This is apropos of nothing, but when does a title cease being used. That is, when a person occupies a position and attains some measure of success or notoriety in that position, does that entitle the person to use the title for the rest of one's life, no matter whether one retires or changes occupations?
The first time I noticed this annoying trend when Bob Knight, the former college coach, was being interviewed on a pregame show. Bob Knight was one of my favorite coaches. I still think, contrary to many who believe that Dean Smith bested him, the Knight was the greatest college coach of his era and one of the top five of all time. Be that as it may, by the time this show was airing, Knight had been out of coaching for a good year or two. Yet, the anchors and other talking heads tripped over themselves to address him as coach. It's respectful, I get it, but why not call him Mr. Knight? After all, he's been that since at least the age of sixteen and he'll be that until the day he dies or decides to go Chaz Bono on us. He was a coach for a few decades, but since his retirement, he's become a color analyst for college basketball games. He no longer coaches. This usage seems out of place.
Other professions that get this treatment are presidents, judges and priests. There may be others, but I can't think of them at the present time. Of the three, the only one I can agree with is President. Since there have only been forty-four of them, and all but five of them are alive. When it comes to Supreme Court justices, I might make an exception for them, too. But lesser court judges? Priests? Why?
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Friday, July 13, 2012
The Catholic Church
I am a Christian. In the past, I would describe myself first as a Catholic which, in my mind, included the characteristic of being a Christian. There are pleny of Protestants who believe that Catholics are not Christians, and they're wrong. But I choose to describe myself now as a Christian first because I am fed up with the institution of the Catholic Church.
There are plenty of doctrinal issues that, taken collectively, could mount a case for leaving the Church. Priestly celibacy, ordination of women, Vatican II leniency -- the list is endless. For me, however, there are two principal reasons for my personal schism with the Church.
First, what the Church did as a religious institution in the wake of the revelations of priestly pedophilia was a travesty. The notion that a Church that prides itself on the one true original Church would go the lengths it has to protect pedophiles and those that protected pedophiles is disgusting. Sending Cardinal Bernard Law to Vatican City so he could be beyond the reach of civil authorities is nauseating. To act like nothing happened for so many years and then lie about what was known is hardly the mark of an institution practicing what it preached. How can it lecture the flock about sin when it was committing one of the most reprehensible sins against its own people, the very people to whom it was supposed to minister and protect? No measure of Jesuitical sophistry can absolve the Church of this hideously ugly behavior.
Speaking of Jesuitical sophistry, the Church's position on artificial insemination is indefensible. It rests its argument on the law of nature and a bunch of other gobbledegook to dress up its position as being supportive of loving, nurturing relationships. In the first place, how does in vitro fertilization detract from a loving, nurturing relationship? If a couple loves each other enough to overlook infertility -- which, ironically, is grounds for an annulment in the canons of the Church hell-bent on protecting loving, nurturing relationships -- what can be more loving and nurturing than to subject oneself to the scientific and sometimes humbling processes involved in in vitro fertilization to bring life into being?
But the Church finds itself in an conundrum of its own making, to wit: If man is allowed to use the genius God gave him to devise and make weapons that will take human life in a just war as authorized by no less a personage as Thomas Aquinas, why can he not use the genius God gave him to devise and make instruments that help create life? Taking life is against the Sixth Commandment. Using artificial means to create life violates no Commandments. Therefore the Church, resting on the syllogism of one of its learned saints, trumps the Word of God, but uses no such support to ban a procedure that is not in contravention of God's Word.
The Church is more concerned about its image and its rules than it is promoting the Word of God. For that reason, I no longer attend Mass. My Catholicism was a gift our Mother gave me, but as is sometimes the case with gifts, this one has become worn, broken down and almost useless.
I am a Christian.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
There are plenty of doctrinal issues that, taken collectively, could mount a case for leaving the Church. Priestly celibacy, ordination of women, Vatican II leniency -- the list is endless. For me, however, there are two principal reasons for my personal schism with the Church.
First, what the Church did as a religious institution in the wake of the revelations of priestly pedophilia was a travesty. The notion that a Church that prides itself on the one true original Church would go the lengths it has to protect pedophiles and those that protected pedophiles is disgusting. Sending Cardinal Bernard Law to Vatican City so he could be beyond the reach of civil authorities is nauseating. To act like nothing happened for so many years and then lie about what was known is hardly the mark of an institution practicing what it preached. How can it lecture the flock about sin when it was committing one of the most reprehensible sins against its own people, the very people to whom it was supposed to minister and protect? No measure of Jesuitical sophistry can absolve the Church of this hideously ugly behavior.
Speaking of Jesuitical sophistry, the Church's position on artificial insemination is indefensible. It rests its argument on the law of nature and a bunch of other gobbledegook to dress up its position as being supportive of loving, nurturing relationships. In the first place, how does in vitro fertilization detract from a loving, nurturing relationship? If a couple loves each other enough to overlook infertility -- which, ironically, is grounds for an annulment in the canons of the Church hell-bent on protecting loving, nurturing relationships -- what can be more loving and nurturing than to subject oneself to the scientific and sometimes humbling processes involved in in vitro fertilization to bring life into being?
But the Church finds itself in an conundrum of its own making, to wit: If man is allowed to use the genius God gave him to devise and make weapons that will take human life in a just war as authorized by no less a personage as Thomas Aquinas, why can he not use the genius God gave him to devise and make instruments that help create life? Taking life is against the Sixth Commandment. Using artificial means to create life violates no Commandments. Therefore the Church, resting on the syllogism of one of its learned saints, trumps the Word of God, but uses no such support to ban a procedure that is not in contravention of God's Word.
The Church is more concerned about its image and its rules than it is promoting the Word of God. For that reason, I no longer attend Mass. My Catholicism was a gift our Mother gave me, but as is sometimes the case with gifts, this one has become worn, broken down and almost useless.
I am a Christian.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
PED's
I used to be somewhat athletic. I can no longer do much of anything, given my age and infirmities. But I do pay attention to what's going on.
One issue that's raised its ugly head in the last couple of days has been PED's. I think anyone who knowingly uses them is cheating. Many, many people in many, many sports have been banned for their use. Without examining every case, I tend to believe that the governing bodies got it right when they banned the offenders.
There are three case, however, where I think that either the sport got it wrong or where I'm totally confused by the allegations. In each case a high-profile player is involved. But due to certain facts, I think the players are either innocent or at least reasonable doubt exists -- absent an explanation from an expert in the field -- that the players are guilty of using PED's.
The first case involves Rafael Palmeiro. Anyone who saw him play knows he had one of the sweetest, most natural swings in the game. When it was announced that he had tested positive for PED's, I was stunned. Other announcements didn't faze me; Raffi's did. When he was asked about the positive test, Raffi said that Miguel Tejada had given him what he thought was a vitamin supplement. As far as I know, Tejada never addressed the issue, although I may have missed any comment he may have made.
A few years later, Tejada was listed in the Mitchell Report as having tested positive for PED's.
As far as I'm aware, no one has ever gone back and addressed these events.
The next player who tested positive, allegedly, was Ryan Braun. Another hitter of exceptional ability, Braun allegedly tested positive during last year's playoffs. He ultimately won in arbitration to have the results thrown out on procedural grounds and was villified for having done so, even though he was well within his rights under the collective bargaining agreement to challenge the process. What Braun said in his own defense was that none of his measurables ever changed, and this year he's batting just about the same as he did prior to the scandal, presumably while being tested. If a player's measurables are unchanged, if the test was so out of whack as to be unbelievable, and if his performance after the test in question shows no fall-off, what are we to believe? I believe Braun was clean at the time of his test, that he is clean now and there was some problem with the collection or maintenance of his sample.
The final example is Lance Armstrong. From reports I've read, Armstrong isn't the most personable athlete out there. Perhaps he's no Ty Cobb, but even so, he's not going to be confused with Mr. Robinson, either.
But here's what I can't fathom: After having endured cancer and the rigourous and invasive chemotherapy that he did, after riding in grueling Tours de France that tax even highly-conditioned athletes, how is his body not breaking down? Instead, he's now competing in triathlons. We've seen the effects of PED's with wrestlers and other athletes, so if he was using PED's during his glory Tour days, how is it that he's unaffected by all his body's been through -- cancer, PED's, seven Tours -- and the aging process, to the point that he's able to compete in triathlons?
I don't know whether Armstrong used PED's, but until a medical professional can answer that question to my satisfaction or the governing bodies find the smoking needles, I reserve opinion as to whether he used PED's.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
One issue that's raised its ugly head in the last couple of days has been PED's. I think anyone who knowingly uses them is cheating. Many, many people in many, many sports have been banned for their use. Without examining every case, I tend to believe that the governing bodies got it right when they banned the offenders.
There are three case, however, where I think that either the sport got it wrong or where I'm totally confused by the allegations. In each case a high-profile player is involved. But due to certain facts, I think the players are either innocent or at least reasonable doubt exists -- absent an explanation from an expert in the field -- that the players are guilty of using PED's.
The first case involves Rafael Palmeiro. Anyone who saw him play knows he had one of the sweetest, most natural swings in the game. When it was announced that he had tested positive for PED's, I was stunned. Other announcements didn't faze me; Raffi's did. When he was asked about the positive test, Raffi said that Miguel Tejada had given him what he thought was a vitamin supplement. As far as I know, Tejada never addressed the issue, although I may have missed any comment he may have made.
A few years later, Tejada was listed in the Mitchell Report as having tested positive for PED's.
As far as I'm aware, no one has ever gone back and addressed these events.
The next player who tested positive, allegedly, was Ryan Braun. Another hitter of exceptional ability, Braun allegedly tested positive during last year's playoffs. He ultimately won in arbitration to have the results thrown out on procedural grounds and was villified for having done so, even though he was well within his rights under the collective bargaining agreement to challenge the process. What Braun said in his own defense was that none of his measurables ever changed, and this year he's batting just about the same as he did prior to the scandal, presumably while being tested. If a player's measurables are unchanged, if the test was so out of whack as to be unbelievable, and if his performance after the test in question shows no fall-off, what are we to believe? I believe Braun was clean at the time of his test, that he is clean now and there was some problem with the collection or maintenance of his sample.
The final example is Lance Armstrong. From reports I've read, Armstrong isn't the most personable athlete out there. Perhaps he's no Ty Cobb, but even so, he's not going to be confused with Mr. Robinson, either.
But here's what I can't fathom: After having endured cancer and the rigourous and invasive chemotherapy that he did, after riding in grueling Tours de France that tax even highly-conditioned athletes, how is his body not breaking down? Instead, he's now competing in triathlons. We've seen the effects of PED's with wrestlers and other athletes, so if he was using PED's during his glory Tour days, how is it that he's unaffected by all his body's been through -- cancer, PED's, seven Tours -- and the aging process, to the point that he's able to compete in triathlons?
I don't know whether Armstrong used PED's, but until a medical professional can answer that question to my satisfaction or the governing bodies find the smoking needles, I reserve opinion as to whether he used PED's.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Moving
Choosing where to move is an inexact science at best. One can look at all sorts of empirical data, such as tax rates, school quality rankings and other such minutiae to determine what neighborhood suits his or her family. Until one resides in the neighborhood, however, the true nature of the community isn't revealed.
Recently, my fiancée and I moved down the road to a more traditional suburban neighborhood. Sidewalks, street lights, families with children and pets -- it has all the stereotypical elements any movie or book would contain. Our house is smaller than the former house and almost fits our needs, were it not for the precipitously steep stairwells and the smaller dimensions that required us to divest ourselves (mostly me) of possessions.
Our first indication that something was different about this neighborhood was that while we were moving in -- a process that took several days over the course of a couple of months -- not one of our new neighbors saw fit to approach us and introduce themselves. It's entirely possible that people were put off my my appearance -- generally sweaty with a heavy dose of grunting as I lifted overweight boxes of books out of trucks and cars and into the house -- but that doesn't explain their reticence toward Karen. One woman -- in fact, the woman whose house is directly across the street from ours -- spent so much time working on her lawn and landscaping that I thought she would appreciate the opportunity to take a break...but it wasn't to be. Even though our move is largely over, we still have not met this woman.
Of course, since we moved in right at the beginning of summer, we thought it might be that so many people were busy with plans and such that meeting new neighbors ranked relatively low on their list of priorities. In fact, we have met the neighbors on either side of our house, as well as the fireman two doors down whose daughter rescued one of our errant Generals who escaped the backyard one night. But the opposite side of the street may as well be a foreign country to us.
Were that all there were, it would merely be an oddity of the neighborhood. But there are some other eerie characteristics that we've noticed that make us wonder whether we've moved to a middle-class Stepford. For example, an inordinate number of homes in the neighborhood have cars parked in the driveways and not in the garages. Why? Because the garages are being used as de facto storage units. To be fair, so is ours, but we're still moving in. Other homes with garages chock-full with household items house families that have lived there for months, at least, if not years.
The next thing is that when it's garbage day, the neighborhood looks like it sprouted identical garbage cans and placed them in very similar locations at the curb in front of their houses overnight. I've never seen a neighborhood with uniform garbage cans. It's as if the mob came in and told everyone who would be hauling away their garbage and which cans would be used in that job.
But the most startling trait of the neighborhood is that after nine o'clock at night, no matter what day of the week, the street is a quiet as a graveyard. Seriously. The street lamps shine brightly, the wind rustles the tree leaves, but otherwise, there isn't a sound to be heard. It's as if the neighborhood has shut down for the evening. What makes this even more unique is that there are plenty of families with teenaged children in the neighborhood, which would make one think that there would be a modicum of noise at all hours of the day, or at least until eleven o'clock on the weekends. No chance. This place shuts down at nine o'clock, weekday or weekend.
Other than that, it's a pretty nice place to live.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Recently, my fiancée and I moved down the road to a more traditional suburban neighborhood. Sidewalks, street lights, families with children and pets -- it has all the stereotypical elements any movie or book would contain. Our house is smaller than the former house and almost fits our needs, were it not for the precipitously steep stairwells and the smaller dimensions that required us to divest ourselves (mostly me) of possessions.
Our first indication that something was different about this neighborhood was that while we were moving in -- a process that took several days over the course of a couple of months -- not one of our new neighbors saw fit to approach us and introduce themselves. It's entirely possible that people were put off my my appearance -- generally sweaty with a heavy dose of grunting as I lifted overweight boxes of books out of trucks and cars and into the house -- but that doesn't explain their reticence toward Karen. One woman -- in fact, the woman whose house is directly across the street from ours -- spent so much time working on her lawn and landscaping that I thought she would appreciate the opportunity to take a break...but it wasn't to be. Even though our move is largely over, we still have not met this woman.
Of course, since we moved in right at the beginning of summer, we thought it might be that so many people were busy with plans and such that meeting new neighbors ranked relatively low on their list of priorities. In fact, we have met the neighbors on either side of our house, as well as the fireman two doors down whose daughter rescued one of our errant Generals who escaped the backyard one night. But the opposite side of the street may as well be a foreign country to us.
Were that all there were, it would merely be an oddity of the neighborhood. But there are some other eerie characteristics that we've noticed that make us wonder whether we've moved to a middle-class Stepford. For example, an inordinate number of homes in the neighborhood have cars parked in the driveways and not in the garages. Why? Because the garages are being used as de facto storage units. To be fair, so is ours, but we're still moving in. Other homes with garages chock-full with household items house families that have lived there for months, at least, if not years.
The next thing is that when it's garbage day, the neighborhood looks like it sprouted identical garbage cans and placed them in very similar locations at the curb in front of their houses overnight. I've never seen a neighborhood with uniform garbage cans. It's as if the mob came in and told everyone who would be hauling away their garbage and which cans would be used in that job.
But the most startling trait of the neighborhood is that after nine o'clock at night, no matter what day of the week, the street is a quiet as a graveyard. Seriously. The street lamps shine brightly, the wind rustles the tree leaves, but otherwise, there isn't a sound to be heard. It's as if the neighborhood has shut down for the evening. What makes this even more unique is that there are plenty of families with teenaged children in the neighborhood, which would make one think that there would be a modicum of noise at all hours of the day, or at least until eleven o'clock on the weekends. No chance. This place shuts down at nine o'clock, weekday or weekend.
Other than that, it's a pretty nice place to live.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Monday, July 9, 2012
Soccer
I'm not much of a soccer fan, but I do love the Spanish national team. I know I should root for either the United States or Ireland, countries of which I am a citizen, but the truth of the matter is that when it comes to soccer I am, as I was told in another context by Spaniards, españolizado.
The recent triumph of the Spaniards in the Euro Cup was on a par with what the United States used to do to teams in Olympic basketball. When you consider that the Spaniards didn't give up a goal in the knockout rounds, that's as amazing almost as the Dream Team not calling a single timeout during the '92 Olympics in Barcelona.
Soccer is, in my humble and some would say highly uninformed opinion, quite flawed. The games are tedious, the flopping a joke, the lack of technology to get calls right a travesty, the offsides trap a detriment -- in short, it's the perfect sport to either play or watch the highlights of, only. But in no way does that diminish the Spaniards' accomplishment.
¡Enhorabuena, España!
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
The recent triumph of the Spaniards in the Euro Cup was on a par with what the United States used to do to teams in Olympic basketball. When you consider that the Spaniards didn't give up a goal in the knockout rounds, that's as amazing almost as the Dream Team not calling a single timeout during the '92 Olympics in Barcelona.
Soccer is, in my humble and some would say highly uninformed opinion, quite flawed. The games are tedious, the flopping a joke, the lack of technology to get calls right a travesty, the offsides trap a detriment -- in short, it's the perfect sport to either play or watch the highlights of, only. But in no way does that diminish the Spaniards' accomplishment.
¡Enhorabuena, España!
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Friday, July 6, 2012
Male ignorance
My fiancée is a competent, clear-thinking woman...generally. Sometimes, however, she makes a headscratching decision or two. Today was one of those days.
Tomorrow we're having a garage sale. In the general scheme of things this isn't a big deal. We've been working hard to get rid of things, clean up the sales area and mark the items for sale with prices. There are a couple of loose ends that we'll tie up tonight on that front. But one thing remained for which I volunteered, with some reservations, was to get the change for the sale from our bank.
Having very little experience with garage sales, I'm not exactly sure how to divide up $100 over coins and bills. How many $5s should I get? Will I have enough dimes? Quarters? But since I went to a bank, I was sure they must have dealt with this question before, so I wasn't too concerned.
Imagine then my disappointment when I saw behind the teller's window two young men and a young Indian woman. I'm not sure how many Indians have garage sales since, when driving by sales in our neighborhood, I rarely see any Indians either hosting the sales or attending them. But I immediately realized I was in trouble.
After filling out the withdrawal slip, I approached the teller and asked the three tellers for their input. I thought for sure one of them had dealt with this issue before. My disappointment turned into surprise when they responded in unison that they hadn't dealt with such an issue before.
We don't get too many men in here asking for change for garage sales, the older man said.
But you do get women in here, right? I replied.
Yeah, but they all know what they're doing.
That whooshing sound you just heard was my ego being deflated.
I suggested to them that they might want to have some package ready for other errant men who were tasked with obtaining the right amount of change for a garage sale. Falling back on my masculinity didn't help, though. I helpfully suggested to the older man that they develop something similar to the Two-Point Conversion Card -- http://www.footballcommentary.com/twoptchart.htm -- or the Draft Pick Value Chart -- http://www.draftcountdown.com/features/Value-Chart.php/ -- for garage sale change, but my suggestion fell on deaf ears -- and blank stares; neither man had ever heard of such things. I even went so far as to throw in the idea that it might be a means to a promotion that they could circulate throughout the bank's system, but they scoffed at the idea.
My last resort was to have them sign the envelope into which they put the agreed upon amount of bills, something I could show my fiancée later as evidence that it was a group effort to get the change in the denominations I was bringing to the garage sale. Not a chance. As unsavvy as the men were about other male-centric things, they were that much savvier when it came to accepting responsibility -- even collaterally and without any chance to be held accountable -- for the denominations.
The Indian woman played it coy the whole time and let the three of us wallow in our male ignorance.
Tomorrow may or may not be a success. We have change to make change. I just hope it's in the right amounts in the right denominations.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tomorrow we're having a garage sale. In the general scheme of things this isn't a big deal. We've been working hard to get rid of things, clean up the sales area and mark the items for sale with prices. There are a couple of loose ends that we'll tie up tonight on that front. But one thing remained for which I volunteered, with some reservations, was to get the change for the sale from our bank.
Having very little experience with garage sales, I'm not exactly sure how to divide up $100 over coins and bills. How many $5s should I get? Will I have enough dimes? Quarters? But since I went to a bank, I was sure they must have dealt with this question before, so I wasn't too concerned.
Imagine then my disappointment when I saw behind the teller's window two young men and a young Indian woman. I'm not sure how many Indians have garage sales since, when driving by sales in our neighborhood, I rarely see any Indians either hosting the sales or attending them. But I immediately realized I was in trouble.
After filling out the withdrawal slip, I approached the teller and asked the three tellers for their input. I thought for sure one of them had dealt with this issue before. My disappointment turned into surprise when they responded in unison that they hadn't dealt with such an issue before.
We don't get too many men in here asking for change for garage sales, the older man said.
But you do get women in here, right? I replied.
Yeah, but they all know what they're doing.
That whooshing sound you just heard was my ego being deflated.
I suggested to them that they might want to have some package ready for other errant men who were tasked with obtaining the right amount of change for a garage sale. Falling back on my masculinity didn't help, though. I helpfully suggested to the older man that they develop something similar to the Two-Point Conversion Card -- http://www.footballcommentary.com/twoptchart.htm -- or the Draft Pick Value Chart -- http://www.draftcountdown.com/features/Value-Chart.php/ -- for garage sale change, but my suggestion fell on deaf ears -- and blank stares; neither man had ever heard of such things. I even went so far as to throw in the idea that it might be a means to a promotion that they could circulate throughout the bank's system, but they scoffed at the idea.
My last resort was to have them sign the envelope into which they put the agreed upon amount of bills, something I could show my fiancée later as evidence that it was a group effort to get the change in the denominations I was bringing to the garage sale. Not a chance. As unsavvy as the men were about other male-centric things, they were that much savvier when it came to accepting responsibility -- even collaterally and without any chance to be held accountable -- for the denominations.
The Indian woman played it coy the whole time and let the three of us wallow in our male ignorance.
Tomorrow may or may not be a success. We have change to make change. I just hope it's in the right amounts in the right denominations.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Can't do's I
I'm tired. One thing I can't seem to do properly these days is sleep. That got me thinking about all the other things I can't do. So, to dovetail on the list of things I've never done, here's a list of things I'm constitutionally incapable of doing:
Play poker.
Smoke...anything.
Twirl a pen or pencil in my fingers absentmindedly like those guys in college.
Do a Rubik's Cube.
Remember jokes or song lyrics.
Fix cars...or even recognize most cars by their shape.
Speak Swahili.
Eat eggs.
Read Joyce's Ulysses.
Draw.
Do most handyman work.
Read music.
Fold clothes properly.
Remember the proper conjugations for lay and lie.
Do algebra.
Pronounce Chiwetel Ejiofor.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Play poker.
Smoke...anything.
Twirl a pen or pencil in my fingers absentmindedly like those guys in college.
Do a Rubik's Cube.
Remember jokes or song lyrics.
Fix cars...or even recognize most cars by their shape.
Speak Swahili.
Eat eggs.
Read Joyce's Ulysses.
Draw.
Do most handyman work.
Read music.
Fold clothes properly.
Remember the proper conjugations for lay and lie.
Do algebra.
Pronounce Chiwetel Ejiofor.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
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