Foremost on my Mind: A Red Kind of Humour

One of the toughest roles as a parent these days is to police what kids watch on television, computers, and iPods. You may take the television out of house, for example, but there are still ways that compromise oozes in. If a parent wants to run a family boot camp, any dad could ban all of the above, plus all outside activities. They could lock their kids in closets, but that would not solve the problem—and create a whole lot more.

No family is immune from the ravages of a degenerate society, no matter how hard parents try. We can live on colonies, or hide away in the deepest recesses of the province—off the grid, if you will—but things will creep in, you can be sure of that.

One of the best ways to deal with the problem is to, well, deal with the problem. Parents need to be more pro-active--easier said than done, for sure. Part of pro-active parenting involve talking about things, having reasonable boundaries, and taking time to watch movies with the kids—so long as they could agree upon which movies to watch.

And finding said movies that parents and kids agree upon could be a real stickler.

Part of the reason for the above “rant” is because I recently sat down with myself to watch one of the funniest comedians of all time, the one and only Red Skelton. (If you're under forty-years-old, there's a good chance that you haven't a clue who he is.)

Just to show my age, let me add the names of George Burns, Jack Benny, and Milton Berle. And in terms of programmes, there is nothing funnier than Hogan's Heroes, The Dick Van Dyck Show, and The Red Green Show.

Comedians today that I really enjoy include the likes of Robin Williams, Steve Martin, Billy Crystal, Martin Short, John Candy, Chevy Chase, et al. Styles of humour may be relative—ie., yours may be different from mine--but there should still be some sort of standard as what is appropriate, what is not.

Other comedians may be “funny,” but only in a lewd sense: Their humour is so laced with f-bombs and sexual innuendos, that I question whether that is real humour or witty filth. Is it really necessary to stand behind a mike and spew out a profanity here and an raunchy joke there?

I can put my money where my mouth is, because I have tried to keep my word play in this column clean and witty—though I'm sure I don't always succeed. I have never mocked readers about morals, sexual orientation, or lifestyle choices, regardless of my personal conviction in these matters.

That's where Red Skelton excelled. No attacks on skin colour, political orientation, or religious beliefs in his performance. Just good old-fashioned slapstick and quippy humour. Watching him the other night made me both happy and sad: happy, because it was so well done; sad, because, as a culture, we have lost something when it comes to comedy--a loss of innocence, simplicity, and wholesomeness.

It makes me want to sit down with a glass of milk and watch the Burns and Allen show one more time. Hopefully with kids in tow.

Foremost on my Mind: When German Eyes are Smiling

Many years ago, when I had hair, hope and loose change, I taught school for a year overseas. The country was El Salvador and the experience has really never left me. Well, it wasn't actually the experience of teaching overseas that never left me: it was the experience of being a foreigner in another country.

I had a sort of deja vu recently, but I never left Canada to experience it: I went to friend's daughter's wedding recently (out of range of this readership, so don't try to figure who it was, please). The immigrant angle was that it was a German wedding, through and through. Last time I checked my family tree, I was Irish, and I no speak Germanese.

Fortunately, the man beside me was able to tell when to sing, when to pray, and when to laugh.

I knew I was in a different culture when I entered the church, as I was ushered to sit with the men, and my wife with the women. The man at the door graciously invited me to sit with my wife, but I declined. They had their reasons for this arrangement, and I was happy to respect them.

(Ironically, the same seating arrangement took place in the churches in El Salvador, so I was familiar with them. Apparently it saves the female parishoners from being molested by strangers who walk in off the street.)

The next cue of culture shock was the message: It was all in German. I recognized only three words in the forty-five minute sermon: the bride's first name, and “Barnwell Hall.” By the time I heard the latter, I recognized that supper was being announced.

You might say that my stomach told me something that my ears couldn't translate.

I have never been to a wedding where the bride wore black, but she did that day. Normally, the bride wears white at Canadian weddings. One wears black here when mourning the death of a loved one. Or you're playing an away game. So, black was different, but in a good sense this time..

The wedding was a celebration, as most weddings should be, but more than a celebration of the union of a man and a woman: To me, it was a celebration of culture, culture that is a little different than what I am accustomed to. You see, culture is simply the end of a long chain of steps. It starts with preferences; preferences lead to habits, habits then get entrenched and become tradition; and tradition becomes the norm and we call it “culture.”

I'm not sure if there is such a thing as bad culture, especially in a wedding where the differences are marked by colour, seating arrangements, and language. Some weddings may have stupid parts to them, but that's not the same as bad culture. And at a different wedding, like the one I attended, I may feel awkward, but certainly not offended.

Halfway through supper, some kid came by with a shoe. A kid and a shoe isn't all that strange, as most kids wear shoes on their feet, don't they? But this kid had a shoe in his hand, and he wasn't wearing it. It was being used as a collection plate. Unfortunately for the bride and groom, I had just made a donation at the Tim Hortons “Church,” and had nothing left over for this offering. I tried to say “no” in German—the word “nein”(?)--and I think he was expecting nine dollars.

Or, as some wag might put, I had nothing for the shoe, so I felt like a heel.

Let's just hope the next wedding is between a Smith and Jones. I'll even recite the Irish Blessing.

Foremost on my Mind: iPod Rules

One of life's greatest nuisances for me is the ubiquitous presence of iPods. Everywhere (another word for “ubiquitous”) I look, walk, and sit, it seems I see people of all stripes holding this little screen. They appear glued to it. To an alien, an iPod might even appear to be part of the earthlings anatomy--an extension of the human hand, if you will

It could also come across as an addiction, or at best, a very bad habit. “Don't leave home without it” once applied to credit cards. It could now apply to iPods. It has become so part and parcel of our culture that stick-in-the-mud geeks like me are perceived as relics of the radio days.

Which begs the question: Why can't they use a radio like old-timers like me?

They want communication and information? Get a radio. Read a newspaper. Surf the 'net. They want music? Get a radio. Buy an CD-player. Sing in the shower. Listen to someone else sing in the shower. They want to keep up with their friends and have on-the-spot news? Uh, don't get a radio.

There was a time when I had no time for ATMs, either. I felt strongly (and ignorantly) that all bank work should be done through a teller. That is, until someone took the time to show me how an ATM works and how much time I would save. Now that's all I use, unless I have a transaction that a machine can't perform--like melting down my gold fillings, making bricks out of them.

You're saying to yourself, What's the connection between an iPod and an ATM? You're wondering what meadow of the mind is this rabbit trail going to end up in this time? No rabbit trail here, people: The link is that at one time there was a new idea which I rejected until I tried it (as in ATM). Methinks I'm having the same struggle with iPods.

In other words, I'm being “ignorant” in the truest sense of that word.

I can see people wanting to keep in touch with their friends or having the latest news at their fingertips (literally). I see the point of listening to something pleasing, rather than listening to the buzz and zizz (a real word, people) of the masses around—be they parents, students, teachers, or shoppers. (Note: I said I see the point; I don't necessarily endorse it.)

Radios can serve the same purpose, of course, but they're not nearly so dangerous. Whether it's in the house or car, the output is the essentially the same, namely, music, news, talk shows, sports news and games. It can't get better than that, can it? Since when do we actually to see it to believe it?

If I were the Minister of Technology (aka Inspector Gadget), I would have a few ground rules for the ethical, moral, and practical use of iPods. Well, forget the ethical and moral nonsense; let's focus on the common sense approach to using iPods. Here are some rules that I would implement for you iPods-users:

One, no iPods at meal time. You can wash your hands, sit up straight, use a fork and knife properly, and say “please,” and “thank you,”--these activities should keep you thoroughly engaged, without resorting to feeding your cyber addiction. You may even want to talk (also known as converse, discuss, and interact) with others at your table.

Two, no iPods use if your legs are moving (another word for “walking”). I saw people walking along busy sidewalks in downtown Edmonton recently, completely oblivious to the world around them. I'm not clear that what they were seeing on the screen was all that urgent. Very dangerous, it seemed to me. If you're going to go that far, why not just put a bag over your head and close your eyes?

Three, no iPods in the classroom. I didn't say don't have them “on”; I said don't even have them “in.” Teachers may be boring, textbooks may be boring, classmates may be boring, but nevertheless, it remains the height (or would that be “depth”?) of inconsiderateness to be engaged in something outside the classroom, while inside the classroom.

And four, no iPods while driving. Yes, you are sitting; and yes, you are not snubbing your stupid sister at the table or Mr. Snootface at school, but there's this tiny little matter of distracted driving, other drivers, and the control of a 2,000 pound machine at stake.

By the way, I would have the same rules for a radio. The restrictions can't quite be the same as iPods demand the use of one's eyes (and ears, sometimes), whereas the radio only needs the use of one's ears.

It's surprising what you can see when your eyes are open wide.

Foremost on my Mind: Leave it to Bieber

It sure seems like a great time to be an evangelical Christian these days—at least in the entertainment business. Let's see, there's Justin Bieber, Tim Tebow, and Craig Funston. Or as some wag sitting in the brave solitude of his lonely office would say, a singer, a zinger, and a stinger.

Oh well, two out of three isn't too bad at all.

Bieber, the Canadian-born son of a single mom, has taken the teenybopper world by storm. Not quite sure what his appeal is, but it certainly isn't his voice or his hair—but I'm not envious. Now in recent weeks he has come out even louder than ever with his claim to faith, and he actually has a Jesus tatoo to prove it. Not quite sure if I agree on his take on going to church, either, but, then again, who am I but a lowly writer (or would that be a “stinger”?).

Then, if you follow football, you surely must know about Tim Tebow (that's Tebow, as in “tea-boe.” But the way he prays in the end zone after each touchdown, maybe it should be Tebow, as in rhyming with “cow”). He has emerged as the second coming of John Elway in Denver, but appears to be more interested in the second coming of Jesus.

It's not too often you read of an NFL quarterback that has retained his his manners and his morals. My, we've been so accustomed to the roguish behaviour of the Jim McMahons, the Joe Namaths, and Steve McNairs, that his take on life is beyond refreshing.

You might say that it has gone from ideal to unreal to surreal.

He just doesn't fit the mould of any football player—in fact, he doesn't fit the mould of any professional athlete, in my opinion: Son of evangelical missionary parents, loves hanging with his siblings, and was homeschooled. I like him already, and I've never met him.

If there is one proven way to corrupt anyone, it is through fame. We're not wired to handle the excessive adoration and adulation of others. I don't suppose we know the half of what goes in the barrooms and bedrooms of professional athletes as they blitz around the country. There are probably broken hearts and vows all around America as a result of their wanton promiscuity.

Meanwhile, back to Bieber and Tebow. I link them because of their profession of the Christian faith, but there are some token differences. Schooling choices would be one of them. Also, one appears to have had to pull himself up by his bootstraps in a home with an absent father and a dedicated mother; the other had both a mother and father, albeit they were active in mission work. Both are making their mark in the States, even though both have come from foreign countries—Canada and the Philippines, respectively.

What I find so refreshing about Tim—can I actually call him “Tim,” even though we haven't been formally introduced?--is his clear-cut testimony regarding his faith. Anyone who prays in front of millions of viewers each week and wears “John 3:16” on his sun screen obviously takes his faith seriously.

I can't imagine Justin prancing and dancing around the stage, then bowing down after yet another encore, thanking Jesus for all the screaming groupies.

My take on faith is that it should permeate every aspect of life—and if it can't, then quit what you must, but not the faith. Practical faith is not just on Sunday, or just on the pulpit. Sometime soon we should discuss whether professing followers of Jesus—tattoo or no tattoo-- should be rhythm and blues singers, twisting and shouting in front of hundreds (possibly thousands) of hysterically-charged girls.

If life were a you've-got-talent show, I'd vote for Tim Tebow. He strikes me as the real deal, especially when it comes to representing his faith. I'm just hoping he can hang in there and not be corrupted through temptation, or through the desperate media vultures, dredging up some imagined past vice.

Just a suggestion to the NFL powers-that-be: Perhaps if the Broncos make it all the way to the Stupor, er, Super Bowl, maybe they could add Bieber to the half-time show. I can see it now: He sings one of the Monkees' most famous songs (“I'm a Belieber”), then meets Brother Tim in the end zone for a brief prayer meeting.

Either way, we'll just leave it to Bieber to come through.