In background to all that potato chip crunching-- Brian Wilson’s lyric about a chariot that would somehow take a chubby little boy far, far away from yellow linoleum floor in kitchen of California tract house where he had rolled himself up in a ball to absorb kicks and slaps poured out on him by his Dad and future Beach Boy Manager---Murray.

None of it bruised his body in car. No shame in that car.

When something comes up to me They don’t even try Cos if I had a set of wings I know I could fly.

Flying home on Dempster, right by canal. Mid day traffic light so I can move. My faithful green Honda now transformed into cherry red, gleaming chrome:

She’s got a competition clutch With a four on floor and She purrs like a kitten till tail pipes roar

So if I stopped at Steak and Shake, I wouldn’t get a Triple Steak burger. I’m not THAT far gone. That would be for people who actually had a problem. I’d limit it to a double. And a small fries. A medium coke. No way would I get a large coke.

And then there are families of these 10,000 bad guys. That’s a lot of people!

But I wouldn’t have a Triple Steak burger. I had control. And maybe there really were ten thousand real bad guys out here with me driving east on Dempster into Evanston. Maybe they were REAL bad guys. And it wasn’t a political stunt or first shot in real class warfare.

Maybe we had more cops out there now. Maybe we got back some of money we spent on war to pay for cops, for feeding hungry kids, sheltering battered and bruised kids, maybe it was all like getting a refund at that Home Depot right behind Steak and Shake. Maybe I could go in there fat and happy full of steak burger---my second lunch having soothed my hungry and ravenous soul—maybe I could go stand patiently in line in Home Depot and they would offer a refund on war. Something to credit my account. And somewhere deep inside giant warehouse I would find nourishing commands that would somehow feed my empty soul.

I get pushed out of shape and its hard to steer when I get rubber In all four gears.

My first lunch? A few minutes ago? Forgotten.

Just as soon as I bit into that double steak burger, I wouldn’t be hungry anymore. Then I could bop over to Home Depot. Get a few necessities for house. Throw on some old Beach Boys tunes and cruise on back home. I’m sure that ten thousand people who were arrested today---I’m sure that’s a good thing. Wouldn’t want people to think I’m a wild eyed liberal or something. Soft on crime. And I am in control. Not a Triple Steak burger. Only a double.

With cheese.

The debate about marriage needs an injection of intellectual honesty. To be sure, homosexuality isn’t “normal” in either psychological or biological sense, and attempting to normalize this behavior by calling sex between same-sex adults a “marriage” is disingenuous. However, calling what Britney Spears and her current appendage did a “marriage” is just as degrading to institution, and damage that has been done to fragile fabric of children’s world is real, current and immense.

In order to protect marriage, we need to define it as a sanctified union between grownups who have a clue what they’re doing and are willing to assume responsibility for their choice. Anything less than this – whether it be a union of gays or straights – is a business deal.