Poison Eye Vee Three Vee

Day 7 with the plague. This is sort of what my face used to look like. Except imagine only one of my eyes looking like this guy's left eye. Mutant is the only word that comes to mind. It is looking a bit better. The large puss-filled bubbles seem to be deflating a bit. The bright redness isn't as sharp to the eye. Or maybe perhaps I am just getting used to it. I am running out of medicine though. So this thing better clear up soon.

Poison Ivy makes your skin tough and leathery. Does that go away when the rash does? I want my body to be back to normal, you know, smooth and silky like. I don't like this tough, bubbly, red, leather parasite that covers me. There is more red bumpy spots on me than there is skin. If you skinned me and laid out all of my skin, separating the infected areas from the healthy areas, the infected pile would be much larger. I'd like to go through with the skinning and the separating. That sort of reminds me of Silence of the Lambs. The antagonist makes a skin suit from the remains of his murder victims. I bet he would be frustrated if his skin suit had poison ivy all over it. I wouldn't wear it if that were the case. The lambs would indeed be silent.

I must admit, I was dishonest with my last post. I wrote about how it was "my" idea to write a series on my ongoing experience with the poison ivy plague. This was not the case. There was nothing "my" about it. The idea originated with one of my friends/students here named Eric Bellard. Perhaps you know him. If you don't, you should. This paragraph was intended to give credit where credit is due. Credit is due to Eric Bellard. Not "my."

So I went to the doctor last week. I'm in the back, sitting on the little bed-like thing with the paper. The nurse comes in and does her thing. Checks my pulse. Blood pressure stuff. Then she sits down and asks me some questions as she writes it on her little form there.

"Are you currently taking any medication."

"No."

"Let's see, I have you down as taking an inhaler for your asthma. You using that?"

"As needed."

"Are you allergic to anything?"

She asked if I was allergic to anything. My entire body looks like it vomited up on itself. My eye looks like I got pelted with a bean bag, that is, a heavy bag of beans.

"Yes, I'm allergic to poison ivy."

Poison I.V. Part Deaux

I'm on day 5 with the poison ivy. Day 5. That is five days of looking like an ogre and feeling like my skin is crawling. I made a decision. My decision was this - I am going to write a blog about my thoughts/hatred for poison ivy until it goes away. This is part two of the series. I will keep you informed of my progress.

I was with a student the other night and we were looking at my arms, which currently resemble more of a pepperoni casserole than they do real arms. Ok, so there might not be pepperoni casserole but you can imagine. He said that a friend of his bound up some poison ivy with other foilage for a bonfire. You've seen people do this before. It is like burning trash. You've seen it. Trust me. So the guy burns it. And he inhales the fumes from the oil from the poison ivy. And his throat breaks out and swells up. He can't breathe. He is rushed to the emergency room.

OK, so what is up with this f&#^in' plant? It is determined to harm any and everyone in its wake. But of course, its crappy defense mechanism doesn't work until a few days later. One bright commenter (Luke) wrote that its defense mechanism is for the corporate plant at large. You know, like maybe you won't mess with its brothers and sisters. This is complete nonsense. For now I have more of a desire than I had before to kill them. The rage that boils with every scratch is directed toward the living counterparts of this diabolical plant. It must die. It must.

And here's the thing, I wasn't intentionally messing with it in the first place. I was doing some yard work around my house to pull down the vines that are growing up on the walls. I wasn't out to get it. It was just there, mixed in with the vines and weeds I was removing. And it unleashed its wrath on me. And I have been in pain for days. Pain. Not to mention the fact that I look like a freak. I am a mutant freak. My swollen eye has gone down some, only to give rise to the thousands of red bumps all over my arms, legs, and stomach. And now the red bumps are mutating into puss filled bubbles.

It really looks like something out of a horror film.

My vow to you: Destroy all poison ivy from here on.

Poison Eye Vee

I have poison ivy right now. It is all over me. My neck. My legs. My arms. My stomach. Behind my ears. It has even made its way onto areas of my body that I will not mention explicitly. But oh, you can imagine.

But that is not the worst of it. The worst is that I woke up this morning with my left eye swollen shut. No lie. It turns out that if you have poison ivy, you shouldn't rub your eyes. This much should have been obvious to me. But it wasn't. And now I must go to the doctor for a cortozon shot. This will happen in about an hour. But until then I will look like a mutant.

The itch is killing me. It is so enticing. I scratch it and it feels unbelievable. Seriously. To scratch a poison ivy itch is unbelievably orgasmic. But then when you stop scratching, the itch doubles up its intensity. And it makes you pay if you choose not to scratch it again. I have been writhing for the past 30 minutes. Writhing. My skin is crawling. My skin is burning. I must scratch it. I must. But I shalln't.

And don't forget about my ogre-like eye. I wish I had a picture to post. I look like Egor off of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I'm hideous. I haven't left my apartment all day. But I will soon. One more hour. And then the cortozon shot. All I know is, this thing better work.

I've never been so pissed at a plant before in my life.

OK, help me out people. I don't understand this freakin plant. So it has this poisonous oil on its leaves that acts as a defense mechanism. It is supposed to keep predators at bay. But it only really works about 2 days too late. The predator has already killed the plant. The poison on Poison Ivy doesn't stop you from killing it or stepping on it or carrying out whatever threats it feels endangered from. It is like having a can of mace that doesn't work until a week later. The thief already has your purse. Who cares about it 2 days later? I don't understand this plant. It has a crappy defense mechanism. And believe me, it is not stopping me from messing with them again. I will put on gloves and long sleeves next time. And I will pull them from the ground by their roots. And I will enjoy tearing them to pieces, bit by bit. I will laugh. Yes I will laugh.

But for now, I will scratch.

My Friend Brent Corbin

For those of you who do not know Brent Corbin, you are surely unfortunate. Brent is the most intriguing, most interesting, most puzzling person I think I have ever met. One day I want to write a book about him. But for now, a blog will suffice.

Corbs is from small town Duncan, Oklahoma, where he was indoctrinated early on with the teachings of a local Bible Church. This is where he learned to close his eyes and lift his hands to such songs as "Brokenness, Brokenness is what I long for; Brokenness is what I need." He also sang other Christian classics like Heart of Worship, Shout to the Lord, and Sanctuary. He was indeed going back to the heart of worship and it's all about You, it's all about You Jesus.

Brent Corbin is physically attractive, personally disarming, fun to be around, and incredibly bright. To list a few of his accomplishments, he has been in the Presidents Leadership Class, Sooner Scouts, the Mortar Board, the Crimson Club, Campus Activities Council, Student Alumni Board, and the Beta Gamm Sigma Honor Society. He is a ConocoPhillips Scholar, a Kenneth and Juliet Woodward Memorial Scholar, a Valedictorians Scholar, an Oklahoma Scholar, and was voted by his peers into the Top Ten for his Freshman, Sophomore, and Junior year. Think about it. He was one of the top ten, which was taken from a pool of thousands of other contestants. I'm not sure what qualifies one as being a "Top Ten" but he received it. Three times. He was the Vice President of his fraternity, Brothers Under Christ. (BYX was his second fraternity experience. He dropped out of Pi Kappa Phi after his freshman year. Reasons are still pending.)

He is muscular in his build and he cares about his appearance. In college he shaved his chest. He might have even shaved his legs, I can't remember. I wouldn't suprise me if he did. He owns products for his face and hair that I have never heard of, nor could ever afford. And he's gone tanning.

And of course, the ladies love him. But not more than he loves them. With his looks and personality, he had his pick of the litter in small town Duncan. Going out with girls was like taking out the trash, you need to do it a few times a week. The pattern continued into college and beyond.

The stats alone are mind boggling. How does one not develop a sense of pride with that report card? How does one not drown in self-absorption with those credentials? I'm not suggesting that he suffers from such vices. I'm simply alerting my reading audience to its hightened potential with such statistics.

His thoughts shifted in college from the dispensational sensationalism of the nondenominational Bible Church to the theologically rigorous Calvinism of the Presbyterian Church. And so shifted his targets for relationships. But this also provided new and interesting reasons to break up with girls. In the past, a common reason he would break up would be "God told me we shouldn't be together" or "I just feel like I can grow more spiritually on my own." Now, his break up reasons are "because you don't affirm paedobaptism" or "because you want to be something other than a mother of 8 children."

Brent Corbin is an amazing walking paradox. Seriously. He is the funniest person I know. And he frustrates me more than anyone else. He has all the reasons to be prideful and self-absorbed and he is constantly acknowledging his insecurities and failures. He lives out the synthesis of Romans 7 and 8 fully and honestly, tiptoing on the tight rope of his own sin and the assurance of God's forgiveness. People are attracted to him for a reason. He is a screw up. But he knows it. And God's glory is trumpeted as a result.

I have no doubt ragged on Corbin through this blog more than was probably appropriate. And there is more to rag on that will be left unmentioned. But as I close, allow me to reinforce my absolute adoration of him. He is a walking reminder to me of God's grace, that God is kind to those who distort and ruin life. He shows me this because he understands his ability to sin and he knows the free grace of a King who pardons him despite him. He tells the greatest and funniest stories because they are usually at his expense. He is the easiest person to laugh with because he knows how to laugh at himself. He is indeed a clay pot that the Great Potter is sculpting; dry and cracked and seemingly falling apart and yet being shaped into someone who exalts God's work because of his awareness of what God is actually working with.

He is a screwed up, corrupted, perverted, arrogant, beautiful, humble, faithful, faithless, pure, manipulative, honest person who has been redeemed and is being redeemed by grace. He is my dear friend Brent Corbin. And you should get to know him.

Girls are stupid; Guys are losers

I dedicate this blog to the arena of dating. Something must be said. Something has to change. Something must be done.

80% of my conversations with students are about dating or something very close to dating. (We don't talk about courtship in Louisiana. We leave that for those in Moscow.) Guys develop interests. They flirt. They hang out with their respective girls. They come to me and tell me their stories. And I usually end up getting frustrated. I get frustrated at a cycle I have noticed. I don't know how to label or identify this cycle. It should be labeled though. Perhaps it should be called the "Girls are stupid; Guys are losers Cycle." It goes a little something like this:

A guy walks into a room full of people his own age. Immediately he scans the room and picks out the 3 or 4 hot girls and develops a strategy on how to talk to them or get their attention. Every other girl in the room is instantly ruled out as even a potential person to converse with. The only reason the guy will even begin a conversation with one of the other, unhot girls is to gain credit in the eyes of the 3 or 4 hot ones he has on his radar. Guys are savvy enough to know how to use and consume the unattractive ones to get the hot ones' attention. And so he develops his strategy and carries it out. This is step one in the cycle - Scope out and seek out the hot girls.

This leads to step two. Girls are smart enough to pick up on the guys' strategy. They see which girls get more male attention. They see what body types, wardrobe, and personality guys are attracted to. And what does this compel them to do? Well, it compels them to compete. They develop their own reactionary strategy, which can go in either of two directions. Direction One is the more popular route which consists in losing weight or dressing sexier or modifying their personality to be more flashy. Direction Two runs completely opposite but it has the same goal in mind. This route is to be more reserved, apathetic and indifferent to the whole dating game in hopes that some guy will find the indifference attractive in and of itself. But obviously most girls go with option A.

And what does this, in turn, do the guys' initial strategy? It encourages and reinforces it. Girls dress less and put on more of a performance to satisfy the guys' unreal demand which forces girls to put on more of a performance which reinforces the guys' demand and round and round we go.

So which one came first? Do guys only run after the hot girls because of years of living in a pornographic culture and because girls are becoming skinnier and skinnier and revealing more and more skin? Or are girls becoming skinnier and skinnier and revealing more and more skin because this is what attracts guys? Well, obviously both. But which one came first? Which is supporting the other? Or are they, in fact, supporting each other continuously and constantly?

And so the cycle continues. Everyone knows it and everyone contributes to it. Well, what are the effects? Well, to name a few: eating disorders, pornography addiction, a distortion of love and sex, cultural deterioration, sexual perversion, jealousy and hatred, adultury, and ultimately divorce. Dating's only hope is to be redeemed and restored. Without the work of the gospel changing guys and girls to love each other in real, redeemed ways, we are doomed to live in the cycle and reinforce it and tear down and destroy everything and every body in the process.

Why Television Smells Bad (Stinks)

I've been at my parent's home in Dallas for the past few days now. They have a big screen TV. And Satellite. I have neither of these. Naturally, I am attracted to the glowing box and desire to journey through the 999 channels to my heart's content.

At first this seems like a good idea. "Yes! I can finally see who got Punk'd this season. I can catch a few Who's Line Is It Anyway?s. I can get caught up on Elimidate and the Surreal Life." And after a few hours of aimlessly roaming through channel after channel, my initial good idea begins to rot and reveal the actual very bad idea that it was to begin with. To simply put it, television sucks now. There really is nothing good on.

MTV doesn't even play music anymore. There is absolutely nothing "M" about it. It is pop culture, actors, rock stars, gossip, movie awards, reality shows, and post modern advertising. Where is the freaking music? I grew up watching Aerosmith music videos on MTV. Now there is none. It is a circus. It is just one big, ongoing freakshow. There are shows that cater to homosexuals, shows that have grown men being dominated by dominatrix (spelling?), shows with midgets getting drunk and naked and urinating in the living room, shows that recreate both cars and personal identities, and so on and so forth and so case. I do not want to watch Jessica Simpson and her husband watch TV on the couch. I don't want to watch Brittney Spears in the car on the way to a concert. I don't want to watch Ozzy scolding his pet. I want to watch musicians do the very thing that they are known for. You know...play music. I am very upset with the way MTV turned out.

So let's say MTV is not for you (or me) and you decide to change the channel. What do you turn to? The hot Prime Time line up for the summer? This basically means reruns of ridiculously unfunny shows that take place in corporate America that revolve around the unbelievably unclever sex jokes. "Good morning Johnny. What were you doing last night?" "Just taking care of...business!!!" [Insert laugh track here] And if corporate comedy isn't for you, you have a wide selection of forensic, criminal, sex dramas to choose from, all of which are bad. Court cases and suburban mysteries don't really do it for me.

Neither do the reality shows. The Apprentice is popular these days. I'm not sure if the home/wardrobe make over shows are as popular anymore. But they were at one point. There is just something about reality TV that rubs me the wrong way. Perhaps because I would rather experience reality myself than to watch someone else do it. You really can flip on the television and actually watch someone else watching television. This is absolutely absurd to me. And why does every multi-million dollar business exec want his own reality show? Mark Cuban, Donald Trump, Hugh Hefner, Sylvester Stallone, Jessica Simpson, Ashlee Simpson, Jessica Simpson's dad, Jessica Simpson's mother, Jessica Simpson's cousins, etc. Bla Bla Bla.

What happened to sit coms? There are no good sit coms out there right now? Where are the Taxis or the Saved by the Bells or the Seinfelds of this generation? Is the sit com going extinct? Is it a passing trend, only to be replaced by the wave of reality television?

Television has tanked in my opinion. It has officially jumped into the toilet. I think that HBO is our only hope. And I am not lying. They have created a structure called "Original Series" that frees creativity from the bureaucratic baggage of corporate television. Writers are free to experiment and express themselves how they want. And as a result, some very promising shows have been birthed. Curb Your Enthusiasm, Sex and the City, the Sopranos, Da Ali G Show, Six Feet Under, etc.

And by the way, my parents don't have HBO.

Job's Job

You remember Job, right? He was that poor unfortunate soul in the Old Testament that had his land, his family, and his resources destroyed. I don't know much about Job, but I know this. That had to have sucked.

Job's job was in the fields, working with animals. Satan observes that God blessed the "work of his hands, so that his flocks and herds are spread throughout the land." Blessed he was indeed. The passage tells us that he owned seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels, five hundred yoke of oxen and five hundred donkeys, and had a large number of servants. Can you imagine owning seven thousand sheep? That is a lot of freaking sheep. I can't imagine owning one. What would I do with it? Feed it? Let it run around in the yard? Would it sleep in a kennel? 7,000 of those things running around would be insanity. And the smell wouldn't have been too pleasant either. But what about another three thousand, clumsy, awkward, smelly camels. And another five hundred yoke of oxen (I must be really stupid because I am not quite sure what a yoke is). And oh yeah, Job also had 500 donkeys. I like that the passage includes this. Donkeys are really funny looking. And Job had 500 of them. That would be cool. If I were Job, I would trade all of the other animals for more donkeys. I'd have an entire donkey farm. I'd sell donkey sausage. I'd make donkey glue. I'd drink donkey milk.

Job was rich indeed. And Job's job was to tend and care for his animals. He probably stepped on a lot of doo doo. He probably was always spitting individual, coarse hairs from his tongue. He probably aided more animal birthings than I care to imagine. He probably killed more flies in a day than all of my insect murders combined. He probably named each individual donkey. I know I would have.

But just like Job naming the donkeys that were dear to him, I want to name some books I have recently read that have been dear to me. That's all I wanted to do with this blog anyway - just give you some good book recommendations. But then I noticed that Job owned 500 donkeys. That was too sweet to pass up.

Not the Way It's Supposed to Be by Cornelius Plantinga, Jr. An ingenius examination of sin and its manifestations. Wonderfully written and unbelievably insightful.

Bobos in Paradise by David Brooks. A clever oberservation of the way our culture's new aristocracy has synthesized with the spirit of bohemia. Witty and charming.

Letters of John Newton by....John Newton. This is a compilation of letters that the old British pastor wrote to his friends and members of his congregation. Downright amazing.

Unveiled Hope by Scotty Smith and Michael Card. An easy to read exposition of the book of Revelation. As intimidating as that last New Testament book is, Unveiled Hope helped to remove some confusion and hesitation. Very good. Very good indeed.

The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown. Awful. Dangerous. If I had 500 donkeys I would make them urinate on it.

Love Constraining to Obedience by Doug Serven. This book is delicious. Seriously. Tastes like chicken.

Punctuated Emotions

What is the deal with this? :)

That is a side ways smiley face. It is a smiley face that is hanging awkwardly on its side. You either have to have a very good imagination or you have to tilt your head in order to even see it. So here is my question - how in the world am I supposed to respond when I see it? Is this a message telling me to be happy? Or is this a message telling me that you are happy? What is it? Seriously. It is a colon and one parenthesis. And somehow it is supposed to express happiness. I guess.

And what in the world do we do with the winking one? ;)

I don't even want to discuss the seductive nature behind this.
The more I think about it, you can really express quite a variety of emotions with these things. Take a few for example:

The frown :(
The winking frown ;(
The surpised face :0
The winking surprised face ;0
The smiling cyclops I)
The winking frowning cyclops !(
The winking guy with a big nose ;V)
The winking guy with a double big nose ;W)
The "something is wrong with my mouth" guy :S

And my personal favorite:

The unibrow I:)

What is your favorite punctuated emotion? I:)

Why I Need Jesus

I awoke this morning as I usually do. You know, roll out of bed, rub your eyes, yawn, etc. Nothing felt out of the ordinary. Well, except for some pesky callouses developing on my finger tips from trying to learn how to play the guitar. I proceeded to fix breakfast, get dressed, turn on my computer, do a little writing, do a little reading, and bla bla bla. My morning routine was interupted by an elderly black man knocking at the door. He was the electrician. He was an elderly black man, but an electrician nonetheless.

Flashback - In our living room, the two ceiling lights and fans don't work. Something is wrong with the electricity. Hence, we called an electrician.

He tinkered around, flipping switches on and off, holding a little flashlight up to the sockets, and other strange experiments that were meaningless to me. And apparently they were meaningless to him too because he couldn't fix the problem. He called in for reinforcements.

Before he leaves he goes outside and in one last diagnostic experiment, he flips the breaker on the power box. And our electricity shuts down for a split second. And so does my computer. And so does everything that I was working on. Unsaved. Gone forever.

Frustrated and defeated, I turn the computer back on again. It was a song that I was working on and sometimes the program I use to record it can recover your progress. Well, it didn't. Ok, so I lost one song. No big deal. The electrician is long gone and I decide to leave as well. I lock everything up and step out to run some errands. It is about 11 o clock in the AM. I'm out all day. I don't return till 5:45 in the PM.

Upon my arrival, it is obvious that the electrician has returned and was successful. The lights and ceiling fans are running. Of course, all the clocks are blinking and my computer is off again. I turn on my computer, wait for it to load, and reset all the clocks. After I make my way around the apartment and return back to the computer I realize that it didn't turn on. Funny, I thought. I tried again. Nothing. Growing more concerned I got on my knees and tried to find out the problem - is it the power strip, the chord, the actual socket, or the computer itself. It turns out it was the computer. Funny, I thought.

I unplugged it and took it into the next room to hook it up to a socket that I knew worked. Nothing. It wouldn't turn on at all. Then I began to think of what was all on it that was unsaved. My novel. My entire year-long New Testament study. All of my notes on Galatians that I am teaching next week. All of my music. Every story idea, every letter written, every thought or question I've ever written was on this thing. It was no longer funny, I thought. Angry, I felt.

Followed by anxiety, more anger, nausea, frustration, a bit more anger, and despair. The thought of everything being gone shook my soul. Everything. I knew I would never start to rewrite the novel. I knew all of my time lines and character sketches and Bible references would never be replaced. I knew I never would go back and attempt to recreate an entire archive of songs I'd recorded. Everything I have ever done was hanging in the balance, teetering on either being salvaged or tossed into oblivion forever. And in a strange way, I felt like my very being was right there as well. It was at this point that I realized how desperatly I cling to this stuff. Is this idolatry? Or is this acceptable righteous anger? Then that whole debate starts happening in my head. How much do I worship "stuff?" How much of this reaction is appropriate? Downward I spun until I yelled at the top of my lungs until my throat felt like it was bleeding.

The next 2 hours were spent talking on the phone to Compaq, CompUSA, my parents, my friends, Best Buy, and other computer repair companies. Compaq was going to charge me $300 with NO gaurantee they could recover the data. CompUSA charged $100. Best Buy charged $60, and that was just for a diagnosis.

Side note - I don't have any money.

I decided my Best Bet was Best Buy. As I'm lugging this old clunky thing through the store I hear someone call my name. I turned to see a friend of mine, Dawson, approaching. Dawson is in his mid to late 20s. He goes to my church. He works for Campus Crusade. He is a genuinely sweet man. (His wife just had a baby.) I explained the situation to him and tried to hold back the volcanic rage that was growing inside.

"I bet you it's your power supply. Same thing happened to me Sunday night. I bought the part for 25 bucks, replaced it myself and it was up and running in minutes. You just need that part. I can switch it out for you in the parking lot. It will take 2 seconds." I had no other option so I followed him. We bought the part. He replaced it. I took it home. It now works. And all of my information has been since saved onto a disc now.

And in my moment of despair I realized that it is moments like those that evidence why I needed Jesus for my righteousness, why I need him right now even as I write this, and why I will need him in five minutes. My carnivorous heart salivates for everything but him. It grips onto temporal and expendable stuff with white-knuckled intensity. It is shattered into thousands of pieces when I don't get my way. It is crushed when I cannot please someone or they expose their disappointment with me. I worship everything around me: music, literature, sex, sleep, food, alcohol, attention, approval, appearance, and above all, myself. I am truly polytheistic. I worship a pantheon of gods. The words of Revelation 3:17 resound in my head over and over these days - "You say, 'I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.' But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked."

I almost lost my hard drive today. And I lost my mind because of it. What a pitiful wretch I truly am.

Son of a Beach

I just returned from 2.5 weeks at the beach. Most people would be jealous. Most people would kill to be in my shoes. Most people would salivate at that opportunity. But not me.

It was hell.

I just don't get people's fascination with the beach. I really don't. I have tried to figure it out. But I've got nothing. First of all, the sand. Goodness gracious, the sand. It is everywhere. And you shouldn't expect to walk down by the beach and be freed from it when you rinse your feet under those little water faucets. I did that. And I still had sand in my room, my shower, my bed, my teeth, and my hair. (I was scratching sand granules out of my scalp for days.) There is simply no getting rid of this stuff. It clings to you for life and finds its way onto parts of your body that leave you dumbfounded as to how it got there.

Second, the sun. And the lotion. I simply get tired of rubbing lotion over every square inch of my skin. That is a lot of surface space. Think about it. If you peeled off your entire skin covering and stretched it out, it would be quite a large canvas. And you have to cover EVERY square inch that is exposed. Cause if you don't, you get those terribly awkward sun burn patches. You know, those nice red splotches under your arms or on your shoulder blades. I know those splotches quite well. I had them for about 2 weeks. Furthermore, the lotion makes your skin sticky. There is nothing like lubbing up your entire body with adhesive and then walking out to a vast expanse of sand.

And then you have the actual ocean. You have the lovely combination of the unpredictable waves and the bitter saltiness of the water. This is why you see people who choose to go into the water rubbing their eyes as they exit. Salt water burns eyes. Ever accidentally swallowed any? It will clean out your sinuses faster than wasabi. And I haven't mentioned the sea shells that you step on, the sea weed that gets tangled around your legs, and the undeniable paranoia that accompanies swimming in water so dark that you can't see through it. Who knows what is swimming around me.

The ocean is a toilet. Literally. Millions of billions of fish are pouring their biological wastes right back into the water. And we are swimming in it. I must confess, on one of the few occasions that I found myself in the water, I urinated. And I know others have done the same. Perhaps that is why when the waves crash on the shore they are so sudsy.

The boiling sun, the sticky lotion, the splotchy sunburns, the salty-urine-ocean-water, the hotel room filled with wet towels and wet bathing suits and sand everywhere, the smell of dead fish, the wind that flaps the pages of the book you try to read, and bla bla bla. You can have it, friends. It is not for me.

Questions for People Like Me Who Struggle with Assimilating into Society

When you leave the grocery store, wheeling your shopping cart out to your car to be unloaded, do you abandon the empty cart right there beside your car or do you wheel it into its designated place?

When you are at a restaurant, have you ever ordered water but then filled up your cup at the fountain with Sprite?

When you are in Wal-Mart, do you ever try on the assortment of hats and look at yourself in the mirror and if so, do you worry that you may be welcoming lice?

If the parking lot is full and there are five handicapped parking spaces near the front, all of them empty, and you know you are only going to be inside for a second, do you take the spot or not?

When you play Solitaire on the computer, do you have it shuffle out three at a time or one?

Do you always put Neosporin under Band-Aids?

Pluralism Schmuralism

Pluralism, that crafty little worldview that believes that all faiths have equal stock in “truth,” continues to be both odious and attractive to me. Let’s begin with the attraction before we move to the odiousness.

Those who advocate pluralism are gentle and tolerant. In fact, tolerance is an idea built into the presuppositions of their very worldview. They are modest and genuinely seek civility, as they would much rather discuss spirituality and theology with praise and acceptance rather than blame and accusation. They have the freedom and flexibility to choose what doesn’t suit them and at the same time they are committed to not impose their decisions on you. You can almost hear them at the spiritual buffet, “I’ll take a little bit of that Nirvana stuff, give me a side of that third tier of heaven, you know, the celestial kingdom, and oh wait, no, you better keep that predestination and reincarnation. I’ll also pass on the abstinence.” Pluralists define spiritual reality as they see fit and what a glorious exercise this must be. Imagine a reality that simply revolves around your personal preferences.

There can be no theological arguments within Pluralism, for any “doctrinal” position remains fluid and incomplete. It has to. Spiritual discussions between Pluralists sounds more like an AA meeting, where they attempt to encourage and uplift the other, rather than a polemic debate. And as a result, Pluralists are more accepting, more tolerant, and more open-minded to different ideas and perspectives. They are willing to compromise and adapt, willing to synthesize ideas, and willing to accept people different from themselves without any prejudice. They are epistemologically modest. What’s true for you is good, and they genuinely mean it.

And this is all very attractive to me. I like the idea of telling someone my ideas about reality and though our ideas conflict with no possible chance for reconciliation, they respond with, “That’s great! What a wonderful perspective!” There seems to be an optimism and a genuine tolerance that comes with Pluralism, and this is attractive to me.

But of course, Pluralism is doomed by definition. For here we have a worldview that exalts itself over and above every other worldview by saying that any worldview that exalts itself over an above every other worldview is wrong. Pluralism’s defining position is that no other faith has the absolute claim to truth, which of course, is itself an absolute claim to truth. Oh, silly Pluralism. You thought you provided an answer to a vexing problem, and indeed offered a valiant solution, but you are surely deficient.

And this little unacknowledged snag within its framework comes out quite clearly if you were to engage in a conversation with a Pluralist. The gentle, tolerant, open minded Pluralist who is eager for compromise and civility quickly becomes suspicious of anyone who claims to have a faith with absolute claims to truth. The Tolerant Pluralist is only intolerant of one thing, and that is other people’s intolerance to his tolerance. He is open-minded of everything but the idea of being closed minded, which of course, makes him closed-minded. He fervently defends his BOTH – AND system against opposition, revealing his true EITHER – OR commitments. And that is the thing. The Pluralist is absolutely committed to the idea of no absolute commitments. He is closed-minded about his open-mindedness. He is intolerant of intolerance. He is in fact, deep down, not a Pluralist after all.

What profound enlightenment does one reach with Pluralism anyway? What level of transcendence can a Pluralist really achieve? He is committed to everything and therefore committed to nothing. What is the spiritual gain here? Would anyone die in the name of Pluralism? Where are all Pluralistic martyrs? There are none. They have compromised it all and cling to nothing.

Their faith is built on nothing but tolerance and respect for diversity. While those are noble things indeed, one cannot build an entire system of thought on those alone.

Everyone say it with me outloud: Pluralism Schmuralism.

Marathons and Tarragons

A tarragon is an Old World wormwood whose fragrant leaves are used for seasoning, especially in vinegar. This has nothing to do with my post. It simply rhymes with marathon.

Ahh, the marathon. I’ll be honest. I do not understand these things. Why would any rational human being participate in one? For heaven’s sake, it is 26 freaking miles. That seems a bit excessive. And furthermore, they make you pay money to run them.

Who needs to run that bad? Seriously. Who wakes up and thinks, “Today I’m going to run. Far. Really far. The farthest I’ve ever run. I won’t run around the block or on a trail. I won’t run a mile or two. I won’t even run 10. That certainly won’t suffice my running appetite. No. I will run 26 miles. And I want to run so badly that I will even pay people to let me do it. I can easily run 26 miles on my own throughout my neighborhood or on the track, but that won’t do. I must give up my money to run the path that the Marathon Authorities have designated. I will give up my savings as well as my blood, sweat and tears. I will expend myself monetarily as well as physically. Yes, that is what I am going to do today. I will blow out my budget and my knees.” The sad thing is people not only actually think this, but carry out these thoughts. And when they get to the starting line, they discover that thousands of other people had the same insane idea.

Can you imagine running 26 miles without stopping? I can’t. The thought of running five seems unbearable. But 26?!? That is about four and a half hours of constantly running. Four and a half freaking hours. I can’t even SIT and watch a movie for four and a half hours, much less run. In fact, I can’t fathom doing anything other than sleeping for four and a half hours straight.

I played basketball growing up and so I have no category for running as entertainment. Running has always been a means to me, not an end. You ran to get from point A to point B. Point B was the goal, not the actual steps between the two. In fact, whenever the basketball team was being reprimanded or disciplined, the coach made us run. Running was the punishment. Of all the things that the coach could have chosen for us to do, why would he pick running? It is because he understands that this is a painful and exhausting exercise, one we would never voluntarily do on our own. And this is why marathons make no sense to me. In my mind, it is simply a four and a half hour voluntary punishment for a crime you didn’t commit.

So where are all these marathon runners the day after their triumph? Are they feeling victorious? Are they savoring their accomplishment? Are they feeling on top of the world? Maybe. But most likely they are feeling like complete crap, cursing their stubborn will and soaking in a bath to try and smooth out the unbearable stiffness that has consumed every muscle they possess like some strange premature rigormortis. And they gave up an afternoon of their life. And a pair of shoes. And they paid money to do it. Some marathons reward their runners with a T-shirt. That seems like a fair trade off.

Airports, Airplanes, and Earplugs

Bear with the details here. But they are important. I flew to Atlanta last weekend. My flight was scheduled for 6:00 in the pm on Thursday. I left Baton Rouge at 3:00 and arrived in New Orleans at 4:30 (It is substantially cheaper to fly out of New Orleans). Now this may all seem like trivial information so far, and indeed it might be. But my great adventure begins here, here in the New Orleans airport at 4:30 waiting for my 6:00 flight. And so here I begin.

I took off my shoes, my belt, and emptied my pockets into one of those bins as I passed through the metal detectors and the security gates. I safely walked through without any alarms and I gathered my items on the other side. I put my wallet and cell phone back into my pockets, wrapped my belt around my waist, slid my shoes back on and I was interupted - "I'll take that." The security guard quickly snatched my keys that were still in the bin and began removing my tiny, dull Swiss Army knife from my key chain. He handed them back to me, I apologized in embarrassment, and gathered the rest of my stuff. I have forever lost my little knife. I used it for everything. I cut loose thread from shirts, I cleaned out my fingernails, I picked my teeth with it, etc. Perhaps for sanitary reasons it is best that I lost it.

Then the hour and a half wait. Sidenote: I am terrified of flying. Absolutely terrified. Every bump of even the slightest degree of turbulence sends my heart racing. So I decided to have a drink or two at the airport bar to calm my nerves. Jack and Coke = 6 dollars. This shot-sized plastic cup took me about three sips to get through. And of course, there was only about a teaspoon of Jack in it. Frustrated that it would not do the trick without blowing my entire budget, I returned to the little waiting area in terminal C 7, which was slowly being filled up with inconsiderate people who talk very loud on their cell phones.

And then our 6:00 flight was delayed to 7:00. And then our 7:00 flight was delayed to 8:00. And then our 8:00 flight was delayed to 8:45. And all I brought to read was the Letters of John Newton and The Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan. Two and a half hours in an airport terminal with 17th century literature is a long and hard eternity of torture. Don't get me wrong, I love older literature. But these two pieces aren't exactly "page turners."

So we finally board and I begin to realize that by the time I arrive in Atlanta, I could have just as easily driven the distance in about the same amount of time. From when I left Baton Rouge to when I arrived at my final destination was about 7 hours. It takes 8 to drive. So we board and of course I'm on a window seat next to a large man who has already claimed the armrest. The fight for the armrest was already lost. This means I am forced to read for the duration of the flight with my arms pressed up against my body like I am wrapped up in mummy linens. And I hate the window seat. But I also hate the middle and aisle seats. I simply hate flying.

And then we take off. And as I survey my fellow passengers, I realize how automatically suspicious I am of Middle Eastern men on board. Is this wrong? Probably.

The flight is only an hour. And by this point, I am well sick of reading 17th century-paragraph-length runon sentences. I decide to flip through the ever avaiable SkyMall Catelog in the little pocket in front of me. This is a great time to shop, in my opinion. It is great to know that at 20,000 feet in the air I can purchase a metal trashcan that opens at the sound of your voice for $300. It is a great feeling to know that if I feel like purchasing a lawnchair with a built in DVD player for $899, I can do so.

But what do other passengers read on planes? They read the crappy, thick, paper back NY Times best sellers. Or the crappy, thick, paper back suspense/thriller/Tom Clancy/Steven King/CSI: Miami novels. Next time you are on an airplane just look around. I promise you that you will see them. They are everywhere. Everyone reads these things.

So then the plane begins descending. And the ears begin popping. For over 20 minutes the pressure in my ears had built up so bad that I could do nothing about it. I'm swallowing. I'm yawning. I'm tilting my head and opening my jaw. Nothing. Nothing works anymore. Is it possible that one can develop a tolerance with ear popping? That is certainly worth exploring later in life.

And finally the plane lands, a solid three hours later than when it was supposed to. And here is something I have failed to understand. The plane lands, gently meanders over to the terminal, parks, and then the seatbelt light flashes off. And what does everyone on board do? They leap out of their seats, collect all their belongings, and....stand there. They join the rest of the rushed idiots in the aisle to stand there, up against one another for another 10 minutes. Do people honestly think that when the sign goes off, they are going to be the only one to jump up, grab their stuff, and run down the empty aisle out of the plane? The foolishness of people baffles me. I always just sit there. I enjoy looking up at all the fools from my comfortable seat. Sometimes I will make eye contact with one of the "standing ones" and there is that faint flicker of humiliation in their eyes. The best is when they sit back down. They admit defeat. They join me and the other smart passengers who are still sitting. We are the ones who should be sitting up in the front, on those large, blue, padded seats with the extra leg room. We should be the ones that get to sit next to people who read good and interesting literature. We should be the ones that get the free drinks. But no, we are stuck in the back on the uncomfortable, cramped seats next to the large, stupid, loud people who hog the armrests and jump up out of their seats the moment the seatbelt sign flashes off.

Muse (a poem)

Muse, if you choose to turn to me
My soul would be in debt to thee
I ask to lift your stubborn head
Truly in need of being led
My prostrate posture proves this to be

Muse, here I use the gifts supplied
I wrote your words like I'm a scribe
Now here they are for all to see
To be assessed and be critiqued
From me the messenger and you the guide

My heart set out to sole compose
Creative words nobody knows
So thus I turned my ear to thee
In hopes you would enlighten me
And so you did, at least I suppose

I gladly took my pen in hand
Though lacked the will to understand
The poem nearly penned itself
Left I to thank nobody else
But solely Muse, who granted my demand

My words were trite and void of meter
I penned about some desperate author
Who out of desperation chose
To use a Muse to aid his prose
Whose help enabled him to write further

But O! Mine hopes were torn and dashed
Mine friends and family simply laughed
"The thoughts are dull, the words are lead,
The meter's off," They scoffed and said
And thus my weary soul and heart were halfed

O Muse! I used your inspiration
Only to be humiliation
Great Betrayer! Line of Judas!
Caesar'd dare to call you Brutus!
Muse, I pray for your destruction

You scamper free from mock and shame
When you were truly thee to blame
In mine spine I feel the sores
I do believe this knife is yours
Now "criticized" becomes my awful name

Ant Hills and other thoughts

So I find myself at someone else's lakehouse this weekend with a group of people (none of whom I had met before) and down by the dock was a large, red ant hill. This thing was the World Trader Center of ant hills. It probably came up to my knee. Now of course my first instinct was to smash it and stand back and watch the frenzy, but because I was with people I didn't know, I was a bit insecure with what they would think of this childish behavior. (People who own lake houses probably frown on immaturity, I'm guessing.) So I refrained from my impulse.

The few moments I stood over the hill going back and forth whether or not I should demolish the ant fortress gave me time to reflect on the larger subject, that is, what is it about people, or at least me, that wants to destroy things when I can and when there is no significant consequences? Why was destruction my first impulse? Without arriving at any conclusions then and there, I pondered what other things I want to destroy when I get a hold of them.

Empty glass bottles. My first impulse is to throw them onto concrete and watch them shatter into pieces.

Broken appliances. Old microwaves and stereos that are of no use to me should be demolished and gutted rather than tossed in a trashcan or placed on the side of the road in my opinion.

CDs that malfunctioned on me halfway through being burned. I bend them and try to snap them. Or I toss them like frisbees. I never gently place them in the trashcan.

Pieces of paper. We don't gently place them in the trash, no, we crinkle and crunch them into a ball and then throw them into the trash.

Bubble wrap. I must pop every bubble. I must make the already worthless thing useless. I never think to reuse it.

Leaves and blades of grass. Whenever I am sitting Indian style on a lawn or in a park you will find me meticulously ripping leaves and blades of grass to shreds. Why I do this, I don't know.

The list could go on. And more could be added about fire and my impulse to burn things around me whenever the opportunity presents itself to hand me a lighter.

I never did arrive at any sort of conclusion as to why I'm/we're driven by destruction. And I never did smash that ant hill but I regret it now. The sight of seeing those thousands of ants panic in pissed off hysteria and try and make sense of why their high rise apartment complex was destroyed would have been incredible. I probably would have done it with a stick. And as I walked away, I most likely would have split the stick in half over my knee.

Forwards and Christianity

Many a blog should be written over the ridiculousness and irrelevancy of email forwards. Email Forwards (or just 'forwords' for short) are utterly pointless and they actually cause me grief and much anxiety. I check my email. Ohhh! 14 unread in my inbox! (This makes me feel good about myself.) And then the bulk of the list begins with FW:. I go through them and erase them all immediately. Who honestly writes these things? Why do we feel compelled to forward them on?

The worst forwards are those that pertain to Christianity or some sort of spiritual optimism. I take that back. I have never really read a "Christian" forward. Most of these forwards are Deistic or Gnostic or Eastern in content and cloaked with Christian language.

For example, I recently read one of the forwards I was sent titled "A Blessed Prayer." It basically went like this: I asked God to change me, He said, "No, that is for you to do." I asked God for spiritual growth, He said, "No, you must grow yourself, but I will do some pruning along the way." I asked God for healing, He said, "No, the body is temporary."

How is this a blessed prayer? The one praying is basically told by God, change yourself, heal yourself, fix yourself, grow yourself, make yourself alive, etc. Forwards such as these do violence to Biblical Christianity and to the God that is. God NEVER sits around idle and disconnected from people and demands them to save themselves. If this were the case, we would all be screwed.

All Forwards should be banned. But especially Christian ones. (Forward this to 15 people if you love Jesus. If you don't, you might be responsible for someone going to hell.)

And Now a Word From Our Sponsor

Every so often I take the time to actually observe the world around me. This happens about once or twice a month. Well, that is actually being a bit liberal. Maybe two or three times every two months. Perhaps that is a bit conservative. Or moderate. But that is not the point. The point is that every now and then I take the time to observe. Here are some of my observations. And reservations.

1. People can't walk any more alone. By this I mean, they can't walk without being on a cell phone. Very rarely do you actually see somebody just walking. Not talking. We are so afraid to be alone for some reason. Must talk to someone. Anyone. I don't care. I have to talk to somebody right this second. Either that or we are so freaking insecure about looking like we are losers. If we are at least talking to somebody we are cool and connected to a social world. But the opposite is really the case. Enjoy a nice, peaceful, quiet walk. Put the freaking cell phone down for a minute.

2. Fashion has made the cycle back around and now we find people propping up their shirt collars. I won't comment any further on the absolute ridiculousness of this social trend.

3. Gas prices are at an all time high. SUVs are still the most coveted vehicles. This is the culture shooting itself in the foot in my opinion.

4. Pit stains should be in style. That way we wouldn't be so worried about them. I realize that this is not an "observation" but I felt like it needed to be on the list.

5. People are ready to have sex at 13 and the culture tells them not to get married until they are 30. The battle for purity is already lost with that paradigm. (This one was provided by every thoughtful RUF campus minister out there.)

6. Facebook and Friendster and virtual friendship networks are all the craze these days. Why though? What is the obsession we have with collecting "friends?" Having 450 virtual "friends" basically means that you have zero actual friends. There is no such thing as an internet friendship. It is a contradiction in terms.

7. No one, and I mean absolutely no one, knows what the War of 1812 was about. Including me.

8. Wendy's has not been selling as much chili this past week. My guess is that chili will be removed from their menu. You know, with the whole finger incident.

9. Anyone who says that they prefer coffee black is a liar. And anyone who hangs out in coffee shops is pretentious. There is a nice, hipster coffee shop hangout here in Baton Rouge and in front of it was parked a truck with a bumper sticker on it that read, "Friends don't let friends drink Starbucks." Starbucks began as this artsy, hipster coffee shop in Seattle and blew up into the commercial megacorporation that it is. Only when something is weird and uncool is it really cool in this culture. And when that weird uncool thing becomes popular, it is actually then truly uncool. This truck driver is rebelling from the rebellion. It's just so silly to me. It's freaking coffee. No one really likes it anyway. People just want to look and feel bohemian.

10. Everyone needs a laptop. Ask them. They'll tell you. They'll say, "Yeah, I really need to get one." If they don't have one, they are looking for one. If they have one, they will let you know why it is the greatest machine on earth and why you have to have their exact one. We walk by people using them and drool with envy. Or we sit behind them and laugh to ourselves when the drooling, envious people walk by. For some reason we have convinced ourself that this luxury is now a necessity. It is the thing that now divides us. We are grouped into two peopl: those that have them and those that don't. I am still in the second group. But I need one.

Cell Phones and Irate People

Ok, ok, so feel on this. I'm at the gas station last Monday, you know, giving the car the old heave ho (fill up). I'm standing there pumping my gas and in an effort to be efficient, I decided to call a friend via cellular telephone (perhaps you have heard of these). I'm now pumping AND talking, doing two things at once as opposed to doing one thing at once.

Suddenly the woman pumping gas next to me begins yelling at me. I didn't make out what she was saying at first as I am not accustomed to being spoken to, much less yelled at, by strangers at gas stations. And afterall, I was on the phone. I eventually turned around to hear the commotion and now a man (who was also pumping his gas) joined the woman in the shouting. They were yelling, "Get off the phone! Get off the phone!!" The panic in their voice quickly alarmed me.

"What?" I asked them, pulling the receiver end of the phone away from my mouth but the listeny part was still up against my ear. "What are you talking about?" I pled ignorance. But I knew exactly why they were yelling I just was so completely baffled that someone, nay, some two people were actually yelling at me because of it.

"You will cause an explosion!! Back away from the car!!" And the man was ushering me away from the pump with his hand. "What are you talking about? 'Cause an explosion?' What in the world?" I was upset by now that they were making such a big deal about it. It was like they were imagining me holding a flaming torch instead of a little, plastic, cell phone.

"The sparks will cause an explosion! It's been documented!! Get off the f*#%in' phone!!!!!!" Now honestly, help me out here people. Sure, sure, I have seen the 20/20 episode where they did a deal on a case where a woman on her cell phone at a gas station caused a fire (not an explosion). This one freak incident now apparently warrants the claim that explosions are caused by cell phones and that they have been "documented." Give me a freaking break. I have never seen sparks fly from my cell phone. I have talked at the pump many a time and have seen no explosions. Why all the fuss people?

I wanted to say, "Holy S&#%!!! Take off your digital watch!! Oh my God!! It will cause a freaking explosion!!" Or maybe I should have said, "Holy crap!! Don't pull your car into a gas station it will cause an explosion!! Don't you know all the wires and engine heat under the hood could cause an EXPLOSION!!!!" But I didn't say any of that. I simply gave him and the frantic woman a dirty look and kept talking.

Your anger with me is only self-defeating

I have recently been the victimized subject of much hatred and disappointment from several emails and blog comments. They all have to do with my lack of updating this stupid site. First of all, what in the world are you expecting from me? The fact that you actually read other people's blogs as regularly as you do might point to a greater problem. Read a book if you are going to read. There are some good ones out there I hear. Second, Ok, I don't really have a second. Third, I apologize for my little outburst there. I should have learned by now that you never encourage your audience to continue reading if'n you insult them for doing so. Forgive me.

All that to say, the hostility that I have been receiving as of late is unjustified and furthermore, is self-defeating. For all the philosophy geeks, members of the Intellectually-Proud-and-Reformed-Theological-Legalists-and-Pharisees Club (IPRTLPC), and the upscale Wallstreet fat cats, you probably already know what the term "self-defeating" is. For the rest of us who have to consult dictionaries and other sources, let me spell it out.

Self-defeating is the term for an idea or statement that fails to live up to its own standards. For example, the claim, "There is no truth" is self-defeating because the very sentence claims to be true. Or another example, "It is impossible to know anything." Again, the statement seems to imply that you can at least know that the statement is true, defeating its very claim.

So how is your anger with me self-defeating? How does your anger with me for not posting more blogs fold back on itself and crush under its own weight? Well, maybe it doesn't. Maybe your anger with me isn't self-defeating after all.

But here are some things that are:

relativism
skepticism
empiricism
logical positivism
religious pluralism
rationalism
truncation

There are more, I'm sure. I will stop there. Two last thoughts in closing. 1. Read a book. 2. Forgive me.

Pledging to blog more often,
MT Howell