A 'miracle' awakening

Watch as the Terri Schiavo allusions begin in 3 ... 2 ... 1 ...

Uh oh …. Putie’s flipping out

Today’s news finds Russian president lamenting the fall of the Soviet Union. I kind of miss the old U.S.S.R. myself, but only because the James Bond series hasn’t been the same since the Cold War ended.

I’m sure this address will have prominent place on the agenda at the next State Department meeting.

But can he cover an Otis Redding tune?

Democrats opposing John Bolton’s confirmation as U.N. ambassador are criticizing him for being someone who, while willing to work with other nations, will take the hard line if he feels it’s in the United States’ best interests. I’m not sure why they’re so surprised: look at the philosophy of the guy who nominated him.

Besides, just because someone has been critical of an organization doesn’t mean he can’t work with it. And while we’re at it, imagine what a loss it would be to lose out on someone who could actually make a very important world organization better. But no … we’ll probably end up with a candidate who believes that if the majority of the U.N. Security Council supports something, it must be right.

I have no strong opinion on Bolton, himself, except it’s a bit disconcerting to keep reading “Bolton this” and “Bolton that” in news stories about the flap. I keep getting images of Michael Bolton as our ambassador to the U.N.

“How am I supposed to vote for this resolution …?”

Can't we all just get along?

Apparently, when you're a world leader at a beloved pope's funeral and the seating is alphabetical, you have to.

Beep … beep … beep ...

Here’s an interesting study: how many times have you set your alarm wrong (or forgotten to set it at all) and slept late as a result? How many times have you woken up on time anyway?

I bring this up because this morning, I rolled over and looked at the clock – only to discover I’d forgotten to turn the alarm on. I normally get up at 6:30 a.m. It was 6:38 a.m.

Be thankful for the little things until the big ones come around.

...like a box of chocolates

For my friend who feels the fun in life is passing her by, for loved ones who scream that life isn't fair, for myself who thinks he can't do anything quite good enough this week, I offer the centuries-old wisdom of the poem below. (It is brought to wonderful musical life by Dead Can Dance on the CD I've provided a link to above.)

Fortune presents gifts not according to the book
Fortune presents gifts not according to the book
When you expect whistles it's flutes
When you expect flutes it's whistles

What various paths are followed in distributing honours and possessions
She gives awards to some and penitent's cloaks to others

When you expect whistles it's flutes
When you expect flutes it's whistles

Sometimes she robs the chief goatherd of his cottage and and goatpen
And to whomever she fancies the lamest goat has born two kids

When you expect whistles it's flutes
When you expect flutes it's whistles

Because in a village a poor lad has stolen one egg
He swings in the sun and another gets away with a thousand crimes

When you expect whistles it's flutes
When you expect flutes it's whistles

The Democratic Party: Alienating America one voter at a time

I don't know whether to swear or laugh. Maybe I'll do both.

Earlier today, a friend of mine sent me a link to a petition on the Democratic Web site regarding the filibuster-removal initiative now being considered by the U.S. Senate.

Now, regular readers of my blog probably have me correctly pegged as a political conservative. However, this whole idea of changing the filibuster procedure to suit one party really bugs me. So, I decided to go ahead and sign the petition.

I included this comment:

I've never liked the filibuster as a matter of procedure, but I stop short of thinking it should be abolished -- particularly when the procedural change would target just one type of deliberation.

I also think detractors of this measure are doing the debate a disservice by referring to it as "the nuclear option." That type of rhetoric benefits no one.

That said, I will add my name to this petition.

I immediately received the following automatically generated e-mail message:

Steve:

Thank you for taking action on Democrats.org. It's Democrats like you
who help us make a difference.

An account has been created for you on Democrats.org. To log into your
account, please click on the link below. If you did not create this
account, do not be concerned -- this information has been sent to this
email address only.

https://www.democrats.org/login/confirm_login.html?u=06138695&c=590b16a9

Here are a few more things you can do on Democrats.org:

Build Your Online Team: Help us build strength in numbers: create your
personal online team of friends, family, neighbors -- anyone you think
would be interested in the Democratic message. We'll send you inside
information from the Democratic Party, which you can pass on to your
team.

http://www.democrats.org/ecaptains/

Create Your Personal Democrats.org Webpage: Sign up to become a
grassroots fundraiser today. First, you'll create your own personal webpage on
Democrats.org. Then, tell your friends, send emails with a link to your
page, and urge people to visit and contribute. You can even see how
much you've raised.

http://www.democrats.org/epatriots/

Make a Contribution: We can't win without your support. Your dollars
allow us to fund our field programs, spread our positive message, and
fight back against Republican attacks.
https://www.democrats.org/support/index.html?dsc=NETA254

-- The DNC Internet Team

Well, as you can imagine, I was not thrilled. I sent this message to the Webmaster:

I am NOT a Democrat and resent VERY HIGHLY being labeled as one in your automatic response simply because I agree with you on the filibuster issue.

I really hope someone gets this, because it has crystallized my distrust of your party . That's sad, as this is the one time I decided to reach across party lines to voice my opinion.

--Steve Sykes

I wonder if I'll get a response.

"Oh, no! Don't delete me!" or "Whatever..."

I was checking my In-Box on my e-mail just now (not my Bulk Mail box, mind you, but my In-Box), was greeted by the following dire subject line:

"Your Tickle account will soon be deleted."

Now, this was news to me -- primarily because I didn't know I had a Tickle account. I began to think this was just a bit of spam, but I went ahead and opened the message and learned that I, in fact, did have an account with Tickle.com's predecessor, e-mode.com. However, I haven't logged into Tickle for a little over a year.

What can we learn from this? Well, somebody at Tickle dropped the ball at least a couple of times:

1. I apparently wasn't told in memorable enough terms why e-mode was changing to Tickle, nor why it would benefit me to stay active with the new site.
2. I also apparently wasn't engaged by Tickle in the past year -- at least not to any real, personal degree.
3. When Tickle finally did realize I had fallen off the face of the earth, the best they could do was tell me I was about to be deleted. Look at the subject line again. Why on earth would anybody OPEN that?

And that, boys and girls, is your e-marketing thought for the day.

Now who's grandstanding?

After seeing how badly conservatives have bungled the Terri Schiavo situation, it was encouraging to see "the other side" make a questionable PR move of its own. Michael Schiavo has announced, before his wife is even dead, that he wants Terri to have an autopsy to prove once and for all her condition was irreversible.

So much for dying with dignity. I wonder if Jonathan Frakes is available to narrate this one.

Somebody's home

This post may ruin my reputation as a happy-go-lucky master of sarcasm and wit, but I don't care. It's been a pretty deep weekend.

Below is the text of an e-mail I sent to the pastor of the church Mrs. Z and I attended on Easter Sunday.

***

I grew up in a loving and extremely close-knit family. My father was an ordained music minister and associate pastor in the Nazarene church. My mother was his pianist, duet partner and colleague in ministry. Once I could sing, I filled out the Sykes Trio, and we spent many years ministering. When I was married, my wife took her place at my side, and our areas of church involvement increased exponentially.

But somewhere along the way, I began to realize that everything I was doing for the church — singing, working with the youth, having a hand in puppets, directing the drama group — all of these were becoming more work than worship and more obligation than celebration. Couple that with all the cumulative experience I had firsthand with the inner political workings of the church, and you had a blueprint for a Christian life that looked secure, but whose structural integrity was in question.

Then, in 1994, my dad — my hero, my pal and my role model — passed away suddenly of a heart attack. The shock wave of his death ripped my belief system apart. I still believed in God, but I found myself with so many conflicted and grief-saturated impressions of church that I did not want to go back. My mother, who loved and depended on her husband like few wives, fell into a sea of sorrow that would sweep her along for many years (and still pulls her under from time to time). Though we had many good memories of church, they were all inextricably tied to Dad, making them too painful to be cherished.

And so, we fell away from church attendance. Though we went to church a handful of times in the 10 years after my father’s death, we weren’t anything close to regular attendees. And though we all still held onto our faith in God and our salvation, more often than not, we were stumbling blindly along as best we could.

Then, this past Sunday, my wife and I came to First Christian Church to celebrate Easter. As we took our place in the second row, I looked around at the beautiful sanctuary and I looked within myself. I didn’t feel the overwhelming guilt of a prodigal son slinking back into the fold. Nor did I feel an electric charge knocking my socks off and proving to me unequivocally that this was The Church For Me. What I did feel was … home. I felt welcomed by the friendly congregation, but not overwhelmed by well-meaning church enthusiasts leaping over pews to be the first to recruit The Visitor into the flock.

The hymns were recognizable. The spirit was familiar. And when you started your Easter sermon marveling at The University of Illinois’ “Miracle Comeback” in the NCAA tournament, I found myself chuckling and breathing deeply the air of fellowship. It felt good. Really good.

Another thing that felt really good was knowing, after looking through the “About the Christian Church” booklet I picked up on the way into the sanctuary, that this was a congregation not weighed down by a dogma or an oppressive political structure.

I just wanted to write you and thank you for being there, five blocks away from our home, when we were ready. Thank you for your warmth. We’re coming back next Sunday, and my mom is coming with us this time. I’ve not been magically transformed into a super Christian by any stretch, but I’m happy to say the lights are on, and somebody’s home.

See you next Sunday.

Coming soon

I have a lot to write about ... er ... about which to write. Time is the enemy. However, in the proud tradition of Mz. Ouiser, I present a list of items on the blog docket:

• Biscuits and bacon and booze: A St. Patrick's Day tale
• The Schiavo case: Many questions, few answers
• My wife, the historical anarchist
• Beauty pageants for the disabled

Pinch me

I am deeply ashamed. It's St. Patrick's Day, and I'm not wearing green (or even orange for that matter). I feel I've betrayed my Irish ancestry.

I'll have to make up for it tonight by drinking and picking a fight with a relative.

The longest night of the year

For those readers outside central Illinois, you’ll have to forgive me for this provincial entry. While the first Monday following the second weekend in March may sound like a Nicean formula, it is actually the night on which the Springfield Muni Opera makes its casting calls for the coming season. This year, 315 auditionees (yours truly and Mrs. Z among them) will await news of their fate into the wee hours. This is a nightlong ordeal, as the first calls generally don’t go out until after 9 p.m. And when you consider that the staffs for four shows must make between 30 and 50 calls each, the most steadfast can hold out hope until two or three in the morning.

Of course, merely sitting and waiting by the phone for five hours can be a little nerve-racking. With that in mind, I’ve brainstormed a list of alternate activities auditionees can pursue to make the longest night more bearable.

Drink. Lots. This isn’t a terribly innovative idea; in fact, it’s somewhat of a tradition for certain veteran auditionees. This tip comes with a caveat, however: it’s important not to drink SO much that you can’t carry on a lucid conversation when the call comes (if it does). Take, for example, this hypothetical call Joe Thespian receives from an equally hypothetical director (let’s call her Laurie Ann O’Hootsmithen) of a similarly hypothetical show (say, Annie, Get Your Ragtime Music Beast).

LAO’H: Hello, this is the director of …

JOE: So’s yer old man!

LAO’H: I’m sorry, but the Muni isn’t doing The Music Man this year. Actually, I’m calling to offer you the role of …

JOE: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz …

Watch a musical. Now this is sneaky. What better way to take your mind off getting cast in one of four musicals than to watch an entirely different musical? Mrs. Z and I have Brigadoon cued up and ready to go. I’m just waiting for the phone to ring at the very instant Harry utters the line, “The miracle is over!”

Take the kids to Chuck E. Cheese. Forget your troubles. Play games. Laugh at life. And if you’re childless, canned vegetables are a great substitute.

Watch 24. Then, imagine an episode in which Jack Bauer has to go undercover as a Muni auditionee as a matter of national security.

JACK: Dammit, Tony, I need you to upload the grapevine-hitch kick combo to my palm pilot NOW!

Think how free your summer will be if you don’t get cast. There will ever be a better time to jump on the Frisbee golf bandwagon. Sorry, I meant disc golf.

Did I mention drinking?

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ...

The penitent blogger

Bad blogger. Bad, bad blogger.

So go my self-recriminations when I consider blogging colleagues like her and him, both of whom are dealing with as much as I, have somehow have found time to post more regularly.

With that in mind, I present the following quick takes on my life and the world in general:

• Mrs. Zoom is in a period of mourning, as she will probably never be able to color her hair again. After a five-year hiatus since her last coloring incident (which ended in an allergic reaction), she again tried to color her hair black —this time with a “foolproof” ammonia-free dye. Just over 24 hour hours later, she was in the emergency room, her scalp and neck covered in welts and the pain in her back making breathing next to impossible. It really sucks when the suffering of loved ones causes you tangible pain. But it’s worth the trade-off to know there is another human being to whom you’re that close.

• This whole democracy in the Middle East thing is starting to gain legs — first in Lebanon, then in Egypt. Bushies should not feel at liberty to back-slap yet by any means, but the president’s idealism is looking a little less fanciful by the day. Read more here.

• Auditions for Springfield’s largest community theater venue, the Springfield Muni Opera, started last weekend and continue this weekend. Mrs. Z and I both auditioned. Look here in the next week or two for updates.

• I’m really looking forward to St. Patrick’s Day this year. Not that I don’t always celebrate it with gusto, but I am fascinated to see the subpoena-enforced appearances of many of the central players in baseball’s steroid scandal. That hissing sound you’ll hear is the last of the air escaping from the doomed dirigible of steroid naiveté.

More later …

Best. Grammys. Ever?

Ok, that may be a bit of an overstatement, but I can’t remember a Grammys show in recent memory that held me at such attention. Some random thoughts from the night:

A live mash-up opened the show. Not much of note here, except that Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas dressed uncharacteristically conservatively, while Gwen Stefani did not. And I still can’t get over a riff from “Fiddler on the Roof” going top 40.

I can’t believe Prince beat Usher for a Grammy. Thank goodness the Grammys voted for substance over style, because Prince’s “Musicology” had plenty of substance. Too bad His Purpleness couldn’t make it. Heck, he probably thought he had no shot of winning.

Green Day is peaking. I’m going to have to break down and buy “American Idiot.” They brought the house down.

What the heck was up with Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony? I was watching the Grammys, and a Telemundo soap opera broke out!

Ok, so maybe Usher has substance after all. Wow, what a performance! Be careful, Ush. James Brown just named you the Godson of Soul. That is one heavy gig.

“Across the Universe.” Nice collaboration, boring song. Sorry, it had to be said.

You go, Melissa Etheridge.

U2 is great, but their performance of “sometimes You Can’t Make It On You Own” seemed a tad distant.

I still can’t tell whether I like Kanye West or I can’t stand him.

Lance Armstrong is one lucky guy. He beats cancer. He wins cycling championships. And every night, he gets to do the Tour de Sheryl.

I actually like Maroon 5, so I was a bit concerned when they won Best New Artist. We’ll see if they can dodge the jinx.

Loretta Lynn and Jack White. Two musical geniuses being themselves. Best acceptance speech of the night.

Uh oh. Now, we have to hear “Daughters” another 10,000 times.

Ray Charles deserved one more night, and he got it.

Yes, we get it, Mr. Academy President. Music piracy, is bad, m’kay? Shut up!

Many critics saw a boring show, but I get the feeling the music world is getting more and more closely knit. I saw a lot of professional respect last night with very little pretense. That can’t be bad, can it?

Your moment of pragmatism

A friend of mine recently was restating his disdain for "teases." I came up with a bit of doggerel for him that summed up my feelings on the subject:

For those who contend that a tease doesn't please,
This rebuttal comes straight outta my mouth.
A sip of fine wine ain't a glassful, it's true,
But it sure beats the hell outta dry mouth.

G'night, Johnny

I'm sure the blogosphere is littered with rememberances of Johnny Carson today -- and deservedly so. The link above is to a Michael Ventre piece that really resonated with me.

Carson was an emissary of television as a benevolent institution. His retirement in 1992 marked the end of that era of television and the birth of television as The Monster that Ate the Civilized World.

I'm a little sad today.

Erik sees red again; Chris Rock gets the smackdown

MSNBC's Erik Lundegaard is at it again. You'll remember he's the one who exposed Santa Claus and his Christmas kin as secret Republican operatives.

Now, Lundegaard has turned his wrathful eye to Chris Rock. Apparently, once you sign on to host the Oscars, you are no longer allowed to express an opinion or crack a joke. Lundegaard takes exception to Rock's cheerleading for Jamie Foxx and goes on to pretty much accuse Rock of being illiterate when it comes to movie history.

We already knew Lundegaard was now on Santa's "Naughty" list for next year. My guess is he's just assured himself of being removed from Rock's Christmas card list as well.

In other news...

I've added a Links section to my sidebar. Given that I know just enough about HTML code to get myself in trouble, it sticks out a bit more than I'd like. However, it is functional, and will grow as I amass more must-click sites for your viewing pleasure.

The potato-ization of Dr. Zoom

With the exception of sports, news and occasional reruns of Star Trek or The X-Files (yes, I am a geek – but a charismatic one), I was never much of a TV buff.

However, in the last two years, I have become a devotee of four (count ‘em – FOUR) shows. And by devotee, I mean that social events will be rescheduled if necessary to permit my watching them. In one case, my obsession has gotten so bad that I record the show as I’m watching it. These shows are:

• The Amazing Race;
• Survivor;
• Lost (and yes, I’ll be recording and watching tonight’s episode); and
• 24.

Fittingly, these shows represent the two ends of the current TV spectrum: reality and totally out-there, thrill ride fiction. A few thoughts here:

If you want to really impress your friends, ask them this question: “What event single-handedly created the reality show boom?” Answer: The 2001 screenwriter’s strike, which sent network honchos scurrying after innovative ways to keep their schedules afloat. Most of the resulting reality shows are so much dreck, but Survivor and The Amazing Race rise above the pack for opposite reasons. Survivor puts us inside scheming players’ heads; The Amazing Race and its task-focused approach doesn’t bog the viewer down with group psychology but instead presents a thrill-packed and educational travelogue. And I am hopelessly hooked on both.

Meanwhile, Lost does an engrossing job of storytelling and character development. It’s sort of like Twin Peaks without backward-talking midgets and hopelessly convoluted storylines.

And then there’s 24. I managed to stay away from this show for three years. When Mrs. Zoom suggested we give this season’s premiere a try, I was highly resistant. Three shows were enough, I told her. And yet, we watched. Oh my.

If there has ever been a TV series this exciting and engrossing on a minute-to-minute basis, I want to know. Don’t tell me West Wing: I’m sure it’s good, but it also seems talky. X-Files would, on occasion, leave me breathless, but not every … single … second.

So there it is. I’ve come clean. I'm a multiple-offense junkie. CBS, FOX and ABC: you may pay me accordingly. NBC: you’re fired.

160,000

I've been trying to wrap my brain around the devastation of the tsunami, which as of this morning has left approximately 160,000 dead. In the hours immediately following the event, it was too easy for me to file it away as "other news" because it had occurred a world away.

Now, it's just overwhelming. And for anyone still unable to grasp the enormity of the tragedy, just imagine every single person in this town dying.