Wreckage of WWII sub found

Now, most World War II veterans are battling bad knees and fading hearing, but almost 70 years ago they faced German tanks and Italian bullets and Japanese mines.

Many U.S. servicemen were not able to grow old enough to experience arthritis, and some weren’t even able to be properly laid to rest.

Although Jarrold Clovis Taylor’s family had a memorial in September 1944 and a plaque with his name is in the Ector County Cemetery, his body was never there, and for almost 66 years, no one knew where he or any of the other 77 sailors from the USS Flier had gone to rest.

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Teens say it’s OK to wait

When she goes to school or turns on the television, 16-year-old Permian student Sandra Chavez is often exposed to a culture that celebrates premarital sex.

“From all of the pressure, it’s really hard to save yourself for marriage,” she said.

But Thursday night at CrossRoads Fellowship, she and about 800 other students were able to hear that it’s OK to wait.

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Oh, but I do love this city, you know

I was at Ogi’s Restaurant and Bar one Friday night, drinking with several coworkers and enjoying the night air on the patio as we waited for closing time. We talked literature, Dan Brown to Mark Danielewski, Ann Rice to Voltaire. The bartender sat down to join now and again, and a stranger overheard us and occasionally chimed in (he favored Mark Twain).

When we headed out after last call, a crowd leaving the Black Gold Sports Bar next door had gathered in the parking lot. Two men, or maybe two groups of friends, were having some sort of disagreement and violent posturing was obligatory on the part of some. People shouted, shirts came off, two guys struggled to the ground, punching. It was a dispassionate British man’s narration away from being a National Geographic program.

Anyway, the cops showed up and the show was over, and everyone did what was right in their own eyes and left.

Odessa.

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Truly our collective individuality is wonderful

My Grandpa Rod was an accountant, but even he had questions when it came to doing his own income taxes.

When he called the help line, he never asked questions he needed answered, not right off. He asked several to which he already knew the answer. If the person got them right, then my grandfather asked what he didn’t know. If the person got the first questions wrong, he thanked the fellow, hung up, and tried again with someone else.

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Either the rabbits go, or I do

It began harmlessly enough. One over-sized rabbit downtown commemorating I don’t know what for tourists to come and take their pictures next to.

In the ’90s, Jack Ben was even popular enough to make it in a promotional commercial for the state of Texas. A middle-aged couple talked about the Alamo, the San Jacinto monument and that “big ol’ jackrabbit in West Texas.”

And I dealt with it. He brought people here, which was good for the economy, and Jack Ben and I kept our distance.

Then in 2004, some slobbering imbeciles or consorts of Satan got the bright idea to make more of them, more of these 6-foot-tall bunny abominations, and place them all over town.

I hate that horrible hare and all his Jamboree progeny. I hate them, and I can’t stand to see them around anymore.

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I used to work nights at a gas station

Because I worked alone and because the manager opened most mornings, it was my responsibility to make sure everything was clean and ready to start the new day. In theory, everyone cleaned whenever they got a chance in their shift, but in practice it was rare.

Our public bathrooms were outside, and even though the doors had keys, by the end of the day, especially, the bathrooms were as gross as you’d expect. Transients and carnies seemed to use it to take showers (both men’s and women’s just had a sink, toilet and mirror). In a way that’s anatomically impossible to happen on accident, feces, urine and used toilet paper could be just about anywhere. And for hygienic specifics that need no elaboration, on occasion the women’s bathroom would be far worse than the men’s ever could.

All of this was in addition to the expected grime and trash from the traffic of dozens of people who knew they didn’t have to clean up after themselves.

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My dad is a terrible pastor, but he preaches peepholes

As many people know, my dad is a man of the cloth. That cloth is usually shorts and a sweatband, but then he is the Running Preacher, after all, so this isn’t much a surprise.

As pastors go, he’s really not a very good one. Terrible, even. Most people don’t know that about him. He’s never made much money at it, never been interested in being the boss when it comes to church affairs and never had any sort of political ambition at all, including within the Southern Baptist Convention. (I wish there were more terrible pastors.)

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It’s tough being a middle-class white Christian male

Now some people will legitimately make that argument, although I should make it clear I’m not one of them, at least not without a major caveat.

For all of the successes of civil rights and affirmative action and such, America remains largely controlled by white men, and if middle class doesn’t wield the power, it controls access to that power, and collectively, that’s quite a “might”.

In other words, it’s demographically beneficial to be black, Latino, female, etc., because these things give good statistical appearance, but the language of discourse, the cultural qualities considered, the very definition of “normal” is still firmly white, especially Anglo, masculine, heterosexual, and (Protestant) Christian, although not so much as before, and certainly not so overt.

I might want to check a different box on a college application, but only as a veneer. Ultimately, I wouldn’t want to be any different than I am now because although I’m not The Man, I meet him often and can speak his language. Not just English but what words and how they’re spoken.

So that puts the complaint in context. To be white, especially a white man, in America is to be normal, and it’s terrible to be normal. Keep in mind it doesn’t outweigh benefits, whatever some misguidedly believe, and keep in mind that there’s a difference between outward fact and self-identity, but it is a real and valid complaint.

Jesus blessed are’d the poor and weak 2,000 years ago, but it was the 1960s that really flipped society on its head. We’ve become a society that celebrates diversity, the eccentric, and victimhood. Well, no, that’s not quite right. Everyone wants to be a victim in identity without actually suffering for it, or at least only suffering to an extent that can be quit at whim.

The Irish immigrant and their children wanted desperately to be considered white. The part-Cherokee wanted desperately to pass as white, to vote if nothing else. But with the ’60s, something akin to Christian martyrdom reappeared and victimhood became virtue. The 1/32 Cherokee, 31/32 European was Native American, not white. The person with any Italian ancestors was Italian, not white.

To be white isn’t to be without culture, but it’s considered to be. To speak Midwestern English isn’t without accent, but professionally and commercially, it’s considered without accent. It’s normal, bland, and boring. It is without movement because all things move relative to it. It can’t diverge because it’s the path all trails diverge from. Because of power, sure. Because those with power define it so, but arbitrary definitions are no less real.

Being white in America is to actively seek to be different, eccentric, wherever possible identified as a victim.

The American underdog is a long-held tradition, so no one wants to be considered rich, regardless of income. Ethnicity will be played in a sort of weird continuation of the one-drop rule. Some will throw themselves into causes of the oppressed in the hopes of being identified with them. But mainly, white salvation is only found in subculture.

Now, I don’t want to pick on pagans because they’re not actually offensive or harmful and do get mistreated, especially in the Bible belt. But I can’t take them seriously as a religious minority. I can’t be convinced it’s anything more than playing at religion and minority, fun with chats, Internet-purchased incense and daggers, similarly socially awkward adolescents. Certainly, many Christians, many of any religion, are in it artificially and only for appearances, but stick a gun to the head of many and they would say, “Pull the trigger, for to die is gain.” And they’re sure. Never have I met a gun-to-the-head pagan. They want only to feel a victim for something.

Whether being gay is more nature or nurture, I have no idea. If we can accept that some people are born with both sets of physical genitalia, why not homosexual attraction? But if the argument is, “Why would anyone choose to be gay and a victim of prejudice?” this is plainly wrong. Does anyone honestly believe Lindsay Lohan is a lesbian, including Lindsay Lohan? Yet she claims to be and is even personally offended by homophobia. That’s without even getting into actually weird sexual fetishes ranging from BDSM, scat, and genital mutilation, to the just plain odd ones like vore and inflatophilia. Some, like furries, even try to equate their level of discrimination to that of gays and ethnic minorities historically.

Tattoos, piercings, grunge, punk, hippies, Beats, basically every movement or fad since the ’50s and ’60s, there’s a conscious desire by many, if not all, to be set apart, to be noticed for being different. Notice how even Christian groups complain constantly that they’re a minority group being oppressed. To have lots of people agree with you is better than having almost everyone agree with you.

Minorities obviously have their share of identity problems, too. Our president spoke in his first book about the struggle against stereotypes, normalized black American culture, and normalized white American culture that only went away when he visited Kenya for the first time, where his name wasn’t odd or mispronounced, where knowing a name connected one to family history and belonging. “Here the world was black, and so you were just you; you could discover all of those things that were unique to your life without living a lie or betrayal.”

Very true. But freedom isn’t always liberating. Where there’s no group, only milieu, your individualism will still be sought in groups when your identity is in question. Now white flight isn’t to the suburbs but into anything abnormal, for its own sake.

Knowing this, when asked my ethnicity, I say I’m an American. When asked my lineage, I say Euro mutt, or if pushed further, English. I say I’m of the tiny island nation that conquered a fourth the world, made the empire on which the sun never set. I take pride, openly, in my bland, Man, mediocrity. And I worry I do these things not to be true and honest to myself, but because they’re abnormal.

To be perfectly honest, nobody is

The implication of the phrase “to be honest” is that when you don’t say it, your statement is a lie. And the sad thing is, this is probably true.

The Cynic philosopher Diogenes is said to have walked through the streets of Athens, waving a lamp in broad daylight, proclaiming he was looking for an honest man. Apparently he never found such a man in Athens, and when we hear this, we’re not surprised.

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Libertarianism is right and beautiful

I love July Fourth. Not so much the holiday, I suppose, but what it represents. The sentiments and ideals expressed in the Declaration of Independence are something almost holy.

The government doesn’t rule by rifles and cudgels but the consent of the governed. The state doesn’t exist for the benefit of the rulers but to take care of the needs of the people. Other nations around the world remind us of what we here take for granted.

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