The Confessions of Saint Allen, No. 3

I drive a gas-guzzling SUV. I suppose if Al Gore were to measure my carbon footprint, I'd become a whole segment for his next movie. As it is, I'm afraid I'll soon be required to submit to the new Cap-and-Trade program before they'll allow me to keep driving it.

For my confession is to be complete, I need to let you know that I have gone deeper in enviro sin than you may have imagined from the paragraph above. You see, the SUV I drive is not even a modern one with gobs of government-mandated pollution controls stuck all over it. The awful truth--and I can't hide the fact--is that it has no pollution controls on it whatsoever (There--I've said it). That's because it's a 1968 Chevy Suburban. The good ol' 3-door model. This thing has enough metal in it to make half-a-dozen Honda Civics. It gets about nine miles to a gallon. In a few years, when New York is fourteen feet under water, I know that I will personally be responsible for an inch or two of it.

Why am I so blase' about killing the planet? Well, it all goes back to Y2K. Remember? The computer glitch that was going to bring the gears of modernity to a sudden infrastructure-crashing, business-confounding stop at the rollover into the new century? That's why I drive my planet-destroying vehicle. The genesis of my fall from harmony with the planet goes back to early 1999. That's when I began noticing this '68 Suburban parked here and there downtown.

Being the prudent person I am, I saw it as the perfect worst-case-scenario vehicle to get us (me and my wife) through the wilderness years following civilization's post-Y2K collapse. So one day I left a little note under the wiper asking the owner to call me if he ever decided to sell it. He called me that evening. Next thing you know, bodda-bing-bodda-boom, I'd bought us our Y2K back up plan. This baby would be just the ticket to ride out the coming social upheaval. "Heck," I thought, "this thing is so spacious inside, why there'd be room for our three cats, a good stock of Friskies Special Diet cat food, their litter box, thirty or forty gallons of water, and a good portion of our book collection." I calculated that there'd even be room enough for a small fridge to boot. Then of course we'd need to invest in a diesel generator. Excellent thinking!

Well, you may have noticed that the social collapse following Y2K was somewhat less than total. Therefore we never did have to head for the hills and make the 'burb our back country survival headquarters. We grew to like the old Suburban so much we decided to keep her, notwithstanding the way it would warm the globe in the ensuing years. We still take her out to the back country, but now it is only for a week-end of camping.

There you have it. Another from-the-heart confession by the guy you don't want to spar with in traffic--especially if you're in a Prius.

The Confessions of Saint Allen, No. 2

I smoke Cigars. I suppose I should begin by explaining how I fell into this delightful habit. It all started with C. S. Lewis. Actually, it was more the Inklings [Excuse me while I google Lewis, Inklings, smoking]. OK, I'm back.
Here are the basics (from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inklings):

The Inklings were literary enthusiasts who praised the value of narrative in fiction, and encouraged the writing of fantasy. Although Christian values were notably reflected in several members' work, there were also atheists among the members of the discussion group.

"Properly speaking," wrote Warren Lewis, "the Inklings was neither a club nor a literary society, though it partook of the nature of both. There were no rules, officers, agendas, or formal elections."

As was typical for university literary groups in their time and place, the Inklings were all male. (Dorothy L. Sayers, sometimes claimed as an Inkling, was a friend of Lewis and Williams, but never attended Inklings meetings.)

A number of Inklings participants were smokers. And drinkers. They smoked pipes and/or cigars. A few years back I began to think about--and envy--the Inklings and their camaraderie. I could picture them gathering, Friday afternoons, at the London pub they frequented, the Eagle and Child (Which they renamed the Bird and Baby). By all accounts they enjoyed brandy along with their cigars, cigarettes and pipes. We live in a much different day and age with a much different set of values.

I had quit cigarettes more than a year before I began smoking cigars. By this time, I had no residual cravings for nicotine whatsoever. What drew me to cigars was the mental image of the Inklings and the camaraderie they shared. I began to wonder if there were, anywhere in all of San Diego, a place where men got together for interesting conversation. I could find none. Still, the picture in my mind remained. It was a picture of men of like mind sharing themselves and their thoughts together in a way which was pleasing to them and fulfilled the need all men have for camaraderie.

As fate would have it, that month National Review (a political fortnightly) had a full-page ad from Thompson Cigars for a sampler pack of six cigars--which came with a free humidor/carrying case. I went for it and ordered the cigars. I smoked them one by one and found one brand I really liked--C.A.O. (Still my favorite: the Brasilia Samba. Ummm...) I was so inspired, I began, in January of 2005, the Chesterton Cigar Club--named after none other than the great Victorian journalist (and cigar smoker), G.K. Chesterton (Seems everyone in that period dropped their first to names to initials. Just call me D.A. Randall)

There you have it--confession No.2. It is 7:00p.m. straight up. I am now going to go select from my humidor a big beautiful cigar and celebrate a day well spent relaxing, shopping, putzing and blogging by lighting one up and contemplating my next confession.

* The Inklings was an informal literary discussion group associated with the University of Oxford, England, for nearly two decades between the early 1930s and late 1949.^[1] Its most regular members (many of them academics at the University) included J. R. R. "Tollers" Tolkien, C. S. "Jack" Lewis, Owen Barfield, Charles Williams, Christopher Tolkien (J. R. R. Tolkien's son), Warren "Warnie" Lewis (C. S. Lewis's elder brother), Roger Lancelyn Green, Adam Fox, Hugo Dyson, R. A. "Humphrey" Havard, J. A. W. Bennett, Lord David Cecil, and Nevill Coghill.

**The Eagle and Child is a pub in St Giles', Oxford, England which is owned by St. John's College, Oxford.
From http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inklings

Confession Series Explained

Below begins a new series. It will be an occasional series. That is, these "confession" posts will only appear from time to time. As the spirit leads, I will reveal some aspect of myself/my life that runs counter to something. That something could be the prevailing cultural norms, or current Christian norms (however defined), or it could be some revealing opinion of mine I feel readers might find curious, instructive, entertaining or interesting.

These will be my own personal, particular "confessions" or points of view I happen to hold at the time I express them. Some, even many, of the things I believe are in flux--but this flux is not one with wild parameters. Instead, it is a flux which continues to to be refined by what I discover, with God's guidance, to be true. This, I trust, will be a life-long process of discovery--lead ultimately by the one who some two-thousand years ago said, "I am the way, the truth and the life."

I belong to what is called a, "*confessional church"--the Presbyterian Church (USA). I have come to appreciate this aspect of the church. I don't mind opposing points of view. I like it when people declare, plainly, what they believe. I can handle disagreement and dissenting points of view--this sort of tolerance is a conservative/liberal value I hold dear.

*A confession is a public declaration of what a church believes. Individual Christians certainly confess their own personal faith, but a confession of faith is more than a personal affirmation of faith. It is a statement of what a community of Christians believes. Such statements have not always been called confessions. They have also been called creeds, catechisms, affirmations, formulas, definitions, declarations of faith, statements of belief, articles of faith, and other similar names. Whatever their form, confessions of faith express what a body of Christians believe in common. (From http://www.brookingspres.com/acc.htm)

The Confessions of Saint Allen, No.1

I like to shop. There, it's out on the table. (Oh, about the "saint" business: Since it somehow got applied to my buddy Augustine, then I figured what the h...oops, I almost forgot, we saints have standards to maintain. Ahem, ahem.) Where was I? Oh, shopping. Yes, well I suppose shopping is one of those things psychologists and sociologists [By the by--I'm beginning to think I'd really like to be a sociologist. At least I would if I didn't have to produce any long boring papers with lots of statistics and charts and graphs and things. I'd just want to go somewhere, like the airport or a local park and people-watch for an afternoon. I'd take a little pocket notebook and jot a few observations from time to time. Perhaps get a latte and have a friendly conversation with the the person at the coffee cart. I'd get home in the early evening, pour myself a glass of chardonnay and write a short opinion piece based loosely on my day's experience. That's the kind of sociology that would interest me. I think I'll check it out on Monster-dot-com]. Where was I? Oh, yeah, shopping. Anyway, as I was saying, I'm a shopper. I'm also a guy. I have the impression that guys generally don't like to shop. A guy only goes shopping if he is drug (dragged?) along by his wife or goes dutifully, perhaps resentfully, when sent on out by her on a shopping errand, "Oh, and honey, don't forget the maxi-pads. Thanks sweetie." [OK. I'm an amateur sociologist, you don't have to tell me: I know, I know, some guys have a live-in girlfriend instead of a wife. Also if I were a sociologist, I could do a "study" about this thing of guys not liking to shop. I really need to get over to Monster-dot-com]. Like I was saying, I like to shop. I went shopping just today--at Walmart. I like shopping at Walmart. I like the regular unprofessional looking old folks who greet you at the door. They're nice. I haven't done it, but I bet you could stand there and have a nice ten-minute conversation with any one of them. Do you think a sociologist would do a study of Walmart greeters? I would. [How much do sociologists get paid, anyway? Who in the h... oops. I mean, who in the heck pays them?]

[You don't want to go too long without a paragraph break. People freak out when they see a whole bunch of text with our a paragraph break. That's my theory anyway--as an amateur sociologist] Yes, shopping. Another reason I like shopping is I love bargain hunting and getting a good deal. Man, I'm jazzed if I look at "Your savings today" on my receipt and it is into the 40% range! Yippee--I done really good today! I stroll through the lot to my car feeling grrr-ate. "I bet the best anyone else did today was 34%" Best of all is when (I plan my shopping so this rarely happens, but it still does sometimes) we are out of something and have to get it and--it's on sale! Yes! I suppose the feeling I get then is the same as the one regular guys (Ones with the "sports gene"--which I don't happen to have) get when their team scores. I am a big comparison shopper. I love to evaluate things and figure out the best deal. Most evaluations are based on the two main factors: price and quality. There are also other factors which can come in to play, such as: desirability, ease of use, name brand, storage, calories, recyclability, etc. It is a game of sorts--a game I find both rewarding and relaxing.

Well, that just scratches the surface of why I like to shop. I could go on and on I suppose, but that's enough for one post. Sociologist have studied people's reactions to long posts and...

Memorial Day Confession

I am a reformed/repentant pacifist. During the Viet-Nam war I was a passionate and proud follower of Gandhian pacifism. I not only dodged the draft, but made a personal cause-celeb of fighting the draft in a dramatic and public fashion. My hometown (Riverside) paper featured an article about my plans to refuse induction into the armed services. A Los Angeles based draft attorney and I had dreams of taking an appeal of my case as far up the judicial chain as possible, perhaps to the supreme court. He was a real ACLU-style attorney, motivated more by ideology than money (For his services I payed him one Fender Jazz Bass guitar).

From 1968 to 1970 I worked at organizing anti-war activities at my high school, attended meetings of the Students for a Democratic Society, joined the Peace and Freedom Party and marched in massive anti-war demonstrations. I can still hear the chants of "Ho, Ho, Ho-Che-Min--the Viet Cong are going to win!" David Harris came to our city and his speech convinced me to return my draft card to the draft board and to refuse induction if drafted. I was duly drafted and, after moving to the revolution's mecca, Berkley, I refused induction at the Oakland Induction Center. After doing so I was shunted to a little side room where a kindly FBI agent, in his 60s with graying grandfatherly hair and very calm demeanor, asked me, "Son, do you realize the seriousness of what you're doing, and the 5-year prison term you will serve if you are convicted?" I told him I did and politely declined his invitation to change my mind. The indictment and trial I so eagerly looked forward to never did materialize. It seems the courts were so clogged with similar cases they were only taking a few high-profile ones in order to make an example of them. I felt cheated, ignored and disrespected. That calm conversation with the nice FBI man was the last dealing I was ever to have with the U.S. government regarding my draft case.

As a pacifist I of course had a great and profound love for all humanity (in the abstract) but also great (righteous) hatred of whole swaths of it in reality: the evil U.S. government--and all who loved or supported it; the military; capitalism; the police, the wealthy; all Republicans, right-wingers and Christians, along with most main-line Democrats. These all were summed up as The Establishment. For those who have not indulged in this sort of spiritually delicious hatred, it's pleasure is difficult to describe. Its main intoxicant for us revolutionaries was the way it made one feel so pure and morally superior to one's enemies. And not them only, but also all the common folks who could not see with our enlightened clarity the evil of the whole American enterprise.

The reformation of my thinking as it regards pacifism has taken some time and has a number of causes--which I will leave for some future post. Here I will only note that I can now, thirty-nine years later, observe Memorial Day with deep appreciation and gratitude for all the warriors who fell in battle. Whose lives were given for a country which treated me so gently when I was railing against it. It was difficult for me to let go of my pacifist/Gandhian identity--for it was a very important aspect of how I understood myself and how I wanted others to see me. It was also a sacrifice to say goodbye to my cherished hatreds and ideological righteousness. They were heady but adolescent pleasures, and so had to be left behind. This Memorial day I am at peace with my anti-war past. Although I judge my actions from back then quite differently now, I am neither proud nor ashamed of them. They have been given a decent and properly respectful burial under a shady tree which watches over a little green field in my soul. That revolutionary young man may not have died in battle, but he did die. He had to lose his life--in order to find it.