When you have cooked a frozen pizza in the oven and you pull it out and begin to divide it up into slices, and the knife blade happens to land directly on one of those round, mine-like pepperoni's, do you try and cut through the pepperoni, or scoot it over a little bit and keep cutting on your original path?
When your downstairs neighbors are throwing a kegger (like right now) and you are trying to go to sleep (like right now), do you put in earplugs, go down stairs and tell them to be quiet, join them in their late night activities, or default to updating your obnoxiously self-preoccupied blog site?
When stray dogs, cute ones at that, approach you, do you pet them or avoid them?
Minesweeper or Solitaire?
What does RSVP stand for? Honestly.
Do you pronounce it envelope or on-velope?
Has anyone ever read "A Dream to Squish By" by Michel Alexus? And if so, how was it?
When your downstairs neighbors are throwing a kegger and you are trying to go to sleep do you throw groceries down at them from your second floor window, do you call the cops, do you walk outside naked, or do you meander through the crowd asking them if anyone has read "A Dream to Squish By" by Michel Alexus?
Would you ever remove belly button lint in public?
Is there any other toast or bread product named after a state besides Texas? Michigan Muffins?
In an apartment with two guys, one of them purchases a 24-roll package of toilet paper for the apartment. It was out of necessity. But what if they are planning on moving out in a few weeks and the bulk of the toilet paper remains. Does the one who purchased it take it with him? Do they divide it up? If so, who gets to keep the plastic, cellophane like wrapping it came in? Do they split it evenly? Does the one who bought it get to keep more?
Someone make them stop.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Friday, July 22, 2005
Poo Poo and Sex Sex
So I'm at a gas station, using the potty, you know, the old number 2. Not the number 1. Number 1 is wee wee. Just like how the number one starts with a "w" sound. Wwww-one. Wwwww-ee wee. But not that. Well, that's not entirely true. A little bit of 1. A little bit of 2. Thankfully no 3. Here's a way to remember this numeric code in case I reference these numbers again. 1 - wee wee (think of the w sound.) 2 - rhymes with poo (number 2 is poo). 3 - squish.
So I'm at a gas station, using the potty, you know, the old number 2 (see legend above). I take a gander (goose) at the stall wall. I read a few of the entries, you know, the correct phone number to dial in case I feel led to have a good time. There were some racial threats on there (I was in Mississippi). There was some dirt on some poor girl named Amelia. And a whole bulk of sexual profanity I will spare you of.
Which leads me to a question - In such a disgusting context, why is the first thing the graffiti (spelling?) artist usually thinks of is sex and the escapades thereof? Nasty, revolting, pee-drenched, half-flushed, mustard-stained-toilet-bowl, fecal-fuming bathrooms do not begin evoking desires to think of, much less document, my sexual fantasies and/or invitations. I just don't get it. It's like carving the words "Who wants some vinegar?" at an oil plant. Plain and simple. It just doesn't make sense.
On the subject of bathrooms, I happened to be in Atlanta this past week and found myself dining at The Varsity, which if you don't know, is a famous old, fast-food like diner joint. The place is huge and old, spread out with like 30 cash registers with each one being manned by a black woman shouting "what'll ya have?" This is a glorified fast food place. Burgers, hotdogs, cokes, shakes, bla bla bla. This is not the point of my entry.
The point is that I went into the bathroom, again with the need to effectually accomplish a number 2 (see legend above). There was only one problem though. The stalls had no doors. There were two walls, sure, but no door. Which, if you think about it, is really the most important part of the bathroom stall. The door. But there were none. And my little situation was not going away anytime soon. So there I find myself, sitting there with my pants around my ankles, out there and exposed for the perpetually revolving incomers to see. I might as well been sitting there in the middle of the room with no walls around me. I have never squeezed and wrenched so hard to speed up the process. Had I used the bathroom after my disgustingly, greasy, deep fried double cheeseburger with french fries, the whole thing would have taken about 4 seconds. But it would have been a much louder exodus.
I think I was in too big of a hurry because I didn't even take note of the nearby engraved sexual invitations and the relevant phone numbers to dial were I to be so inclined. Good thing I wrote down that number from the Mississippi gas station, were I to find myself interesting in needing a "good time."
So I'm at a gas station, using the potty, you know, the old number 2 (see legend above). I take a gander (goose) at the stall wall. I read a few of the entries, you know, the correct phone number to dial in case I feel led to have a good time. There were some racial threats on there (I was in Mississippi). There was some dirt on some poor girl named Amelia. And a whole bulk of sexual profanity I will spare you of.
Which leads me to a question - In such a disgusting context, why is the first thing the graffiti (spelling?) artist usually thinks of is sex and the escapades thereof? Nasty, revolting, pee-drenched, half-flushed, mustard-stained-toilet-bowl, fecal-fuming bathrooms do not begin evoking desires to think of, much less document, my sexual fantasies and/or invitations. I just don't get it. It's like carving the words "Who wants some vinegar?" at an oil plant. Plain and simple. It just doesn't make sense.
On the subject of bathrooms, I happened to be in Atlanta this past week and found myself dining at The Varsity, which if you don't know, is a famous old, fast-food like diner joint. The place is huge and old, spread out with like 30 cash registers with each one being manned by a black woman shouting "what'll ya have?" This is a glorified fast food place. Burgers, hotdogs, cokes, shakes, bla bla bla. This is not the point of my entry.
The point is that I went into the bathroom, again with the need to effectually accomplish a number 2 (see legend above). There was only one problem though. The stalls had no doors. There were two walls, sure, but no door. Which, if you think about it, is really the most important part of the bathroom stall. The door. But there were none. And my little situation was not going away anytime soon. So there I find myself, sitting there with my pants around my ankles, out there and exposed for the perpetually revolving incomers to see. I might as well been sitting there in the middle of the room with no walls around me. I have never squeezed and wrenched so hard to speed up the process. Had I used the bathroom after my disgustingly, greasy, deep fried double cheeseburger with french fries, the whole thing would have taken about 4 seconds. But it would have been a much louder exodus.
I think I was in too big of a hurry because I didn't even take note of the nearby engraved sexual invitations and the relevant phone numbers to dial were I to be so inclined. Good thing I wrote down that number from the Mississippi gas station, were I to find myself interesting in needing a "good time."
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Lies, The Homeless, and All Around Conviction
The other day I lied to a homeless man. And he caught me. He caught me lying. The story:
I live right on the edge of where Baton Rouge ghetto evolves into Baton Rouge hippieville (I know, what a corney name, but I could think of nothing else). I live in poverty. It is not uncommon to get asked by meandering homeless for change. Not uncommon = every day. At first I felt the pressure, I would fish around in my pockets and whatever I had I would give them. "God bless, man. Thank you so much. God bless." And I would feel pretty damn good about myself.
And then the next day they'd ask again. And I didn't quite feel like giving up my money. Especially when they are holding a nalgene bottle half-filled with dark liquid with a foamy head on it.
Side-story: I once walked out of a restaurant close to campus holding a to-go box of my leftover red beans and rice. A homeless man approached, rather staggered. "Hey, can I get some change for something to eat." And here I was holding something to eat. "I don't have any change, but here is something to eat."
"What is it?"
"Red beans and rice." I opened it to reveal the still-warm pile of food.
"Naw, I don't eat red beans and rice." He turned down the offer for free food. I thought beggars weren't supposed to be choosers. He went on to tell me a few other items that he doesn't eat like speghetti and creamed corn. I told him, "I guess you aren't that hungry then."
This raises a whole series of questions concerning the ethics of how to deal with the homeless when they are asking you for your money. Do you give it to them regardless? Is it your responsibility to know what they are going to do with the money? Should we not give it if we know we are contributing to unhealthy habits of theirs? Or is that not even an issue - as if we can hold out our money only if we are assured they are going to use it in the way that we want them to?
I have chosen not to give any more change to the homeless. And I stopped saying that I didn't have any when I knew that I did. I started saying, "I'm sorry, I can't help you."
But the other day, I didn't say that. I got into my car, which was parked out behind this coffee shop I frequent (the very coffee shop I am writing this from now). I got in, started it and was approached by a homeless man (wearing a gold necklace by the way). "Hey can I get some change?"
"Sorry, I don't have any."
Then he looked down at my console and saw the plastic cup that I have in there filled with change. Filled. He pointed at it with a sense of betrayal and questioned, "What's that then?"
I glanced down at it, shot a look back up to him and uttered out an apology and drove away as quickly as I could. And the conviction lingered with me for days. It still does. Because after all, here I am writing about it.
I think the best solution is to ask them for change before they can ask you. This turns the tables a bit. I'd like to see them squirm for an appropriate response for once. What would they say? Would they lie? You know they have change. Would they say they didn't? Would they say, "Sorry, I can't help you?" Would they simply laugh? Or would they actually give some of it up?
Maybe I could learn to live off of other people's pocket change. Heaven knows they do. And they still find extra money for gold necklaces, cigarettes, beer, magic markers (to write on their little cardboard signs), and food preferences. This doesn't seem too bad at all.
I live right on the edge of where Baton Rouge ghetto evolves into Baton Rouge hippieville (I know, what a corney name, but I could think of nothing else). I live in poverty. It is not uncommon to get asked by meandering homeless for change. Not uncommon = every day. At first I felt the pressure, I would fish around in my pockets and whatever I had I would give them. "God bless, man. Thank you so much. God bless." And I would feel pretty damn good about myself.
And then the next day they'd ask again. And I didn't quite feel like giving up my money. Especially when they are holding a nalgene bottle half-filled with dark liquid with a foamy head on it.
Side-story: I once walked out of a restaurant close to campus holding a to-go box of my leftover red beans and rice. A homeless man approached, rather staggered. "Hey, can I get some change for something to eat." And here I was holding something to eat. "I don't have any change, but here is something to eat."
"What is it?"
"Red beans and rice." I opened it to reveal the still-warm pile of food.
"Naw, I don't eat red beans and rice." He turned down the offer for free food. I thought beggars weren't supposed to be choosers. He went on to tell me a few other items that he doesn't eat like speghetti and creamed corn. I told him, "I guess you aren't that hungry then."
This raises a whole series of questions concerning the ethics of how to deal with the homeless when they are asking you for your money. Do you give it to them regardless? Is it your responsibility to know what they are going to do with the money? Should we not give it if we know we are contributing to unhealthy habits of theirs? Or is that not even an issue - as if we can hold out our money only if we are assured they are going to use it in the way that we want them to?
I have chosen not to give any more change to the homeless. And I stopped saying that I didn't have any when I knew that I did. I started saying, "I'm sorry, I can't help you."
But the other day, I didn't say that. I got into my car, which was parked out behind this coffee shop I frequent (the very coffee shop I am writing this from now). I got in, started it and was approached by a homeless man (wearing a gold necklace by the way). "Hey can I get some change?"
"Sorry, I don't have any."
Then he looked down at my console and saw the plastic cup that I have in there filled with change. Filled. He pointed at it with a sense of betrayal and questioned, "What's that then?"
I glanced down at it, shot a look back up to him and uttered out an apology and drove away as quickly as I could. And the conviction lingered with me for days. It still does. Because after all, here I am writing about it.
I think the best solution is to ask them for change before they can ask you. This turns the tables a bit. I'd like to see them squirm for an appropriate response for once. What would they say? Would they lie? You know they have change. Would they say they didn't? Would they say, "Sorry, I can't help you?" Would they simply laugh? Or would they actually give some of it up?
Maybe I could learn to live off of other people's pocket change. Heaven knows they do. And they still find extra money for gold necklaces, cigarettes, beer, magic markers (to write on their little cardboard signs), and food preferences. This doesn't seem too bad at all.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Real Reality
Everyone has heard the expression. You've no doubt used it yourself. You hear it come out in extreme circumstances or when you're watching something unbelievable on the news. It was used often to describe the images of the planes crashing into the Twin Towers. You might now know what I'm getting at. The expression is, "It looks just like the movies."
A few months back I had a student pick me up from the airport in New Orleans. On our way back to Baton Rouge I told him to be careful with his speed as I know cops like to lurk around curves. He slowed down and sure enough, as we rounded the corner, there sat a perched police officer. Thankful that I warned him and a bit baffled at my prediction, he used the expression. "Man, it was just like the movies."
Here is my problem with that expression. Media images have so saturated our culture and swallowed our perception of reality that we now appeal to them as the standard. Movies are more real to us than reality and so when we encounter something in our real experience, we compare it to what we know best - the movies. We know movies better than we do our own experience. We are more in tune with fantasy than we are with reality.
Does anyone else see the problem here? Movies are supposed to reflect reality, not replace it. When we see explosions on the big screen, we should say, "That looked just like 9-11." Not the other way around. When we see relationships either crumble or piece back together on film, we should note how that reminds us of our own experience. See, we have replaced our normal, every day encounters of life with the more exciting pseudo-reality of movies.
Real life is more exciting than the movies anyway. There is never going to be anything "ordinary" on the big screen. You'll never watch someone sleeping (well, unless you rent Andy Warhol's 8 hour long film entitled "Sleeping"). You'll never watch someone take the pebble out of their shoe. Or show the whole 30 minute long segment it takes to drive to work. Real life involves real people with real emotions and real experiences. It is simply a shame that we evaluate our experiences through the lens of fiction, and not reality.
This blog post was just like a novel.
A few months back I had a student pick me up from the airport in New Orleans. On our way back to Baton Rouge I told him to be careful with his speed as I know cops like to lurk around curves. He slowed down and sure enough, as we rounded the corner, there sat a perched police officer. Thankful that I warned him and a bit baffled at my prediction, he used the expression. "Man, it was just like the movies."
Here is my problem with that expression. Media images have so saturated our culture and swallowed our perception of reality that we now appeal to them as the standard. Movies are more real to us than reality and so when we encounter something in our real experience, we compare it to what we know best - the movies. We know movies better than we do our own experience. We are more in tune with fantasy than we are with reality.
Does anyone else see the problem here? Movies are supposed to reflect reality, not replace it. When we see explosions on the big screen, we should say, "That looked just like 9-11." Not the other way around. When we see relationships either crumble or piece back together on film, we should note how that reminds us of our own experience. See, we have replaced our normal, every day encounters of life with the more exciting pseudo-reality of movies.
Real life is more exciting than the movies anyway. There is never going to be anything "ordinary" on the big screen. You'll never watch someone sleeping (well, unless you rent Andy Warhol's 8 hour long film entitled "Sleeping"). You'll never watch someone take the pebble out of their shoe. Or show the whole 30 minute long segment it takes to drive to work. Real life involves real people with real emotions and real experiences. It is simply a shame that we evaluate our experiences through the lens of fiction, and not reality.
This blog post was just like a novel.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Existence is Expensive
Have you ever considered what it costs just to be alive? Ponder with me.
You have to eat. That means you have to buy food. They come in packages that must be discarded in a trashcan. So you have to buy a trashcan. And trash bags. And then you have to pay the city to come by and get it. But let's say you decide to toss your trash on the ground instead, you know, bypass the expenses of cans, bags, and city. Well, if you litter, and you get caught, you still have to give up some cheese.
And on the other end - you have to pay for the water in the toilet to carry away the leftovers.
What about hygiene? What must you buy just to be clean? Soap. Wash cloths. Comb. More water bills. If you are like me, then a loufa. Shampoo. Towels. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Floss. You could blow a budget in the hygiene arena alone.
So let's say you get a job. How are you going to get there? Well, you got to get a car. And then gas. And insurance. And oil changes. And inspections. You even have to pay for the roads that you drive on.
So you decide to go public transit instead. Well, bus' require tickets. Tickets require more money.
And after work you have to go home. Home. Those cost money too. If you are like me then you have rent and utilities. I don't pay housenotes yet. But housenotes are just adult code language for "more money." Not to mention repairs, light bulbs, brooms, dust pans, vacuums, dusters, cleaning supplies for the bathroom (I don't have any of these), and all the money it will take for you to fill it with furnature, kitchen gear, and pictures and frames for the walls.
Now, you can't walk around naked. You have to get at least a shirt and pants. But not just one pair of pants. You have to buy an extra pair of shorts and wear these UNDER the pants. Why we do this, I don't know. I think it is like Halmark holidays, they are made up just so that we can shell out more cash. Don't get me wrong, I wear underwear, I just don't know why I do.
Besides, every step you take ruffles the threads in your clothes, creating a nonstop wear and tear which will inevitably force you to buy more. Buying more = giving away more money.
We Americans like our entertainment. This usually doesn't come free. Movies. Video games. TV shows. Internet. Laptops. Board games. Musicals. Sporting events. Bars even make you give up a few bucks to play pool.
And on and on I could go. I could get into alcohol or cigarettes, whatever tickles your fancy. I could get into books or magazines. Or coffee. Or even paper. Believe it or not, I could go on and on, but I will spare us all. It is clear though - every thing you do costs money. Every breath you pull in can be calculated as an expense. Every step you take could be factored into your budget (especially if you are on the envelope system). But there are a few things I have discovered that come free. I will impart my knowledge on you at this time:
THINGS THAT ARE FREE
1. Staring. You can stare at anything really. Except the sun. And then this activity will cost you a great amount of money.
2. Eating trash. People go to Denny's. Don't finish their meal. Get up and leave. I'm talking free mashed potatos and left over chicken fingers. All for the cost of your pride.
3. Checking the time. This activity can be fun in high school. And as long as it isn't a watch or clock you bought, it is a free activity.
4. Drinking water from a water fountain at a public library. In a strange way, I feel that this does not come free. Somehow taxes are funding that water. I don't know about this one.
5. Any number of gerunds come free. Squeezing, pulling, begging, walking, rummaging, stalking, plundering, ripping, tearing, sliding, sitting, resting, climbing, panhandling, squeezing. The list is almost endless, except for the end of it. There is also squeezing.
6. Having a blog. Go to the public library with free internet access. Get you a blog. They're free and quite fun. You get to indulge yourself in your own thoughts and then sit and wait for attention and approval by way of "comments."
If anyone else can think of free activities and/or items of use, it would indeed be appreciated, as I am committing myself to a frugal life of frugality.
You have to eat. That means you have to buy food. They come in packages that must be discarded in a trashcan. So you have to buy a trashcan. And trash bags. And then you have to pay the city to come by and get it. But let's say you decide to toss your trash on the ground instead, you know, bypass the expenses of cans, bags, and city. Well, if you litter, and you get caught, you still have to give up some cheese.
And on the other end - you have to pay for the water in the toilet to carry away the leftovers.
What about hygiene? What must you buy just to be clean? Soap. Wash cloths. Comb. More water bills. If you are like me, then a loufa. Shampoo. Towels. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Floss. You could blow a budget in the hygiene arena alone.
So let's say you get a job. How are you going to get there? Well, you got to get a car. And then gas. And insurance. And oil changes. And inspections. You even have to pay for the roads that you drive on.
So you decide to go public transit instead. Well, bus' require tickets. Tickets require more money.
And after work you have to go home. Home. Those cost money too. If you are like me then you have rent and utilities. I don't pay housenotes yet. But housenotes are just adult code language for "more money." Not to mention repairs, light bulbs, brooms, dust pans, vacuums, dusters, cleaning supplies for the bathroom (I don't have any of these), and all the money it will take for you to fill it with furnature, kitchen gear, and pictures and frames for the walls.
Now, you can't walk around naked. You have to get at least a shirt and pants. But not just one pair of pants. You have to buy an extra pair of shorts and wear these UNDER the pants. Why we do this, I don't know. I think it is like Halmark holidays, they are made up just so that we can shell out more cash. Don't get me wrong, I wear underwear, I just don't know why I do.
Besides, every step you take ruffles the threads in your clothes, creating a nonstop wear and tear which will inevitably force you to buy more. Buying more = giving away more money.
We Americans like our entertainment. This usually doesn't come free. Movies. Video games. TV shows. Internet. Laptops. Board games. Musicals. Sporting events. Bars even make you give up a few bucks to play pool.
And on and on I could go. I could get into alcohol or cigarettes, whatever tickles your fancy. I could get into books or magazines. Or coffee. Or even paper. Believe it or not, I could go on and on, but I will spare us all. It is clear though - every thing you do costs money. Every breath you pull in can be calculated as an expense. Every step you take could be factored into your budget (especially if you are on the envelope system). But there are a few things I have discovered that come free. I will impart my knowledge on you at this time:
THINGS THAT ARE FREE
1. Staring. You can stare at anything really. Except the sun. And then this activity will cost you a great amount of money.
2. Eating trash. People go to Denny's. Don't finish their meal. Get up and leave. I'm talking free mashed potatos and left over chicken fingers. All for the cost of your pride.
3. Checking the time. This activity can be fun in high school. And as long as it isn't a watch or clock you bought, it is a free activity.
4. Drinking water from a water fountain at a public library. In a strange way, I feel that this does not come free. Somehow taxes are funding that water. I don't know about this one.
5. Any number of gerunds come free. Squeezing, pulling, begging, walking, rummaging, stalking, plundering, ripping, tearing, sliding, sitting, resting, climbing, panhandling, squeezing. The list is almost endless, except for the end of it. There is also squeezing.
6. Having a blog. Go to the public library with free internet access. Get you a blog. They're free and quite fun. You get to indulge yourself in your own thoughts and then sit and wait for attention and approval by way of "comments."
If anyone else can think of free activities and/or items of use, it would indeed be appreciated, as I am committing myself to a frugal life of frugality.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Poison Ivy Five: Independence Day
While the country celebrates our liberation from Britain, I celebrated the liberation of my poison ivy. Almost two weeks of sleep-interupting, skin-crawling, lotion-rubbing, pill-popping mania. And so today I will light my sparklers, I will eat my watermelon, I will enjoy my hamburger, because it is Independence Day - and I have been freed from the tyranny of poison ivy.
And as I celebrate (by myself) I wonder if the country even considers Britain as it enjoys its day of independence. Do we even care that we are no longer bound to Britain? I think we'd rather be under their rule, actually. They have influenced our pop culture more than we care to give them credit for. They do produce some fine foods (London Broil comes to mind). They even invented our language. We have much to thank them for. So why must we celebrate our departure?
I can't help but think that Britain is a bit resentful of this national holiday. If I were a Brit, I'd think that this day is one big middle finger directed at the UK. We take off work, we get an extra long weekend, we drink ourselves sick, we eat ourselves sicker, we watch fire works, we bathe in the glory of our freedom from Britain. They stand by across the ocean and overhear the laughter of our triumph. I would hate Independence Day, were I British.
A few interesting questions to ponder in light of our holiday:
What must we do with Romans 13 and the call to submit and obey our civil authorities?
What is the difference between fighting for our independence and all-out treason and rebellion?
Isn't freedom just a patriotically cloaked idol of our country? Freedom is autonomy, both of which don't exist. Furthermore, the ideas of freedom being disconnected from God and self-reliance are clearly revealed in Scripture as odiously sinful.
So what do we do if we consider Independece Day to be a glorified terrorist attack on the UK?
I have no clue. I'm not suggesting we stay inside while all the pagans celebrate. Heck, I'll be celebrating. And I'll be saying "heck" a great deal. But of course, my celebration will be for something much grander than our country's liberation from the Brits, it will be for the restoration of my skin.
Thus concludes the poison ivy saga. May that God-forsaken plant rot in hell forever.
And as I celebrate (by myself) I wonder if the country even considers Britain as it enjoys its day of independence. Do we even care that we are no longer bound to Britain? I think we'd rather be under their rule, actually. They have influenced our pop culture more than we care to give them credit for. They do produce some fine foods (London Broil comes to mind). They even invented our language. We have much to thank them for. So why must we celebrate our departure?
I can't help but think that Britain is a bit resentful of this national holiday. If I were a Brit, I'd think that this day is one big middle finger directed at the UK. We take off work, we get an extra long weekend, we drink ourselves sick, we eat ourselves sicker, we watch fire works, we bathe in the glory of our freedom from Britain. They stand by across the ocean and overhear the laughter of our triumph. I would hate Independence Day, were I British.
A few interesting questions to ponder in light of our holiday:
What must we do with Romans 13 and the call to submit and obey our civil authorities?
What is the difference between fighting for our independence and all-out treason and rebellion?
Isn't freedom just a patriotically cloaked idol of our country? Freedom is autonomy, both of which don't exist. Furthermore, the ideas of freedom being disconnected from God and self-reliance are clearly revealed in Scripture as odiously sinful.
So what do we do if we consider Independece Day to be a glorified terrorist attack on the UK?
I have no clue. I'm not suggesting we stay inside while all the pagans celebrate. Heck, I'll be celebrating. And I'll be saying "heck" a great deal. But of course, my celebration will be for something much grander than our country's liberation from the Brits, it will be for the restoration of my skin.
Thus concludes the poison ivy saga. May that God-forsaken plant rot in hell forever.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Poison Ivy Four: Annoyance
Day 9. My entire body looks like this guy's arms. And how I wish I looked this like guy.
The worst thing about poison ivy is that it impairs sleep. Last night I was up till 3:30 scratching. I eventually poured myself a glass of bourbon (not joking) in hopes that my senses would dull long enough for me to go to sleep. This monster is unbearably miserable.
I was outside the other day talking with some students. We were lounging around on some lawn chairs that sit outside of my house on this little patio looking thing. Keep in mind that I'm covered in reddish, itchy bubbles.
Here is my question - What happens to mosquitos when bite poison ivy victims? They are sticking their little needle-like mouths directly into poison-filled puss bubbles. They are swallowing the poison ivy oil. Does this mean they get it? Do their tiny throats get encrusted with itchy bumps? Or do they get it on their outer body? Their wings? Their legs? Or are they immune to it?
While we were outside talking we saw a slug making his way from one side of the patio to the other. This is simply a sidenote but what a terrible and unfortunate insect. It has no protection. At least a snail can scurry up into its shell. A slug has nothing. It is just out there and exposed for all. It moves about as slow as my mother drives and it has no means for protection. No exoskeleton. No claws or teeth. Nothing. It is worthless and completely unable to protect itself. Even salt kills it. Salt. If salt kills it, it stands no chance in the food chain. These are my thoughts on slugs. Back to the lecture at hand (perfection is perfected so I'm a let 'em understand, from a young g's perspective).
Poison Ivy is diabolical enough to have a Batman villian named after it.
Poison Ivy is hazardous enough to have "poison" in its title.
Poison Ivy is kind enough to not discriminate. It will poison anything and any body.
Poison Ivy is dominating and ruining my life as we speak (or type (or read)).
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
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."
Monday, June 27, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, June 24, 2005
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.
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.
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.
Monday, June 20, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, June 13, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, June 03, 2005
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:)
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:)
Monday, May 30, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, May 27, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, May 23, 2005
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?
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.
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.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
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.
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.
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