Randomology #643-648

New design for a new "me." I'm calling this my Fiona Apple stage. It's the new me. I'm Fiona Apple.

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I just finished a bottle of shampoo. I have no idea how long this bottle has lasted me, but I want to guess that it was in the measurement of years. And don't get me wrong, I do bathe (contrary to popular belief). I must have gotten thousands of uses out of this lone bottle. I started another bottle last night. I told Kathryn that I am going to keep a running tally to see how long this one will last. So far: 1 use.

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How come people put mustard on sandwiches AND hamburgers, but they only put ketchup on burgers? Why doesn't ketchup carry over into the sandwich category like mustard does?

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iPod. iTunes. iLife. iRaq?

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This morning Kathryn had to use the scrapey thing on her car to remove ice from her wind shield. Good grief, it is getting cold here. This certainly isn't Louisiana.

Christian Snobbery (and Hob Nobbery)

It has come to my attention that there are certain “snobberies” within the Christian community. Well, I suppose these snobberies would exist in any group of people, but the group I am most familiar with would be the Christian community. Snobberies…Little obsessive hobbies that we pride ourselves on and enjoy displaying our knowledge of. Whatever niche it may be, we hone in on it and feel good about putting other people down who are not quite as advanced in that subject as we are. A few examples:

Christian Beer Snob – These may be the most pervasive and the loudest of Christian snobs. For some reason they prefer the darker brews to the lighter. They hate anything domestic and even have nice little names of mockery for them (“Butt wiper” comes to mind for Budweiser). They hate macro-breweries. In fact, the only thing they really like is some weird, never-heard-of-it-before, Belgian and German dark brews that were produced in the basement of some monastery and come in larger, differently shaped bottles. These beers taste absolutely disgusting to the average beer consumer, but to their advanced and sophisticated tastes – it is the only real beer available. Everything else out there is a sell-out. Christian Wine Snobs and Christian Liquor Snobs could fit under this category as well, I suppose.

Christian Coffee Snob – These are less frequent than the beer snobs, but like them, they prefer their drink dark. Folgers, Maxwell House, and any homegrown, domestic, macro-produced, grocery-store-selling grounds are no good. They call that “brown colored water.” The real coffee has to be imported from some small, South American village where they privately grow their beans (organic, dark, bold, coffee beans). Depending on the degree of Coffee snobs – Starbucks is at worst Satan and at best tolerable. But most coffee snobs secretly like the coffee (they say that it is simply “ok”), they just hate the Starbucks culture. They would never order a frappuccino. The darker, the bolder, the better.

Christian Literature Snob – Don’t be confused, these people don’t prize themselves on “Christian literature,” no, no, they are Christians who happen to prize themselves on anything but Christian literature. They quote things from authors and books the average reader has never heard of and claim that these pieces of lit are the greatest things ever. And you have to read them. Ever tried reading one of these books that the Lit Snobs recommend? Try getting through the first 50 pages. They’re about as entertaining as watching dust collect. But they will assure you that it is the greatest piece of literature ever composed, touching the depths of human emotion (boredom).

Christian Music Snob – There are several different molds of the Music Snob. Some are Classical Rock Snobs and claim that the newer stuff can never compete with the old. Some are Indie Snobs, until the entire world went Indie and now they feel a bit insecure, hoping to find their identity in a different genre. Then you have the Real Music Snobs – people mentioning old school Jazz and country musicians from the 20s and 30s, people who only listen to vinyl, who have never even heard of Dave Matthews. These people scare me. There is a whole host of Music Snobs and they are by far the most predominant of the Christian community – there is a Snob for every conceivable genre and era.

Christian Movie Snob – These Snobs scoff at mainstream, blockbuster, Hollywood pictures. They prefer B films, no, C films. If it is foreign, it already has a head start against homegrown films. The more subtitles, the better. If it is black and white, even better. Does it have a never-heard-of-before foreign director? Now we are talking. The content should be abstract and confusing, looking absolutely meaningless and stupid to the average viewer, but to the Movie Snob, these movies far surpass anything else. They appreciate the lighting, the cinematography, the angles, the symbolism, and other ridiculous things that no one else pays attention to.

Christian Snobs are sort of like Christian Gnostics. Whatever field of expertise they camp on, they invest their heart and souls and discover the secret element that allows them to appreciate the thing more than your average, run of the mill consumer. They are the elite. They have the key to understanding. “Oh, you didn’t catch that can of peas on the table in the foreground, that was a symbolic foreshadowing of the protagonist’s plight against his childhood memories. Oh, that’s too bad you didn’t catch it. It really unlocks the story.” Or perhaps you’ve heard, “You don’t like that? You didn’t catch that peppery, almost cherry, hint on the back palate?”

I’m somewhat of a blend of all the above – too insecure to not want to be an expert in something and too lazy and scatterbrained to invest and commit to any one field. But I suppose if I had to choose, it would be the Coffee Snobbery. Hate that Starbucks (but secretly love it).

Which one are you?

Mascots and Have-nots

While reading the news this morning, Kathryn and I came across a few more articles pertaining to the Tamil Tiger rebel group in Sri Lanka. Kathryn said something to the effect of, "Finally, a terrorist organization with a mascot."

I agree.

It's about time those radical, political, militant rebel forces out there go by something other than those weird, unpronounceable names. They need something a little more down to earth, something a little more collegiate. How about the Hezbollah Eagles? Or the Al Quida Yellowjackets? Or the Hamas Oilers? Or the Taliban Sooners?

Do the Tamil Tigers have cheerleaders? Do they chant, "Go Tigers, Go Tigers, Go!!!" as they invade innocent lands and oppress innocent people?

I think these terrorist/political groups should establish an intramural sports league. I'd buy tickets to see the Eagles play the Oilers. I would even try and snag some courtside tickets for the Sooners vs. the Tigers.

But I wouldn't cheer for them. I'd bring one of those big, giant foam finger things. Only mine wouldn't be the pointer finger.

Budgeting with Bush

I am currently writing my very first blog entry. I can't tell if it's an inevitable stage, like walking or riding your bike, or if it's the beginning signs of a spiraling down. As George Costanza was convinced that every moment in life "could be a show," so Matt thinks every thought in life "could be a blog". So here I spiral...

I recently read an article about women with the highest salaries in the world. I then jumped to the thought of the President of the United State's salary. He makes $400 thousand a year, which looks like a quarter compared to some of these techies out there. I was confused and even a little angry. Doesn't the President hold the highest, most respected seat in all the United States? No, I don't want him and his family to have enough money to create their own reality TV show, but this discrepancy seemed a little ridiculous.

Then I started having a little fun with my ponderings. For real. Why does the President need money? "Yeah, I gotta fly out to visit the Prime Minister of Malaysia...Shoot...We didn't budget for this...eerrrr...we'll have to cut back on groceries next month." Or maybe at a dinner with his cabinet. "Y'all, seriously, I've got this one! What do you think they pay me for??" I don't know much of anything about the specifics of the President's salary, but I'm having a hard time coming up with things he actually has to pay for. Tuition? Would his daughters' institutions really charge the President for their tuition bills? Or the power bill for the White House...who pays for that? I honestly doubt it's GWB. I can see the daughters shopping with that money. I can see that. But my mind doesn't venture much further.

555-DUMB

Whenever I am watching a television show or a movie or sorts and somewhere in the action, a character reveals a 7 digit phone number, my initial reaction is, "I can't believe they gave the entire number. What if some stupid prankster-kid out there dials it and it turns out to really be some poor, unknowing person's phone number. And what if like 500 people around the world have the same idea and start calling that phone number? Wouldn't the poor, unknowing person be able to sue the television show or movie for televizing their phone number? Shouldn't they be held responsible for the harassment? The poor, unknowing person would have to change out their phone number. It would be a huge mess. They'd have to send out one of those mass emails that says, "Hey my phone number has changed. From now, on call this number..." And then you'd have those people out there that got the email, but didn't immediately update the phone number in their cell phone and 3 weeks down the road they'd try to call the poor, unknowing person and not be able to get in touch with them. They'd call and call and only be met with the obnoxious tonal sound and the robotic-lady voice informing them that the number has been disconnected. Relationships destroyed. Legal alligations made. Compensation. Responsibility. Culpability. Drama. All because a television show or movie decided to disclose some fake number they made up."

And then after a while, once I calm down, my secondary reaction is, "Who would actually call one of those numbers? What type of prank would that be? What would they expect to hear on the receiving end? Do people really do that? I mean, seriously. That's ridiculous. Why would anyone reach for the phone, dial it up real quickly (or perhaps rewind the show if they missed it - assuming they had TiVo or a DVD/VCR player), and make the call? That's just stupid."

And then after a longer while, once I get revved up again, my thirdary reaction is, "Maybe I should do that. Just to see what happens."

And I invite you to do the same.

Donuts or Doughnuts?

If I was a police officer, I think I would be just a little insecure about going into donut shops wearing my uniform. Do cops even go in there anymore? Is the stereotype still legit? It is, at least, in every one's mind, but do you really find cops sitting at a table by themselves in the old Krispy Kreme, passing the time with a chocolate cruller? I must admit, it has been a long time since I have actually gone into a donut shop, so I can not be the voice of experience on this one. But all that to say - suppose I was a police officer...go ahead, suppose it....I think I would feel a little stupid going in to a donut shop. Wouldn't the cashier make a subtle joke or something? Would the rest of my cop buddies tease me if they found out? "Oh, Officer Howell, we don't go into donut shops anymore. That was so 1993."

Why are cops known for their obsession with donuts? I still remember the opening scene from Die Hard 1, where the black guy from Family Matters is a cop in a convenient store buying some goodies and donuts. (By the way, he played a cop on Family Matters too. That's just bizarre. Does this actor only play cops? Carl Winslow.) And you know it is in other movies. Especially good 80s and 90s flicks. I don't doubt it was all throughout Police Academy, but I don't know. I haven't seen those flicks in a LONG time. But for whatever reason, Hollywood wants you think that our police officers love a good hunk of fried dough. But who doesn't? Why are cops the only ones getting stereotyped? Surely there are other professions that eat more donuts than cops. What about donut bakers? They are back there all day, probably eating donuts. Or what about loiterers? Certainly those that loiter in donut shops should be stereotyped more than the coppers.

Making this world fatter one person at a time...

Awkward Photos (Part 2)

For Corbin again...

Trident White: Whitens Teeth and Helps Prevent Stains

We recently purchased some Trident "White" chewing gum. Gum is always a handy item in case one is looking to have a chew. Besides, Trident White is sugarless. And it whitens teeth as you chew it. And it helps prevent stains. With all of the benefits included, it was hard to pass up. We gladly paid the 85 cents for a cool rush of Trident flavored chewing gum that aided in the whitening of our teeth.

Once we got home I read the back of the package and took a closer look at the fine print. It reads:

The great tasting way to a whiter smile!
Chewing 2 pieces of Trident White sugarless gum after eating and drinking helps:
-Prevent stains
-Strengthen teeth
-Whiten teeth in as little as 4 weeks

Ok. Let me get this straight, Trident White people. I need to chew 2 pieces of gum after every time I eat? I would say that it is fairly accurate to assume that an average person eats 3 times a day. So the Trident people expect me to chew 6 pieces of gum every day? Excessive. Then it goes on - it will whiten your teeth if you do this for 4 weeks straight! So in order to really experience the "white" part of Trident White, I have to relentlessly chew 6 pieces of gum a day for 4 straight weeks.

I've done the math. That is 168 pieces of gum. Only after chewing 168 pieces of gum do you get your whitening results. And if 12 pieces of gum come in one package, you have to buy 14 packages of gum. Surely this much gum chewing can't be good for you. Assuming they are 85 cents a package (I'm not sure....could be more or less), that is going to run you close to 12 bucks. Just on gum alone. You could buy a CD for that.

So there it is people. Do you want whiter teeth? You can have them. It will only cost you 12 dollars, 4 weeks of time, and 168 pieces of gum to chew. Stupid.

Greek Week: Sneak Peek

3 weeks, 20 chapters, and 227 vocab words later, I have survived Greek 1. Endless hours forcefully cramming bizarre paradigms and strange vocabulary into my skull are over. No more daily quizzes. No more third declensions. No more memory clues to help remember tricky words. No more afternoons spent plugging away on workbook excercises when I could be tossing a frisby in the park. No more dreams about me studying (it is true, I did have several dreams....nightmares). It is over. Yes, it is over. And I have the scars and battle wounds to prove it.

I'm very excited to be finished with Greek 1. And I really am going to enjoy the 5 WHOLE FREAKING DAYS I have before Greek 2 starts. Good grief. It just doesn't stop. 5 days. That's all I get. And then the insanity resumes. More vocab. More quizzes. More translations. More weird memory clues. More afternoons spent. More dreams.

I Grilled the Grill

Summer time marks the season of lemonade, bathing suits, sun burns and hotdogs. For our household, it marks the season of near disaster. Yesterday I was given a simple assignment - Grill two chicken breasts. It was about 7 in the evening, we had just enjoyed a wonderful meal outside on the back porch, and Kathryn was in the midst of preparing some chicken/pasta dish for the week's worth of lunches. She needed two chicken breasts grilled. We have a grill. This shouldn't be that hard. But of course....disaster.

I turned on the gas and lit the three igniters (sp?) - so far so good. Let it heat up. Give it a good ten minutes or so. Nice and toasty. Kathryn sat outside and I swept the porch while the grill heated up. We enjoyed our last few moments of an insanity-free evening. After a few minutes I opened up the grill to check on the progress and as soon as I lifted the lid, thick, cobalt smoke came billowing out. Balls of flames were consuming the insides. And then I saw what had happened. I had left the black, plastic scrapey thing in there from the previous use. Laffy Taffy-like, strings of burning plastic, stretched between the lid and the grates creating what looked and felt like the jaws of some monster you'd find in a low budget horror film. Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire....in fact, great balls of dripping oil-like fire that was once plastic, er..solid plastic.

For some reason in the moment of terror and desperation, I managed to kindly ask Kathryn if I could borrow her glass of water. (She said yes.) I tossed it onto the inferno and quickly turned off the igniters (sp?) and the gas to the troubling chorus of hissing and wheezing as the strands of black plastic cooled down. 2 hours later I evaluated the damage and discovered that plastic cools down to a solid that is just about as hard as it was before it liquified. Now I have chords of frozen plastic threaded between my grill grates.

There is no help desk phone number for this kind of problem. This problem does not make the FAQ list. Now we're left on our own to decide: do we spend money replacing grill parts and/or grill or do we take a chance with that first burger, marinated and seasoned with toxins? Tough call. Honestly. Tough call.

[Written by both Mathryn]

Sammy + Lily = Silly

This is my new nephew. And my new niece. Their names are Sammy and Lily. They are babies.

Aunt + Uncle = Auntcle

My sister had twins yesterday. Pics forthcoming. I am an uncle. Kathryn is an aunt.

The following is an email my mother sent out:

Samuel Jacob was born at 7:57 a.m. weighing 5 pounds,
3 ounces and 17 inches long.

Lillian June was born at 7:58 a.m. weighing 5 pounds
exactly and 17 inches long.

Mon, dad, babies and grandparents are all doing well.
We think the babies look like Todd but have Amy's
strawberry blonde hair.

This is gospel. What a great day.

Misnomers and Money

A broker is someone who buys and sells goods and assets for others. It is in the interest of the person who hires the broker for them to make the most amount of money possible.

So isn't it a bit odd that they are called a "broker?" Shouldn't they be called a "richer?"

I'm not going to hire a broker. That sounds masochistic.

Awkward Photos (Part 1)

For Corbin....who else?

Tommy Jaundice

Juan-Dee-Say

The Rise and Fall of Ol' Trusty

It had to have been 2002. I was living in the Gomer Jones Dormitory on the campus of the University of Oklahoma. In the athletic dorm lounge, the mini-student union of our little four-building complex, I played my first game of ping pong. The kind people in the athletic department had graciously supplied us with paddles - awful plastic paddles that reversed the purpose of a paddle - rather than sending the ball in the opposite direction, it absorbed the velocity and deadened it, dropping the ball immediately to the ground. They were smattered with green felt, a thin, fuzzy layer of cloth that not only didn't help, it made things worse. Those were the worst paddles ever.

And I was terrible. But day after day we would play. In between study breaks. After lunch. Right before your next class. Late at night. The paddle that once was so awkward in my hands was now perfectly conforming to it, resting in my palm as if it it were made to be there. Serves would be returned without the ball being lauched across the room in the other direction. Points were being made. Games were being won.

I don't know where Ol' Trusty was during all of this but we eventually met. Ol' Trusty was the coveted wooden paddle of the assortment of plastic, felt ones. Trusty was plain, brown, and simple - a meager wooden paddle with a sheet of sand paper glued on each side. It's handle was broken in that the added grips had been removed. All that remained was a flat, wide popsicle stick that fanned out into an actual paddle. But yet it was coveted because it was one of the rare wooden paddles among the pantheon of plastic options. I played with Trusty so much that I began to worry that perhaps while I was away, someone else would play with it and snap it in two in a raged response to losing (this was a legitimate fear for it had happened with many-a-paddle). So I did what I had to do. I took Trusty in to be my own. I adopted him. I took a sharpie pen to each side of the sand paper. One side read: Ol'. The other: Trusty. It was that day that the marriage was forged. The slogan would become, "In Trusty I trust."

I never played with anything else. We were known around the campus to always be together. People would say, "There goes Trusty and Matt." He would attend my classes with me. He would rest on the table while I was at the library preparing for a test. And then there was that legendary night where Charles and Jason and I stayed up well into the evening playing. The legend has it that Trusty and I could not be beaten. Charles and Jason would trade spots, back and forth, losing and sitting out and waiting their turn again, but it was no use. Game after game Trusty racked up the victories. It was a night like no other. I think we must have won 50 straight.

After I graduated college, Trusty came with me. I couldn't part with him. He rested in a small crevice in the trunk of my car for months. He moved with me from Oklahoma to Texas to Louisiana. He was called upon maybe twice in Baton Rouge to play, but for the most part he was content to sit peacefully in my trunk. Waiting. Waiting for his time to shine again.

And from Louisiana, Trusty joined me to Tennessee and then North Carolina. On my first day of school at the seminary, I was informed by the other students that ping pong was huge here. Students played nonstop. There was a room dedicated to the olde past time and it was filled during every class break. During my first class last week, I unsheathed Ol' Trusty from the trunk of my car and let him shine once again in the splendid glory that was his.

Only he did not shine as brightly as I once remembered him to shine. Technology must had gone and advanced since my days at Oklahoma, for the students here sneered at my simple wooden paddle - they all sported new, inline foam paddles, sleak and polished with the perfect amount of soft foam on each side to add just the right amount of spin and thrust. I soon learned that Trusty could not compete at this level. Defeat after defeat piled up as the week unfolded. At first I thought that it was my inability to play at this new level. I optimistically hoped that I would catch up with time and secure my first victory. But my fear was that the fault didn't lie with me...but with Trusty.

Fellow seminary student Dave Kulp let me know with no hesitation that Trusty would not be able to perform at the Seminary level. We were in the pros now. And game after game, Kulp pounded Trusty into embarrassment, thus fulfilling the ominous prophecy against it. Trusty would not be able to compete at this level.

And so in an act propelled by shame and sadness, the divorce was secured, and I set down Trusty and picked up the new, inline, glistening foam paddle. The other students diabolically smiled, as if I had been won over to the darkside. And no doubt I had. I had sold my soul to victory and left my dear friend behind. Trusty will be forever etched into my memory as a dear friend, a true companion, and one that would not give up a fight. But Trusty was indeed old (hence, Ol') and his capacities were discovered to be limited. And so this blog entry is for you, Ol' Trusty. It was good while it lasted, but I must move on. Adulterous traitor I may be, but victorious I will remain.

Ol' Trusty, may you forever rest in peace.

Jones House: Mander

My dear friend Steve is not normal. But who is, really?

My Reconciliation with Clive Staples

For years I rolled my eyes at C.S. Lewis. Inundated with Lewis quotes from books and sermons, I wrote him off as a syrupy, smooth, simple author whom syrupy, smooth, simple Christians appreciated. I associated him with rudimentary training manuals for Christian volunteer leaders who wanted to work with youth groups. The title of his great opus - Mere Christianity - can't help but give you that impression. He doesn't discuss anything deep, he only deals with mere Christianity - the bare basics, the simple and obvious, the trite and cliche. In my pretentiousness, I preferred to read those authors dealing with something beyond mere Christianity - those who used big theological words that ended in "ism" and "ification" and who quoted German theological journals in the footnotes. Lewis was cotton candy. They were the hard stuff.

And so when I got the syllabus for my first seminary class and noticed that two Lewis books were required, I was disappointed. And after reading them, I realize how greatly mistaken I have been for all of these years. Lewis is anything but cotton candy.

He is as gritty as it gets. He is just simply...cool. He writes about alcohol and cigars and sex. He makes no room for sympathy with those he disagrees with, in fact, he tears them to pieces with little remorse. His humor and wit is woven into his clear-headed arguments. He is miles deeper and much more profound and right than I ever gave him credit for. He understands reality and all of its strangeness, beauty, sickness and potential - and describes it all with fresh insight and imagination.

I have made my peace with Jack. And it is great to have found such a good friend in him. I now look forward to getting to know him better over the years over cups of coffee, pints of beer, and other pleasantries that he can enjoy with me.

The Only Four Pictures I Have of Gerard

Unfortunately, my dormitory webcam only caught four snapshots of the gorgeous Charles Gerard Steger VI. Here they are for your viewing pleasure.

A Clintvention

clintestructable

clintroduce

clintention

clinteractive

clintantaneous