The perils of forgiveness

There's been a lot of forgiving going on lately. Serial killers, political and religious crooks, dictators and even pumped-up, steroid-assisted athletes have all been very publicly forgiven, usually with the cameras rolling.

Somehow, probably because of propaganda from feel good philosophers and clerics, forgiveness has become de rigeur after horrible betrayals and sinister acts. You can almost set your watch by it.

Much of the time, it's a bad idea.

When we first roamed the savannas with our clubs and spears, the idea of forgiveness would've seemed far fetched. If 'ol Murg was a bad dude who frequently hit people on the back of the head to steal their share of a mammoth haunch, the group just quietly (or noisily) did him in. Forgiveness and rehabilitation were luxuries that subsistence hunters could ill afford.

At some point homo sapiens, in his new found wisdom, invented war. Oh, it probably wasn't MUCH of a war back then. It was probably more akin to The Bloods and The Crips on the streets of L.A. This group of 157 people really didn't like this group of 124 people. So let's pound on each other for a while.

But when the dispute, whether territorial or otherwise, was settled, a peace of some sort must be made. Otherwise you condemn yourselves to perpetual war. And once the peace was made, some forgiving (if not forgetting) must be done so that simple trade and free passage can resume.

So forgiving -- both individual and collective -- was born. And, like other sensible behaviors that eventually made it into the holy books, like prohibitions on eating pork and incest, it had a very sensible and practical origin.

The problem with forgiving is that it is affirmative. In subtle ways, it states that a behavior is in some way condoned or allowed. Too much forgiving can gently steer a society toward a swamp where scary things howl in the night.

Of course, some evil is so horrendous and monumental that forgiveness is not only inappropriate, but it's deplorable. Think Hitler or Stalin.

So, what is my ethic on the subject? Pretty simple really:

• Private Forgiveness -- Always granted after a suitable period. This is necessary for mental health and is really a self-defense mechanism of sorts. There is no acid more corrosive than hatred and bitterness and it only consumes the hater, not the hated.


• Public Forgiveness -- This should be doled out much more sparingly, for the reasons stated above. When evil acts take place they should be noted as such, sometimes forever. Only children and the feeble-minded or insane get a free pass. And Hitler, by the way, was not insane. That particular free pass is WAY overused.


• Blanket Forgiveness -- So idiotic as to be beneath contempt for any thinking person.

To preserve and promote the good, there must be a bad.

Bird brain? Maybe it's not such an insult

We humans fancy ourselves to be the pinnacle of creation. After all, we're the primo member of the primo group -- mammals -- right?

Maybe.

This week we mark the passing of Alex the Parrot. Alex was the African Grey Parrot who demonstrated an amazing vocabulary and a remarkable ability to grasp concepts. At least he did these things far beyond what most biologists thought was possible for a bird.

I, for one, was not surprised. I've always been a big admirer of birds and feel that they're underrated in the smarts department.

Oh, I know, there's nothing goofier than the aptly-named nuthatch searching a tree's bark upside down while he makes his goofy noises. And there's a lot of fun to be had watching certain mergansers scoot up and down the lake in their own version of the Keystone Cops.

But many is the time I've approached a crow on the road feasting on an undoubtedly stupid mammal who became the prey of a Buick.

The crow always looks up casually, as if to say "Hey. I've got a few more seconds" has another bite and then lifts off and departs at precisely the last moment to do so safely. Then I see him return after a tight chandelle to resume his breakfast as I depart.

And when's the last time you saw a dead crow in the road with his feet pointed heavenward?

So who's the bird brain?

Take me BACK to the ball game

I've been putting off going to Comerica Park for years now. I figured I wouldn't like it.

I was right.

Some background: I was a die hard baseball fan from the age of about eight to about 38. But the dilution of talent caused by bilious expansion and the musical chairs caused by free agency (sorry Curt Flood, but it's a bummer) made me eventually drift away from the sport.

The sorry sellout of Tiger Stadium by an assemblage of rich guys just confirmed what I already knew ... baseball was about bucks. Not that it wasn't always. It's just that the scales fell from my eyes.

Back to Comerica Park ...

My office held a a "team builder" and took us all to the stadium. It was nice to sit in the sunshine and watch the current (very good) edition of the Tigers go through their paces. Kenny Rogers had his second start back from a long injury layoff and looked sharp.

It was my first visit to the new park and allowed me to either confirm or deny my suspicions about it. The news is not good. Former Tigers General Manager/President Jim Campbell must be rotating in his grave at about 300 RPMs these days. Jim's idea of "entertainment" at Tiger Stadium was to play a baseball game. Oh, and occasionally have somebody plunk on a Hammond organ.

But the new stadium is not aimed at baseball fans, it's aimed at consumers. Every square inch of the park is plastered with advertising, mostly digital and constantly changing. I was exhorted to buy a car, eat a pizza, get insured, slurp a soft drink, take a vacation and improve my lawn. I knew that somewhere in this commercial bazaar a baseball game was going on, but it was sometimes hard to pick it out of the static and din.

The cheap bleachers at Tiger Stadium, which introduced so many generations of kids to the big league game, have been replaced by luxury boxes, restaurants and clubs, and pavilions where people wander around checking each other out.

I also felt like I had wandered into a Konrad Lorenz or B.F. Skinner experiment. There were huge signs telling me when to "MAKE SOME NOISE!!!," etc. And people did. When instructed.

A couple miles away Tiger Stadium is a rusting hulk waiting for the wrecking ball. What a shame.

A little help from my friends

I was painting walls in my house this weekend, which always makes me think of ancient Sumerian legends and the relationship between men and women.

Between brush strokes and roller sweeps I was daydreaming about the Gilgamesh epic. If you’re not familiar with it, Gilgamesh was once considered to be the first real piece of literature in recorded history. I think I heard somewhere that it’s been knocked out of that place of honor by an Akkadian grocery list or something, but Gilgamesh is still dear to my heart.

The epic has several intertwining themes, like immortality, a great flood, etc., but the central theme and the one I find most interesting is friendship. King Gilgamesh has a great friend named Enkidu and, in many ways, the work is an ode to friendship. No coincidence, I think, that the first subject (or one of them) ever written about is friendship.

Men and women? Oh, yeah. I was getting to that.

When I was a young buck and pursuing the ladies, I was drawn to the things that young men are drawn to. A winning smile, French perfume, a D-cup, fancy dance moves, lies about how smart/handsome/macho I was. The usual.

As I got older I got wiser, although it didn’t seem to happen very quickly. I eventually began to realize what REALLY matters in a relationship.

Fast forward to the weekend just past. My girlfriend – Madame X – has watched me worry as I get ready to put my house back on the market this spring. Here in Michigan the economy is in the crapper. One result is way too many houses for sale and too few buyers. It’s going to be an uphill battle to sell mine.

Ms. X, who has her own house, has pointed out that if I did some fluffing and buffing of the old homestead I’d be much more likely to snare a buyer. The ol’ bachelor was finally forced to grumpily agree.

Friday night she arrived with old painting clothes and good intentions.

All weekend, probably a total of about 20 hours, she worked alongside me. We did the paint store thing, the yanking up of carpets thing, the washing thing, the priming thing and on and on. It really is miserable thankless work. Especially thankless for her since it ain’t her house.

Sunday evening she gave me a big kiss and disappeared.

At one point on Sunday I looked across the room at her. She was spattered with paint, her hair disheveled, biting her lip with rapt concentration as she wielded her paintbrush.

I’ve never loved her more.

So, you young knuckleheaded males … when you start to realize that your days of pollinating all the flowers in the garden are winding down and you think you might have met the one you want to be buried next to, ask yourself this question:

Is she friend material?