For all the Saints

Today is All Saints day. At worship this morning, we were invited to celebrate the saints who've gone before us by testifying to their witness in our lives-how they, the saints at peace in Christ, showed us the Gospel. Instead of a gospel sermon in the usual fashion, were were privy to the gospel via stories of redemption & remembrance. It was a sweet time of honoring the dead in Christ.
For me, many souls came to mind. Istill say, the woman appointed to speak the crux of the gospel of Jesus Christ to me, was Betty Williams. This morning I could have attested to her faithfulness. If I were to stand right there in front of you now, dear reader, I'd repeat what I've said before.
I'd say she taught the Word so as to send it out to the dark recesses of my dark heart for safe-keeping. That, when some thirty years hence, I went overboard drowning in sea of relativism and caverns of darkness, her sound exposition of the Word of God resonated. It still does.

She would be the first to tell you that she herself was not faithful, nay, God himself was perfectly faithful for her, in sending Christ. As it turns, because of God's great faithfulness to saints like Betty, the rippling continues. We too can join with those who have gone before and declare the righteousness of God as our salvation. He, seeing our great need, came to us, lived among our kin, lived a spotless life for us, then took our iniquity on himself. To beat all, he defeated the last enemy death by his bodily resurrection. Thanks be to God for that great gift, and for sending his earthly shepherds who urge us to consider the efficacy of the Christ's gospel.

Sola Deo Gloria

The End of Rest?

Contemplating the end of convalescence, I decided to come back to blogging for awhile. It has been since late September that I last penned (tapped/typed) a thing. Work will be back on the docket tomorrow. So, it is with tad of sadness I bid adieu to this time of repairing. Perhaps I can take a slice of this time with me back to the 'work day' mentality; may I remember to rest, to take it slow at first, and to lean into the goodness of God when the insanity of the daily grind intensifies.

As you all ponder work days, whatever that means for each of you, be it the proverbial 9-5, the home-office freedom, the cold calls of sales, the government servant, or the soul looking for work, be mindful of what your body tells you. And foremost, be mindful of the fact you were created, not dreamed up or morphed. Take time to worship the God of creation. Be still, know that he (alone) is God.

Hysteria?

There's much to do before I head out the door Monday, September 21 for the hospital. I'm headed there to part with my uterus, fallopian tubes, and one remaining ovary. I'm ready to leave now, but hospitals are not in the business of welcoming the premature these days unless you happen to be an infant.
I keep looking for that other shoe to drop, but no thing prolapses. Waiting has been more difficult than this, and, compared to other waiting done, this pales. The prior post on peace might have a thing or two to do with that, the Giver of the Peace the more, I'd say. So I'll wait for the difficulty with one eye open. My restless heart is restless like the Egyptian Bishop's, til it rests in Thee, O Lord.

And I got to thinking (this, my friends, is one of the dangers of being me, a two edged sword, is the act of thinking) what about the etymology of this word, hysterectomy? I recall seeing a photo in a psych textbook depicting a forlorn woman wailing in the confines of a mental institution whilst suffering with what was then called hysteria. Hysterectomy: hystera Greek for womb, and ektomia, for cutting out of. Those pictured women in that textbook were thought to be mad with hysteria, Hippocrates theorized, because of a lack of conjugal relations. His proposition: the uteri dried, was therefore light, migrating north in the body, pressing on other vital organs, creating an interior physical disturbance that would, therefore, lead to madness. Like much of what is 'theorized', by the scientific, I can only shake my head and mourn for those dear women who were misdiagnosed by those situated to do so from Hippocrates to the present day.

I can assure you that if a lack of sex were the cause of hysteria, I too would be featured in the pages of a textbook, swooning from the condition. Think me too forward? Perhaps.

I can steel myself from the misinterpretations of the word hysteria, the stigmas, the wrong-doing, because, it has not been done unto me. I've even joked that I'm submitting to a hysterical-ectomy. For those dear souls, men & women who suffer from mental illness, this is not the case. Their battles have nary a thing to do with floating uteruses. I'm no modern day crusading Dorthea Dix. I haven't the the fortitude to fight that cause, I'm a vain blogger who's getting ready to lie down to ether, reflecting on the etymology of a word. As I reflect, I wonder if we might, you and I, stop and ponder before uttering words like hysterical, hysteria, or any other word for that matter.

Peace

For the troubled mind, for the weary, for the broken-hearted, there's but one solace. I submit to you it is the peace of Christ. Just as his supremacy is like light scattering darkness, so his perfect peace is. It is not because I believe it to be true, it is not mere existential truth. Nay, this peace of Christ has been from before the foundation of the world. This same peace reconciles us to the Father through Christ the son, by the Holy Spirit. He is the first, he is the last. No one comes to the Father but through Christ. I cling to the Gospel of peace for my life in the now, and for the life to come. Sola Deo Gloria.

Hope

Witness this wonderful rendering of T.S. Eliot by Nashville artist, Dick Murphy.
Today has been a lovely day full of the prospect of hope, due in part to Dick's fine capture of the brooding poet. Also, life is sometimes difficult beyond imagining. There are griefs, sorrows, hurts, and sufferings too numerous to count. Sometimes we find ourselves situated between a rock and a hard place. Eliot knew these dire roads. Yet he used words to provoke hope:

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope


For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,


For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith


But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.


Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:


So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.






from The Four Quartets East Coker

Thanks be to God for the gifts of T.S. Eliot and Dick Murphy.

Faces & Haiku

I joined Facebook about the time the spinmasters say it is going out of vogue. That's about right. I dug in my heels and would not consider it for the longest. Fear motivated that choice. Tired of fear. So- here we go.

I took an old friend's advice and wrote a poem about it:

Paranoid fools fear
Kept her away from faces
Some of whom she loves.

What's Up Doc?

I'll answer that question for you- my friend RoseAnne Coleman, er, Dr. RoseAnne Coleman, writer, speaker, & teacher is up and blogging, here. It would do you well to read her posts, and her book, The Stories I Keep. She has much to offer you, the reader. I know you'll appreciate her wit and wisdom, wrought by the caldron of God's mercies, new to her each day.

ENJOY!!!

Advice

I think of the word advice as intrusive, for some reason; or, maybe it is the doing of it that seems so, not the word itself. Yet, its sound, advice has a sharp edge to it, like a sword's blade. Sometimes, advice is most disruptive when it is not sought. I must say I'm practiced at giving it prematurely, but that is the subject of another essay, for another time.

Last night, friend RoseAnne Coleman, asked fellow diners and celebrants if we might ponder and share what advice we'd impart up to this point of our lives lived. I thought for a moment, and offered this:

You can run, but you cannot hide.

Someone far wiser than I said it before me. For much of my life, off and on, I lived by the maxim that if one stays busy, attendant to the task at hand, or given to the destruction inherent in a life spent running without rest, one might succeed in hiding. Our good God has proved me wrong by his gentle mercy over and over. One of the best renderings of the idea is captured in
David's Psalm 139: 7-12:

Where can I go from your Spirit?
Or where shall I flee from your presence?
If ascend to heaven, you are there!
If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
If I take the wings of the morning,
and dwell in the utter most parts of the sea,
even there, your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.
If I say surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light about me be night,
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is bright as the day
for darkness is as light with you.


The definition of advice (www.dictionary.com)
includes the word visage: the face of a person; countenance.

The sobering fact is plain: there is no place to hide from God. Because of his great love, in Christ's intercession, His face is toward you-always.

May I seek his advice, though it slay me, he is always and only good.

Peace and Dignity

Over a year ago, Jerome Sidney Barrett was indicted for the murder of Marcia Trimble. Just last Saturday, a jury of his peers convicted him of the crime of second degree murder in two counts. He'll likely spend the rest of his life in prison. Oh there'll be appeals, there'll probably be petitions for post-conviction relief. The lawyers will wrangle about the issues and posture to the judges, as with every case. I listened to most of the trial, and relived a great portion of the winter of my 12th year. Much came undone. Anguish surfaced. Fear stirred. After the verdict was rendered, Marcia's mother spoke to the media. Standing in the wake of three decades of swirling horror and grief, she literally sighed relief. Much of the time, a sigh of relief is bland poetry. For Virginia Trimble Ritter, last Saturday, it was reality. A well-meaning reporter asked her if, now, at the conclusion of the trial, she might have closure. Her response was gracious. She said something like this:

I think I'll have to see what Mr. Webster says about closure, I don't think I know what that word means. But I can say this. Today, I'm on the other side of pain.

Waiting thirty-four years for a killer to be found and brought to justice will leave a woman wanting. It'll slice you up and spit you out. Mrs. Trimble-Ritter has lived to tell. She has endured the dark nights, the fierce days, and attacks of hopelessness. At the end of this leg of the journey, Marcia's death still looms, and I'm sure it does in a new way for Mrs. Trimble-Ritter.

One of the details I appreciate about indictments in Tennessee, is the verbiage that follows each allegation. At the conclusion of every count of every indictment, prior to the District Attorney General's signature is the phrase that prompted my writing today:

in violation of T.C.A. 39-13-.....and against the peace and dignity of the State of Tennessee.

At every trial the indictment is read into the record, and those words jangle in the mind of a jury; against the peace and dignity. In the Barrett trial, I was fortunate to hear colleague Katrin Miller read the indictment. I focused on those words through-out the trial and at the end felt a curious peace, not so much afforded by the State, or to the State, but rather that peace that passes understanding, the contentment that comes from a long journey's endurance.

May Virginia Trimble-Ritter have attained some peace & dignity. She has shared hers well. Even in the revisiting of great sadness, I pray she be sustained. One day, all of what was lost will be restored to her, to Marcia, to us.

Sola Deo Gloria.

School Days

This post is for the parents and teachers. Kids can read it too. G-rated. I promise. But primarily I'm thinking of the adults who are either breathing a sigh of sweet and/or anxious relief that this leg of the journey is nearly over. It seems like just yesterday that little junior was born...how can this be that my eldest child is graduating from high school? Or, how is it that the first year of teaching at this new school is almost behind me..?
It is all in the blink of an eye, I suppose, because that is the nature of time, it is, at its core temporal. And, the good news for you is this, in eternity, there will be no tests, no hurdles of achievement or comparing one's child to another, no competition. As you pack up the things of your child, or your classroom, and you begin to ponder the stress of next year, take five. Stop a minute, if only in your mind and submit to the everlasting truth for which we wait, the very reason for which education was lauded in the first place: Jesus.

Christ has already won the prize, and there, in heaven with him, we will be about the business of worship. Always. Forever. Amen.

Confession

Cowardice and pride are at the root of what stalls me from living out my salvation with fear and trembling. Ugly sin to be sure, but thanks be to God, I have an advocate of the utmost courage and true humility. Fall now at the feet of him who saves. God's peace be with you friends, [for that peace is the only peace which will do].

Go this rain-soaked day and do what it is you do: write, counsel, argue, serve, teach, instruct, rest, live, and die......well, with courage.

Back in the Swim

Sigh.

It's hard to convey how deep that opening sigh is. Please use your imagination(s) This past Saturday, I planned to attend a writing workshop. As is usually the case, when I even stop to think about prattling on in writing, I get the jitters-picture multiple sighs as manifest in the muscles of your heart. I hemmed. I hawed. Thanks be to God, I went.

So, I decided to start posting here again. There's an awkwardness to the first plunge. Or should I say re-plunge? At the workshop, I wrote a verse about the swim class in which I was enrolled-as an infant. Yep. An infant. With apologies to Saint Paul and the Holy Spirit of God, when I was a child, I swam as a child, now that I am older, I still swim as a child.

In the interim- this long delay between posts, I waited on the side of the pool. I waited for the desire to stop writing. It never really took, but for a time, I had no words. There was the tradition of the Lenten season-how convenient for a law-keeper! So I waited longer.

For those of you waiting on God, keep waiting-listening. And when the time comes, jump in, the water's fine.

Sola Deo Gloria.

Mysterious

William Cowper was a poet and a hymn writer who lived a desperate life, oft challenged by despair. In fact, so deep was his darkness that he attempted suicide many times. While a patient in a mental hospital, he was in the care of a compassionate soul who lead him to Christ.

It is said that even after his conversion, Cowper suffered greatly. Yet he clung to the one who saves and wrote many poems and hymns in testament to his Savior. Surely it must have occurred to Cowper that though he was a new creature in Christ, his life was, from time, to time, still a troubled one. Perhaps that what he pondered when he wrote this hymn:

God Moves in a Mysterious Way

1 God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.
2 Deep in unfathomable mines of never-failing skill
He treasures up his bright designs, and works His sovereign will.
3 Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break in blessings on your head.
4 Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
5 His purposes will ripen fast, unfolding ev'ry hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flow'r.
6 Blind unbelief is sure to err, and scan His work in vain.
God is his own interpreter, and He will make it plain.

This hymn was sung today at the church I visited. As we sang verse four, I literally laughed out loud. Not a guffaw laugh, but an epiphanous giggle. I have long judged the Lord by my feeble sense of reality. I've given him what for and railed at him because of my own circumstance. Perhaps it is the life-long issue with which I wrestle, and by which I grow into sweeter communion with the God who is mysterious, yet faithful. For though I struggle and strive with him and his purposes, he mercifully tends to me by his infinite grace.

Sola Deo Gloria!

Dad and Dylan

It is no small wonder I am given to music. I grew up listening to my Dad sing a lot. He is not a trained or professional singer but he could have been. He loved then, and loves still, a good song. I mentioned Dad's penchant for song in this, the first post of this blog, May 22nd, 2008. Here's the relevant excerpt:

I remember my dad holding his hymnal out and lowering it a bit so I could see and sing along; my dad's deep baritone voice fully engaging the melody. Every so often, dad would start singing the harmony, and off I'd go, on the same trail, sometimes making the note, sometimes not, but seldom, if ever, staying on the melody. He'd gaze over his glasses, quizzical that I'd not harmonized. I wanted to sing with him, to go with him on that wild adventure of hymn singing!

Even though my dad's devotion to hymn singing is a big part of his repertoire, he is fond of popular tunes too. Cole Porter, Gershwin, Rodgers and Hart, all the greats. Vocalists like Frank Sinatra and Perry Como are two of his favorites. Being a rowdy "Deke"in college, he is prone to start wailing what I call bar tunes or drinking songs every now and again. Songs like Columbus Stockade Blues, for instance.

Originating in the 1920's the song immortalizes a Columbus Georgia jail that housed petty criminals of every stripe-drunks, thieves, and other 'ne'er do wells'.

If you listen close you can hear the plaintive lament of the narrator reverberating off brick walls of the jail :

Way way down, in Columbus Georgia,
Lord done turned his back on me,
Way way down in Columbus Stockade,
wanna be back in Tennessee..

Go and and leave me if you wish to,
never let me change your mind,
if in your heart, you love another,
leave me little darlin' I don't mind
leave me little darlin' I don't mind.



Imagine what delight I had to find that Bob Dylan has affinity for this particular tune too! In reading the first installment of Dylan's memoir, Chronicles, Columbus Stockade Blues is mentioned as a song he favored and sang early in his folk career.

But to really hear this song, you ought to hear my daddy sing it.

His a capella rendition is so blue it'll make you want to weep. Dylan is a poet and a king of story, but he could learn a thing or two from Dad.

Wallace Mercer R.I.P.

I noticed the other day a fellow blogger described my blog penned under the name Wallace Mercer as pseudonymical serenity. That alone gives me pause for what I'm about to do. Many of you already know me by my real name. Humor me while I entertain the fantasy that the word 'many' could mean there are thousands of readers out there. Whether I have a few or many readers, I've reached a decision to begin prattling on under the name given me by my earthly father and mother: Karen Ann Fentress.

In taking this action, I put to rest this fine name, Wallace Mercer; One taken so I could speak under a cloak. It is with a profound sense of gratitude that I release this veil. His name, conjured some five years ago by me, is actually a very real person. Wallace Mercer was, according to Wikkipedia, the chairman of the Scottish football club, the Hearts of Edinburgh from 1981-1994. He is best remembered for the controversial merger he attempted of the two rival teams in Edinburgh, the Hearts and Hibs. One need not be an expert in football or business to know that pushing for a joinder of enemies, whether for simple financial gain, or for the purpose of eternal good can make for some nasty conflict. That was the case for the real Wallace Mercer. His death in 2006 was was just prior to a match between the Hearts and Hibs. Some fans, still angered by his audacious attempt to merge the clubs, shouted disrespectfully during a moment of silence held in Mercer's honor. Presumably, it was both teams' fans that yelled during the silence. It usually comes down to that.

I do not know this real man. I know nothing about his virtue or lack thereof. Because I think this story has meaning, I won't pretend the real Wallace Mercer was someone to esteem. What I do know, is the name I chose for my veil is one I'm glad to have used. I chose Wallace because of Wallace Stevens, the complicated insurance executive/lawyer turned poet. I chose Mercer because it hints at the word mercy-a quality of God's I scarcely apprehend, yet for which I am exceedingly grateful.

Wallace Stevens is not a poet I read with regularity, but I fancy myself as like him, a bit. I do practice law. I tend to be a bit verbose, as poets can be. And Mercer, or mercy. I hesitate to even speak on the topic. Mercy and grace are words that, from time to time, are used interchangeably. The distinction is not readily apparent. The words of Rolfe Barnard clarify the difference for me:

Mercy is God's favour that holds back from us what we deserve.

Grace is God's favour that gives us what we do not deserve.-Rolfe Barnard

Perhaps it can be said that mercy is the greatest of the qualities of God. I've said it before here, on this blog, because of God's just wrath, you and I deserve death, the punishment for sin is simple and clear. But Jesus took our place. In him alone can we experience the true grace of the Father. I said I hesitate to even speak of mercy- in doing so, it seems to me, mercy is me centered-concentrates on what I can receive of him. But the more I think on it, the more God avails himself to me, mercy is his and his alone, and he, in his infinite goodness, chooses to give it.

Wallace Mercer, the real man, dared attempt the unthinkable. He was, if only in my imagination, a sort of radical to believe two warring factions might be one. I think it a tad hopeful that in my old pseudonym there's more to cherish than I originally intended. As the old, new me, Karen, may I write with hope of reconcilation in mind as a testament to the real Wallace Mercer. Not recklessly or with impure heart, but ever aware of the cost my dear savior paid for my falleness; May I sit one day in heaven over a tall pint of beer with the real Wallace Mercer, but always give thanks to God for his dear mercy in making us both. Rest in Peace, Wallace.



Soli Deo Gloria

FINE & NICE Warning: Opining ahead

In the last post, When words lie, would it make a difference to you if you later found out the speaker (attorney) was not talking to a client, but to her own son? Does it sound more or less egregious? Or is it what it is, an untruth? I wonder that. Of course this really happened, but I do not know whether the woman (whom I do know to be a practicing attorney) was chatting to a client or to her child.

The gravity of what she said shook me.

I do not care for the word fine to describe much, except hair, weather, the coat of an animal or human outerwear, a fountain pen, things of that nature... To describe the outcome of marital fracture, as fine, no matter how amicable, is simply lacking and perhaps a wrong-headed choice.
Well, you might say, she was only trying to be nice. Maybe so. Fact is, this attorney is one I would hire- she is professional, courteous, smart.

Nice is, as fine is, a word that ought be limited to describing weather, fountain pens, and jump shots-you get my drift.... I am of the less than humble opinion that describing a person or their conduct as nice is short of what one really intends-less than accurate. Nice and fine are words that can be over-used, with abandon, and with little thought for their impact upon hearing.

Of course, of course (off course is more like it) I digress. The original intent of this post was to ask you what you thought about the scenario changing in the last post-if the listener were not the client, but instead the attorney's child, would that change the impact of what she said...?

I do not think it makes a difference, in the end. Words matter, because the hearts and souls of speakers and listeners matter. Words are what we have to spend on one another to share truth by kindness. The words it's all going to be fine, no matter what the it's is, convey a certainty the speaker cannot know and move past the present grief with a there, there placation of disrespect.
I warned you this was an opinion piece. I hope it was fine. What's your opinion? I would like to hear from more of you. If you choose to reply or comment, dare to be respectful and kind, not nice. ( insert smiley face here ).

When words lie

This past Friday morning I overheard one half of a cell phone conversation as I entered the office on 222 Second Avenue . The speaker was dressed as a quintessential divorce attorney; shod in Prada, clothed in Karan, wrapped in Burberry cashmere, she lugged a cart full of files. Chirping into her blackberry she offered this to the person on the other end:

I know it's awful, I know it's hard, people get divorced everyday, it's all going to be fine.


She had the truth until the latter phrase. Ask a dear one you know that has travelled the road of divorce. Ask em if it is all fine. See what they say.

God have mercy; heal our hearts.

On Death and Fury

Weeks back, a friend was laboring over whether to attend a funeral; the reasons were complex, and my friend's heart was vexed. As he related his conflict, grief and dismay, I remembered a conversation I had with another friend on another day, several years ago.

This other friend and I had attended a funeral of a mutual friends' father. We'd come out of the chapel, reflecting on feelings and thoughts evoked for us by the pleasantries and superficiality during the visitation portion of the ritual. The phrases like well, he's in a better place now and don't he look good in that fine, navy blazer mock the fierce quality of death. On that hot summer day with my friend, the natural light was a true welcome, having been pent up under fluorescent lighting as celebrants of death, I longed for fresh air. We stood on the hot pavement and mused what it might be like if someone were to erupt in fury over the lunacy of this custom-the polite dance around the horror of death. I proposed the best time to do so would be right there, in the midst of gathered friends and loved ones; there it would have impact. I have such a tale in my life's history.

In 2002, a dear friend, my Protestant god-mother, I liked to call her, succumbed to the clutch of death. In life she had been vibrant, a mother of four boys, and friend to countless, and was my mother's closest friend for over forty years; she and her family were knit with ours, so much so that the offspring of each clan call the others' parents 'aunt' and 'uncle'; though we share no known bloodline, save for that family into which we are grafted by grace*. Simply put, her death devastated me. There is more of that story to be told, I digress.

On the eve of her burial, we all, family, friends, old business partners, acquaintances and neighbors assembled at Roesch-Patton funeral home to literally rub elbows and chatter ever so hopefully while a very dead friend lay in the adjoining room. (The words funeral home themselves are worth the energy of another post-what contrast!)

The crowd was overwhelming. Eventually, we adult children, my sister, and the three remaining boys of this woman now gone, collected ourselves to view the body-a strange pagan custom that smacks the vitality of the resurrection in the mouth, but, that's what this little narrative is about...so...

There we stood, shoulder to shoulder, dressed to the nines, in fine woolens and cottons. Peering into the fancy box of walnut or cherry that held her frame, I scanned what I could see of her neatly arranged corpse. How strange, how breathtaking, were thoughts I kept to myself. The longer we stood silent, we held onto one another for support, and for hope's sake. Tears welled up. We shook with sorrow.

I was praying this dreadful vigil would end when one of the boys spoke up, sniffling: She looks good, doesn't she? There was palpable silence. Rankled to near violence, the youngest brother fumed through clenched teeth: Good..??? She looks good?!?? Goddamn it, she's dead, she doesn't look good."

And so the prophet had spoken. Stabbed awake by the awfulness of death, we stared aghast at the speaker, and then back at her decaying body. There was nothing more to say on that strange night, so we departed in silence.

Be it an awkward attempt to comfort, or protective flight from sorrow, we all, at one time or another, speak when a sobbing silence might be good wisdom- painful, but good. On the other hand, this story exists because of precipitant words. And so there is, thank God, grace.

The family of grace* I mentioned earlier....the Church triumphant, can afford to scream in the face of death, as the younger brother in this story. Not by any merit we ourselves have won, or by irreverent fury for pain inflicted, no, only by the finished work of our Redeemer in both his blessed sacrifice and glorious defeat of death on the third day.





Soli Deo gloria.

Irony

There are plentiful examples of irony out there, but I stumbled on a good one today. While watching some coverage of the Hudson River plane ditching and rescue, I was awed by the coordinated efforts, the stunning videos. I had exhausted pretty much all there was to see when I noticed an advertisement out of the corner of my eye on CNN. Apparently you can buy T-shirts with CNN headlines on them; you can 'sport' the news on your chest. One such T-shirt available for purchase says " Obama elected the 44th president ". For all the grousing the mainstream media does about big business greed, I think their creative genuis is rich irony.
On many levels, the election of a president is news. It's not just news anymore. You can buy it. It is for sale. Not just once, but many times over. Check this out, I kid you not.

The Walls Have Ears

Maybe it is because I had little sleep last night- or maybe it is because I am genuinely paranoid; I took some comfort in this-

Knowing that, even if it is true, I can laugh.

borrowed from: http://xkcd.com/525/