral tradition of the familiar slave narrative. A book titled, “Mother Wit from the Laughing Barrel," edited by Alan Dundes speaks of “laughing barrels at least eight times. Although the book is a compilation of slave lore, legend and folk tales, there is some reason to believe the stories were true. Many believe the tale is not founded in truth, but considering the times, along with the way slaves were treated, it is not hard to imagine such a course of action.

Making slaves laugh in a barrel isn’t as far-fetched as one might think. As ridiculous as the practice seems, there were others rules that were just as silly and many of them were dangerous. In the Deep South, blacks had to either cross the street or get off the sidewalk to allow white pedestrians safe passage. Failure to do so could result in a beating or worse.

Clearing the sidewalk was just one of the many humiliations heaped upon slaves and later during the Jim Crow era. One such heinous and unwritten law included “reckless eyeballin,” which fell harshly upon any black man who had the nerve to look at a white woman. Emmet Till fell victim to such an unwritten law when he supposedly whistled at Carolyn Bryant, a white woman. Till was beaten, shot and dropped in the river, his body weighted with a fan blade tied around his neck with barbed wire.

Sadly, I actually had people in my family who talked of it and were afraid of talking too loudly or even laughing around white men even though they escaped the South and lived in Chicago. Emitt Till was killed while I was in Chicago. This is not ancient history. They had "laugh barrels" in the South for Negroes to stick their heads in because white men assumed blacks were laughing at them. It is difficult to put that kind of treatment behind you even though you know it is poisonous.

Personal experience with segregated movie theaters, swimming pools and restaurants were small insults, but helped contribute to internal anger among Negroes. Although seemingly harmless, more virulent practices existed such as never addressing a white man by any other name unless prefixed with "sir." The same applied to white women, but they were to be called "mam." On the other hand, blacks were expected to answer to names like "boy or uncle," while women were called "gal" or "girl."

Writing in the Texas Monthly, in 1985, Gary Cartwright, delivered a story titled, “The Final Gun.” In the story, Cartwright writes, “There was a barrel in Saratoga called the laughing barrel, and blacks who felt themselves in danger of laughing were required to stick their heads in it.” Saratoga is located thirty-eight miles northwest of Beaumont, TX.

Whether or not “laughing barrels” existed or are just part of black folk lore probably makes no difference other than to add insult to the injury slaves faced regularly in the South. However, based on previous Jim Crow rules, more than likely “laughing barrels” existed, as it seemed that no humiliation was too low to be heaped upon black men and women.

Painting from the Winfred Rembert, Caint to Caint Collection, 2010

Why Men Fall Asleep After Sex

I know why men fall asleep after sex. After years of research into the subject, I found the answer. I don’t know how I overlooked it when it was so apparent. Conversation! Men fall asleep after sex to avoid conversation. A little known fact is men have only a certain amount of words they can use for romantic encounters. This finite number is usually expended in the conversation leading up to a sexual encounter. On the other hand, if it is a “quickie,” the chances of falling asleep decrease, but the probabilities of conversation remains the same.

My research shows it is nothing personal, but men expend large portions of their romantic and interactive vocabulary when they first meet a woman. By the time they’ve slept together six or seven times, his interactive and romantic vocabulary for that women is nearly exhausted and must be renewed on a day-to-day basis. Even then there are a finite number of words nature limits a man to speaking. Either he can use it for meaningful conversation or he can use it for romance.

Nature made men this way. In the beginning, there were hunters and there were gatherers. Men did the hunting and women did the gathering. Initially this worked out fine, but the gatherers soon tired of gathering things and grunting at the children, so they invented language. When the men returned from hunting, the women introduced them to the new trend—talking. Initially, the men liked it because it made telling stories about the size of the mastodon they killed easier to tell without stretching their hands.

After a while, instead of talking, men invented the high five, low five and the chest bump as ways to say “outstanding,” without mouthing the words. Women also caught on to these hand signals and began using them to wave the men into their cave where they would talk with the men over the camp fire until it burned out. Of course, the man stayed until the fire burned out because that was the signal for sex. After sex, he went to sleep for the next day’s hunt or stood guard while the other men slept.

As the amount of conversation picked up, the two-day hunting trips became longer until it lasted more than a week. Still, they returned, but with news ideas. Men invented the “honey do.” As a way to get out of spending time in the cave, talking men invented the “honey do” under the guise of helping when in reality it was a ploy to get out of talking.

Today, despite subtle hints like sleep, comas and death, women still try to engage men in meaningful conversation after sexual encounters. However, I cannot tell you any more about that, not because I don’t want to because I’ve used up my 471 daily word limit. (481)