Blue Man Group

We went to the see Blue Man Group last night. Never seen anything like it. Un. Be. Liev. Able.

Veteran's Day [Bryan]

It sounds odd to say "happy Veteran's Day." For me, it is a day of mourning. Not only for those who had to die in war or for those who were physically or mentally scarred. It is also a day to mourn the fact that our world is a place where people have to become "veterans" of human conflict. It is a day to mourn the existence of the (more or less) organized mass bloodshed we call war. It is a day of questions: "We were a family. How'd it break up and come apart, so that now we're turned against each other? Each standing in the other's light. How'd we lose that good that was given us? Let it slip away. Scattered it, careless. What's keepin' us from reaching out, touching the glory?"

In that vein, here is a Veteran's Day clip from The Thin Red Line:



My favorite quote is at the end:

Where is it that we were together? Who were you that I lived with? The brother. The friend. Darkness, light. Strife and love. Are they the workings of one mind? The features of the same face? Oh, my soul. Let me be in you now. Look out through my eyes. Look out at the things you made. All things shining.

Bryan Stories, Part 3 [Bryan]

Here is the third installment of my personal quest to better know myself by telling myself stories about myself.

It was something of a family tradition in my family to work at a place called Christensen Heating and Air Conditioning. The boss of the company, Walt, was a good man and a longtime family friend. Both of my older brothers had worked for Walt. He paid well and was generous with time off. I would hear stories from my brothers, though, about a man named Lee who was a foreman there. Apparently he had a foul disposition and a hot temper. I didn't pay much heed to these warnings, however, and the summer after I graduated from high school it was my turn to work at Walt's. It was then that I first met Lee in person. He was a small man, with a high-pitched voice and streaks of gray running through his hair. He always wore overalls.

I was assigned to be Lee's "grunt," meaning that he and I would go out to the job site and work all day together. After working with Lee for a few days, I came to understand what it meant to be degraded. The man was brutal. If the work was not performed up to his expectations -- if it was imperfect, or done too slowly, or simply not done his way -- he would make a public spectacle of you. He would criticize you in front of whomever happened to be around, be they plumbers, electricians, or homeowners. He took to calling me "Bry-guy" -- and that was the most respectful of the long list of nicknames he developed for me. "Moron" was actually much more common. Sometimes, he would combine the nicknames. For example, he would combine "moron" with "Bry-guy" and turn it into a little chant. "Moron! Moron! Bry-guy is a moron!" he would sing over and over again. When I made I mistake, he would yell "OOOOPS!" at the top of his lungs for the rest of the day. He was never pleased. At the slightest provocation, he would turn into a raging, overall-clad ball of sarcastic, dehumanizing furry. The worst part was that I had to ride in the truck with him for hours each day. Each moment featured a long list of insults and criticisms. Silence was even worse, because that's when I knew he was really seething.

Needless to say, I hated the man. At several points, I was nearly reduced to tears of rage and frustration. I was continually tempted to shake my hammer at him and scream the most vile curses upon him and his posterity.

In truth, I was just the sort of person Lee despised. He would see me reading Freud at lunch and laugh hysterically. I would tell him about my research at the University of Utah and he instantly declared it an "enormous waste of time." He mocked "self-proclaimed intellectuals" who, for all their theories and flowery rhetoric, had nothing important to say. What he valued was action over reflection, practice over theory.

But there are other things you should also know about Lee. First, the man was a true craftsman. He had the soul of an artist whose medium was ductwork and refrigerant lines. What marble was to Michelangelo, sheet metal was to Lee. Merely getting things to work right was not enough, it had to look right. The lines had to be straight, the curves pleasing, the design geometrically precise. The large houses we worked on were his canvas; his tools were the means of gaining human validation. It was his way of asserting himself in a world that was otherwise indifferent to a small, working man's existence.

The other thing to know about Lee was that, in fact, he would drop everything to help somebody who really needed it. Walt would tell me stories of Lee's generosity and I was floored. You really can't judge a book by its cover.

I decided that I wanted to be an artist in the same way that Lee was an artist. I doubled my efforts at learning the work I was supposed to do. I tried to discover the secrets that transformed something from a "good enough" job into a "work of art" job. I turned the seams of my roundpipe upward so as to be hidden out of sight. I tried to drill my holes neatly. I tried to line up my paneling so it would look like one long piece of sheet metal. I would ask him questions about how stuff would work. And I would work hard. The amount you could get done in a day was also a source of pride for Lee, and I tried to respect that.

Granted, I never did get to be an artist. My work was always a little rough around the edges. One day, though, Walt assigned me my own truck and, with this new independence, I tried to take pride in how the job looked after a long day of work. Over time, I believe this all gradually began to earn Lee's respect. He would still lash out occasionally with a vicious dehumanizing tirade. The nicknames would continue. But he began to talk with me, even sometimes to philosophize with me. I still remember him saying, "so here's a thought..." which meant he wanted to bounce and idea off me. We became friends, although I'm fairly sure he would deny that today if asked. I guess I know he thought of me as a friend because, when I got married, he gave me a wedding present. The present was this: a pencil sharpener and a toilet plunger.

Best song (and most intersting video) of the 90s [Bryan]

A song about life and death, falling and then rising again. Forces pulling from the center of the earth again -- I can feel it! And the only song to ever use the word "placenta" in its lyrics. Here is Live's Lighting Crashes.

My First Buckeye Game [Bryan]

I went to my first Ohio State football game on Saturday. Going to an OSU game is a religious experience for most people in the Buckeye state. I can see why: the pageantry, tradition, and passion are all to be found in plentiful quantities. I must say, though, that I felt like a bit of an outsider. After all, the Buckeyes were playing the Fighting Illini of Illinois -- my beloved alma mater. Don't get me wrong. I want OSU to do well this season, and they have. But I found myself inwardly rooting for Illinois. It is always good to see a team defy expectations, overcome criticism, and come out on top. That is what Ron Zook and Illinois have done.

Anyway, some scenes from the game:


Note that this was twenty minutes before the game started. That gives you some sense of the atmosphere.



Here the band is finishing is famous "script Ohio" when its writes out the name "Ohio." Notice the sousaphone player "dotting the i" at the end. Young tube players grow up in Ohio dreaming of the day they can do that. It's cute.



After an OSU touchdown.

ratemyprofessors.com [Bryan]

You may know about the websites that allow students to rate their professors online. Well, I decided to check to see if anyone had rated me yet. Sure enough, they had (scroll down to Warnick). Take special note: the chili pepper is given to instructors who are "hot." And no, I did not put that up myself. Must be the bowtie.

Bryan Stories, Part 2 [Bryan]

Here is my second installment of my personal quest to better know myself by telling stories about myself. (The first can be found here.) This story has to do with a guy named Pete who I met in the Salt Lake County Jail...but it's not what you think.

I was a senior at the University of Utah and I was taking a class called "The University Experience," taught by Jack Newell. This turned out to be a life-changing class for me, and it is actually the class and the professor that sent me along the career path that I am now on. Jack was a guy who believed that teaching consists mostly of telling stories. And boy, could that guy tell a story.

Anyway, we were reading an article that appeared in Harpers Magazine in the late 1990s by Earl Shorris. The article dealt with an educational experiment. Shorris went into the inner city and taught college level humanities courses to the urban poor. He and his co-conspirators taught classes in history, philosophy, logic, and poetry to struggling people who could barely read. The results, he found, were impressive. After taking the course, many of Shorris's students enrolled in college, engaged in political and economic activism, and so forth.

This article hit me like a lightning bolt. I had been searching for a way I could make a real contribution to the world. The article coincided with a growing unease about my easy lifestyle. This unease had started on my Mormon mission, where I worked closely with people living in slums and boxes. Returning to the United State was a jarring experience. Two years after returning, I was ready for closer contact with the world -- the real world of blood, sweat, poverty, and toil, where the drama of survival and redemption really plays out. At the same time, I was growing to love the humanities -- the world of the theater, art museums, dead languages, and Classical philosophers. Shorris's ideas, I thought, offered the chance to put my new passion to use in the service of my fellow man. I subsequently volunteered to teach inmates in the SL county jail. I was supposed to be preparing them for the GED, but I hoped to slip in a little philosophy and literature on the side.

Here is how it worked. The organizers of the program gave me a pass to enter the jail. They also gave me the name and the cell block information of an inmate who expressed interest in being tutored. In short, they expected me to navigate the jail by myself. To be honest, entering that place was always a scary experience. At various checkpoints, I had to wave my ID badge to the surveillance cameras so the guards would open the doors for me. I would pass cell after cell with inmates gazing (leering) at me. I would pass the cells, reeking of alcohol and vomit, where they would throw drunk people to "dry out." Distant shouting. Bars clanging. I was ever fearful of making a wrong turn and ending up somewhere I wasn't supposed to be. (To be honest, the scariest part was the guards, who thought my presence was simply an annoyance -- they had probably seen many do-gooders like me before.)

Usually, I would show up to the cell block, and I would ask the guard to go fetch the prisoner who had requested tutoring. Usually, the inmate refused to come out (often, they would sign up just to win favor with a judge). Sometimes, I would tutor for a session or two and the inmate would lose interest. But then I was asked to tutor I guy named Peter.

Pete had been in and out of jail 39 times, he said. He never told me what he got in trouble for, exactly, and I never asked. Based on some things he said, though, I think he may have been in there most recently for car-jacking. A violent offense, to be sure. But Pete was the first guy who seemed genuinely interested in learning. We worked on arithmetic, basic reading, and other GED stuff.

After a few sessions, I decided to put Shorris to the test. I gave Pete Book 7 of Plato's Republic to read after a brief introduction to text. This is a selection that deals with Plato's famous "Allegory of the Cave." This allegory talks about a man imprisoned in a cave. The man gradually works his way out of the cave, sees the sun, and returns to tell his fellow prisoners about it. The allegory deals with how we overcome "mere opinion" and come to know the truth. I only half expected Pete to read it.

The next week, I grabbed my ID badge and passed through the security checkpoints. Same story: Leering prisoners. Distant shouting. Annoyed guards. Pete emerged from his cell, clutching his copy of the Republic. He had read! Not only that, he seemed genuinely touched by what he had read. He told me about how his experience in jail had mirrored that of the man in the cave -- how he and his fellow prisoners were often blind to sun, which is Plato's symbol for "the good." We talked excitedly for about half an hour before turning to our regular tutoring activities.

I emerged from that dark jail with a feeling of euphoria. I felt like I was bringing something of real value to Pete, something nobody had ever offered him before. I felt like I was living up to the biblical injunction to visit the needy and those in prison. I had faced my fear and made a difference. Finally, I was living up to my ideals. I had found a connection between my passion and my contribution.

Other visits with Pete were equally exciting. I got him reading on the theme of "imprisonment." The next task we tackled was the narrative life of Frederick Douglass. Douglass, of course, escapes slavery through literacy. Pete really seemed to enjoy it. We were developing a good relationship. He was something of an artist, in a gangster sort of way, and often gave me his drawings. Pete seemed to be honored by this exposure to literature, history, and philosophy. It made him feel worthwhile to read such things, as if the treasures of civil society were finally his. It affirmed his humanity.

I wish I could tell you that this story had a happy ending. After a few months,though, Pete gradually began to lose interest. I would show up and the grumpy guard would go get Pete from his cell, only return and report that Pete said he was too tired to come out. After a few more weeks, I lost contact with Pete. Whatever spark had been lit during those few weeks had been extinguished. I still don't know what happened or why.

Did I find, then, the perfect reconciliation of personal passion and social contribution? I don't know. I guess you could say that I'm still looking.

Halloween [Bryan]

A good Halloween was had by the Warnicks. But. Is it just me or is there way more trick-or-treating than when I was a lad? This year, we went trick or treating three times. Once at our church activity (the misnamed "Trunk or Treat" activity), once at the so-called "Boo at the Zoo" (a Halloween activity at the Columbus Zoo), and then of course on Halloween night. This seems like a little much. Or am I just a Halloween Scrooge? (And what would a Halloween Scrooge say -- Boo-humbug?)

Anyway, I asked Nora what she remembered from Halloween, and she said, "Andrew tried to join all the Halloween families trick-or-treating and I didn't want to do anymore trick-or-treating." This about sums up our Halloween night. Nora got tired of trick-or-treating after about eight houses. I nearly begged her to continue, but she wanted to go home and eat her candy. Andrew, meanwhile, was really into trick-or-treating. Whenever he would see another family out trick-or-treating, he would try to sneak into their group. We would then have to go chase him down.

Oh, and I feel really guilty. This Halloween, I am ashamed to say, we ran out of candy. In Ohio, it is a tradition to trick-or-treat only during the official hours (6-8 PM) . And you have to either sit outside your house and pass out candy or at least leave your lights on and your door open so kids know that you are open for business. When we first ran out of candy, I dipped into our own children's candy so that we could feed the begging masses. With only 15 minutes to go until 8:00 I decided to turn out all our lights, blow out our jack-o-lanterns, and basically put up a "go away" sign. Five minutes later, though, the door bell rang, and out on our dark porch stood three adorable children. Bryan's dilemma: Does he further pillage his own children's candy, or does he tell the kids to go away? Bryan's solution: He slowly opens the door and meekly tells the children that he is out of candy. You should have seen their poor faces fall as they turned away. Since then, I have felt an unending stream of guilt. The lesson, dear reader, is this: find something, anything -- even multivitamins or a stick of butter -- to give to trick-or-treaters. Do not turn them away!

Lars and the Real Girl [Bryan]

There are few films that are nearly perfect. Ellie and I just saw one on Saturday night. It was called "Lars and the Real Girl." The premise is silly: A shy man buys a life size girl doll and treats it like a real girl friend. The film, while very funny, is anything but silly. It is a deep and heartfelt statement about family and community life, about growing up and becoming a man, and about the transformative power of love. I can't recommend it highly enough. Go see it. (And, for those of you that care, there is nothing "offensive" about the film).

Here is Roger Ebert's review. He gets it exactly right.

By Roger Ebert
How do you make a film about a life-sized love doll, ordered through the Internet, into a life-affirming statement of hope? In "Lars and the Real Girl," you do it with faith in human nature, and with a performance by Ryan Gosling that says things that cannot be said. And you surround him with actors who express the instinctive kindness we show to those we love.

Gosling, who has played neo-Nazis and district attorneys, now plays Lars Lindstrom, a painfully shy young man who can barely stand the touch of another human being. He functions in the world and has an office job, but in the evening, he sits alone in a cabin in the back yard of his family home. His mother died years ago, his depressive father more recently. Now the big house is occupied by his brother Gus (Paul Schneider) and pregnant sister-in-law Karin (Emily Mortimer). She makes it her business to invite him to dinner, to share their lives, but he begs off with one lame excuse after another, and sits alone in the dark.

One day a co-worker at the office, surfing Internet porn, shows Lars a life-size vinyl love doll that can be order customized to specifications. A few weeks later, a packing crate is delivered to Lars, and soon his brother and sister-in-law are introduced to the doll. She is, they learn, named Bianca. She is a paraplegic missionary, of Brazilian and Danish blood, and Lars takes her everywhere in a wheelchair. He has an explanation for everything, including why she doesn't talk or eat....Lars does not use Bianca for sex. No, she is an ideal companion, not least because she can never touch him. With a serenity bordering on the surreal, Lars takes her everywhere, even to church. She is as real as anyone in his life can possibly be, at this point in the development of his social abilities.

The miracle in the plot is that the people of Lars' community arrive at an unspoken agreement to treat Bianca with the same courtesy that Lars does. This is partly because they have long and sadly watched Lars closing into himself and are moved by his attempt to break free. The film, directed by Craig Gillespie and written by Nancy Oliver ("Six Feet Under"), wisely never goes for even one moment that could be interpreted as smutty or mocking. There are, to be sure, some moments of humor; you can't take a love doll everywhere without inspiring double-takes. And Gus sometimes blurts out the real-world truths we are also thinking.

There are so many ways "Lars and the Real Girl" could have gone wrong that one of the film's fascinations is how adroitly it sidesteps them. Its weapon is absolute sincerity. It is about who Lars is, and how he relates to this substitute for human friendship, and that is all it's about. It has a kind of purity to it....

We all know a few people who walk into a socially dangerous situation, size it up, and instantly know what to say and how to set people at ease. My Aunt Martha could do that. She was a truth-teller, and all some situations need is for someone to tell the truth, instead of pussy-footing around embarrassments. Consider, in this film, the neighbor named Mrs. Gruner (Nancy Beatty). She rises to the occasion in a way both tactful and heroic. While Gus is worried about what people will think, Mrs. Gruner (and Karin and Dagmar) are more concerned with what Lars is thinking.

As we watch this process, we glimpse Lars' inner world, one of hurt but also hidden hope. Nine actors out of 10 would have (rightly) turned down this role, suspecting it to be a minefield of bad laughs. Gosling's work here is a study in control of tone. He isn't too morose, too strange, too opaque, too earnest. The word for his behavior, so strange to the world, is serene. He loves his new friend, treats her courteously and expects everyone else to give her the respect he does.

How this all finally works out is deeply satisfying. Only after the movie is over do you realize what a balancing act it was, what risks it took, what rewards it contains. A character says at one point that she has grown to like Bianca. So, heaven help us, have we.

On School Vouchers

I've been asked a few times about my general views of vouchers, which are a hot topic in my home state of Utah right now. Notice that I'm not all that familiar with the details of the Utah plan, so these are just general thoughts.

1. Do vouchers improve academic achievement?

Vouchers have been tried in various cities and states at this point (most famously in Florida, Milwaukee, and Cleveland) and many studies have been done to figure out whether they help improve participating student performance. For various reasons, these are difficult studies to perform and the results are often contradictory. Overall, I would say that parents who use vouchers tend to be more satisfied than those in regular public schools. The best studies, however, find only minimal (if any) difference between students who use vouchers to attend private schools and those who stay in public schools. A report from the highly respected nonpartisan General Accounting Office (GAO) is perhaps the most trustworthy summary of the data, although it is a bit old now (published in 2001).

2. Do vouchers improve public schools by making them compete with private schools?

Again the data are complicated, but a recent book argues that there is no evidence from Milwaukee of long-term, competition driven improvement in public schools: "Our results are therefore mixed. Overall, Milwaukee public schools made a one-time gain versus other Wisconsin schools with somewhat comparable ethnic/social class composition. Yet, students in Milwaukee schools facing more competition from private voucher schools made no greater gains." At the very least, the competition arguments are not obviously true and may very well be false in the long run.

3. But aren't private schools more effective than public schools?

Overall, the surprising answer seems to be that public schools are actually usually more effective when family background is accounted for. See here and here. For what its worth, I personally found my public school experience to be excellent, with great teachers and opportunities (of course, with a few exceptions).

4. Aren't public schools places that promote atheism and immorality?

This largely depends on what you mean by "promote atheism and immorality," so it is hard to answer this question. Remaining neutral on questions of religion is not promoting atheism. I think part of the problem is that people hear about some odd-sounding event or policy in a far-away school and immediately begin to think that such events hold for all public schools everywhere. In reality, though, such cases are rarely even representative of that particular school district, let alone with all the schools in that particular state or or in the entire nation. An odd-ball school here or there is not good evidence for a decline in school morality (in fact, they may be the exceptions that prove the rule). When judging this issue, it is wise to rely on your own experience with local schools, rather than relying on sensational reports from talk radio or dubious circulating emails.

For what its worth, I should also point out that public school violence has been decreasing for over a decade -- a point that also seems relevant here. (see Dinkes, R., Cataldi, E.F., Kena, G., and Baum, K. (2006). Indicators of School Crime and Safety: 2006 (NCES 2007–003/NCJ 214262). U.S. Departments of Education and Justice. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office.)

5. What are my reasons for being cautious of vouchers?

My biggest reason has to do with my belief that common public schools can be a unifying force in a diverse American society. If we support public education, we also support the idea that we can come together with people who are different from us to learn from them. What vouchers and private schools often lead to, according to the research, is a homogeneous learning environment. If given a choice, after all, people choose to be with other people who are like them. Common public schools, in contrast, can be a symbol of our belief that we can learn from each other and from people who are different. In my Utah school experience in Salt Lake City, I met people from different religious, racial, and ethnic backgrounds that really enriched my life. I realize this is a bit idealistic and that things do not always turn out so nicely in practice. But it is an idea I want to believe in.

Note that this is not a good reason to support the status quo in many crumbling, underfunded inner-city schools. The welfare of those children in such schools should take priority over my idealistic inclinations. This reason is more relevant to prevent vouchers from being used by students in good schools to escape people and ideas that are different.

6. Under what circumstances would I support vouchers?

First, if the voucher was big enough to actually give poor students a real choice. Second, if the vouchers only go to students whose schools that are truly bad places to be (rather than, say, to middle class parents who don't want their child taught evolution). Third, if guidelines were in place so that private schools had to accept the poor students who applied. If I were in Utah, I would see if the voucher plan fit these requirement, but I'm too lazy to do that right now. I just wanted to point out that I am not categorically opposed to vouchers.

There is my opinion, with that and $2.98 you can buy a gallon of gas today in Columbus.

Bryan Humiliation Stories, Part 1 [Bryan]

I've decided that I want to become a better storyteller. When I talk about myself, I seem so vapid and lame, as if nothing ever interesting has happened to me. Well, there might be some truth to the idea that nothing interesting has ever happened to me. The thing is, an interesting life is not always just lived, but made after the fact through the process of storytelling. As you tell the story of your life, you start to realize things about your life that suddenly make your story interesting. Little connections here and there, a fleeting realization, the development of a plot. Suddenly a person is changed into a Lincoln, a Churchill, an Einstein. A parade of trivia is turned into a great life quest! At least that is my hope.

Here is the story I want to practice today: my first academic humiliation.

So there I was. The year was 2003 and I had just finished my masters degree at UIUC. I was, on the outside, young, confident, and intellectually brash, but inside I was a quivering mass of academic uncertainty. I had written a paper that brought together my interest in Greek literature with my interest in education. It was a wild little essay entitled "Creon's Decree and the Ethics of Educational Policy." I still think it was a good paper. It dealt with King Creon in Sophocle's play the Antigone and his tragic attempt to educate his city about civic duty. I was very unsure of my ability at presenting my work before critical audiences. I feared humiliation. I mustered courage, though, swallowed hard and sent off my paper to be reviewed at a small, regional conference. After a few weeks, I found out the paper had been accepted and, not only that, I had won the graduate student award for best paper. My confidence grew.

The day of the conference, I got up early and drove to Chicago. I arrived a few hours before my presentation and, since I had time to kill, went to hear a few other presentations. I was not impressed. The other papers seemed derivative and boring, especially in comparison to my award-winning essay on Greek political philosophy. I was ready to make my splash.

When it was time for my presentation, I went to the assigned room and waited for the audience to trickle in. And boy did it ever. Once person came in. Then another. And another. Soon the room was filled to capacity, standing room only. I was nervous to be presenting to such a large group, but it was clear that this was my moment to shine. There they all sat, looking at me intently, ready to hear about my award-winning ideas. They had come to bask in to glow of this young graduate student's wisdom, and I was determined not to disappoint them.

Suddenly, one of the conference organizers appeared in the room. "Excuse me," he announced, "for those of you who haven't heard, Prof. Jones's talk on education reform has been moved to room 329. In this room, Bryan Warnick will be presenting on ethics and educational policy."

In unison, the entire audience stood up and left. At least forty people made as quick an exit as they could, eager to hear Prof. Jones pontificate about education reform. I was stunned. Before me sat three people. One of the people was breathing with the aid of an air tank and another person was his helper. They were not in the position to be move very easily, so they decided to stay at my presentation. So, in my first academic conference presentation, I unveiled my work to a grand total of one interested person. She alone saved me from the ultimate academic disgrace: a no-show, an empty room, row after row of completely deserted seats. Bless her soul, whoever see was. I meekly presented my paper, and hurried home.

Best music video of the 00s

Go Indians! [Bryan]

Cleveland sports teams have always held a special place in my heart (at least the Indians and Browns). The reason is simple: my Dad, for some reason, has always been a Cleveland sports fanatic. Thus, I grew up watching Bernie Kosar get beat year after year by John Elway and the Denver Broncos. I also grew up hearing about the Indians mounting one dreary campaign after another. Needless to say, my Dad has chosen poorly: Has there ever been a sports city as forlorn as Cleveland? Has there ever been a city as forlorn Cleveland in general? Now that I live in Ohio, I have an addition reason for wanting Cleveland to succeed. Cleveland success = happy Ohio taxpayers who pay my salary. Go Indians!

My candidate, kind of [Bryan]

Based on this website, my policy views are most in agreement with Chris Dodd, the senator from Connecticut. As many of you know, my inclinations in the presidential race lean heavily toward Barack Obama. The reasons I favor Obama have more to do with intangibles -- character, intelligence, temperament, judgment -- than actual policy prescriptions. Maybe I will blog about Obama shortly.

	Chris Dodd Score: 49	Agree Iraq Taxes Stem-Cell Research Health Care Abortion Social Security Energy Marriage Death Penalty	Disagree Immigration Line-Item Veto
-- Take the Quiz! --

My agreement with Obama actually wasn't too far behind at a score of 44. The candidate that I disagree with most according to this measure, apparently, is Fred Thompson. Finally, I also haven't really made up my mind about the "line item veto." I could be convinced either way on that issue.

Masterpiece of 1980s music videos [Bryan]

Whip Cream Ballet [Bryan]

So, a few weeks ago our ward had a "variety show." Ellie, together with her presidency, did a "whip cream ballet." Ellie was able to show the somewhat goofy side of herself that she often tries to hide under a facade of proper middle class respectability. Some friends of ours blogged about it (thanks Comins). Below is one of the pictures.

Grandma Warnick [Bryan]

Last week was a sad week for us. About a week and a half ago, my Grandma, Blanche Warnick, passed away. I was blessed with being able to get to know all of my grandparents very well -- better than many people, I suspect. My relationships with my grandparents have been some of the richest relationships of my life. Through them, I am connected to the Great Depression, to the War, and to years of perspective and experience. Through them, I was exposed to lives of toil, frugality, faith, and sacrifice. Through them, I know what it is like to milk a cow, to go fishing, to ride on a tractor, to water ski at Lake Powell, to wake up to the sound of farm animals, to work at a college, to drink real milk, to build an airplane. I will not demean them by pretending they are (or were) perfect. They are human. Their value to me does not reside in perfect fantasy, but in solid reality. It is because of them that I now lead a life of comfort and privilege. Their hard work and moral character served as a springboard, I think, for all of us in my family, launching us into lives of remarkable possibilities (from farmers, as it were, to philosophers).

I will always remember Grandma Warnick's welcoming personality. She was unfailingly interested in what I was doing and supportive at every step of the road. Her good humor was a perpetual part of her personality. It was always gentle, always with a bit of self-deprecation thrown in (she would always amuse the family with her continuous attempts to learn Spanish). She was an example of finding happiness in simplicity and treasures in humility.

Rest in peace grandma! A flight of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Wedon'tdothat [Bryan]

I recently read a story that I have been unable to get out of my mind. It has haunted my thoughts and dreams. It is both tragic and inspiring. The story is from the autobiographical account of one man's experience during World War II. The writer is the famous German novelist Gunter Grass. It recently surfaced, to nearly everyone's consternation, that the beloved author was actually a member of the infamous Waffen SS -- Hitler's elite stormtroopers. Although he struggles to remember the details, his account of his time during the war is fascinating reading. Here is the part that I just cannot forget:

Day after day in the morning drill, we went through a ceremony conducted by the corporal in charge of weapons, a man who looked serious on principle. He handed them out, we grabbed them. It goes without saying: every member of the Labor Service was to feel honored by the touch of the wood and metal, the butt and barrel of the carbine in his hands....We thought of ourselves as engaged, if not quite married, to the 98 carbine.

Though I make a point of using “we” here, there was an exception to that rank-and-file, somewhat facile plural. This exception was a lanky boy who was so blond and blue-eyed, and whose profile revealed a skull so elongated that the likes of him could be found only in propaganda promoting the Nordic race. Chin, mouth, nose, forehead—each was the epitome of “racial purity.” .... No one could beat him in long-distance running; no one could match his daring when leaping over musty ditches or his agility when clambering over a wall. He could do fifty knee bends without getting tired. There was nothing, no flaw, to sully the picture. But what made him an exception was that he—his name eludes my memory—was an insubordinate: he refused to take part in rifle drill; worse still, he refused to take butt or barrel in hand; and, worst of all, when our dead-earnest drill instructor pressed the carbine on him, he would drop it. Which made him or his fingers criminal.

With the spade, a basic utensil for everyone in the Labor Service, he did all that he was ordered to do. He would also have received top marks in camaraderie. He was the friendly, good-natured type, always ready to help, and he never complained. Upon request, he would give his comrades’ boots such a regulation shine that they would be a feast for sore eyes, even the eyes of the strictest N.C.O. during roll call. He had no trouble with brushes or dustcloths; it was only the firearm he refused to wield.

Every possible sort of punitive labor was imposed upon him, but nothing helped. He would work conscientiously for hours without a peep, emptying the latrine with a worm-infested bucket on a long stick—a punishment known as “honey-slinging” in soldiers’ slang—only to appear, freshly showered, at rifle drill shortly thereafter and refuse to wield the weapon once again. I can see it falling to the ground as if in slow motion.

At first we merely asked him questions and tried to talk him out of it. We actually liked the fellow, this oddball, this knucklehead: “Take it! Just hold it!” But when they took to punishing us on his account and tormented us in the hot sun until we collapsed, we all began to hate him. I, too, worked up my ire against him. We were expected to give him a hard time, and so we did. He had put us under pressure; we would return the favor. He was beaten in his barracks by the very boys whose boots he had polished mirror-bright. All against one. Through the boards that divided room from room, I could hear his whimper, the snap of the leather belt, the loud counting. These sounds are ingrained in my memory. But neither the hazing nor the beatings, nor anything else, could force him to carry arms.

Morning after morning, when we gathered for roll call and the drill instructor started passing out the weapons, the incorrigible insubordinate would let the one meant for him fall to the ground like the proverbial hot potato and immediately return to his ramrod position, hands pressed to trouser seams, eyes fixed on a distant point.

I cannot count the number of times he repeated his mantra, a catchphrase that has never left me: “We don’t do that.” He stuck to the plural. In a voice neither loud nor soft, he pronounced what he and his refused to do. Four words fusing into one: Wedontdothat.

When he was asked what he meant, he repeated the indefinite “that” and refused to call the object he would not take in his hands by its name.

His behavior transformed us. From day to day, what had seemed solid crumbled. Our hatred was mixed first with amazement, then with admiration expressed in questions like “How can that idiot keep it up?” “What makes him so hard-nosed?” “How come he doesn’t report sick? He’s been pale as a ghost lately.”

Then we let him be. No more beatings on the bare behind. The insubordinate stood above us, as if on a pedestal.

In the end, this morning ritual was cut off by his arrest. “Off to the cooler with him!” came the command.

From then on, discipline and order reigned. Every once in a while, the “convict” came up in our conversations. Someone—was it the drill instructor or one of us?—would say, “He must be a Jehovah’s Witness.” Or, “He’s a Bible nut. No doubt about it.” But the blond, blue-eyed boy with the racially pure profile had never referred to the Bible or Jehovah or any other Almighty; he had said simply, “Wedontdothat.”

One day his locker was cleared out: private things, including religious pamphlets. Then he was gone—“transferred,” it was called. We did not ask where to. I did not ask. But we all knew. He had not been discharged as unfit for service; no, we whispered, “he has long been ripe for the concentration camp.”

And since we knew of the camp, Stutthof, only by hearsay, we thought Wedontdothat—which was what we called him in secret—was in good hands. “They’ll bring old Wedontdothat down a peg or two.”

Was it all as simple as that?

Did no one shed a tear?

Did everything go on as it had before?

I must say that I was, if not glad, then at least relieved when the boy disappeared. The storm of doubts about everything in which I’d had rock-solid faith died down....

To the memory of that blond kid. A boy with courage I don't know I possess.

Ellie's Triathlon [Bryan]

Below are some pictures of Ellie's triathlon. It was a 250 meter swim, a 7 mile bike ride, and a 2 mile run. She has been getting up early all summer to train for it. I'll let her blog about it, if she wants, but I am very proud of her. Way to go Ellie!





Here is some poor quality video of the beginning of the race:

The Thin Red Line - Who are you?

I was walking through Walmart the other day and decided to scan the bargain bin DVD stack. It was, as usual, full of junk. But then I saw a copy of The Thin Red line, one of legendary filmmaker Terrence Malik's few projects. I had seen the movie a few years ago, and I was surprised to find such quality work in the bargain bin. I snatched it up for a mere $5! Those of you that haven't seen it really should. The film is, to put is mildly, unconventional. It is more poetry than narrative, more photographic artistry than film making, more philosophical essay than war movie. Its aspirations are high -- to be the Homer of the modern age. And it almost succeeds.

The film often uses the seldom used voice-over technique. The soldiers in the film reflect on what's going on in the battle (and in their own lives) mainly through a quiet voice-over. Their speech retains the ungrammatical cadences of rural America. But at the same time, their rough drawls are transformed into metaphysical poetry. At times, it is even difficult to know who is speaking -- the confusing mixing of the voices suggests, perhaps, our deeper connection to each other. The clip above is an example of the film's visual and literary artistry.

The film is about many things. It asks how conflict arises in the human heart. It ponders the many ways in which this conflict is manifest. Is seems to ask: How can a world that contains both love and beauty also contain such terrible cruelty and destruction. The film is even more amazed, it seems, at the mixtures of love and conflict, destruction and beauty, that reside in the same moment. Think of a predator taking down his prey.

Some key quotes:

What's this war in the heart of nature? Why does nature vie with itself? The land contend with the sea? Is there an avenging power in nature? Not one power, but two?
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This great evil,where does it come from? How did it steal into the world? What root did it grow from? Who's doing this? Who killing us? Robbing us of life and light? Mocking us with the sight of what we might have known?
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I remember my mother when she was dying. Looked all shrunk up and grey. I asked her if she was afraid. She just shook her head. I was afraid to touch the death I seen in her. I couldn't find nothing beautiful or up lifting about her going back to God. I heard people talk about immortality, but I ain't seen it. I wondered how it'd be when I died. What it'd be like to know that this breath now was the last one you was ever gonna draw. I just hope I can meet it the same way she did. With the same...calm.

The film ends without any strong answer to the perplexities of human conflict. There is a suggestion that love and conflict, beauty and destruction, are both part of one big whole (e.g., it suggests an "opposition in all things" that creates the multi-textured reality we know, love, and hate). There is also a suggestion that peace can be found in reflective pauses, and in such pauses, one can find courage to face such a difficult and beautiful oppositional world. When we stop to think, to be calm, to reflect, we recognize our ties to the world and to those around us. We realize our connection to those we fight with, those we love, and those we love whom we fight with.