Chocolate Jesus

An anatomically correct chocolate sculpture of Jesus dubbed “My Sweet Lord” by artist Cosimo Cavallaro was recently unveiled at the Lab Gallery inside Manhattan’s Roger Smith Hotel. Many people have been needlessly infuriated by this portrayal of divinity in a world already roiling with infuriation and hatred. Although rendering Jesus in chocolate may not rival Michelangelo’s marble Pieta, artists should be granted certain latitude, and we really should be slow to anger in all things.

Personally, I like to think that since we are made in God’s image, and since humor is a human trait, the idea of a chocolate Jesus is, well, pretty funny. And I also think that there is a lot of religion in our world today that takes itself way too seriously. For instance, no fatwas will be issued against Cosimo for his chocolate Jesus sculpture.

I just watched the movie Cool Hand Luke for about the fiftieth time. (You think nobody can watch a movie fifty times? Try eating fifty eggs). When Luke receives word that his mother has died, he grabs a banjo and sings a song which seems apropos to the concept of a sweet lord. Of course, the lyrics needed some updating:

Well, I don't care if it rains or freezes,
long as I’ve got my chocolate Jesus
waitin’ in my basket Easter morn
comes in flavors, sweet and pleasant,
nougat centers, are all fragrant
take Him with you when you are careworn.

Get yourself a sweet Madonna
her virtue’s pure, she’s sittin' on a
pedestal of crunchy candy shell
artists’ statements, they ain't scary
'cause we've got the Virgin Mary,
assurin' us that we won't go to Hell.

Get yourself a sense of humor
God loves fools, well that’s the rumor
sent His son to save us all from sin
a chocolate statue of the savior
won’t make my faith grow any weaker
I have to laugh, and Jesus may just grin.

Here is what the Dalai Lama once said about spiritual needs:

“Human beings naturally possess different interests. So, it is not surprising that we have many different religious traditions with different ways of thinking and behaving. But this variety is a way for everyone to be happy. If we have a great variety of food, we will be able to satisfy different tastes and needs. When we only have bread, the people who eat rice are left out. And the reason those people eat rice is that rice is what grows best where they live.”

For some of us, chocolate grows best where we live. And if chocolate should actually be our salvation, God is merciful indeed.

Make Mine Rare

LIMA, Peru - An extremely rare species of tiny owl has been seen in the wild for the first time, prompting chefs worldwide to plan recipes for this new found delicacy. The long-whiskered owlet, one of the world's smallest owls, was first discovered in 1976. Researchers have caught a few specimens in nets after dark but had not seen them in nature until they were spotted in the wild in February by researchers monitoring a private conservation area in Peru's northern jungle.

The conservancy said in a news release that investigators encountered the owlet three times during daylight hours and recorded its calls frequently at night. The group said the sighting "is considered the holy grail of South American ornithology and French cuisine."

The owl is so distinct that it has been named in its own genus, "Xenoglaux," meaning "strangely tasty owl," due to the long wispy feathers and piquant aroma when served in a glaze sauce.
The owl inhabits the dense undergrowth of highland forests in a remote region of Peru.

"Cooking the long-whiskered owlet is a huge thrill," said Chef Andre of N’est Pas Le Cordon Bleu, who was a member of the research team. "Its population is estimated to be less than 1,000 birds and possibly as few as 250, so we sautéed only a few-- but the ones we cooked were magnifique!”

The eggs of the owlet also make superior omelets, according to Chef Andre, although 24 owlet eggs are typically required for a normal sized omelet due to the owlet’s diminutive stature.

Moose Vasko and the Golden Puck

By late February in Chicago most of us are barely hanging onto our sanity after spending several months in the Siberia of the Midwest. We’re all looking forward to those precious few days in April when we don’t risk frostbite and summer’s promise of brutal heat and Cubs futility are dimly acknowledged but not yet endured. Springtime in Chicago lasts about two weeks, and then it's into the blast-furnace until once more we find ourselves hip deep in snow wondering why we don’t just pack it up and move somewhere warmer in winter and cooler in summer.

Everyone here copes with winter differently, and Methodists react (as they do to almost all things) by holding pot luck dinners. Of course by February, even the most hard-core Methodists need a little extra stimulation to make it to springtime, so we recently held a Luau featuring a pulled pork dinner and an auction which pulled a few bucks from the congregation’s wallets for some good causes.

I find that volunteering for church functions is spiritually rewarding and virtually painless-- since my wife attends all the meetings, and then tells me what I’m expected to do, and what I should wear while I’m doing it. In an incredible leap of faith by the head of the Luau committee, I was given the responsibility of auctioneer third class, which I discharged with the optimism unique to those who are willing to foist pies on folks who’ve just gorged themselves on mounds of pork.

Before the live auction started, various other items were displayed and bid on silently, including sports memorabilia. During this time, the head of the auction committee approached me with a look of concern. “No one is bidding on the pucks, Gary.” My initial reaction was panic, since my wife had neglected to prepare me for the scenario of no bids on pucks.

Carol, who was in charge of the auction, is one of those wonderful women who can coordinate a function involving both pulled pork and bumbling guys like myself for the higher good of both pigs and men. I didn’t want to let her down. “I’ll bid on a puck,” I told her. The relieved look on her face was well worth the bid I placed on an autographed puck signed by Elmer Vasko.

“Who the heck was Elmer Vasko?” I wondered.

Before the night was over, I was the new owner of a puck, signed in gold by #4, Elmer “Moose” Vasko, who, I just learned, was one of the most popular players in hockey when the NHL consisted of only six teams. (Coincidentally, that was also the last time the Blackhawks could rightly claim they were one of the top six teams in the league). What I didn’t know was this: When I was a kid I probably saw Moose Vasko play some of his last games as a professional.

I grew up in San Diego, where the local hockey team was the Gulls, a minor league franchise featuring upcoming stars competing against old guys like Vasko who were finishing their careers on teams like the Salt Lake Golden Eagles, the Portland Buckaroos, and the Seattle Totems. (Naturally, as a Gulls fan, I hated those teams). Mostly though I hated Connie Madigan of the Buckaroos, who was a real goon until he was traded to our team-- and then he was OUR thug so we quit taunting him with rubber chickens and welcomed him into the family.

I’m glad I never hated Moose Vasko, who by all accounts was well liked, a hard worker and probably never deserving of a rubber poultry taunt. His golden puck now has a place of honor on my desk, and the money I spent is now on its way to someone who could use a break. To whoever’s in charge of keeping hockey records-- give the old Moose one more assist, eh?

Right in the Privates

Each year the Newbery Medal is awarded by the American Library Association for the most distinguished American children's book published in the previous year. Susan Patron won the 2007 Newbery Medal for her book “The Higher Power of Lucky.” Normally, this honor results in a big payday for the author as libraries order multiple copies and plan events to celebrate a superior work of kid’s literature-- but there’s trouble right now in River City. In a nutshell, the issue is the word “scrotum,” which appears on the first page of Susan’s book.

As Mayor Shinn’s wife would have said in “The Music Man,” the River City Library has a big Balzac problem. Susan’s book is now being boycotted by some due to its accurate portrayal of canine physiology.

Lucky Trimble, the book’s heroine, hears somebody explain where his dog got bit by a snake. This reminds me of one of James Herriot’s stories, where he describes the torment endured by one of his most pious clients. The man struggles to chastely describe exactly where he got kicked, without compromising his moral beliefs:

“Right in the privates, Mr. Herriot!”

Dr. Seuss never won a Newbery Medal, but maybe, if he had, Green Eggs and Ham might have been a different story...

Bad Words in Books

I am Sue
I am Sue
Sue I am

That Sue-I-am!
That Sue-I-am!
We do not like
That Sue-I-am!

Do you like
Bad words in books?

We do not like them
Sue-I-am
We do not like
Bad words in books

Would you like them
On page one?

We would not like them
On page one
We’d much prefer a
scrotal shun
We do not like
Bad words in books
We do not like them,
Sue-I-am

Would you like
a pup’s nutsack?
Might you like
Some words like that?

We do not like
A pup’s nutsack
We could not like
some words like that
We would not like them
On page one
We’d much prefer a
scrotal shun
We do not like
Bad words in books
We do not like them,
Sue-I-am

Would you like
A doggy bag?
Might that help
Your tails to wag?

Not doggy bag
Not pup’s nutsack
Not Lassie’s purse
Not Fido’s flaps
We will not read them here or there
We will not read them anywhere
We do not like
Bad words in books
We do not like them,
Sue-I-am

Would you? Could you?
I won a prize!
Read it! Read it!
With your eyes.

We will not
Read it
With our eyes.

You may like it
You will see
Buy it for your
Library!

We will not, can not put it there.
We do not want it anywhere.

We do not want your doggy bag
We do not want your pup’s nutsack
We do not want your Lassie’s purse
We do not want your Fido’s flaps
We will not read them here or there
We will not read them anywhere
We do not like
Bad words in books
We do not like them,
Sue-I-am

Say!
Treasure chest?
Dog Treasure chest!
Might some words like that be best?


We still don’t like them
and protest.

We do not want your doggy bag
We do not want your pup’s nutsack
We do not want your Lassie’s purse
We do not want your Fido’s flaps
We will not read them here or there
We will not read them anywhere
We do not like
Bad words in books
We do not like them,
Sue-I-am

You don’t like them.
So you say.
Read my book first
And then you may.
Read it first, please I pray.

Sue!
If you will let us be,
We will read it,
Then we’ll see.

Say!
We like scrotums in books!
We do! We like them, Sue-I-am!
If you write a good story
And doggy gonads are the key
Who are we to disagree?

Since jewels, encased are much like books:
Precious words, held within
The cover’s name is not a sin.

We do so like
Your Lucky book

Thank you!
Thank you!
Sue-I-am!

Proof or Consequences

Forensic Experts At Work

The Golden Age of CSI dazzles us with the latest advances in forensic science. DNA testing can provide juries with irrefutable evidence-- the only problem being that nearly everyone who serves on juries lacks sufficient knowledge of genetic science to refute anything placed before them by DNA professionals. We the ignorant must trust the expert, who gleans and interprets.

Just in time for Lent the Discovery Channel has received a sweeps-week epiphany and will soon reveal to the world that the J. Christ family’s burial plot has been discovered in Jerusalem. Christians will be shocked to learn that our savior did not actually ascend into heaven as proclaimed in the gospels, but instead was boxed up in an ossuary and currently molders in a Jerusalem warehouse under the auspices of the Israeli Antiquities Authority.

This news is guaranteed to put a big damper on Easter celebrations worldwide, and trumps the demotion of Pluto on the scale of biggest letdowns in recent memory.

Any television docu-drama that challenges the religious beliefs of 2 billion people is expected to present a panel of experts who (for a few pieces of silver) will provide the show with a patina of professional authority. In this endeavor the Discovery Channel has spared no expense, hiring archeologists, historians and DNA experts. The captain of this titanic production was James Cameron, who not only produced “The Jesus Family Tomb” but also directed a certain movie featuring a ship that currently sits on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. That Titanic was designed by experts, proclaimed unsinkable, but promptly sank-- so much for the opinions of experts.

For "The Jesus Family Tomb,” director Simcha Jacobovici’s paid professionals cobbled together a case that puts Jesus into a nice little box instead of at the right hand of God. Untroubled by the historical significance that two billion people on earth may have bet the wrong theological horse, Jacobovici calmly asserts that "People will have to believe what they want to believe."

This, of course is exactly why I will join two billion of my fellow Christians on Easter Sunday to celebrate the resurrection of Christ, despite any evidence presented by the Discovery Channel to the contrary. After all, Hebrews 11:1 tells us that “faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

And, for the record, I also believe that Pluto is really a planet.

The Zodiac Gorn

The release of the Zodiac movie brings back childhood memories. San Franciscans were petrified during The Zodiac Killer’s reign of terror, and even though we were never in any real danger down in San Diego, my mother kept us in a state of hysteria which usually reached its zenith once a week when my dad taught his night school class in telescope construction to budding astronomers and voyeurs who wished to enhance their knowledge of optics so they could watch their neighbors doing the Andromeda strain.

After dad left for his class, mom immediately locked all the doors, including our front door which was solid wood, except for the upper portion. Although almost half of the door was glass, it did have a sturdy red velvet curtain with little black tassels which, while deterring serial killers, was also like a red flag to a bull for interior designers.

Upon securing the perimeter, mom nervously read the lurid headlines regarding the Zodiac Killer’s latest victims, and made small whimpering noises which suggested that, as the alpha kid, I should do something to make her feel more secure while dad was busy showing perverts how to grind their lenses.

The most dangerous thing in our house I was allowed to touch back then was a bright red SwingLine power stapler, which could fire a 9/16” chisel-legged staple into the head of any serial killer who would hold still long enough for me to squeeze off a round or two using both of my trembling hands. Looking back now, I’m sure I could have taken out the interior designers, but probably not a murderous madman.

Back in those days my bedtime was 9:00pm, and after I passed the SwingLine to mom she was pretty much on her own for another 90 minutes or so until dad got back home, nervously putting his key in the door knowing that a trigger-happy woman was inside armed with a stapler.

At some point after the Zodiac affair subsided, mom felt comfortable enough to let me accompany dad to his telescope making class. I’ll never forget that night because when we both got home around 10:30 some show called Star Trek was on TV with someone named Captain Kirk trying to kill a giant green lizard using some stuff he had scrounged up on a barren planet. I was totally hooked.

In this world of computer generated graphics it’s hard to explain to present-day kids that a guy wearing a lizard head rasping interplanetary death-threats was pretty scary back in the sixties, but the funny thing is that while Captain Kirk was able to craft a weapon deadlier than a stapler, I had no idea back then that our garage held more lethal ingredients such as sulfuric acid and acetylene gas. Had I known that, I would have abandoned the stapler, armed myself with some gas bombs, and immediately would have demanded a raise in my allowance.