Kung Fu Fat Kid

*1:26 pm - June 5, 2011- Note to self - Buy some hiking boots.

Today's Adventure - dun dun dun dun.....

Destination: Devil's Punchbowl.  Packed a picnic for the pre-trail festivities and away we go.  Beautiful day, perfect temperature, picturesque cloud formations, one mile trail.....this is going to be fun.  Walking, talking, pretending to be Ansel Adams, oh crap I just slipped.  Jeez.  This dirt is kind of, oh crap I just slipped again. Seriously?  We're only about twenty yards in.  Ok, better be more careful.  Pay attention to the walk not the clouds up in the sky (although I must say, they are stunning...totally fall worthy). 

Meanwhile, Gianna and Joel bound onwards scampering over rocks with ease; descending the soil covered path like professionals.   I follow and begin to get my footing, gradually gaining confidence with my new center of balance (thank you McDonalds). 

Ooh, water.  Pretty.  Sure we can hop on the rocks babygirl.  Whoa, dude.  I almost didn't make it onto that rock.  Must remember to jump more aggressively next time.  It must be my backpack filled with four tissues and some sunscreen that's weighing me down.  Walking, talking, psstch...Ansel Adams who?  Oh, you guys wanna scale that peak covered in loose loam?  Sure.  That sounds like a good idea.  Look at them go!  I'm so proud of my daughter.  She's way up there.  She's really pulling away....wait....am I going backwards?  Yes, of course.  I seem to have found the outdoor equivalent of a treadmill.  My legs are moving and yet I gain no ground?  Perhaps my selection of footwear (two year old tennis shoes, sans tread*) was not ideal.  You two go ahead.  I like it here, high enough to break something if I fall but not able to engage and gain any ground.  What's that you say?  No, I'm fine.  I totally meant to slip and slide down on my plethorically endowed rear.  That's my signature move.  Back to the trail?  Ok, if you say so. 

Ooooh, take a look at the Ranger station WAY up on that hill.  Yes, Gianna.  That's where we started. We've made it to the half way point.  I'm just going to snap a few more pictures for my portfolio and then we'll head back to the car.  What?  What's that Joel?  I can't hear you over the sounds of all this nature and the blood rushing through my ear drums.  Go off trail?  Hike up to the next ridge?  Splendid idea.  Just give me moment.  Before we press on it's safety first.  Must be sure that my shoe laces are tied and I've fully crested my myocardial infarction.  Ok, I'm good.  Here we go.  This is fun.  Walking, talking, oh, that bug flew right into my eye.  This seems to be getting easier.  I'm getting the hang of this.  Not bad, not bad. 

Check out my Nadia Comanechi move as I traverse this downed log/bridge.  Perfect 10. Beautiful trees.  Still loving those clouds.  Sure, following the creek back to the trail sounds like a great idea.  I love watching the babygirl with her daddy.  They're so cute up ahead.  And I'm having a blast.  Time for a ninja move.  I've seen Bear Grylls do this dozens of times.  Leap over the creek, land on the bank with just enough time to dive under that branch.  Easy peasy, 1-2-3.  Um, Joel?  Need some assistance.  This downed tree seems to have come alive Wizard of Oz style and grabbed onto my back pack loop leaving my defenseless and stuck.  Worthy foe.  I tip my hat to you tree.  Must press on.  Hop, skip, jump.  I've made lemonade from the lemons of stepping into the creek for my shoes now have a modicum of traction.  Oh yes, much better.  No slippage, better balance.  What a pretty little pool has been created from the collection of boulders at the base of that small waterfall.  Quick hurdle here and I'll be down.  Funny, I seem to be moving in slow motion.  Why are the trees upside down?  Tuck and roll!  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my impersonation of a turtle stuck on it's back (biggest regret of the day is not getting a picture of this). I love hiking.  Luckily I don't get embarrassed and thankfully I am not hurt, for my husbands chivalry knows no bounds, but there is no way he'd be able to carry me out of this valley.  Although, I must have hit my head harder than I thought because I'd do it all over again next weekend.

Tomorrow = a trip to Big 5.

A dying breed

Environmental activism isn't something that comes naturally to me.  But lately I've noticed a significant decrease in a certain population and I am increasingly nervous that, if something serious isn't done soon, we'll lose an incredibly important species forever.  I'm talking about men.  Real men.  Where have all the men gone?

There was a time in the not so distant past when men were men and they weren't afraid to act as such.  But starting with Rosie the Riveter and that broad with her fish driven bicycle we have spent the last fifty years undermining men under the guise of 'sensitivity' and 'equality'.  So it begs the question, 'what makes a man a MAN?'  We can rule out physical traits, such as ownership of a penis (because for $14.99 plus shipping and handling I can own one of those too) and assume that it is character traits that make one qualify. It seems that the inherent qualities of a man (work ethic, confidence, take charge attitude....all those wonderful benefits of testosterone) have been twisted into something negative and as a result we are left with a bunch of lazy, overly emotional, sniveling wimps who can't tell a torque wrench from a tea cozy. 

It's we women who have done it.  We are the ones who demanded r-e-s-p-e-c-t and turned good old fashioned chivalry into a mortal sin.  We are the ones who spent decades feminizing men, demonizing masculinity and 'talking' the toughness right out of them.  Newsflash ladies: Men aren't women, and when you finally get your wish and eunuchize him into one, you lose all respect for him.....as well you should.  Call me old fashioned (please, it would be a wonderful compliment) but I believe that the man should take the lead.  The man should be the provider.  The man should usher security and guide God into his family.  The man should be the man.  Go to work, fix the toilet, change the oil, repair the fence, open the doors, make decisions, take a stand.......be a man. 

While I consider myself a connoisseur of a great fart and I appreciate the art of a well executed groin scratch I am not advocating macho, ape-like behaviour as a prerequisite for manhood...but I also don't rule them out.  I would argue that, especially now, we need men to behave primitively.  We need them to get back in touch with their masculine side.  Certainly refinement is a desirable trait (I like a man who can put on a suit and enjoy and evening at the symphony with me) but I wouldn't trade it for the guttural, inherent, testosterone driven attitude that has compelled every single advancement in the history of civilization. 

So please, if you're living with a lad who is more adept at advancing the levels of his PS3 than providing a pay check....or who is content to have Paco do his yard work rather than get his hands dirty,  PLEASE, for the good of society, encourage your guy to man up.  And if he does, reward him with a b.j.   You'd be surprised what a motivating factor those can be....

A terrible pattern...

This was first posted last year but since it happened again today I thought it was worthy of posting again.

We descend the steps and place our things on an adjacent surface. Something catches his eye. The ground below our feet is hot but he is not phased as his swift pace keeps him from feeling the heat. As I proceed he darts back and forth, always a few steps ahead. I've decided that in spite of his warnings, his frantic warnings, that I must reach out and take hold of this perceived threat. My arm is nearly fully extended, my hand just about to touch what is hanging from the wall, when suddenly he crashes into my legs throwing me off balance. I let out a frustrated cry. "Relax. It'll be okay" I yell.


After what seems to be an inordinate amount of time I finally posses what is wreaking such havoc in the mind of my companion. I don't understand his apprehension. Why does this thing, this inanimate object create such a frenzy? It's merely a tool. But not to him. To see it through his eyes it is a dangerous nemesis; something that must be conquered sooner rather than later.

As I make my way his anticipation grows with each passing second. He tries desperately to knock it out of my hands. All the while letting out terrible ear piercing hollers. It's become a dance. He leans in, I step back. I step aside, he lunges across me. He's begun to circle me now in the hopes of...I don't know what? Frustrate me? Cause me to fall to the ground thus loosening my grip and allowing him to finally prove his dominance over this terrible foe?

I am vigilant. I must continue with my quest or our trip will be for naught. As I proceed, my friend has begrudgingly resigned himself to the position of usher. He guides me through the process with fast paced breath and a heart rate in the hundreds. It is almost finished. Soon we will be able to partake of the refreshing experience that has brought us here today. With one final stroke of the hand my job is complete. But there is no time to celebrate. I must still make way to return this tool. My friend senses that we are nearing the end and knows these moments mark his last chance for success. I move quickly hoping to end this confusing and difficult incident; understanding but not accepting the fact that it's actually not an incident but a horrible, horrible pattern and all will be repeated tomorrow

I've managed to take the lead and am in sight of my destination; my protector is circling me once again in a last desperate attempt to seek and destroy. But alas, I have won......

I've managed to replace the pool skimmer on the wall without Copper chewing it to bits. He runs full force at the wall and leaps through the air with all his might. Once he pounces off the wall and lands back on the deck he glares at the cleaning apparatus.

"Some day" he seems to say. "Some day I'll get you pool skimmer."

Here comes the bride.....

In honor of my good friend irony I have made the decision to begin this post in the most cliche way possible; I looked up the word special in the dictionary (well....the online dictionary). Special (adjective) 1. unusual or better - distinct, different, unusual, or superior in comparison to others of the same kind.

Interesting.  So why do brides refer to their weddings as their 'special day?' In my experience there is very little that is actually special about a modern day wedding.  Every wedding that I've been to in the last decade has been indiscernible from the next.  Big, over priced white dress (more to come on that in the next post)...cookie cutter vows (yes, even the 'personalized vows' are the same old, same old).....YMCA at the reception followed by the cutting of the multi-tiered cake.  Even the song for the first dance is often the same.  Nothing special about that.

I'm about the biggest fan of tradition that there is but weddings seem to have crossed the line from traditional ceremonies into the land of mundane, formulaic procedures.  For a wedding to sincerely be special it should reflect the beliefs, opinions and preferences of the couple (yes ladies, your husband to be should have a voice in the plans).  It shouldn't be a reflection of the most recent bridal magazine.  So when your number is up and you are sitting in the hot seat (otherwise known as the wedding coordinators office) I encourage you to make some decisions that will make your wedding interesting, personalized and distinctive.  Make it truly yours.  Just don't be one of those hippies who gets married barefoot on the beach.  That's may be special but it's really annoying.

A royal sham.....

It's been almost a month since I've blogged.  To make up for the gap (I know you've all been struggling to eek out some normalcy in a world without my posts) I'm going to celebrate the Royal wedding with a week of wedding related posts.  Here goes:

In general I'm not the kind of parent who gets all worked up about my daughter being influenced by tv, books, movies.  I take the stance that, while I am discerning about what goes into her head, my influence as a parent far outweighs what she hears and sees from other sources.  I'm a pretty open and honest parent.  I don't use cutesy names for anatomy, I answer questions directly (and sarcastically), etc.  But one thing that I have noticed lately is how our society cultivates a little girls dream of becoming a bride....as though that is where the story ends.

Within the last 48 hours I have read over a dozen books to my daughter that close with the phrase and they lived happily ever after.  At the drop of a tiara my daughter will grab anything resembling a bouquet of flowers, use a blanket as a makeshift train and play bride.  Take a moment and ask the closest unmarried  young woman about her wedding (whether she is engaged or not) and you'll likely get a 27 minute tutorial about flower arrangements, dress options and reception venue selection. It's insane.  It seems that from the moment our girls can identify their vagina (yes, I used the real word...get over it) they've mentally begun taking their first steps down the aisle.

But do you notice how no one ever talks about their dream of being a wife?  The fantasy seems to end after the 'I do'.  And therein lies the problem.  We don't ever hear about a young girls plans to be a supportive and productive spouse....how she has planned for every detail of her special role.....how she's prepared to spend decades as an encouraging companion. Is it more fun to be princess for a day than partner for a lifetime?  Not if you ask me.  It's all about perspective.  There's nothing wrong with having a special day so long as it is the beginning, not the end, of your happily ever after.

As time goes by....

 I've never been one who was prone to idealize romanticism.  As anyone who has read my previous posts knows, I'm not a very romantic person.  At least not stereotypically romantic.  I can do without the flowers, the poems, the sappy movies, blah blah blah.  That's just not my style.  When I would daydream about being in love it was more about someone 'getting' my jokes, or understanding my oddball references.  Never have I fantasized about being swept off my feet by the prince, charging in on his white steed.  My version of a fairy tale has always been something more along the lines of cuddling on the couch with my guy, watching Office Space while quoting lines and laughing.  For me, the deep, satisfying closeness of a well developed rapport is far more attractive than the butterflies one experiences during the early days of a relationship.

I find it interesting, however, that as we achieve the closeness and safety that comes with said rapport, we often lose the niceties and subtleties that made the beginning of the relationship enjoyable.  As we add up the months and years and finally reach the stage where we really know and deeply love someone, we begin to neglect the little things.  It's ironic isn't it?  The more you love someone, the less you are likely to do the things that were done to attract them.  Men open doors with less frequency.  Women shave their legs less often.  Compliments go by the way side.  Physical affection decreases (get your minds out of the gutter.  I'm talking hand holding, people).  As time goes by we're more inclined to let our partners see 'the real us', which, let's face it....probably isn't that great.  The real me means I have on no make-up, my hair is tied in a knot, a razor hasn't graced my skin for a few days, I'm clothed in the U of R's finest knitwear, and I'm sporting my very best worn out tennis shoes.  Does my husband love me in spite of all this...yes.  But, why should he have to?  Why should we accept a decline in effort as a natural response to closer, deeper love?  It should be the exact opposite. 

All things working as they should be, with each  page turned on a calendar (ok, I'm dating myself now.  Does anyone other than me actually use a paper calendar anymore?) we should gain more respect for, desire more love from, and display more affection towards our partners.  It's not as hard as we make it seems.  Nike says it best....Just Do It!  Pick up a Gillette, open a door and enjoy each other again.  You'll both be glad you did.

Our poor teachers.

For the last couple of weeks as I've been on Facebook I've noticed that a few of my 'friends' have had the same note show up in their posts.  It's the one titled 'Are you sick of highly paid teachers?'  Obviously this is a moot question because, as we all know, teachers don't make what anyone would call an extravagant wage.  So the answer to the Facebook question is, no.  I am not sick of highly paid teachers.  I'm just sick of whiny teachers.

To avoid any confusion, let me state at the outset that I am very good friends with several teachers.  They all know my viewpoint (something I've been working on lately is expressing my opinions more freely).  And so we are all on the same page here, I want it known from the get go that, while I have nothing but respect and admiration for the hard working teachers of the world, I don't believe that there is anything inherently noble about becoming a teacher. 

Are there many, many great teachers who seek out their profession because they want to educate and mold the minds of our future?  Yes.  Are there many teachers who spend countless hours both inside and out of their classroom preparing wonderfully enriching lessons for our kids?  Yes.  But let's be honest.  There are also many, many teachers who become teachers as a fall back (I've heard it said a couple of times a year since I've been at the U of R.....'if I can't get a job in my field of study I can always teach for a few years').  There are many teachers who do the bare minimum and find the students to be a necessary evil that they must tolerate in exchange for working only eight months a year. 

And to bring us back to the question on Facebook....NEWSFLASH: It's no big secret that teachers don't become millionaires.  To me this is the central point.  I get so tired of people making choices and then doing nothing but complaining about the results.  How scary is it that the people charged with educating our children and molding their minds can't even figure out a principle as simple as cause and effect?  If you want to make more than $50,000 average per year then don't teach!  No one is forcing you to walk into my kid's classroom.  I've yet to hear about the teacher brigade that storms into your home in the middle of the night and forces you to the local school. 

Smokers who sue Tobacco companies.  Drivers who get angry when they order hot coffee that burns them when it spills.  Teachers who complain about their wages.  These are all people who don't seem to have any critical thinking skills and certainly don't seem to want to take responsibility for their choices.  In the case of teachers this is not only annoying but it's downright unnerving.  How can you teach something (critical thinking, judgement, problem solving) if you don't understand and practice the concept yourself?  Infuriating. 

To sum up.....teachers, if you want to vent about how kids can be rude/disrespectful in the classroom or how you don't have the parental support that you need to successfully educate our kids, I'll be your biggest and loudest cheerleader.  But please, don't expect me to feel sorry for the size of your paycheck.  Because while you are enjoying your week off at Thanksgiving (and Christmas and Spring Break and three months off every summer) my husband has to go to work six days a week to make the same amount that you do.  And he doesn't whine about it either.  That was his choice. 

In Defense of Choice.

In our country there are certain questions, that when answered, define a persons' personality and belief system. Typically opinions are very clearly delineated, with very few exception.  These are serious questions.  The type of which there is no room for waffling. 
               For example:  a) Elvis or b) The Beatles. 
                                    a) Coke or b) Pepsi. 
                                    a) Chevy or b) Ford. 
                                    a) Lakers or b) Celtics
                                    a) Pro-Life or b) Pro-Choice. 
                                    a) Smoker or b) non-smoker.
                                   (The correct answers are b-a-b-a-b-a).

For the record, I am not a smoker.  I have never been a smoker (minus one week in Jr. High when I pretended to smoke with Becky Tank).  I will never become a smoker.  I think that we have ample information about the detrimental effects on your health when you choose to smoke.  It's my opinion that people who have such information and choose to begin smoking anyway are idiots.  However, for the most part I fall clearly on the 'side' of the smoker. 

To begin I'd like to argue that us non-smoking types really don't care about the health of 'the children'.  How could we?  Those of us who don't smoke aren't purchasing cigarettes thus not paying the exorbitant taxes which finance many of the Child's Health programs in our state.  Obviously if I was truly concerned for the welfare (pardon the pun) of needy children I'd start a pack a day habit.

Then we come to restaurants and bars.  Ok, I get that you may not want to sit down for dinner and have to smell the smoke from the college kids at the table next to you.  And I get that we are supposed to care about the poor waitresses who choose that profession with full knowledge that they'll be breathing smoke all night long.  But I come at this from the perspective of someone who is quickly becoming a Libertarian in her old age.  To me, it is absolutely wrong for the guv-ment to tell me what I can/can't do in my place of business.  And before you go off half cocked and say something silly like 'SOOO business owners should be able to do whatever they want, huh?  How about selling porn to handicapped kids on school campuses, eh?'....what I mean is that if something is LEGAL (which for the foreseeable future smoking will be because it makes one heck of a lot of money for said govt.) then each individual business owner should be able to decide for themselves. As should each patron.  If I own a restaurant... and I CHOOSE  to make my business a smoking establishment... and no one CHOOSES to come to eat my steak...then I go out of business.  Problem solved.  No government intervention needed.

Onto parks and beaches.  It's now illegal to smoke in a park/on a beach.  Really?  Please try to explain to me (without laughing because it is obviously so ridiculous) how the smoke from the dude on the blanket 50 feet away from you is going to cause your lung cancer.  You may find it irritating or inconvenient but it certainly isn't a health issue.  And if we are going to start legislating to prevent inconvenience then I want to see the 'Your Kid is a Brat-Get Him Out of This Restaurant' bill up for a vote at the next election.  Or perhaps the 'Hey Fat Lady - You Smell - Move Over' law enacted immediately.

What it boils down to for me is consistency.  Don't say that smoking is a horrible terrible thing and then finance programs for kids with the money.  Don't pussy foot around the issue.  Make a clear, consistent decision.  If smoking is something that we as a society deem too problematic or dangerous to continue, then grow a pair, make a decision, and make it illegal.  Until then back off of the smokers.  I want to live in a country where I have the option of walking a little further away from the dude on the beach or picking a different dinner destination. Either way, keep your damn kids quiet while I eat.

Hopefully he won't fall asleep while...

My husband is a closet mountain man.  He's often said that the only thing keeping him from turning Amish is that he couldn't live without a radio.  Now, it's true that five or six days a week stares at a computer as a desk jockey.  But that is because he is an incredibly hardworking person who does whatever is necessary (not what he likes, or what makes him 'happy') to provide for our family.  The last thing that he would ever enjoy doing is sitting in front of a computer....or sitting at all actually.  He's just not a sitter.  He's the guy who feels guilty if he plants himself in front of the tv to catch half of a Lakers playoff game.  Joel would much rather be out in the elements doing just about anything.  Unfortunately, that is a pastime to which he doesn't treat himself very often.

So, last month when I read an article in the newspaper about how the SB County Forestry Department was seeking volunteers to count the long horned sheep in the mountains, I immediately thought of Joel.  First thing I did was set down the paper and call the number to sign him up.  Didn't even stop to consult with Joel as to whether he'd be interested.  Partly this is because I KNEW that he'd be interested but mostly it's because I knew that Joel would never volunteer himself for something that he would enjoy.  He'd think it was too indulgent.  That's the Norwegian coming out in him.  They're a very unpretentious people.

Cut to today.  Joel is sitting in an orientation meeting as we speak and will be headed up to tent camp in the mountains for the evening (in the snow) in preparation for his early morning start tomorrow.  As any Italian wife would do I packed him enough food to sustain him for a week for his 24 hour excursion.  He's got his trusty Bear Grylls survival kit on hand (Leatherman and flint).  Neatly packed away (yeah right...probably just thrown on the passenger seat of the truck) is the most important item for any trip - reading material.  He's going to have a blast and hopefully bring back some stunning pictures.  In true 'us' form (ie: inappropriate) as I kissed him goodbye I asked if his life insurance was current.  He replied by saying we didn't have to come looking for him unless he was gone for over a week.  I love that guy.  Sure hope he doesn't freeze to death.

It's safe to say that God is the best and most obvious example of unconditional love.  In the earthly realm things aren't as simple.  Parents can upset us, siblings can become detached.  Children can disappoint us, spouses can alienate. As the years pass BFFs often become distant memories.  But through the highs and lows in life one thing is guaranteed....regardless of your age, marital status, career path, financial stability, your dog will always love you.  A dog is the purest form of unconditional love in this life.

It took some smooth talking and a bit of emotional manipulation, but nearly eighteen years ago I was able to convince my mom to let me get a dog.  I made a call to the local shelter and was set up with a family who had just gotten a puppy but had to let her go because of an impending move.  After a phone conversation they brought over ten week old 'Hannah' --a cream colored fluff ball with big slipper like feet-- for a visit.  I remember sitting on the kitchen floor (some of the ugliest yellow linoleum in history) and calling her over to me;  with the clap of a hand she came bounding over and slid right into my lap.  Done deal.  She was mine.  The family left and Peaches became the first true love of my life.  "That dog is going to be huge" said mom.  "Just look at her paws."

Peaches was special (only pet owner to think that, right?).  As a puppy she could chew through a pair of shoes in record time.  She always seemed to have a smile on her face.  She was a happy, happy dog.  Fiercely protective, she defended me against intruders the likes of the U.P.S. man with mother bear like prowess.  Always at the ready for a car ride, one clink of the keys would start her spinning in circles towards the door in anticipation.  Literally.  And she was smart too.  How many dogs do you know who can spell?  Couldn't even spell the word walk without causing her heart to start racing.  When she was younger (and could still jump onto the bed) I'd leave the house, bed made nicely, and return to find her not just on the bed but IN it.  Seriously.  Under the covers, head on the pillow.  Special.

One of the best parts of being mama to a dog like Peaches for so many years was the deeply rooted relationship that was formed.  We understood the nuances of each others emotions in a way that was truly unique.  I could speak to her like a human and she knew exactly what I was saying.  Often times I didn't even need to speak.  Many a time when I was sick or feeling badly about something she's seek me out and lay with me.  Best cuddle buddy ever.  Years spent together taught her to leave the room if I turned on football (I tend to yell.  A lot) and taught me that she didn't like yellow Starburst.

And as is often the case, when we lose a trusted friend or family member, the things that we miss aren't the obvious.  It's the little things that make the void most apparent.  I miss the sound of her sneezing when she lays on her back.  I miss the way she falls asleep with her tongue sticking out.  I miss the smell of her in the bedroom.  I used to get annoyed by the copious amounts of dog hair that filled my house (my car, my purse...).  Now I dread the day when I'll be able to leave the house without a lint roller.

Please don't pass the soap....

As I lay in bed last night, trying to fall asleep to the soothing sounds of SNL, I was first made aware of the efforts by a large publishing company to edit (destroy) the extraordinary piece of literature, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.  From what I read this morning, the publishers have decided to remove the 219 usages of the word nigger in an effort to make the book more 'palatable' for modern audiences.  Frankly I don't understand that on any level.  It begs the questions: Why are we comfortable with rewriting history?....Why are we willing to desecrate art merely because we disagree with its contents?.....Why do we choose to condescend to our children because it is easier than discussing a difficult subject? And most importantly, why would anyone want to make the subject of slavery more palatable?  Slavery is inherently offensive.  It was a terrible part of our nation's history from which far too many people died (both firsthand and as a part of the the fight).  But it is our history, nonetheless, and it is dangerous to make believe differently.  I don't ever want to think of the injustices of our past -slavery or otherwise- as anything less than despicable. As the saying goes, 'Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it'.  What will be the fate of those who willingly and voluntarily eliminate history? 

And is anyone else stupefied by the people who claim to be proponents of free speech yet are willing to dissect famous literature because they find it offensive?  Freedom of speech is all well and good when you are creating art the likes of a crucifix in a jar of urine, or when you are glorifying a Cop Killer in song, or when you go Bowling for Columbine.  But dare someone use a derogatory term about a black, a Jew, a gay, a woman, and all hell breaks loose.  You can't have it both ways people.  In order for our individual freedoms to persist we must take the good with the bad. 

Let's put aside for the moment the fact that Mark Twain was a satirist and there is a great chance that he chose his words to depict the ridiculousness of the racial inequities of the time.  Let's instead make the choice (another liberal buzz word that gets distorted) to use pieces of literature with potentially questionable content as a part of our greater education.   If I find something offensive I want to remember WHY I find it offensive so that I can be an advocate for the opposite.  I am not willing to erase the bitterness of the past.  Just ask a Jewish friend about how palatable that horseradish is at their next Seder.

I grow weary of the mindset that drives us to sugar coat everything. Much too much has been sanitized in the name of political correctness and protection of one's feelings.  Just as we have learned that too cleanly an environment can actually make us sicker, we should understand that this type of censorship only stands to make us weaker as a nation.  And I can guarantee that when my daughter reads Huck Finn she will have the opportunity for the words Nigger Jim to leave a bad taste in her mouth.