Jonathots Daily Blog
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A. The cooks were from Mexico and the food tasters were Muslim.
B. Heard they were serving humble pie.
C. Correspondents?? No one corresponded with him!
D. Lost his invitation–kept it in the same box with t-shirt reading, “I support the media”
E. The duck is always better than the goose
Jonathots Daily Blog
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Dear Woman: A couple of days ago I read an article in a magazine…
Dear Man: You’re just trying to impress me with the fact that you can read.
Dear Woman: Actually, I’m trying to impress you with the fact that I read something and retained enough to have a discussion. Anyway, in this article it said that men and women should appreciate their differences because it grants each of them a “unique perspective.”
Dear Man: A unique perspective?
Dear Woman: Yeah, that’s what I geared in on too. What does that mean?
Dear Man: That means I have a way of looking at things that’s different from you, and you would garner great insight by listening to my feelings on the issue.
Dear Woman: Do you think that’s true?
Dear Man: I was taught it was true. Matter of fact, I grew up believing that relationships were 50-50. Somewhere along the line, that got pooh-poohed, and now we believe that it’s gotta be 100% and 100%. It’s the me plus me equals us.
Dear Woman: We don’t believe that. It’s a war with an unsettling truce. Men pretend that women are smarter while still retaining the power.
Dear Man: Well, how do they do that?
Dear Woman: By telling you that you have a “unique perspective” which they value hearing and enjoy ignoring.
Dear Man: So what you’re saying is that telling someone they have a unique perspective is not a positive?
Dear Woman: Absolutely not. It’s never positive. Saying that someone has a unique perspective is only two argument points away from the classic, “We’ll just have to agree to disagree.”
Dear Man: So you believe that’s why we have so many stalemates in discussions between men and women?
Dear Woman: Yes. Every idea has a genesis and an exodus.
Dear Man: Explain.
Dear Woman: That wasn’t very clear, was it? What I’m saying is that the word “unique” is a genesis, but as the word “unique” goes through the human experience, it changes to other words. And by the time it evolves, our emotions interpret it in a much different way.
Dear Man: So you’re saying that “unique” doesn’t really mean “unique” to us?
Dear Woman: Exactly. “Unique” is translated in our brain as “different.” And different is not something we enjoy. It’s something we tolerate. And we always tell people they need more tolerance.
Dear Man: So how do you build a relationship on tolerance?
Dear Woman: You can’t. You kind of end up faking it.
Dear Man: So let me try my hand at it. After “unique” becomes “different” in our heads, “different” can quickly become “alien.” In other words, people from Mexico have different customs than we do, so therefore we view them as aliens.
Dear Woman: Very well said. And of course, once something is alien, we stick it in Outer Space. It’s not really allowed past our borders, is it?
Dear Man: So if I convince myself that your feelings are unique and therefore different, which makes them alien, it’s very easy for me to turn a deaf ear and view them as intrusive.
Dear Woman: Yeah. I’m an intruder on your girl power.
Dear Man: And I’m an intruder on your macho.
Dear Woman: So we end up tolerating each other to get what we want.
Dear Man: And when we don’t want it so much any more, we decide to get rid of the intruder.
Dear Woman: So as long as we look at each other as unique, instead of finding common ground, we will focus on the differences, become alien to one another and eventually, in a bit of disgust, consider each other intrusive.
Dear Man: It’s kind of funny. Because if either one of us found ourselves stuck in the jungle, we would quickly learn to adapt–find our inner monkey–instead of insisting that the monkeys have a “unique perspective.”
Dear Woman: You should never consider yourself a monkey.
Dear Man: You know what I’m saying. To survive, we find commonality. To fail, we focus on differences. That’s just life.
Dear Woman: Except when it comes to men and women, right? Then we think we’re so damn clever by highlighting the uniqueness.
Dear Man: So you don’t think I have any uniqueness?
Dear Woman: Yes, I do. But it has nothing to do with you being a woman. It has to do with your experience. Your faith. Your charity. Your hope. Your sense of humor. That’s what makes you fresh to me.
Dear Man: So how did it get all screwed up?
Dear Woman: I guess the way it always gets screwed up. One night, one member of the sexes didn’t want to listen to the other one, so he or she decided that the other gender was unique, and therefore incomprehensible.
Dear Man: So I am going to give you a blessing. You are not unique. You are not different. You are not alien to me. And you are not an intruder. It’s my job to figure out how the culture screwed us up … and how we can get back to the Garden.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(2704)
I confess so I can heal.
If I deny, I remain sick.
This man and myself shared absolutely nothing in common, which became obvious whenever we were left in a room alone together.
But despite all these differences and the fact that he did have a reputation for being a curmudgeon, he allowed the two of us to take his Corvette convertible to the prom. He gave me about three minutes of instruction, and with that exhaustive training, I went out in the middle of the night on the 3-C Highway to see how fast the car would go. When it hit 105 miles per hour, I chickened out, slowed down and went home.
I think he felt fairly confident in being supportive of his daughter’s present romantic choice because he knew that in a couple of months, he was retiring to Mexico to live by the ocean, taking his little family with him.
What he didn’t know was that his daughter was pregnant.
I wish I had been man enough to sit down with him and own up to the situation, but I was frightened over my actions and also feared that he would send her away to New York to get an abortion.
So instead, we plotted against him. And just a month and a half later, when my girlfriend was supposedly safe at the University of Arizona, learning how to be a freshman, I flew out, grabbed her and we took off to start a life together.
He was furious.
He was so upset that he called the Tucson, Arizona, police department to stop us, but of course, there was nothing they could do.
He disowned her.
Being a young foolish boy, I cast him into the role of the villain, easily fitting him with the required black hat.
I wish I could tell you that things worked out.
They didn’t.
Seven years later, he died of cancer in Mexico, having never reestablished contact with my wife nor having ever seen his three grandchildren.
I suppose I could tell you the reasons for my action or convince you of her father’s more sinister side.
But you see, that’s not what Confessing is about. It is not being apologetic while simultaneously trying to explain away your motivations.
I was young, dumb, careless and unappreciative to a man who could have used the image of a responsible Christian fellow.
I failed him.
Whatever he’s doing, wherever he is, I want him to know today that I’m very sorry that I interrupted his plans.
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(1919)
You just can’t be a German citizen and praise the technological advances of Hitler during the Nazi regime.
You also can’t be a big, fat guy like me and think you’re going to help someone suffering from anorexia.
Also ill-advised is to be a Japanese-American commemorating the great victory of your people on December 7th, 1941, at Pearl Harbor.
May I suggest that you NOT live amongst the American Indians and open up a business selling t-shirts that read, “Trail of Tears: Come on! Get Over It!”
Today is not a very good day to be a rapper insisting that the lyrics may SOUND violent, but they’re not actually intended for gangster activity, while simultaneously trying to honor the memory of Lil Snupe.
Even if you’re living in Mexico and have great national pride, it is probably still tacky to discuss how you really “stomped ’em at the Alamo.”
Just a hint to Paula Deen: you might refrain from admitting, with your thick southern accent, that you have used derogatory racial slurs when referring to a population which is growing in numbers, influence and strength.
Here’s a clue about an investment to avoid: don’t put your money into the John Wilkes Booth Theater, even if you believe he was a great actor.
Also wise would be to avoid opening a casino in the Black Hills called Custer’s Last Casino.
If you were a minister living in Massachusetts, you might not want to launch any anti-witch campaign.
Even if it was ordained by the Pope, giving a shout-out to the Crusades is very similar to praising Osama bin Laden for his aiming of aircraft.
And quite bluntly, displaying a confederate flag while insisting that you’re merely tipping your hat to the heritage of the south does not address the sting of four hundred years of bigotry and abuse.
There are things you just can’t do because they’ve been tainted by the actions of those who came before you. You can feel free to scream about your liberty, but don’t forget: with liberty MUST come justice.
And justice demands we consider someone besides ourselves … while pursuing our individuality.
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Jonathots, Jr.!
Click below for a quick daily thought from Jonathan
https://jonathots.wordpress.com/jonathots-jr/
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Travis, Bowie and Crockett–three men who found themselves arriving at an old mission in San Antonio in late February, 1836. They had one thing in common. Each one of them had experienced illustrious careers which had now ebbed, leaving them in a bit of disarray and even some disgrace.
All three had gone off looking for adventure, to reestablish some sense of purpose in their lives. Simultaneously, a large army from Mexico, led by Santa Ana, was invading Texas to conquer the state once again for the empire. The three men, along with about two hundred other individuals, made a decision to take a stand at the Alamo, to ward off the attackers.
No one can question their bravery. No one would ever cast aspersions on their decisions and motives. But truthfully, it was not necessary.
Sam Houston had a plan to lure Santa Ana deeper and deeper into Texas while he continued to train an army and avoid conflict by strategically retreating. The Alamo was a symbol of courage–but in a strange sense, also a surrender by three men who yearned for one last patch of glory.
It’s a lesson for all of us.
As I head off tonight to Alamo United Methodist Church, I arrive as one human being who wants to see things improve but am in no hurry to terminate my own existence to achieve those results. I am not so sure that we do a great work for God when we try to make our lives seem meaningless, as if we’re only here to prepare for heaven. I am not positive that teaching people to be vulnerable to despair and leery of conflict with the intent of surviving, is the best profile to share a gospel that was birthed to bring newness of life.
Even though I greatly admire the courage and bravery of Travis, Bowie and Crockett, I would prefer to stay alive to fight yet another day, when circumstances are favorable to victory. Here’s what I’ll tell them tonight at the Alamo:
I have coined a new word today–Alamore: reaching the point when you think it’s time to go to heaven, but instead, you bring your life back down to earth.
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Two score and twenty years ago, our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be His signature, brought forth on this continent a new lady, conceived in Kansas and dedicated to the proposition that a young woman could grow up in Harlem and as long as it was a township in Central Ohio, might still end up healthy, wealthy and prized.
Her name was Elizabeth. Her papa, not so cleverly, decided to call her “Dollie” because he thought she looked like a doll. She had a swimming pool, horses, nice duds and a credit card from Lazarus, where she raised a debt.
One day she met a fat boy who dreamed of one day being a fat man, with an additional aspiration of becoming an artisan of music, notes, composition and thoughts, with a mind to whirl the change. They were attracted. Some would say it was chemistry, but in this case, it was biology class, sophomore year.
They started to date and developed a lust, which after all, is only three letters away from love. They consummated their collision on the dew-covered grass on the night of the last prom underneath the stars, with her Arabian looking on in bewildered horse-sense.
For you see, a baby had been conceived on that night of the last prom–a child that needed some immediate attention and was basically, at this point, being ignored. You may or may not know this, but it was against all traditions in the Buckeye nation to allow children to be pre-planted before weddings. So it was difficult to determine what to do next.
They talked, fussed and argued while eating the cheapest pizza available in Tucson. She bravely made a decision to fly back, against her parents’ wishes, and join him in the quest to find out if it was possible to live on nothing and have something.
Four children, one miscarriage, thirty-nine disasters and seven hundred and fifty thousand giggles later, she is still here. Many years ago, lust got bored, packed its bags in disgust and departed. But the love has remained.
Today is her birthday. What do you say about someone who has hung around for the better and the worse–and more frighteningly, has survived the mediocre? What do you say about someone who has shared a bed with you, rolling over in the middle of the night without commenting on who’s responsible for the aroma in the room? What do you say about an individual who has hung in there through criticisms, persecutions, prosperity and perfectly awful nothingness?
I know the normal procedure is to insist that when two people have been together, then ergo, everything has been terrific and no problems of any significance have ever cropped up. Of course, that is not only a lie, but would also be extremely boring. Every relationship is full of mistakes and regrets–because without doubt we would not have faith. Without some anger, we have no reconciliation. And without fear, we never really learn to appreciate the contentment of love.
What do I know about my little Harlem Township girl? She likes to have fun. That comes in handy. A stick-in-the-mud, after all, is just a broken piece of wood positioning itself in a nasty place. She likes to laugh. Fortunately for me, I have learned how to manufacture silly. She’s scared of responsibility. That can be rather endearing if you catch it in time. She’s drawn to her family. Blessedly, she extends that same courtesy to the other human beings she meets. She’s kind of lazy, which, as long as we don’t both do it at the same time, can be a source of delightful motivation.
And she has stayed. There is a lot to be said for remaining. Although people extol the great value of contribution, such blessing is impossible if you’ve already given up on the idea. She didn’t give up on the idea. I’ve been with her for forty-two years. There is no year that has ever been the same. We have been the subject of praise; we have been the target of criticism. But even though they tell you that marriages by teenagers cannot work, especially when they begin with a baby out of wedlock, we are the exception and we ignore the rule.
So I say, “Happy birthday.” You know, maybe that’s a very bad term. Because our real birthday is when we take the morning of our present existence and believe that God’s blessings are fresh daily.
So to you, my dear, I send this greeting. Happy Earth Day. This is your day. So we will rejoice and be glad in it.
Good golly, Miss Dollie. Two score and twenty years. Who ever would’ve thunk we would get this far? Certainly not that suspicious United Methodist minister who reluctantly married us in Sparta, North Carolina.
But he was wrong.
Thank you for staying on for the entire mission–looking for more trips to the moon.
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I’ve only been working on it for about a year.
Honestly, I’m not very good at it. But I still continue to pursue the idea because I realize how valuable it is–and perhaps even necessary to my own well-being and certainly to my fellow-humans. For many years I knew it was something I should consider, but candidly, I just thought people should take care of their own business, be grown-up and not involve me in their messes.
But here’s the truth–lots of people don’t take care of their own affairs. People tend to wear their feelings on their sleeves and then become easily bruised and upset when you bump into them. It causes strife, fighting, feuds and just a general feeling of discontent among the populace.
So that is why, for the past year I have been trying to listen to and note the barking dogs that hound the minds of my fellow-travelers. Because if I take every nasty attitude that’s thrown my way and assume it was meant for me, I am an idiot. People arrive in our presence already cocked to go off like a gun, with feelings of resentment, remorse and insecurity that have absolutely nothing to do with us. They may choose us as a dumping ground, but unless we take the time to suck up some air and consider their plight, we will explode all over them, further confirming their belief that life sucks. It is a step of maturity that I am ill-prepared to undertake–but I do acknowledge that it’s required in order to move forward. People have “barking dogs” on their heels all the time that they’re running from, causing them to be less than considerate, pre-occupied, frustrated and often incompetent.
Let me give you an example. Several weeks ago, I finished performing in a church and a lady came by my book table in a wheel chair and rolled on down the hallway towards a restroom. She sat in front of the restroom for a few moments and then tried to roll to the door but was unable to open it, and after two attempts, backed her wheelchair up and disappeared around a corner, out of sight. It got me thinking. I wondered if she was around that corner trying to figure out how to get into the bathroom, yet completely stymied by her situation and, for whatever reason, unwilling to ask for assistance. I took a chance. I knew she wouldn’t allow me to help her into the bathroom, so I asked a teenage girl nearby to do me a favor. I quickly explained the situation and inquired if she would be willing to go find the lady and see if she was sitting there and ask her if she would like some assistance getting into the restroom. The young girl looked at me like I was a little crazy, but since she thought it was a “worthy” nuttiness, she complied. She disappeared and short moments later, reappeared rolling the lady to the restroom, completing the mission. I don’t know how long that woman would have sat, trying to figure out how to get into the bathroom, allowing the “barking dogs” to create greater and greater dissatisfaction in her soul. But I was glad I could silence the hounds in her mind on this one occasion. You see, in the midst of a society constantly trying to judge the actions of other people based on outward appearance, the more intelligent path is to listen for the barking dogs that hound people into being less than what they really desire to be.
I find it difficult to write about the subject because I am in such an infant stage of discovery that my explanation probably sounds like baby-talk. But this is what I know–ninety per cent of the people who are mean to me are so because they think they’re attacking somebody or something else. If I retaliate solely based upon what they say or do to me, I start an unnecessary war. If I pause for a second and wonder what vicious consequence of life has caused them to arrive in such a foul mood, I allow my compassion to take the forefront instead of my retaliation. It doesn’t always work–but when it does, I offer salvation to my friends instead of incrimination.
Can we tune our ears to hear the barking dogs that are hounding the minds of those we meet? Perhaps it’s a pipe dream. You might even consider it a piece of foolishness. But I know this–to spend my whole life judging things by what I hear and see and never look deeper into the heart is to remove the essence of God from my journey.
Because it is always God’s will to look inside … instead of judging the book by its cover.
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Jonathan wrote the gospel/blues anthem, Spent This Time, in 1985, in Guaymas, Mexico. Take a listen:
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A voice writing in the wilderness
Jonathots Daily Blog 