My buddy Alex here is pictured standing in front of a 7-foot and $350 box  of artillery.  Yes there’s not much more American than these bombs of patriotism, made in China.

May your day be void of Flaming Balls!

Have you ever noticed that the names of fireworks are a little too dildo-like?

I just flipped through an online catalog of fireworks and found the following firework names: Aerial Avalanche, Burst and Bloom, Untamed Retribution, Bada Bing Bada Boom, Komodo 3000, Phantomizer, Bone Breaker, White Knight, Midnight Monsoon.

And the list goes on, but I should probably stop before Annie hollers up and asks what I’m doing. “Oh I’m just trying to find fireworks which have names that sound like dildos. (I’m thankful this is the first time this has ever occurred to me…but is the plural dildos or dildoes?)

Well, they didn’t actually agree, but they delivered the same message. Arianna wrote about it in a piece titled Post Card From Greece: This Should Not Be About Austerity, But About The Future of Democracy. And Glenn Beck delivered it in his last monologue ever on Fox’s Glenn Beck show.

Arianna Huffington is from Greece. (That’s why she talks funny.) Greece is an interesting place to be from these days, with all the protests, spending cuts, and youth unemployment at 40%. She revisited Greece and writes:

But now people are rushing, quite literally, to reengage in civic life. They want to start fresh and awaken the public good. They want a real democracy again. And my daily interactions with Greeks during my visit were a reminder of the incredible talents and abilities and resources that are being wasted.

Nevertheless, the media’s focus is on the shrunken and pinched debate about austerity. Instead of a debate about how to tap into the human and natural resources Greece teems with, all we hear is about how deeply services should be cut.

And what’s going on in Greece right now, to paraphrase the Patriarch, is an extraordinary invitation to reengage. It’s a moment to tap into what’s best about us, to connect those who, as the student in Syntagma Square said, “still have dreams,” and, together, overcome massive challenges.

And Glenn Beck said:

“Nothing’s going to change unless you and I roll up our sleeves and become part of the solution. “

There will be cuts. The next few years aren’t going to be easy. Some believe those cuts are all we need, that if we control spending our economy and the lives it influences will heal. Others believe that we need to spend more. I’m not smart enough to know who’s right, but the truth – as it often is – is likely somewhere in the middle.

But even Arianna Huffington and Glenn Beck, who sit as political polar opposites, agree that the government won’t fix it or screw it up by itself.

You and I are part of the problem, but we’re also the solution.

We hope your Christmas was as fun as a new tricycle!

Today I had two pieces come out. One on farts and one on faith.

Farts on a Plane

Okay, that’s not what I actually titled it but that’s what I call it when I talk to myself, has been entertaining audiences across the country since this spring. I should say mostly entertaining audiences. It really depends on the audience. Basically it’s an 800-word true-life fart joke. I once read it in a church. I’m not sure that was the greatest idea. Laughing at farts in a church just seems wrong. Still, if it grabs the audience early, it kills. But if it doesn’t, oh boy, it’s not very fun working through the second half. So far it has about an 80% kill rate.

I cross-posted it on the Huffington Post along with my blog. Folks complain about the HuffPo not paying anything. They use me; I use them. Seems like a fair deal.

One Day in the Slum

I have two writing rules. Rule #1: Avoid writing about politics and religion. Rule #2: Avoid writing about politics and religion. I break that rule. I’ll post the link to the story tomorrow. Look for it in the morning. I can’t wait for you to read it.

I try to justify it by thinking how tacky and wasteful a 60-foot, $500,000 Styrofoam Jesus is, but I still feel somewhat guilty about it. Look, every religion has their excessive spending – Buddha statues, the Taj Mahal, the Vatican. So who am I to wisecrack about Big Butter? I defer to Heywood Banks on the issue.

In the lyrics of his song Big Butter Jesus, Banks sings, “‘No graven images’ that’s one of the commandments…”

That makes me feel a little better. I don’t think it was invented back then, but I’m pretty sure that by “graven” Jesus meant Styrofoam. Still, I feel that it’s always a bit lazy to rifle through religious texts until you find the one thing that justifies your beliefs. But, feeling guilty or not, that won’t stop me from believing that a blazing Big Butter Jesus is hilarious.

Here’s Banks’ new verse to the song (as read in the Dayton Daily News):

“One night Big Butter got hit by lightning/It burned to the frame wire in a giant grease fire. Some blamed it on Satan, and boy, that would be frightening/But I thought it was Jesus’ father who was in charge of lightning.”

And The new chorus:

“Big fireball Jesus, flaming shot Jesus, charbroiled Jesus, Opa! Jesus, extra crispy Jesus, bananas foster Jesus, I’m put out it’s not Jesus, Charcoal-y O Lord.”

Watch this and let me know how it makes you feel. It cracks me up.

If anything, I think the lesson here is if you are going to spend $500K on a religious icon, for Christ’s sakes don’t make it out of Styrofoam.

UPDATE: Koop, from the comments, took a shot at a new verse to Big Butter Jesus. Here it is…

He served me tea. We small talked and then he told me about how is son killed himself by jumping off the bridge in Limerick into the River Shannon. He recounted the days spent on the river searching for his son. He talked about the man who found his son and how he came to the funeral.

“And that’s not the end of it,” he said.

Three months after his son jumped in the river to his death, his wife did the same thing, leaving the man with five kids to raise.

We sat in the Limerick office of the Samaritans and talked for nearly two hours. The Samaritans operate in England and Ireland. “Samaritans provides confidential non-judgemental emotional support, 24 hours a day for people who are experiencing feelings of distress or despair, including those which could lead to suicide.”

For the past few months and into the foreseeable future, much of my time has been dedicated to the financial crisis, which seems like a pin prick compared to the bomb that was dropped on this man’s life a few years ago. If anyone should be mad at the world, it’s the man.

He broke down several times. But he cried the hardest when he was talking about how beautiful his first granddaughter is and how she pulled the family together. In fact, his family is closer than ever. They volunteer more. They value many things more than money.

“I think this (financial) crisis might be good for society. For us to get back to what’s important.”

Talking to the man was one of them most amazing experiences of my life. I felt that he had been through the fire and come out with this wisdom to share.

Tom with the Samaritans in Ireland and Patricia with Living Goods – an organization that supports family members of someone who died by suicide – made my day of interviews happen. It was a gift. For their support and for their great work, this Tuesday I’m donating $10 to the Samaritans.

Suicide shouldn’t be a taboo subject. Treating it as such only makes it worse on the families who had a love one die by suicide. That’s another thing, we should all know, don’t use “commit suicide.” People commit crimes. People die by suicide.

I would be honored if you joined me in donating to suicide support groups this week. Here are support groups by region in the US and here are groups worldwide.

I bet Heywood Banks, the comedian singing the uber-catchy melody that should be playing right now, has a full inbox this morning because Big Butter Jesus was struck by lightning last night.  This is all that remains…

One of my Facebook friends described it as a praying mantis.

I’ve driven by BBJ, located just off I-75 between Dayton and Cincinnati, many times. I will miss him, not as one who misses a religious monument, but as one who misses the world’s largest piece of fruit located in your home town.  It was a roadside attraction.  There’s not much left to say that Banks hasn’t sung already, so I’ll just wrap up with a few select quotes from the story about the flaming Jesus in the Dayton Daily News.

“It meant so much to so many people,” Browning said. “The statue can be destroyed and gone, but Jesus can’t be.”

…

“God struck God, I like the irony. Jesus struck Jesus,” said Dawn Smith, 25, of Hamilton, who was among those standing outside the vehicles along Union Road. “I had to see it. What else are you going to do on a Monday night?”

…

“It sent goosebumps through my whole body because I am a believer,” said Levi Walsh, 29. “Of all the things that could have been struck, I just think that that would be protected. … It’s something that’s not supposed to happen, Jesus burning,” he said. “I had to see it with my own eyes.”

“I can’t believe Jesus was struck,” said his brother, who noted the giant Hustler Hollywood sign for the adult store across the street was untouched. “It’s the last thing I expected to happen.”

I hope Jesus was insured.

The pebble is polished from countless times checking to see that it was still there. On a deforested hillside swinging a pick next hardworking day laborers, tearing up stumps in Ethiopia, I checked for the pebble. Spending the night on a small couch in the Mathare slums of Nairobi, I checked for the pebble before attempting to close my eyes. In Uganda while talking with a single mother with AIDS about the future of her children, I checked for the pebble. In Ireland, while sitting across from a man who lost his son and wife by suicide within three months of one another, I checked for the pebble.

The pebble was always there. I’d find it in the deep corner of my pocket and rub it a few times between my thumb and forefinger. It almost became a tick. I became self-conscious about it. There’s a name for active hands floundering around in a man’s pocket. I’m not sure if they have pool in Africa, or at least call it pool. I saw a few snooker halls.

“Honest, I’m not playing pocket snooker, I’m just touching my tiny pebble.” I had my excuse ready for any disapproving looks.

I firmly believe that you shouldn’t travel with anything you can’t afford to lose. It’s a good thing too because I lost a lot of stuff on my six-week trip, way more than normal. I lost my cell phone. I left it in a Kenyan friend’s car. It was old. I emailed him to keep it. I lost a pair of underwear. My working theory is that Justin at Rule29 stole them; he’s got underwear thief written all over him. I lost a Moleskine notebook with some contacts I would really like to have back. I left it on a bus in Dublin. For four days AirFrance lost my checked luggage. It included all of my clothes, some of my recording equipment, everything but my toothbrush, computer, Kindle, and, most importantly, the pebble.

At first glance there is nothing special about the pebble. But to my daughter Harper there was something about it that called to her. We were on a walk with my mom in the woods surrounding her home. Harper squatted down, her tiny butt a half-inch from the ground, weeds towering over her head, and she picked up the pebble. A smile crossed her face and her little legs carried her as quickly as possible to Mom. She stretched her arm out and dropped the pebble in Mom’s hand.

“Thank you, Harper,” Mom said.

Mom smiled at Harper who was toddling off to explore the woods further and then Mom looked at the pebble. She saw it too, that special something.

Soon I would be leaving on my trip to Africa and Ireland for six weeks.

“Harper gave this to me,” Mom said. “You should take it with you on your trip.”

I didn’t think much of it. I just nodded and said I would. It wasn’t until I saw the pebble lit up by the African sun that I saw the special something too.

When times are tough and when it seems the only thing in shorter supply than money is hope, the most important thing we can do is see that special something in our family and friends and value it above all else.

Some people have hearts of stone and some wear their hearts on their sleeves. For six weeks the stone was my heart and I carried it in my pocket.

I wanted to go, but the timing just wasn’t good. I would have had to leave from the event and go directly to the airport. I was milking those last remaining moments with my girls and opted to not be hope to her, but be a dad to Harper.

Nuru’s grassroots guru asked me to share a post about their Be Hope to Her events that took them around the country. It’s not out of guilt that I’m posting it, but out of great respect of the fine work that I saw the group doing firsthand in Kenya.

Take it away Billy…

BH2O+ 2010 Highlights from Nuru International on Vimeo.

Earlier this spring, 1500 college students and young professionals on 23 college campuses, 3 city centers, and one international site, decided to take a walk. This wasn’t a protest march, but rather a solidarity experience that allowed men and women in the western world to grow in better empathy and understanding of part of the daily life of one in eight people on our planet.

The event was called “Be Hope To Her” or “BH2O+” and was organized by Nuru International in an effort to inspire people to confront the crisis of extreme poverty.

The participants in the event placed a yellow five gallon bucket on their head and carried the bucket through their town or campus to a water source. At the water source, they filled their buckets with water, and began a journey through the area with about forty pounds of water on their heads.

Each step these men and women took made statistics a reality. No longer were they hearing about the reality of women and girls spending several hours each day gathering water for their families. No longer were they considering the opportunities that these girls and women would not experience because of the consuming need to gather water for their families. No longer was the problem of extreme poverty a far-away issue that affects people “over there.” When these men and women walked in mid-April, they were awakened to the issue of extreme poverty in a way that a statistic or a story of another could never do.

The story of nearly a billion people living in extreme poverty became the story of these men and women who gave up time and other choices for one day so that the people of Kuria, Kenya and beyond might experience a life filled with choices and opportunity. Now there are 1500 new storytellers who can tell about their experience of one day, and the daily experience of millions.

And as you watch this video, these young men and women invite YOU to join us in the fight. They invite YOU to be part of the solution, to be part of the END of extreme poverty. Will you join them in the fight?