The culture war

Today’s update on America’s culture war comes from the village of Wintersville, OH, population 4, 067. This charming enclave is home to 21 churches, an authentic drive in movie theatre, and perhaps the only high school marching band in the nation that has turned the vulgar music of Britney Spears into a football halftime show.

Nope. Not kidding.

According to news reports, students in the Indian Creek High School marching band were permitted by director Donald Llewellyn to choose the music for this year’s halftime show.

The subject line on the e-mail in my inbox said, "Moms group question - song lyrics." The first draft of my reply read: "AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGG," but I thought better of it. E-mail isn't good for conveying deeply held emotions.

Here was the question: Several mothers of girls ages 10 to 12 want to know whether they should allow their daughters to buy instrumental versions of two currently popular - though extremely inappropriate - songs, "Poker Face" by Lady Gaga, and "Low" by Flo Rida featuring T-Pain.

I know what you're thinking. Are those the names of singers or brands of toothache remedies?

Through emotional outbursts in virtually every corner of our culture, from the halls of government to popular music to professional sports, famous folks recently have offered up a veritable smorgasbord of bad taste on which to comment.

Summing up: People are rude.

The flurry of incivility that lately has found its way to Youtube's "most viewed" list ought to make us worry about the messages our children are getting, given that Youtube is the most popular Web site for children 8 to 18. It's time to turn our kitchen tables into learning labs and take advantage of this week's teachable moments.

To review:

On the night before school starts, I announce that it’s time to take our walk. All six of us fan out throughout the house to find our flip flops, someone gets a leash for Scotty the Dog, and we set out in a disorganized band up our street. But it’s not just a walk. It’s a ritual.

As we stroll through the neighborhood, my husband, our four children and I take turns confiding our intentions for the coming school year. By announcing our aspirations, we turn our dreams into goals, our hopes into plans. But the exercise also reminds us we’re not alone in our efforts – we have family cheering us on and faith to support us.

Along the way, the encouragement and advice we give to our kids is not unlike the message President Obama delivered in his address to schoolchildren.

I finally had to sit down with my 11-year-old daughter for "the talk." Despite my best efforts to preserve her innocence and protect her from growing up too quickly, I simply had to tell her some important facts of life.

No, we didn't have a talk about how babies are born. This talk was about America's assault on girlhood. The time finally came for me to explain to my daughter the relationship between media and marketing and money, and why some people think nothing of exploiting girls if it increases their ratings, sells advertising and beefs up the bottom line.

What's the price of love? That's the question I've been asking myself lately as I don my rubber gloves and prepare to administer a dose of antibacterial ointment on the business end of my dog, Scotty.

Of course, he can't help that his current malady requires an unpleasant application of medicated ointment.

"You'd better get over here," the school secretary said. "Something's up with Katie." "Something" turned out to be a post-tonsillectomy bleed that began 11 days after surgery. It continued on and off for four days and included two ambulance rides, several long nights in the emergency department and, eventually, a 3 a.m. emergency surgery, a blood transfusion and a week in the hospital to recover.

Most families would look back and recall kindergarten. We look back and remember "Katie's tonsillectomy."

That was 15 years ago. There have been countless episodes before then and since involving my four children that brought me into the health care system to varying degrees. As any parent will attest, most of us mark time with medical stories, as in, "That was the summer Jimmy had staples in his head" and "That was the year Betsy had a stress fracture and couldn't run."

"What are you doing? I love that song," I say to my daughter as she reaches over to change the radio station in my van. "That's Darius Rucker. He was born to sing country music."

Best known for his lead vocals in the pop group Hootie and the Blowfish, Mr. Rucker's first country solo album debuted at No. 1 on the country charts. Obviously, I'm not the only one who thinks he's meant to sing country.

"I just think this song promotes mediocrity," Betsy says. "It bugs me."

It says something about the times in which we live that my husband and I decreed "no news" on our vacation. It's the only way we figured we could relax.

It's not easy to avoid all that's happening in the world, but it turns out a few ground rules do the trick: no free newspaper at our hotel room door, no Internet surfing on our laptops, no TV news. Nothing that might connect us -- even superficially -- to the world beyond the beach. The only exception to our "no news is good news" pact is my scheduled foray online for the purpose of filing this column.

So here I am, quickly checking to see what newsworthy events have happened in the world while I've been busy reading Harlan Coben. It turns out the content in our news media, much like daytime dramas, doesn't change much over the course of a few days.

 “Wow,” my daughter said as she strolled into the kitchen on Sunday morning. “Billy Mays died. It’s officially celebrity death week.”
 
News of the passing of TV’s most famous pitchman had barely broken and we were already speculating, over breakfast, about what might have happened.