Horizons

I think I'll pick up next time where I left off - the teaser.  First, I need to set the scene of what it's like to be a gringo in the midst of Nicaraguan society.

Before I made it to Valpo, the chorale recorded "Horizons" by Peter-Louis Van Dijk on their As It Is In Heaven album.  Some of the lyrics will serve to organize this post.  I've never had the chance to sing it, but it has affected me powerfully in the ways it relates to the cultures I've come to know south of my home country.  The song relates the story of the San nation in South Africa, and is based on a cave painting dating to the time the first "gringos" showed up on the scene.

Sleep, my springbok baby, 

Sleep for me, my springbok child, 

When morning comes I’ll go out hunting, 

for you are hungry and thirsty.

Like most of the native peoples on the American Continent, the San were short on stature and steel compared to their new white counterparts.  They were an exceptionally peaceful people, a trait used very effectively against them.  Rather than fearing or repelling the white men, they sought to form friendships through gift-giving and continue their way of life.  They admired their height, skin, and opulence as godlike.

When morning comes, they’ll come a-hunting, 

for they are hungry and thirsty. 

In Nicaragua, there's a plaque with a quote attributed to Niracao-Calli, a local chieftain:


"The Spaniards know about the flood, (and) who placed the stars, the sun, and the moon.  (They know) where the soul was.  (They know) how Jesus, being man, is God, and his mother a virgin giving birth, and why so few men wanted so much gold."


Unlike Costa Rica, Nicaragua had three valuable traits: a large population, vast natural resources, and a transit route across the American continent.  All three were taken by force when the Spanish used slaves to transport gold, timber, and other goods between the Pacific coast and Lake Nicaragua, where they could be exported up the San Juan and away to Spain.  They pillaged the country, leaving a trail that leads today to Nicaragua's status as the poorest country in Central America and the second poorest in the Western Hemisphere.

They will come across the waters: 

Mighty saviours in their sailing ships, 

And they will show us new and far horizons.

But hey, I'm not Spanish.  My ancestors didn't "colonize"anyone - they just took tracts of "unused" land and "cultivated" it through the Homestead Act.  I'll ignore the direct influence their tax dollars later had for now, except to say that I've been pretty disgusted with my own U.S. History education after learning about William Walker, the Banana Wars, and several other unsavory aspects of our collective past. You see, it really depends on your perspective.  I can view the fact that I'm sitting here typing on a MacBook Pro (which represents more money than the median annual salary in Nicaragua) as the result of exploitation or as the result of hard work - both are correct.  Either way, some of us have what some of us don't, and for anyone my age or younger the odds that we had much to do with which it is are pretty slim.  History happened one way and not another.  Trying to understand why is certainly valuable, but almost only insofar as it inspires action in the present.  I say the present because the future doesn't really exist, at least not yet.  I feel that sting every time someone asks me here whether I'll be coming back to Central America - I'm not opposed to the idea, but I'd be lying if I said I were planning to do so.  The present enables the future, but focusing only on the future cripples the present.  If God is a verb, it's in the present tense.

And they came, came across the waters: 

Gods in galleons, bearing bows of steel, 

Then they killed us on the far horizon.

So where does that leave us?  Should I feel guilty?  No.  Guilt inspires pain, not healing, and blaming ourselves for something we didn't do (though we may have benefited from it) is a logical absurdity.  Instead, I think we should simply focus outside ourselves.  The economic disparity that allowed me to fall in love with reading at the same age where this child was teaching himself origami in order to help his family exists, but it doesn't make either of us the better person.  I think the thing I learned most on this trip is that the people we worked with didn't want pity, at least not primarily.  They wanted to be heard.  They wanted to be loved.  Sometimes that meant a gift of alleviation, but sometimes it meant a conversation.  In this boy's case, it meant both.

I promise I'll fill in some of the details on our encounter next time, but I really needed to get that out.  I feel better now, and I hope it inspires you and I both to look for a chance to love our neighbor.  Today.

I Believe in a Thing Called Love

Hopefully it doesn't come as a shock or disappointment to any of you that I am still alive.  It's been a while, but my hiatus wasn't without good reason.  I've been traveling almost nonstop for the last three weeks and I look forward to unpacking the lessons learned with you over the next few posts.  Buckle up.

First, a little overview:

Feb 27 - Mar 5: Grandparents

My grandma and grandpa Rolloff came all the way from Minnesota to San José to spend a week with me.  We had a blast.  We got to spend time in both San José and around Manuel Antonio on the West coast.  Between them, we saw ancient pottery, fish, birds, monkeys, and friends at Bible studies, museums, mangroves, beaches, a coffee plantation, and plenty of other really cool places.  It was a great trip and I had a lot of fun interpreting for them but also getting to know them in a different way than ever before.  I'm so thankful they came - I know it was a very different travel experience than what they're used to, but I think we all managed to have a good time.  I'll unpack some of this later, but I think my big takeaway just getting to know them outside the context of big family holidays or trips.

Mar 6 - Mar 16: Valpo Trip

For the second and longest leg of my three-week road trip, I interpreted for a group of 23 nursing, pre-med, and pre-dental students from Valparaiso University, my alma mater.  It was some of the most rewarding and refreshing work I have ever done.  I knew a few of them before they came, but by the end of the trip I think I had formed or deepened a friendship with nearly all of them.  We worked (and occasionally played) very hard and had a blast doing it.  This picture was taken on what was one of our only days off when we all went ziplining.  I think the big takeaway from this trip came from my friend Katie Dayman.  Her comments during our final debrief time at the last hotel made me realize that as a result of 23 students' decisions to give up laying on a beach or spending time with their family or doing whatever else college kids do on spring break (I wouldn't really know - I was always on tour), the lives of people they had never met before this month have been changed in real and lasting ways.  I personally experienced a case where a patient had been living with a chronic but entirely treatable condition for over a year due to no reason other than her extreme poverty.  I've seen poverty before, even worked within it as an educator and constructor, but this was somehow different.  We were helping people directly, personally.  We listened, asked, looked, touched.  Plenty more to unpack, but it was truly a mountaintop experience - the fact that I was doing it as a job just seems absurd looking back.

Mar 17 - Mar 20: Nicaraguan Lutherans

After the students left on Friday morning (or was it Saturday?), a few of us from my church in Costa Rica stayed in Managua, caught a 5:00 A.M. bus to a tiny little village close to the Honduran border, then caught an hourlong or so covered pickup ride to a church quite literally in the middle of nowhere for a congress or conference between a bunch of Nicaraguan congregations and our own.  It was a time for the pastors to catch each other up on developments around the country, but also to clarify and unify their message around a few specific theological topics.  It was very interesting to me, but sadly I don't have any good pictures.  My camera died about halfway through the Valpo trip.  I was able to participate a bit, but I mostly just played the fly on the wall and tried to learn as much as possible about these people.  It's a very small world sometimes, especially as a Lutheran.  On the way back to Costa Rica, Heidi and I stopped for about a day and a half in Managua and Granada where I met a few very special little boys in a market.  I'll leave that as your teaser for this post.

Throughout it all, I discovered it manifesting itself in new and different ways.  I saw it happen between my grandparents in a completely different light.  I saw complete strangers caring deeply and passionately for each other, if only for a moment or two.  I saw the ecstatic reunion of "annual" friendships and felt the pure joy of cultivating my own - whether with people I'd known for six months or six minutes.  It was a beautiful experience, and one that I know I will take with me my whole life because that's exactly what it was and is - life.  Lived to the fullest.  Some would call it eudaimonia.  I call it love.

"Professor Harry"

My washer (Harry) and I have a unique relationship.  Before I came to Costa Rica, Harry had been sitting outside an apartment unused for a couple of months.  Naturally, I expected him to be thankful and work perfectly when I hauled him up to my brand spanking used little studio apartment.  After the first wash, I figured out I needed to give his agitator a little kickstart to get it going unless I just wanted my clothes to sit in a soapy puddle for half an hour.  After the second or third, I realized the spin cycle was beyond repair.  After the fifth or sixth, I started to get tired of wringing out every pair of socks without the benefit of said spin cycle, and recently I've felt a bit like doing this:

A few days ago, however, Harry taught me something.  As I said, he has a little problem with his agitator.  Usually, my wash pattern was to put in my clothes, turn on the wash cycle, start writing or doing whatever else I was up to, and then walk over to restart the agitator every two minutes or so.  This time, I let the tank fill up, started the agitator, and proceeded to add my laundry piece by piece.  Starting the wash still takes a little effort, but since then I have only had to start it once per cycle.

This is a surprisingly accurate allegory for my attempts to teach music to Costa Rican and Nicaraguan children here in the barrio.  When I came to San José, I looked at my opportunity as their opportunity: the chance to learn how to read, play, think, and feel music from a real life music major.  Someone who understood theory, musicianship, music history, and the beauty in musical complexity.  I couldn't have been more ridiculous if I had tried.  For the first few months, I tried to do exactly that: I taught students about eighth notes, thirds, staves, and clefs.  I tried to convince them of the beauty of harmony by playing and singing it with myself.  Even when they tried (which some of them certainly did), they left the class with very little idea of what had happened and almost no ability to reproduce it.  A few weeks ago, I tried a new approach.  I didn't bring in a handout or draw up a rhythm on the whiteboard or try to teach them a new word.  I just sat down, played, and said "do what I do."  The results were nothing short of incredible.  A percussionist who couldn't follow my pulse to save his life successfully found the backbeat the second he closed his eyes and just listened.  My flautists went from halfway-playing the one song they'd been working on to learning entire songs in a week or two.  My guitarists...well...kept kicking butt.  Why?

I realized that I had been approaching teaching the guitar in the way I've learned to play it here.  I don't think about contrapuntal melodies or even complex harmonies; I focus on playing I-IV-V-I in the absolute best way possible because that's the only thing these songs were meant to be accompanied by.  Really, I hardly think at all.  I feel and I do, though only occasionally in that order.  I focus on the idea happening in the room around me, and let my hands do what they can to join in.  I don't put the clothes in the bottom of the bin and try to start the cycle with my pre-inserted self.  I give the water a little stir, wait for it to get moving, then join the wave.

Sometimes, when we find ourselves outside what we already understand, we ironically try and make up for it with our intellectual power.  Such was my approach to the piano, the recorder, and every other musical effort I made other than the guitar.  Sometimes we're smart enough to fool those around us into thinking we know what we're doing, but in our heart we know there is no substitute for experience and we usually feel intimidated by a lack thereof.

The moral of the story of this is the same one we learn from Peter in Matthew 17: when you don't know how to do something, even and especially if you think you're supposed to, resist the urge to pretend you do.  Wait.  Watch.  Listen.  Trailblazers are only good at what they do when they set out from something they know and understand as a base.  This isn't to say you should always "go with the flow" - rather, before before you go against it, you should ensure you actually understand where it's going.  You might be surprised.

Balance Point

A few days ago, I listened to a Freakonomics podcast on commitment devices.  Essentially, a commitment device is a contract devised by your present self to try and keep your future self from doing something.  Think of Odysseus when he had himself tied up to the mast of his ship so he couldn't give into the Sirens or putting an embarrassing alarm on your refrigerator door - both perfect examples.

The example in the podcast seemed a bit extreme.  A middle aged man decided to give up every food, drink, or activity in his life which he thought had a negative impact, cold turkey.  It was a list of thirty-some activities, which seemed to set him up for failure.  His penalty?  If he messed up and his best friend heard about it, he had been instructed to send a $750 check to someone the giver-upper loathed (Oprah).  In the end, he made it, except for accidentally sipping a coffee with creamer in it (milk was on the list).  I'd call that a win, and so did his friend, but in the end he sent the check in out of guilt.  In the process, he lost some weight and made some significant lifestyle changes, but considered his effort a failure.

So, did it work?  Was it a good thing?  Depends - do you judge by means or by ends?

I was talking to a friend in Costa Rica who is currently in the process of temporarily giving something up, and even though he's stopped enjoying the vacancy in his life (a feeling which seems to have worn off after a week or two), he thinks it's been a good thing because he anticipates his future being brighter than his past.

The real question here is the one I posed to my friend last night: are habitual actions like cruise control or a refrigerator?  Imagine you're driving a car down a highway.  You're speeding by about seven miles per hour.  You know you're breaking the law, doing something you shouldn't be doing, but you feel like you aren't harming anyone around you or yourself.  Then, something happens.  Maybe you see a cop or narrowly miss a stray road cone or see a deer jump across the road in front of you.  You realize that maybe you really are enjoying that speed a little too much and knock down the cruise control a few notches (maybe even all the way down to the actual speed limit).

Refrigerators don't work that way.  If you put a glass of water in a 32 degree refrigerator (or 0 if you're a Celsius person), it won't freeze.  You can't just ease off the warmth - you have to create an environment which is actually colder than your target temperature in order to achieve that new state.

The idea that our existence is some compromise or balance between opposing forces seems like a nearly universal human belief.  Conscience and sinful nature, yin and yang, faith and reason, aesthetics and utility, simplicity and complexity, wave and particulate, war and peace, consistency and change itself.  Both members of each pair will always exist because none can exist in the absence of their partner, which means nothing on that list will ever be eradicated.  This is, admittedly, a more pessimistic (and realistic) worldview than I can ever remember holding.  I have always been an idealist, but somewhere between meeting some very different people, succeeding in certain respects, and dramatically failing in others, I believe I have come for the moment to this conclusion.

On a side note, I think this means that trying to eradicate whatever ideology you oppose is a wildly ineffective way to try and change your world for the better.  Focus instead on shifting the balance.  It's better to lovingly allow someone to freely oppose you than to force them to convert to your own opinion (and it typically results in more converts anyway).

As I think about my experience here in Costa Rica and how I may or may not have changed, this distinction seems important.  The analogy isn't perfect - sometimes we do find ourselves in control of a situation to the point where we can just slow down, but sometimes we don't.  Sometimes I think we need to experience something extreme in order to find our balance point.

Friendship Day

Why can't we be friends?

Very rarely have I had a Valentine for Valentine's day, but this year was sort of on the fence.  I have an incredible girlfriend, but didn't get to spend it with her.  Or so it felt.

In Costa Rica, they call February 14 "dia de la amistad" - literally, "day of (the) friendship" or "friendship day."  This caused a bit of self-reflection.  I have a few fairly good friends here, but as I thought about friendship's role in my life here I realized that almost all of them are gringos (white foreigners) like me.  It isn't that I don't have any Tico/Nica friends, but rather that the only ones I've shared my life with in any meaningful way have been...like me.

Why?  Am I a racist?  A sexist?  An ageist?  Normal?  Just as I was contemplating this apparent problem, something completely unexpected happened.  I made a friend.

Is that seat taken?

Buses in Costa Rica are like more crowded versions of New York subways.  You keep your attention on your headphones and don't talk to anyone at the risk of being glared at or avoided like the creature from the black lagoon.  I didn't know this on coming here, and I made that mistake a solid four or five times before I figured it out.  There's one exception: you are always allowed to ask for directions.  I saw a bunch of people waiting at a bus stop I didn't know existed (really just a patch of dirt next to a highway), asked where it led, and the next thing I knew I was talking to this person for the entire ride into San José and part of my walk to work.  In that hour and a half she got the gist of my life story, and I hers.  I had made my first Costa Rican friend and I was feeling pretty good about myself, but here's the kicker:  she's not Costa Rican.  She's an immigrant like me, from El Salvador, and once that came out we spent quite a bit of the time talking about how hard it was to adjust to living in a new place.

As I kept pondering this question, I realized why an apparently single guy had been casual enough to break the ice and keep a conversation going with a single girl on Valentine's day in a context where he wasn't supposed to talk at all: because he didn't have to.  I had no interest in her beyond making that long, boring bus ride pass a little more quickly.  I didn't try to play things up or lay the foundation for some lasting relationship; I just talked.  And listened.

You see, in the end, a longer-term and longer-distance relationship allowed a new friendship to be formed.  I wasn't interested in this girl (which definitely surprised her) precisely because I am interested in someone else.  I feel lucky; I have come to know that person much more deeply through all this distance and the written word.  I am committed, and in that commitment I am free to let other relationships grow or die organically, without my own exertion.  Think about that...I am committed, therefore I am free.

I know that not all of my readers share my own faith, so I won't go into much theological detail here, but I will say that this notion of commitment leading to freedom is the crux (pun intended) of my own view of Christianity.  By faith(fulness) in and to Christ, we are released from the obligation to atone for our own mistakes and free to love every member of God's creation.  That isn't limited to those who experience the same freedom.  In fact, spreading the good news about that freedom is kind of the point.  Sometimes I really wish God would just rip through the fabric of what I see around me and tell me my human ears who he is, who I am, and what I should believe, but that's not the way he works.  Not today, anyway.  He gives us our powers of observation and reason and respect for the millennia of their precedence in the tradition of our ancestors.  We get to know him through his footprints, whether it be the penmanship of scripture or the brushstrokes of creation.  I don't know how relevant that notion is to your own system of belief, but I'd encourage you to consider it a moment (or a lifetime) before tossing it aside as some Christian dogma.

I never really answered my own question as to why my friends are so "like me," but in the exploration of that problem I found something beautiful.  Should I be frustrated or thrilled?  I'm going to try and focus on the latter and on the newfound appreciation for a couple of specific relationships in my life.  Sometimes they feel a bit like a distance relationship, but maybe that isn't such a bad thing after all.

Happy Birthday?

What a (long) weekend!  The last four days seriously went by in a blink, and this trip home had to be one of the best birthday presents I have ever received.  To my friends in Lincoln who are wondering why they didn’t see me: I’m sorry.  I always try and see at least some of you guys whenever I’m stateside, but this time it was just too fast and I had a lot of acquainting to do.  I’ll be back in April - let’s party.  To my family: thank you so much for an awesome time and for my new little sister.

We've gone from a basketball team of boys to a mixed volleyball team.
Or a full game (two teams) of polo.

I wish I were able to spend more time with Kristina during her first few months, but sitting on my plane back to Houston and then to San José I have no doubt whatsoever that the trip to meet her for the first time was worth it.  Seeing her smile just once would have been enough, and while communication was certainly a difficult hurdle I have full confidence that she will be doing fine in a matter of months.  Her comprehension and phonetics are very good, and as soon as she gets the confidence to start producing she will really take off.  I’m so proud of what she has already done, and I can’t wait to get to know here more fully once those barriers begin to crumble.

Birthdays, as I rediscovered this weekend, are one of those few holidays we have left which truly brings people together to celebrate something pure and good.  It’s not about the person having the birthday (unless you choose to make it so).  It’s about the collective effort of everyone involved in making that life what it has been, is, and is becoming.  I had the extremely rare opportunity to see all four of my grandparents, an aunt and uncle, a cousin and cousin-in-law with their beautiful baby, and a new family member in a four day span, not to mention the rest of my friends and immediate family.  During my birthday celebration itself, something remarkable happened.  Kristina, my twelve year old sister of about a day and a half, sang “Happy Birthday” to me.  It was amazing because everything they had heard about and from her indicated she couldn’t or wouldn’t sing, yet somehow standing around an ice cream cake with the people who loved her enough to bring her into their family and meet a strange, bearded 23-year-old English teacher who called himself her brother was enough to spark that spontaneous outpouring of solidarity and celebration.  I feel truly blessed to have experienced such a thing for my twenty-third time, and to have shared that most recent occurrence with such an amazing little girl.

Unfortunately, my trip was no bed of roses.  On Sunday, my birthday, I received a couple of unwanted presents.  The first was a welt in the shape of a baseball I received from Sam while I was pitching to him for batting practice.  I got my head and shoulders behind the L-screen just fine, but that line drive came fast enough to find my ribcage before it made it to safety.  In his words, he “really laid on that one” (coming from a high school junior who hit over .400 with a nice collection of home run balls last season).

Sometimes, life slaps you upside the head.
With a baseball.

The other present was the reason I had gone down to hit, pitch, and be hit in the first place.  I found out that I’d been placed on the waitlist for the University of Minnesota Law School.  When I was denied entry to the University of Chicago, it was just the hope-crushing fulfillment of a realistic expectation.  This letter was somehow different.  Judging by last year’s incoming class, I should have been near the top quartile in both GPA and LSAT scores.  My resume is pretty good, and I’ve been doing a bit of volunteering recently as you may have heard.  Somehow a set of those factors didn’t add up in my favor or I blew it with a poor personal statement, and to be honest what truly frustrates me is the assurance that I’ll never know which it was.  Don’t get me wrong: the rejection stings much worse than that baseball.  Minnesota isn’t just a great law school; I had also applied to a dual program in Bioethics that I was really excited about.  Additionally, I have friends, family, and a significant other all living in the Twin Cities area.  Studying there would have been an honor and a privilege, but the knowledge that it will never occur is still not as frustrating as the question: why?

As hurtful as that letter was (and is), at least I wasn’t one of the baseballs who felt my frustration’s conversion into kinetic energy.  I don’t often let myself really get angry, mostly because I hate the effects when I do, but a batting cage is one of those few safe havens where a person can unreservedly and unashamedly let pain manifest itself in a tangible way.  Samuel was very careful to stay behind the L-screen.  Channeling exasperation in a positive way is very cathartic, and a batting cage has one big advantage over my usual medium: it doesn’t leave you with a song to sing to remember the thing that made you angry in the first place.

It's times like these when I think God must be a woman.

As a good friend once told me, the past can hurt, but it always presents us with two options.  We can run from it (deny it or, in my case, explain it away), or learn from it.  The fact that I don’t know why I didn’t get in would be frustrating either way, but I’m going to do my best to learn whatever I can from the experience.  Maybe I’m not supposed to be in Minnesota (or maybe just not yet).  Maybe God has a different plan for my life.  Maybe he doesn’t, and I need to honestly reevaluate myself to improve upon what I’ve done with it so far.  Even if I do, I have security in the knowledge that the God who created life, the parents who gave it to me, the siblings who make it worth living, and the friends and other family members with whom I share it will continue to love and support me no matter who accepts or denies my applications or aspirations in the future or in the past, and if I’m honest with myself I think that’s all I really need.

In the end, this trip was one of those times that reminds you what life is really all about.  Joy and pain are just the black and white sketch by which we remember our past;  relationships are the colors that make it memorable.  If you are one of the people I just mentioned, thank you.  If not, I don’t know how you found this blog.  Either way, thanks for coming along with me on this crazy adventure we like to call life.  If you feel the same way about the people in your own adventure, do me a favor.  Tell them.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned from traveling alone, it’s that the people (not the places or the sights or the sounds or the work) are what make life worth living.

Bloody Mary Mix

Well, I made it to Houston in more than enough time.  Unfortunately for my readership (you), that means I have time for another post.  Feel free to take a break and come back later.

On the bus to the airport this afternoon, my mouth started to salivate.  I noticed this like you might notice a fly landing on the seat to your left; I was aware that it happened but couldn't have cared less why.  Then I actually started to think about it, and realized my mind had wandered to the title of this post as I had been thinking about the airport.  A free can of Mr. and Mrs. T's Bloody Mary Mix is the highlight of every flight I take, and I have no real explanation as to why.  It's not just a simple courtesy to me; it's an indulgence that my brain has been rewired to expect as a result of going through the ridiculous circus we like to call security.

Fast forward to the flight itself: I'm on the plane and the drink cart finally comes by.  I'm squirming like a five year old waiting for an ice cream truck and I blurt out that I want my spicy tomato candy before the attendant gets the chance to ask.  I stretch it out for about half an hour, trying to make the most out of my blissful aluminum can, and go back to trying to finish Psalm 119 (not as easy as it sounds).  Somewhere around verse 80, I realized two things.  First, I am not even close to done with this Psalm, and second, my stomach is starting to hurt.  Badly.  "Did I eat something funny?" I ask myself.  "What was on that chicken sandwich anyway?"  Then it hits me.  It was Mr. T himself.

We have this weird tendency to find these dichotomies of preference (some of us may even seek them out).  Why is my palate's love for bloody mary mix only equaled by my stomach's hatred for the same?  More importantly, knowing this inter-corporal ambivalence occurs every time I drink the stuff, why do I always ask for it?  And why on earth do I look forward to the sensation?

Sometimes, these dichotomies seem to seek us out themselves.  Such was the case for me watching President Obama's State of the Union Address.  Given his previous actions, I went into the experience with less than an open mind, but gradually, bit by bit, I was shocked to actually like a lot of the things he said.  A few examples:

"At a time when too many of our institutions have let us down, (our service men and women) exceed all expectations. They’re not consumed with personal ambition. They don’t obsess over their differences. They focus on the mission at hand. They work together.  Imagine what we could accomplish if we followed their example."

"I believe as strongly as ever that we should take on illegal immigration. That’s why my administration has put more boots on the border than ever before. That’s why there are fewer illegal crossings than when I took office...The opponents of action are out of excuses. We should be working on comprehensive immigration reform right now."

"The executive branch also needs to change. Too often, it’s inefficient, outdated, and remote.

That’s why I’ve asked this Congress to grant me the authority to consolidate the federal bureaucracy so that our government is leaner, quicker, and more responsive to the needs of the American people."

In fact, he said a lot of things that could have come straight from the mouths of the people trying to replace him:

"...if you’re an American manufacturer, you should get a bigger tax cut. If you’re a high-tech manufacturer, we should double the tax deduction you get for making your products here. And if you want to relocate in a community that was hit hard when a factory left town, you should get help financing a new plant, equipment, or training for new workers." - Rick Santorum?

"Let’s never forget: Millions of Americans who work hard and play by the rules every day deserve a government and a financial system that do the same...no bailouts, no handouts, and no copouts." - Ron Paul?

"America is determined to prevent Iran from getting a nuclear weapon, and I will take no options off the table to achieve that goal." - Newt Gingrich?

"We don’t begrudge financial success in this country. We admire it." - Mitt Romney?

Heck, he even took one from an ex-candidate's playbook:

"A small fee on the largest financial institutions will ensure that it won’t add to the deficit and will give those banks that were rescued by taxpayers a chance to repay a deficit of trust." - John Huntsman?

The fact of the matter is, even if you strongly disapprove of the way President Obama has gone about his business, you had to hear something in that speech that resonated with you (unless you weren't listening).  He didn't bring a political sniper rifle, poking holes from on high in what is an admittedly weak opposing field of candidates.  He brought an idealogical shotgun and sprayed concepts and buzz words ranging very nearly from Karl Marx to Glenn Beck.  If I had heard that speech without any previous experience, I wouldn't have a clue what to think about the man as a politician.

And therein lies the problem.  Throughout the speech, despite the savory moments where he almost seemed to concede an argument in my political favor, I kept feeling like I was drinking a can of bloody mary mix.

"On the day I took office, our auto industry was on the verge of collapse. Some even said we should let it die. With a million jobs at stake, I refused to let that happen. In exchange for help, we demanded responsibility. We got workers and automakers to settle their differences. We got the industry to retool and restructure. Today, General Motors is back on top as the world’s number-one automaker."

USA!  USA!  USA!  Yeah, man.  We build some awesome cars.

"Chrysler has grown faster in the U.S. than any major car company. Ford is investing billions in U.S. plants and factories. And together, the entire industry added nearly 160,000 jobs."

JOBS, JOBS, JOBSJOBSJOBS, JOBS, JOBS, JOBSJOBSJOBS, JOBS, JOBS, JOBSJOBSJOBS JOBS, EVERYBODY!

"We bet on American workers. We bet on American ingenuity. And tonight, the American auto industry is back."

WOOO GAMBLI...wait a second.  "We bet on American workers?"  Who's "we?"  I didn't...wait, yes I did.  You took my tax money and bet it on a company in the name of saving jobs.  That's like a church official taking the offering money to a casino so he can donate his winnings to the church (and save casino jobs).  Don't get me wrong, I'm really thankful for the jobs the auto industry has brought and continues to bring to my country, but I'm of the opinion that companies can make their own financial decisions.  Look at Ford, for examp...

Wait a second.  "Ford is investing billions in U.S. plants and factories."  That's great, but you didn't have anything to do with that.  In fact, you're taking credit for something you tried to thwart by giving their biggest competitor (GM) a bailout. 

"Today, General Motors is back on top as the world’s number-one automaker."

Check that.  You bailed out an irresponsible company and enabled it to make an artificially fast comeback, allowing them to surpass the competitor who responsibly reorganized their company and is doing very well on their own, and then took credit for their (Ford's) success as a result of your bet?  Are you kidding me?  That's approaching a Gingrich-esque level of fidelity to your supposed earlier principle:

"Millions of Americans who work hard and play by the rules every day deserve a government and a financial system that do the same. It’s time to apply the same rules from top to bottom: no bailouts, no handouts, and no copouts. An America built to last insists on responsibility from everybody."

You see, even when I like your rhetoric, I can't get behind your methods of implementation due to a simple belief in a variety of principles, including the one that tells me to follow the others (namely, my conscience).

There are at least three more examples I wanted to write about, but I have to stop for two reasons.  First, my battery's about to die.  Second, my bloody mary mix is here.