the rix mix

Labels: George W. Bush, holidays, love, Mahalo, postcard

My trusted online friend Fran linked to series of paintings of the American Jesus that are at once really funny  but deeply disturbing. I always listen to Fran even when she going right over my head.
When I was young, as with a lot of protestants, Jesus was too human. That's important because the humanity, the human face, is the spiritual evolution in Christianity  allowing the Easter story to mean what it means. God is humanly comprehensible. The face is every human being, not the guy in the paintings. If you are of a Franciscan temperament, you include the face of the sparrow.

 Later, Jesus became a kind of intellectual exercise I went to whenever it interested me. As my body began reminding me  of my mortality  more than  my intellect did,  Jesus became more elusive & paradoxical.  But elusiveness & paradoxes can stir me up, intrigue me & disturb me, & I chase after them. I think Jesus is being the kind of Jesus I need right now. He has my attention & he's keeping it. He's still human but he's also being spirit, & you feel spirit & even channel spirit but you can't get hold of it.  "How  is it," this spirit seems to ask me, "that I know every subatomic particle in your body, & their history from the beginning of time, & your true name, & you don't know any of these things, much less where every sparrow falls? Yet I remain just as human as you are." He's not an so much an American Jesus as a Jesus who  know how to slip  between the second & third lines of  a haiku.

So what's the real deal from Jesus? It's that the abyss isn't necessarily there. It wasn't there when I was 13 &  looking at the dark winter sky on a bad night in my home & thinking, in some way,  "People die, & you don't get to say goodbye or find out who they really are."   It wasn't there when I was 25 & staring  into  one  believing I had come to the end of art. & it's not there now. But I still see it.

Labels: blogging against theocracy, Mahalo, religion

Labels: Mahalo

X-Ray Burns & I, live WFMU  broadcast from Asbury  Park of the Glen Jones Progamme with X-Ray Burns, a few years ago. . They broadcast a series of annual shows from the space age Howard Johnson's next to Convention Hall. For most of their broadcasts, the crowd they drew were pretty much the only people on the boardwalk on a sunny Summer Sunday afternoon, unless some event was at Convention Hall. The beaches were nearly deserted. One year there was a wedding, the next Patti Scialfi was rehearsing at the Paramount for a tour, Springsteen was there with his Corvette, I chatted with him  briefly as he was standing outside the theater but had left my camera back at my HoJo table. During those last two summers, the Asbury boardwalk was finally  reawakening, completely transforming itself in few years.  The Hojos is now a restaurant & nightclub. But who can say if Glen & X-Ray helped prevent its demolition?

These were were family events  with children & dogs in attendance.

Labels: Mahalo, photograph, WFMU

I was missing Virginia, my counselor at Bridgeway House, who died suddenly a few years ago around Christmas. How when I was stressed out by practical stuff I 'd walk over there - once Bridgeway you're always Bridgeway, wait my turn, plop down in the chair in her small office, decorated with photos of her poodles, & she'd smile & ask, "What the problem, bubbala? You should stop by more often, we miss you." I'd leave with some reassurance & do-able advice, or she'd look someone up in her massive Roledex & make a call for me. While I was thinking of her, handyman Louie came by with the monthly exterminator. I learned the laundry room is still available but I needed the key from the woman in the apt next to it. Someone had indeed hammered the coin boxes. Then I reminded Louie the bathtub drain had to be snaked. Louie asked if I could wait until Monday. I said, fair enough. Louie's word is usually good. So I walked up to the bank for couple rolls of quarters & suspected Virginia was still being my angel.  But she was just preparing me for an larger problem in my apartment.


 Plus, my new, inexpensive vacuum cleaner that received very good user reviews on Amazon shipped.

Labels: home furnishings, Mahalo, mental health

A couple I know with a lot of mutual friends in real life & on Facebook recently broke up. The woman reassured her FB friends that it was mutual & everything was o.k. between them.  The man, a long-time personal friend in this relationship,  pulled into himself a bit on FB. The woman began posting lots of photos of herself at various bars with other guys, then took off on a vacation with a guy whose relationship to her is not clear, & is posting photos of him. I wasn't  interested in the details of the breakup,  I never socialized with them as a couple, so I haven't observed  the trajectory of their relationship. But now I'm becoming curious about what the hell happened, which may or may not be her intent.  Breakups are  nearly always damaging to self-esteem, & people respond in variety of ways.

Labels: love, Mahalo

. It was obvious to others back then that I found her beautiful, smart & talented & loved her.

The rest is a pop song & I play with the  lyrics., my right as a poet.  

We were small town ambitious. We believed one or the other of us, or both, might become famous.  Although neither of us was a great social butterfly, we were sociable & enjoyed being seen together.

I've always been grateful for her family, her mom especially, how I was taken into that crowded, chaotic house on Hemlock Street during a turbulent period in my own family. I was  "Karen's boyfriend," & with that came meal privileges &  use of the old upright piano.

Karen, of course, always wanted to get out of the house if it wasn't a school night,  or if it was, at least go sit on the front porch or on the back seat of an old but functioning 1948 Desoto, a Battell heirloom called "The Turtle" kept in the garage.  She would be annoyed with  me If I settled on the couch, watching TV with three or four kids crawling over me.  But I felt  love in the chaos, & I sensed the love was emanating from the frazzled woman in the kitchen who welcomed me if I went in there, sat down  & chatted with her.  As long as mom liked  me, I'd be o.k. with her dad &  we'd get a longer leash. I liked talking with her mom.  I suspected  her dad secretly hoped we'd elope the day after Karen graduated high school just to get her out of a crowded house lacking in space &   privacy.

It was my job as a writer to fit Karen into my narrative.  Where I fit into her's was of small concern to me. I hoped only that she carried no hurtful memories, & in our  few conversations  later she never gave the impression she had.. You won't find her in my poems, except invisibly in  a group I wrote in 1990 which drew from every romance  & break up I'd gone through up to that point.

Karen passed at age 62, a tragic fact.  I have only two early years of those 62 & I wish she had lived until my small percentage was much  smaller. But they were two adolescent years filled with the kinds of days & nights everyone remembers as the  rest of our days & nights & years  speed by faster & faster.  My poetry mentor, Joel Oppenheimer, taught by example that there are memories a poet holds in trust.  He was passing down an old tradition.   One might never bring those memories to a poem or story, but they are held & treasured  all the same. It is a privilege.

Remembering how Karen,  the most beautiful teenage girl I every knew, entered   a party, a dance,  a brightly lit diner, a wedding reception (we went to at least two),  my dad's living room,  whatever  occasion called for it.  She always did this if she was wearing something new from Daffy Dan's. She would walk through the entry, quickly survey the occupants, tilt her regal nose up & slightly to one side just so, & pose for a moment.  Yes, people looked. Always.  I'd be standing behind her or off to one side, thinking, "Wow! I'm sure she   rehearses that." To me she was dancing.

In Memory of Karen Battell Silva, 1950-2012

Labels: growing up, Karen Battell, love, Mahalo, obituary, Roselle Park

Cabbie radio dial twiddler on way back from clinic. Right wing crap when I got in the taxi.  He twiddled,  Let's Hang On by the Four Seasons came on, I started grooving to that,  Halfway through he twiddled to the news station.

My shrink is not a therapist. He has a young MSW assistant who likes to get conversations going in the waiting room.  If there's other clients present,  I don't tell her much.   How are you, Robert?   My best friend died last week.  That chat was not happening today. Three others there, I wasn't bringing them into it.  It's no group.   But I try to bring any emotionally fraught situations to the shrink, if they're happening about the time of our bimonthly appts.  I also want to convince him I'm handling it.  I have about five minutes to do this.  My best friend died. He was in California. I wasn't his only best friend.  I haven't been sleeping well the past few nights, it's starting to catch up. I'm not really grieving yet,  I will, I can handle it.

We went through the death of my first girlfriend in February, but that was a whole other thing. I hadn't seen her in decades.  I had to reach back & make a claim on the two years I had with her, & what it meant to me & maybe to her.  It was on the whole a nice project for a poet.  I enjoyed revisiting young love.  Let it glow.  It doesn't require  realism, only a carefulness regarding nostalgia.  This is different. I feel a vacuum.

The shrink poked around a bit.  Known me a long time, He seemed to think I was o.k. I wasn't ducking it.

Oh yeah, here's something I noticed & noted in part because it was the kind of thing Bruce Longstreet noticed.  An older Haitian woman, immigrant, was in the waiting room. She was talking about her new job as a home health aid.  She worked 34 hours per week, averaging  two hours each for her clients.  She makes $9 an hour. She needs a car for the job.  The 34 hours are spread across more than 40 hours. She doesn't  receive health insurance from the job. She's receiving  Medicare & SSD.  SSD permits a certain amount of additional income in occupations not impacted by one's disability, &  encourages these jobs to eventually  become a path out of SSD. However, if she were on Medicaid or a Medicaid HMO, the additional income would disqualify her from Supplementary Security Income & she would lose Medicaid. Sometimes SSI pays only a couple of dollars but is crucial  for the Medicaid. This woman liked her new work.  Also, the additional income affects her Section 8 housing & Food Stamps, if she is receiving those.  All additional income must be reported for those services. She'll pay higher rent & receive a smaller allotment of food stamps.   In reality, it might be very difficult for her to use her new income to raise herself up.  She says she will need a more reliable car "in a year." It's very positive in the  mental game to think that far ahead.

Bruce & I were very tight for about six years. I came to think of him as my best friend.  I thought of him as my best friend until he died. Yet, I was aware Bruce was likely a best friend to a number of people.  Jim C, certainly, since high school. I trust Jim every bit as much as I trusted Bruce. I didn't hang out with Jim as much. That they were best friends  endorsed the both of them to me.  There were others. three or four people, college friends of his who had scattered to other places. Bruce & I were dissimilar people with similar backgrounds. White, middle class, not affluent.  He also may have had two brothers & a sister. Bruce had a much better relationship with his father.  Jim & I struggled with our strong, admirable  dads. Jim's  father, fortunately,  lived a lot longer than mine.  My parents divorced when I was a teenager. Bruce's & Jim's parents stayed married.  Jim & I were accustomed to being in relationships with women.  Bruce was stuck on unrequited love all the time I knew him in Jersey. He did better in other states.

All three of us had what philosopher Alan Watts called, "The irreducible element of rascality."

Labels: Elizabeth NJ, Mahalo, mental health, obituary

Labels: jersey shore, Mahalo, obituary, photograph, postcard, sandy hook

Labels: Mahalo, obituary

Couldn't resist linking to this classy, attractive couple attending the Elizabeth NJ High School prom. Photo was in the middle of a gallery of 50.

BTW, I do not like the trend toward jacketless tuxes. When you wear only a vest, you look like you should be carrying around trays of appetizers. 

Once, miraculously, a tux rental store actually did the alterations they said would do. Before attending the wedding I asked my date if I resembled the little man on top of the wedding cake. She said I did. I said, "Then I'm perfect."

Labels: culture, education, Elizabeth NJ, Mahalo, photograph

Jotting down various memories of Karen Battell Silva, who passed away far too young this week. As they accumulated they began taking on a "what a fool believes" quality. Which is all wrong. I don't overestimate my impact on a teenage girl in the 1960's who lived an entire life since then, or her influence on me. She leaves a husband, a son, her mom, six siblings at least a dozen nieces & nephews. My condolences to them. But as a writer  I'm always trying to draw a narrative out of the episodic, was already doing that when I was 18 years-old. I'm the son of a fine  "amateur" historian & storyteller. There are a number of anecdotes  about Karen & her family I've told  all along.  I repeated one to my stepbrother earlier this week, before I heard about Karen  -  he knew her as  my girlfriend & met his future wife shortly after I met Karen -   about a particular summer night on the crowded  Seaside Heights boardwalk.  Karen & I were strolling the Seaside Boardwalk on a balmy summer evening just digging the scene. Karen probably wearing some light summery dress - she was very much a dress kind of girl in those days. Over leaning against the boardwalk railing were my stepbrother & his girlfriend, a tall attractive blonde, both in leather jackets.  At the timehe  had a beard & a bike & looked a bit like an outlaw Abe Lincoln. We sropped & chatted for a few minutes, the most natural thing in the world to meet in that place at that time.

 I 've told a few stories on the radio. None of them are negative.  I  began writing some of them down only after I started this blog,   I allude to Karen in a very general way  in just one of my poems  I can think of. Most of my poems are located in their moment of creation, recent past, or mythic time.  She was long gone when I began writing publishable poems. She has her place back there, mainly in mythic time,  but she is so distinctive a personality,  attractive,  sensual,  intelligent,  even as a high school student, so memorable - & I've been with several remarkable women since then in longer, more serious relationships. I imagine  Karen would  appreciate being so memorable. She wanted her presence & personality felt. She was very good at  letting me have the spotlight, but when it was her turn, I got out of the way. Maybe I learned that from her, when to get out of the way.  She also had small tolerance for crass or vulgar people, & that taught me something important, too.

 Karen was not only the first woman (at 16), but the first person to give an unqualified  "yes" to my creative aspirations, which at that time were vague & largely undefined & searching for outlets, but very strong.  For Karen it was part of who I was, just as dancing was who she was, & something she liked in me, & no further discussion was necessary.

Labels: boardwalks, growing up, jersey shore, Karen Battell, love, Mahalo, Roselle Park, Seaside Heights

"I do not pretend to understand the moral universe. The arc is a long one. My eye reaches but little ways. I cannot calculate the curve and complete the figure by experience of sight. I can divine it by conscience. And from what I see I am sure it bends toward justice." Theodore Parker, 1853

I doubt the abolitionist preacher Parker would have cared that Dr. King distilled his unwieldy statement to the succinct "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice."  & did so without attribution. *  It's this quote from Dr. King that I most often use to defend him from appropriation by the Christian right. Dr. King moved Parker's idea from the pulpit into action.

Dr, King was only 39 years-old when he was murdered on April 4, 1968. He was only 26 when he was drawn into leading the Montgomery  Bus Boycott, riding the arc of the moral universe that bends toward justice,  Beginning in the Jim Crow, violent American South, he was on way to becoming a world citizen.  Great world citizens are not uncommon,  are a diverse group of individuals: Eleanor Roosevelt, the Dalai Lama, Danny Kaye,  Audrey Hepburn, Stephen Hawking, Bob Marley, Pope John Paul II & names we will never know.

We can't  be certain where Dr. King would have landed on the matter of abortion. If he became against, the issue never would never have been separated, as it is now, from  the well-being  of infants, children, & families.   But I am quite certain he would have continued to follow the arc that bends toward justice, & that it would have eventually brought him to an endorsement of marriage equality.  In 1968 we were still a decade from the suggestion even surfacing in mainstream media (as a novelty)  & another decade away the beginnings of public acceptance. Even now it would not have been Dr. King's paramount concern, within  the broad context of justice & human rights.

*It came out in the 1980s that Dr, King;s doctorate dissertation for Boston College also included unattributed portions, but the reviewing panel concluded acting upon the incidents of plagiarism  would  "serve no purpose." Had those passages been caught at the time, it's likely the dissertations  would not have been rejected outright but returned for correction,  But by then, Dr, King was on to more important matters in Alabama. He was applying his theological ideas to real world situations.

Labels: birthday, holidays, justice, Mahalo

The meaning of their gifts was
the tenderness with which they gave.
They gave their sadness also,
knowing his short life,
yet they traveled so far.

Their hearts were filled in return
with wonder, astonishment, love!
They were more than satisfied.
So they led their camels over the hills
by another way, back to the stars.

Labels: art, holidays, Mahalo, music

My parents put a lot of effort into Christmas, making it quite magical, particularly when I was very young, 4, 5 years old. They had a feel for tradition & theater. Fans of Norman Rockwell or Doctor Spock, read on.

Christmas Season started when dad stapled up the strings of colored lights around the front porch. A some point he added two funky giant candles he'd constructed out of cardboard cylinders, cellophane, & light fixtures. Everything he designed looked designed by a dad.. There were lots of decorations tacked or taped inside the house, & our one classy display, a beautiful creche set probably purchased at Woolworth's in the 1930's. When dad knocked an opening between the living room & a narrow "playroom" addition he built on the side of the house replacing a wraparound porch, it became a kind of stage complete with draw curtains, spotlights, cotton snow, figurines, & the nativity scene. It looked like we had family puppet shows. Over time, the Holy Family & Three Kings were joined by small wind up robots, plastic dinosaurs, & various H-O size train accessories. Mom was into baking Christmas cookies, some of them flavored with ashes from her Raleigh cigarettes. In my earliest years, the tree wasn't put up until late Christmas Eve after the four children were in bed. So Christmas Eve was more about anticipation & mystery. It's supposed to be about those things.

Mom made spaghetti for Christmas Eve supper, was fast & easy, & she'd be pretty busy for the next 24 hours. One of my brothers wanted his wife to continue this "tradition" which she justifiably rejected as too peculiar if not cultish. After supper, we were put in the care of "Nana," our resident gramma, & mom & dad went to  "visit" Phil & Gertrude Sprague, an older couple with a teenage daughter who lived next to the high school. Mrs. Sprague was a piano teacher & none of us became good pianists. In fact, all our presents were stashed at the Spragues; it was futile to try to hide them anywhere in our house. I'm sure mom & dad loaded up on a few drinks before they loaded up the car.

Meanwhile, back home, we put out cookies & milk for Santa & hung stockings in the playroom. My parents came home after we were in bed & supposedly asleep. They carried in the presents & dad brought in a Tree, probably kept in a neighbor's garage. No doubt this was a romantic moment when they had only one child, but it was high-pressure time for them later, working against the clock. Furniture had to be moved; the tree set up in a stand; lights tested & burnt bulbs replaced; the tree decorated with the many old ornaments we stored in the attic. Certainly, some presents had to be wrapped. Every year one of us got a bike or some piece of child machinery that had to be assembled & tested. Then they filled the stockings. I have no idea what time my parents got to bed, but at 5 am they were yelling at us to to go BACK to bed for another hour. For the first few conscious years of my life, I really had no clue how it was all done, or who did it, & don't recall caring if I knew. It was magic; or as I would call it now, amateur shamanism.

One year, my sister Jean & I encountered each other in the hallway outside our rooms, propped up each other's nerve with whispers, & crept through the murky predawn shadows, down to the landing where one could lean over & peek through the bannister into the living room. I lost my balance & tumbled halfway down the steps. I wasn't hurt, but I was so alarmed, afraid not only of being caught but of actually SEEING the presents & somehow ruining the magic for everyone else, that I scrambled back upstairs in a panic, vowing never again to break the Immutable Law Against Peeking, for which I'd been obviously & instantly reprimanded by Santa Claus (probably tipped off by Baby Jesus in the creche). But the living room was dark, as if nothing actually existed there yet. Although I later suspected sneaky oldest brother Joe of giving me a push then dashing back to bed. Eventually, mom & dad got up, put on their robes, went downstairs, cranked up the heat - in the early 50s this meant a coal furnace, turned on all the lights, & called the four excited kids downstairs.

(reposted from 12/24/07)

Labels: growing up, holidays, Mahalo

Matthew 22:17, the famous "Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's" encounter, is not about paying taxes. Jesus is saying, "I'm trying to explain something important & all you do is show me your stupid money."

The Synoptic Gospels have many stories like this.

"I'm trying to explain something important & all you do is ask me how to join the club."

"I'm trying to explain something important & all you do is ask me what the rules are."

"I'm trying to explain something important & you think children can't understand it."

"I'm trying to explain something important & all you do is demand I perform miracles."

"I'm trying to explain something important & you think I'll be annoyed because you didn't do  a good job arranging the cookies on the tray."

"I'm trying to explain something important &  you're pissed off because I didn't tell you first." 

Jesus looks at a Roman coin & the guy with his face  on the coin thinks putting his face on the coin proves he's divine. But Jesus, who has an inside knowledge of such claims, knows that every individual person on the planet is more precious to God than the whole freakin' Roman Empire.

"Go away," Jesus says to the bigshots with the trick questions, "you don't get it, don't bother me with this bullcrap."

 Of course, Jesus made particular claims for himself & his mission.  But his refusal to be distracted for long by politicians, ideologues, snobs,  celebrity mongers, sightseers, & scripture-quoting savants is typical of great spiritual teachers.

Labels: blogging against theocracy, love, Mahalo, religion

• I am thankful to be alive.
• I am thankful for Gina nearby & for her cats;  for Gail & Melodi & Sheron & Barbara at a distance;  for X-Ray Burns' & Joe Renna's phone #s on my cell; for knowing some wonderful writers who consider me their peer;  for being treated as a functioning staffer at WFMU through a long sabbatical.
• I'm grateful for all the dedicated music bloggers who make available rips of rare records from their collections. 
• I'm grateful for this apartment & for the government & private agency programs that threw a safety net under a downward spiraling depression.
• I'm grateful that a few of my younger relatives reached out to me on Facebook. Don't believe everything you hear about me, guys.
• I'm grateful that once-in-awhile I feel the presence of God this world.

Labels: holidays, Mahalo

In 1999 I had known Glen  Jones for many years, but not really. He was large personality at WFMU with a huge audience.   I was a DJ who liked tucking myself  away on the fringes of the schedule. The only time I was interested in the size of my radio audience was at annual fund-raising time, which is too late to do anything about making it bigger.

The first really personal, relaxed chat I had with Glen was in Jersey City. Following a staff meeting in the uncompleted studios, before we moved, I wandered into a bar around the corner. From the outside it looked quiet & insular, neither up nor  downscale, & I thought it'd be nice to sit there for a little while & nurse a beer. Many of the other staffers had gone to the Flamingo Diner & I   wasn't in  the mood for the noisy push-the-tables-together  thing, waiting half-an-hour for a toasted corn muffin & bad coffee I didn't even want.   The bar was quiet & nearly empty. But over at  a little round bar  table sat Glen Jones all by himself. We exchanged little  waves &  he waved me over. We were in exactly the same mood, both a bit unnerved by the new location & feeling uneasy about  The  Big Change to come - although JC was a much more convenient location; both Scorpios, in our individual ways  creatures of routine & tradition;  & both familiar with the other's radio style.   This surprised me.  I hadn't figured Glen ever listened to me. We weren't so different. We liked to play a generous amount of music & then reward ourselves for choosing such wonderful records by speaking into a  microphone about whatever happened to be on our minds.  I don't remember what we talked about that night, probably our favorite old sitcoms, boardwalks,  & the decline of common courtesies like helping old folks across the street.

After awhile we felt better & left, Glen in one direction I suppose  to the PATH station, me in the other to my car parked around the corner (we were sober).  On that muggy, chilly, deserted Jersey City street, around midnight, outside a bar two blocks from the Hudson River, I suspect Glen & I walked away with a melancholy Sinatra song from the  50's as our soundtracks.  I don't know if Glen recalls this encounter, but I sure do.

Anyway, I became very fond of Glen, &  his WFMU accomplice X-Ray Burns. His girlfriend Gina is one of my dearest friends now. I knew her slightly because she was  a longtime WFMU supporter & an attractive woman, but had no idea she lived nearby until one afternoon I ran into Glen walking from the train station to her house.

Labels: Mahalo, WFMU

I asked a Catholic acquaintance why Catholics polled higher than protestants in support of marriage equality. She said, "Catholics like marriage." They must have liked today in New York State.

I don't know what rights & obligations the New York marriage equality law extends, but it won't change anything for straight people except we'll  get more used to the idea that some of the same sex couples we know are legally married in the State of New York. That doesn't seem so difficult to me.

Labels: in the news, justice, Mahalo

New York will become the sixth and most populous state to allow gay marriage. State senators voted 33-29 to approve marriage equality legislation introduced by Governor Andrew Cuomo, a Democrat in his first year of office.

New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg, an advocate for gay marriage who lobbied state lawmakers in recent weeks, said the vote was an "historic triumph for equality and freedom."

Equal marriage rights are well worth supporting. Those who most vociferously oppose use of the word marriage also oppose civil unions that grant rights identical to marriage, on the grounds that civil unions then become too much like marriage in all but name. So civil union & domestic partnership laws carry in them a separate-&-unequal status. I came to this view of civil union inadequacy rather late, realizing - after finally listening to gays & lesbians - that the only effective way to legally strengthen same sex  families, which is good for society, is by reaching all the way for marriage. One has to ask oneself, "Are there any civil  rights opposite  sex married couples have I don't want same sex couples to have?" For me the answer is none. The right whittles away  at women's rights, workers rights, & the rights of homosexuals through one piece of legislation & another piece of legislation, & they  add up after awhile. A law like New York's marriage law not only extends rights, it protects those rights from compromise. It's marriage. No semantic games. After the law takes effect, Archbishop of NY Timothy Dolan can believe all he wants that a same sex couple in NY isn't really  married in NY.

If you're against same sex marriage, maybe there's some solace in the fact that the law doesn't  make  divorce any cheaper or easier for gays.

(A New York Times article implies that Dolan was so out-maneuvered by Gov. Cuomo, who had assembled a coalition including some  Wall Street Republican heavies, that he couldn't or wouldn't put the full power of his Church to bear against the bill. Perhaps he just had the good sense not to ask Catholics to reach for their wallets on this issue while he's closing parishes & schools. )

Labels: blogging against theocracy, in the news, Mahalo