As culture develops and technology rapidly unfolds, our language must keep up with global development. Without a properly delineated nomenclature within a given field of growth, verbal anarchy ensues and any advancement finds itself mired in a veritable Babel of terms. Universality is key in communication, and if our language does not keep pace with growth, we are quickly outpaced by the small minority that can speak its terms and parse its jargon.
I have NO idea what that opening paragraph meant. But I can't think of any words in there I want to get rid of.
But here's one, though it sticks in my craw that I even have to elevate to the status of 'word' so that I can give a size 12 boot out of the lexicon. The word is... not a word. It's an idiotic jumble of letters and numbers that mean something to pimply faced, socially retarded 13 year-olds who should be out exercising. It also applies to pimply-faced, socially retarded, overweight 35 year-olds who seriously need to get out and exercise. And find a girlfriend. And get a job. And bathe. Seriously. Please bathe.
That .... ahem... word is, as you may have already guessed, has officially been accepted by Merriam-Webster (Fie! For shame!) as a 'word' for 2007: W00t, (or 'w00t', or 'W007', or
'Senator John Edwards').
A close scrutiny of its etymology quickly determines its pedigree. It is neither Latin, nor Greek, nor even Hungarian (which is making a fashionable come-back these days). Rather, its roots come for the international community of online gamers who want to shove things in the face of others.
Remember those days in high school gym, when the class bully, after humiliating you out on the football field, would further humiliate you by removing his sweaty jock strap and slip it over your head when you weren't looking? Yeah. Neither do I. But still, someone must have suffered from it, and this exclamation of 'w007' is the stinky jock-strap of the triumphant nerd. It's an 'In your face, beeeyatch', just without all the typing.
So where does it come from? Some give it a Scottish heritage, which I personally find compelling, but highly dumb. Others attribute it to the infamous (and Satanic. But that's only because I could never understand it) Dungeons and Dragons game, where a pipsqueak would often pipe up 'Wow! Loot!' Whenever he rolled a 24 sided die and it came up odd, red, and on number 22, thus earning him lots of money because he placed money on it. I think. I may be mixing games up here. But still.
Whatever its peculiar provenance, there's only one thing I can say: I will risk never becoming an 'l337' (that's an 'elite', for all of those who have actually grown up and done something useful with your lives. I get it, and maybe you do too, but it's dumb) and ever use 'w007' in a sentence.
Now it's time to play WoW ( That's 'World of Warcraft').
I'll take a bath later.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
Love Abounds
Christmas Eve is here.
The nieces are asleep, but I am miles away from them. We have had airplane rides and opened presents (my niece gave me coasters: she must have been talking to my wife). We bid them farewell, and drove 20 miles to the east to visit with friends.
These friends are family: Hodgiemoto and his very subdued wife Bunny, Heloo-Ha-Davie and his wife Darrr. Their daughters sleep while we wrap presents for them, telling jokes that border on raunchy (We're 5 Christians and one renegade Catholic) and relive old memories.
I love them all.
I love them.
And my wife fits in with them. And I love her.
And if I'm really prescient, I remember that this is what the season is all about.
And the Christmas season is the culmination of every blessing I have ever been given.
The nieces are asleep, but I am miles away from them. We have had airplane rides and opened presents (my niece gave me coasters: she must have been talking to my wife). We bid them farewell, and drove 20 miles to the east to visit with friends.
These friends are family: Hodgiemoto and his very subdued wife Bunny, Heloo-Ha-Davie and his wife Darrr. Their daughters sleep while we wrap presents for them, telling jokes that border on raunchy (We're 5 Christians and one renegade Catholic) and relive old memories.
I love them all.
I love them.
And my wife fits in with them. And I love her.
And if I'm really prescient, I remember that this is what the season is all about.
And the Christmas season is the culmination of every blessing I have ever been given.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
All Souped-Up and Nowhere to Go
I am writing this on a new computer.
Like this is news.
But the truth is, my old was like an old relative wasting away in a convalescent home, cranky, creaky, slow beyond words and not recognizing visiting nephews. Each time I called up a new program, it sounded like an octogenarian getting up out of a recliner. And it took just as long, too.
So I went to Costco. You know, because they're just known for computers.
Actually, they're known for their return policy, which is lucky in my case.
I returned home with my big, hernia inducing box, lugged it in to the den, and immediately called my friend 'Dooga' (so named because this is what he and his former fiancee called each other at one time, to eveyone's mutual nausea, so now I get to tease him), to crow about my latest purchase.
Dooga owns a computer store.
Crowing about an out of the box, factory made computer from one of the mega-corporations (and coming with Windows Vista, no less) is a dumb thing to do to a guy who owns a computer store.
Very gently, Dooga asked me about my specs on the computer. The video card. What did it come with? He was so tactful, so gentle, that he was trashing my new purchase to utter pieces with the gentleness of petting a cat. By the time we were done, I looked only in disgust at my new purchase, and immediately commissioned him to build a custom made one for me instead. Within a week, it was completed, with him narrating each move every step of the way. All this, during his busy season (Christmas), too.
In the end, I had a mega-computer: it's like having ridden a moped once in your life, and then jumping on a Harley because you're 'familiar with motorcycles'. The truth is, I haven't the faintest idea what this thing can do.
I can't WAIT to find out.
Like this is news.
But the truth is, my old was like an old relative wasting away in a convalescent home, cranky, creaky, slow beyond words and not recognizing visiting nephews. Each time I called up a new program, it sounded like an octogenarian getting up out of a recliner. And it took just as long, too.
So I went to Costco. You know, because they're just known for computers.
Actually, they're known for their return policy, which is lucky in my case.
I returned home with my big, hernia inducing box, lugged it in to the den, and immediately called my friend 'Dooga' (so named because this is what he and his former fiancee called each other at one time, to eveyone's mutual nausea, so now I get to tease him), to crow about my latest purchase.
Dooga owns a computer store.
Crowing about an out of the box, factory made computer from one of the mega-corporations (and coming with Windows Vista, no less) is a dumb thing to do to a guy who owns a computer store.
Very gently, Dooga asked me about my specs on the computer. The video card. What did it come with? He was so tactful, so gentle, that he was trashing my new purchase to utter pieces with the gentleness of petting a cat. By the time we were done, I looked only in disgust at my new purchase, and immediately commissioned him to build a custom made one for me instead. Within a week, it was completed, with him narrating each move every step of the way. All this, during his busy season (Christmas), too.
In the end, I had a mega-computer: it's like having ridden a moped once in your life, and then jumping on a Harley because you're 'familiar with motorcycles'. The truth is, I haven't the faintest idea what this thing can do.
I can't WAIT to find out.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Signs, signs... everywhere the signs
I haven't been posting my usual suggestions of words that ought to be deleted, basically because I am lazy, and also because none have offended me that badly as of late ( though 'ocelot' came damned close once).
At 7:30 this morning (and yes, this was on a Saturday) I awoke to make the long drive to Vancouver, BC. The reason for this quarterly trek is, believe it or not, because my prescriptions actually cost LESS in Canada than they do in the United States even WITH insurance (note: expect a tirade on this in the coming days). As I was nearly out of my prescription, and will be in California for the most of next week celebrating Christmas, today was really the only viable day to run this errand.
As per my custom, after the three hour drive to Vancouver (four, if you happen to have a very nasty border crossing), I am not all that eager to get back on the road, and always visit instead a small bookstore right off of Granville. It's a combination used bookstore and coffee shop, and it's always a treat to wander down the aisles looking for good books while the rich smell of coffee wafts teasingly though the halls. It's such a cozy experience- two of my favorite things- and I swear you can pull a book off the shelf, stick your nose in it and breathe deeply, and you will inhale the aroma of dark, thick coffee. Heaven.
While I was slowly walking down each aisle, craning my head sideways to read the titles or find the names of authors, I saw a sign on one of the bookshelves that I read without thinking, and simply moved on. It wasn't until I was back on the road, thinking my usual thoughts of nothing that my mind chanced upon that sign, and re-visited what it said.
And then, I laughed out loud.
There is humor where we least expect it: cleverness that so often goes unnoticed because we are overwhelmed with signs, billboards, placards and symbols. We glance at them once and know immediately what the content is based on its first few words, and then obey accordingly.
We have even turned ourselves into walking billboards, with t-shirts emblazoned with the name of the designer across them (and usually going for $30 bucks a pop- $5 for the everyday cotton t-shirt you can get at Wal-Mart, $25 for the right to advertise the name of designer so that people will see it and the designer can sell more).
So it's no surprise that I saw this particular sign in the bookstore and summarily dismissed it: it was in regards to children left unattended, after all. Having no children of my own (at this point) and certainly none that I had hijacked on my way to Canada just to keep my company, I saw immediately the sign meant nothing to me, and continued down the aisles.
It was only later, when I thought about it, that the clever creativity of it hit me. It read: 'All children left unattended will be given an espresso and a puppy.'
Nothing further.
It was brilliant.
I DON'T want to open my eyes to all that is thrust in my face in this life. We're bombarded with thousands of pieces of information daily that begs to be looked at more deeply, acted upon. No wonder we shut our eyes to it. So I won't be checking every billboard for cleverness, or reading every T-shirt to see whether the sentiments are funny, cute or worth a laugh. Very few, if any, are. Thrust it in my face, and it will be thrust back at you.
But the flip side to this parabolic shield over my head, this inoculating myself against the advertisements of this world means that I run the risk of missing little gems like the one in the bookstore. But someone with a sense of humor like mine tacked that sign up, and I salute them. Thank you for the laugh on a rainy afternoon. Thanks for coming up with things like that, even if the rest of the world is too busy to 'get it'.
At 7:30 this morning (and yes, this was on a Saturday) I awoke to make the long drive to Vancouver, BC. The reason for this quarterly trek is, believe it or not, because my prescriptions actually cost LESS in Canada than they do in the United States even WITH insurance (note: expect a tirade on this in the coming days). As I was nearly out of my prescription, and will be in California for the most of next week celebrating Christmas, today was really the only viable day to run this errand.
As per my custom, after the three hour drive to Vancouver (four, if you happen to have a very nasty border crossing), I am not all that eager to get back on the road, and always visit instead a small bookstore right off of Granville. It's a combination used bookstore and coffee shop, and it's always a treat to wander down the aisles looking for good books while the rich smell of coffee wafts teasingly though the halls. It's such a cozy experience- two of my favorite things- and I swear you can pull a book off the shelf, stick your nose in it and breathe deeply, and you will inhale the aroma of dark, thick coffee. Heaven.
While I was slowly walking down each aisle, craning my head sideways to read the titles or find the names of authors, I saw a sign on one of the bookshelves that I read without thinking, and simply moved on. It wasn't until I was back on the road, thinking my usual thoughts of nothing that my mind chanced upon that sign, and re-visited what it said.
And then, I laughed out loud.
There is humor where we least expect it: cleverness that so often goes unnoticed because we are overwhelmed with signs, billboards, placards and symbols. We glance at them once and know immediately what the content is based on its first few words, and then obey accordingly.
We have even turned ourselves into walking billboards, with t-shirts emblazoned with the name of the designer across them (and usually going for $30 bucks a pop- $5 for the everyday cotton t-shirt you can get at Wal-Mart, $25 for the right to advertise the name of designer so that people will see it and the designer can sell more).
So it's no surprise that I saw this particular sign in the bookstore and summarily dismissed it: it was in regards to children left unattended, after all. Having no children of my own (at this point) and certainly none that I had hijacked on my way to Canada just to keep my company, I saw immediately the sign meant nothing to me, and continued down the aisles.
It was only later, when I thought about it, that the clever creativity of it hit me. It read: 'All children left unattended will be given an espresso and a puppy.'
Nothing further.
It was brilliant.
I DON'T want to open my eyes to all that is thrust in my face in this life. We're bombarded with thousands of pieces of information daily that begs to be looked at more deeply, acted upon. No wonder we shut our eyes to it. So I won't be checking every billboard for cleverness, or reading every T-shirt to see whether the sentiments are funny, cute or worth a laugh. Very few, if any, are. Thrust it in my face, and it will be thrust back at you.
But the flip side to this parabolic shield over my head, this inoculating myself against the advertisements of this world means that I run the risk of missing little gems like the one in the bookstore. But someone with a sense of humor like mine tacked that sign up, and I salute them. Thank you for the laugh on a rainy afternoon. Thanks for coming up with things like that, even if the rest of the world is too busy to 'get it'.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
The Great Purgation: Word # 9
# 9. A humble reader recently suggested a word that could safely be romoved from our lexicon, without any sort of deletorious effects on our vocabularly as a whole. While I agreed in theory of its necessity of dying a horrible, gruesome death, I wasn't sure whether its typology would render it unfit for this exercise.
After all, I want to tackle the words that exist, not those that are simple slang.
Oh, Webster, how great is thy betrayal.
As of 1999, the word 'bling-bling' is now an acceptable noun in the English language.
You can see why I want to destroy Webester, word by bloody word.
My rule of thumb on getting rid of words is quite simple: if the word is used by at least 75% of the population, it should stay. After all we're using it. To do otherwise would be like canceling your cable subscription right in the middle of football season. In other words, unthinkable. That's why I felt safe in choosing 'expunge': the only ones who use it nowadays are judges and lawyers, the latter not being quite human.
So, based on reader recommendation I present to you as the next word under the guillotine: 'bling'.
Most of you may know it only when added by it's second syllable, which also happens to be 'bling', but I have it on good authority that you can either use it as a hyphenated double, or a rather retarded single. Its definition is as follows:
'Flashy jewlery worn especially as an indication of wealth; broadly: expensive and ostentations possessions.'
Remember my rule: is this a word used by 75% of the population? Let's view some examples:
'John, would you be a dear and unlock the safe in our spacious 500 square foot walk in closet? I need to retrieve some bling-bling for tonight's fundraiser at the Met.'
- I'm not feeling that one.
Let's try another:
'Goldarn it, Mary, why can't you wear just a simple bonnet to church like every other woman, instead of all that bling-bling?'
- Quickly losing ground.
Perhaps the only environment where one could (and indeed would even think of) use it and get away with it is within the rather small (but elite) groups of pimps and professional athletes. The former have a rather limited life expectancy, while the latter grow out of it once they reach the age of 30.
Granted, many people wear gaudy and ostentatious articles designed to project wealth (Rolex, I'm talking to you), but that doesn't mean they refer to it as bling-bling: instead they'll just find ways to insert the phrase 'I make more money than God' into their conversations: usually apropos of nothing.
Clearly, they haven't seen the bling-ing crown God wears on His head.
________, or ______-_______, you've been ____________. You will not be missed.
After all, I want to tackle the words that exist, not those that are simple slang.
Oh, Webster, how great is thy betrayal.
As of 1999, the word 'bling-bling' is now an acceptable noun in the English language.
You can see why I want to destroy Webester, word by bloody word.
My rule of thumb on getting rid of words is quite simple: if the word is used by at least 75% of the population, it should stay. After all we're using it. To do otherwise would be like canceling your cable subscription right in the middle of football season. In other words, unthinkable. That's why I felt safe in choosing 'expunge': the only ones who use it nowadays are judges and lawyers, the latter not being quite human.
So, based on reader recommendation I present to you as the next word under the guillotine: 'bling'.
Most of you may know it only when added by it's second syllable, which also happens to be 'bling', but I have it on good authority that you can either use it as a hyphenated double, or a rather retarded single. Its definition is as follows:
'Flashy jewlery worn especially as an indication of wealth; broadly: expensive and ostentations possessions.'
Remember my rule: is this a word used by 75% of the population? Let's view some examples:
'John, would you be a dear and unlock the safe in our spacious 500 square foot walk in closet? I need to retrieve some bling-bling for tonight's fundraiser at the Met.'
- I'm not feeling that one.
Let's try another:
'Goldarn it, Mary, why can't you wear just a simple bonnet to church like every other woman, instead of all that bling-bling?'
- Quickly losing ground.
Perhaps the only environment where one could (and indeed would even think of) use it and get away with it is within the rather small (but elite) groups of pimps and professional athletes. The former have a rather limited life expectancy, while the latter grow out of it once they reach the age of 30.
Granted, many people wear gaudy and ostentatious articles designed to project wealth (Rolex, I'm talking to you), but that doesn't mean they refer to it as bling-bling: instead they'll just find ways to insert the phrase 'I make more money than God' into their conversations: usually apropos of nothing.
Clearly, they haven't seen the bling-ing crown God wears on His head.
________, or ______-_______, you've been ____________. You will not be missed.
Friday, December 7, 2007
A Top 10 List of Words That Should Be Expunged From Our Vocabulary
Anyone who has read the seminal authoritarian book '1984', may remember the particularly intriguing scene where the main character, Winston Smith, steps placidly onto an elevator as he makes his way towards his state-sponsored job. As he stands, he is enjoined in a conversation with a 'brother', whose occupation is that of removing words from the dictionary- and thus from language altogether. He boasts of that year's significant reduction of words, and waxes dreamily about the day when there will be no need for words at all.
I find this chilling: this work was allegedly started in 1984, and yet my Oxford English Dictionary is still as heavy as it was back then. In my opinion, they're going way too slow. I earnestly look forward to the day when we can only communicate through mime, intrepretive dance, or semaphore. It will be like a big, unending game of charades, with the only difference being that you can't shout out the answer.
In any case, as I feel the process is taking too long, I am humbly submitting the first of MY TOP TEN WORDS THAT SHOULD BE EXPUNGED FROM OUR VOCABULARY. Here is my first selection:
Number 10- EXPUNGE: (transitive verb)
1 : to strike out, obliterate, or mark for deletion 2 : to efface completely : destroy 3 : to eliminate (as a memory) from one's consciousness
Etymology: who cares?
Yeah, this one's gotta go. I'm totally against it. If nothing else, it's just redundant, not to mention archaic (it has Latin roots: do I have to point this out? DEAD LANGUAGE, FOLKS!). Besides, there are too many synonyms to count. Though I'm going to try. Here goes:
- Dump
- Toss out
- Ditch
- Kiss off
- Remove
- Purge (for all the bulimics out there)
- Jettison
- Coagulate (HA! Fooled you! That's not a real synonym)
- Drop that 'ho
- Expel
- Destroy all traces of (like blood stains on the hood of your car from an unwary pedestrian...
but that's just an example. It doesn't mean anything. Really. I found him that way)
- Evict
- Annihilate (Ooh... maybe this one should go, to. WAY too hard to spell)
- Have a one mile radius restraining order placed against you by the object of your affections
- Delete
- Send packing
- 'Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes'
- Later, Dude
See what I mean? WAY too many options. 'EXPUNGED', you've been targetted.
If you have a word that you'd like to see '___________' from our language, or if you think of other synonyms to the word that no-longer-will-be-used, please leave them in my comment box.
I find this chilling: this work was allegedly started in 1984, and yet my Oxford English Dictionary is still as heavy as it was back then. In my opinion, they're going way too slow. I earnestly look forward to the day when we can only communicate through mime, intrepretive dance, or semaphore. It will be like a big, unending game of charades, with the only difference being that you can't shout out the answer.
In any case, as I feel the process is taking too long, I am humbly submitting the first of MY TOP TEN WORDS THAT SHOULD BE EXPUNGED FROM OUR VOCABULARY. Here is my first selection:
Number 10- EXPUNGE: (transitive verb)
1 : to strike out, obliterate, or mark for deletion 2 : to efface completely : destroy 3 : to eliminate (as a memory) from one's consciousness
Etymology: who cares?
Yeah, this one's gotta go. I'm totally against it. If nothing else, it's just redundant, not to mention archaic (it has Latin roots: do I have to point this out? DEAD LANGUAGE, FOLKS!). Besides, there are too many synonyms to count. Though I'm going to try. Here goes:
- Dump
- Toss out
- Ditch
- Kiss off
- Remove
- Purge (for all the bulimics out there)
- Jettison
- Coagulate (HA! Fooled you! That's not a real synonym)
- Drop that 'ho
- Expel
- Destroy all traces of (like blood stains on the hood of your car from an unwary pedestrian...
but that's just an example. It doesn't mean anything. Really. I found him that way)
- Evict
- Annihilate (Ooh... maybe this one should go, to. WAY too hard to spell)
- Have a one mile radius restraining order placed against you by the object of your affections
- Delete
- Send packing
- 'Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes'
- Later, Dude
See what I mean? WAY too many options. 'EXPUNGED', you've been targetted.
If you have a word that you'd like to see '___________' from our language, or if you think of other synonyms to the word that no-longer-will-be-used, please leave them in my comment box.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Is my cell phone hot? Or not?
Last night, after a particularly intense workout at the gym (this means I was on a Stairmaster at .5 setting for 1/2 hour while I watched 'Jeopardy'), Salome and I returned home with our take-out dinner. As is customary in all American families, we eschewed dining at the table and conversing in favor of sitting in front of the TV.
Salome is a wonderful woman with an intellect and nimbleness of mind that astonishes me sometimes. The woman is just smart. But if there is anything plebian about her, it's her choice in television programs. I say this just in reference to the fact that our television dinner fare was American Runway, or Project Fashion Model Breakdown Designers, or something of that nature. Anyway, it had to do with fashion. That much I am certain of.
Throughout the 15 minutes I was watching the aforementioned show, every so often a little blurbed footer would appear saying something inane like 'Log on to www.projectfashionrunwaymeltdown.com to watch Alejandro's melt down while knitting a scarf!' To me and most guys, this sort of thing is anathema: everyone knows that area on the screen is reserved for SPORTS SCORES ONLY.
Regardless, one blurb asked the question: 'Is your cell phone hot... or not?'
Let me say here that I am one who is always behind the fashion curve. New trends look unbearingly stupid to me for a couple of years, until they're firmly entrenched in our culture, at which point I give way to them just as the trend is falling off. My timing is always bad on this.
So I found this question, posed by the fashion-nazis, to be almost existential: was I in? Am I out? When I pull out my cell phone to answer a call, are there admiring looks at my little V-cast, or is that horribly passe?
And if it is, then what about the rest of me? Where have I broken down? What have I missed? Is it a case of having the right button down, flaired cuffed shirt but the wrong pair of stonewashed, weather beaten, frayed jeans that are available at Nordstroms for only $125? And if these are a mis-match, then what does that say about me overall? That I'm a poseur, a fraud, a 'wannabe' from back in the high school days?
And if I am fashionably inept, then can I be taken seriously by the rest of the world? What hope can I possibly give in this season of giving if I can't even get my cell phone to be stylish? What good am I, and if a man falls in the forest and he's not wearing Eddie Bauer, does he make a noise?
As I'm pondering these things today, my cell phone rings: it's our body shop, telling me our car will be ready for pick-up tomorrow. The tone is clear, I can hear him, he can hear me, and as I flip the phone shut I shrug my shoulders and say to myself: 'Hot? Not? Whatever: the damn thing works.'
I think that's good enough for me.
Salome is a wonderful woman with an intellect and nimbleness of mind that astonishes me sometimes. The woman is just smart. But if there is anything plebian about her, it's her choice in television programs. I say this just in reference to the fact that our television dinner fare was American Runway, or Project Fashion Model Breakdown Designers, or something of that nature. Anyway, it had to do with fashion. That much I am certain of.
Throughout the 15 minutes I was watching the aforementioned show, every so often a little blurbed footer would appear saying something inane like 'Log on to www.projectfashionrunwaymeltdown.com to watch Alejandro's melt down while knitting a scarf!' To me and most guys, this sort of thing is anathema: everyone knows that area on the screen is reserved for SPORTS SCORES ONLY.
Regardless, one blurb asked the question: 'Is your cell phone hot... or not?'
Let me say here that I am one who is always behind the fashion curve. New trends look unbearingly stupid to me for a couple of years, until they're firmly entrenched in our culture, at which point I give way to them just as the trend is falling off. My timing is always bad on this.
So I found this question, posed by the fashion-nazis, to be almost existential: was I in? Am I out? When I pull out my cell phone to answer a call, are there admiring looks at my little V-cast, or is that horribly passe?
And if it is, then what about the rest of me? Where have I broken down? What have I missed? Is it a case of having the right button down, flaired cuffed shirt but the wrong pair of stonewashed, weather beaten, frayed jeans that are available at Nordstroms for only $125? And if these are a mis-match, then what does that say about me overall? That I'm a poseur, a fraud, a 'wannabe' from back in the high school days?
And if I am fashionably inept, then can I be taken seriously by the rest of the world? What hope can I possibly give in this season of giving if I can't even get my cell phone to be stylish? What good am I, and if a man falls in the forest and he's not wearing Eddie Bauer, does he make a noise?
As I'm pondering these things today, my cell phone rings: it's our body shop, telling me our car will be ready for pick-up tomorrow. The tone is clear, I can hear him, he can hear me, and as I flip the phone shut I shrug my shoulders and say to myself: 'Hot? Not? Whatever: the damn thing works.'
I think that's good enough for me.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Love Leaves a Door
I've been away for a bit.
Both mentally (which is most often the case), and physically.
It occurred to me, however, that I left this blog on a rather negative note: my prose (and rather prosaic) diatribe to all the people whom I wanted to issue 'moron-awards' to.
This is not right. I will probably do it again (like to all you Seattle drivers in the snow... yeah, you know who you are). But that doesn't mean it's right.
This is a little life lesson that most of you are going to roll your eyes at (which means you risk being written up in my 'moron awards'), but it's something I've been thinking about prior to my departure to St. Louis, and exploring what it means in my life, marriage, relationship with God, friendships... You know, real light stuff.
And the 'cat'-alyst for it is Cleo.
Many of you know the story of the abandoned cat that we have been trying to take in and get acclimated to household life (with a neurotic male cat who would be gay if he wasn't neutered, and a prickly female cat who lists 'bitching' under the category for 'hobbies' on job applications, so are we really surprised that Cleo isn't acclimating quite that fast?), which is... going slowly.
At one time, after her eye had swelled up to the size of golf ball from conjunctivitis, we rushed her to the vet to have her treated. For her protection, we sealed the cat door to the outside so she could not enter or leave of her own volition, as she had been accustomed to. The mis-guided hope was that she'd see 'family life' and 'indoors' as fun, and want to stay.
She did not want to stay.
She scratched at the bedroom door that she had adopted as her own. She would go to the cat door when we were around and try to lift it (rather successfully, too: she's a bright cat. Not bright enough, though: I had slid another cat door on the outside in case she proved to be so enterprising. Score one for humans with opposable thumbs!), paw at it, mewl disconsolately. All to no avail: we stood firm.
It was then that she turned inward, no longer chirruping delightedly whenever we entered her room. No joy in the soft food we give the cats every night. She'd eat it, half-heartedly, and then jump back up on the bed, lonely, withdrawn, no doubt wishing that she had never taken us up on our offer of kindness.
Finally, I'd had enough. This loss of spirit was just difficult to watch. So, even though it might prolong her sickness, even though she might walk away and disappear into the night, I opened the cat door.
And out she went.
And now, as the weather has turned cold, and her eyes are finally healing, we see much more of Cleo. She's always ready for the soft food, always comfortably tucked onto her small pillow in the guest bedroom, always chirruping delightfully when you walk in the door. She's back, more of a presence than ever.
She just needed to know- that back door was open.
I think love, by it's nature, requires a door.
Not so that one can leave forever (though in some cases that might be the best thing, though I don't mean 'wife', Salome, so don't get any ideas), but so that one can retreat to a spot of safety and security: to the familiar and the self-defining, so that they can return- and in that return be more loving than ever.
I need to give people that freedom: to be able to say 'I love you. Go. I will wait for your return. Find what you need, give to yourself what you require. I'll still be here. The bed will still be warm, my arms will still be open.'
But before you go, pay back that twenty you owe me.
Both mentally (which is most often the case), and physically.
It occurred to me, however, that I left this blog on a rather negative note: my prose (and rather prosaic) diatribe to all the people whom I wanted to issue 'moron-awards' to.
This is not right. I will probably do it again (like to all you Seattle drivers in the snow... yeah, you know who you are). But that doesn't mean it's right.
This is a little life lesson that most of you are going to roll your eyes at (which means you risk being written up in my 'moron awards'), but it's something I've been thinking about prior to my departure to St. Louis, and exploring what it means in my life, marriage, relationship with God, friendships... You know, real light stuff.
And the 'cat'-alyst for it is Cleo.
Many of you know the story of the abandoned cat that we have been trying to take in and get acclimated to household life (with a neurotic male cat who would be gay if he wasn't neutered, and a prickly female cat who lists 'bitching' under the category for 'hobbies' on job applications, so are we really surprised that Cleo isn't acclimating quite that fast?), which is... going slowly.
At one time, after her eye had swelled up to the size of golf ball from conjunctivitis, we rushed her to the vet to have her treated. For her protection, we sealed the cat door to the outside so she could not enter or leave of her own volition, as she had been accustomed to. The mis-guided hope was that she'd see 'family life' and 'indoors' as fun, and want to stay.
She did not want to stay.
She scratched at the bedroom door that she had adopted as her own. She would go to the cat door when we were around and try to lift it (rather successfully, too: she's a bright cat. Not bright enough, though: I had slid another cat door on the outside in case she proved to be so enterprising. Score one for humans with opposable thumbs!), paw at it, mewl disconsolately. All to no avail: we stood firm.
It was then that she turned inward, no longer chirruping delightedly whenever we entered her room. No joy in the soft food we give the cats every night. She'd eat it, half-heartedly, and then jump back up on the bed, lonely, withdrawn, no doubt wishing that she had never taken us up on our offer of kindness.
Finally, I'd had enough. This loss of spirit was just difficult to watch. So, even though it might prolong her sickness, even though she might walk away and disappear into the night, I opened the cat door.
And out she went.
And now, as the weather has turned cold, and her eyes are finally healing, we see much more of Cleo. She's always ready for the soft food, always comfortably tucked onto her small pillow in the guest bedroom, always chirruping delightfully when you walk in the door. She's back, more of a presence than ever.
She just needed to know- that back door was open.
I think love, by it's nature, requires a door.
Not so that one can leave forever (though in some cases that might be the best thing, though I don't mean 'wife', Salome, so don't get any ideas), but so that one can retreat to a spot of safety and security: to the familiar and the self-defining, so that they can return- and in that return be more loving than ever.
I need to give people that freedom: to be able to say 'I love you. Go. I will wait for your return. Find what you need, give to yourself what you require. I'll still be here. The bed will still be warm, my arms will still be open.'
But before you go, pay back that twenty you owe me.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
An Open Letter to Those Who Made My Day Miserable
My wife is a lovely woman. Truly. She is charming and personable, beautiful and possessing of a brilliant, defiant intellect that sees the world for what it is, and yet operates within it anyway. I admire her for this. I also admire her creativity; so much so, really, that I am tempted to commit an active of creative thievery.
From time to time my wife, Salome, vents her spleen on the injustices of the world. Or, at least, the injustices visited upon her. All of these are in letter form, and can best be described as 'vituperous' ('Spellcheck' is insisting I spelled this word wrong: I have not, and shall shortly take them to task for this along with all the others who have injured me today), and nothing short of delightful.
I will not do this, however, because this is her idea. Instead, I shall give away awards. Observe:
Honorary mention: The Most Oblivious Shopper In The History Of The World-
Yes, you are well-deserving of a mention here. No doubt you thought the self-checkout line would be a great way to teach your 6 year old (Oh? He's 8, is he? Well, he's a runt) the fine art of credit debt. But did you really need to bring an entire shopping cart filled with goods to check out?
You did? My apologies. And the apologies of all the rest of us behind you with 3 or 4 items who just wanted to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible, as many of us have already been in danger several times by little old ladies pushing shopping carts they can barely see over as they search for little marshmellows to put on their disgusting candied yams.
So, let's say you have a point there. But the next question: while you sat there, oblivious to the growing line behind you, did it ever occur to you that it is not cute and not to let little-Johnny-the-runt pick items out of your cart and try and scan them? I mean, because, runt-boy there could barely see over the counter, let alone find the scanning device let alone find the freakin' UPC code so it could be scanned.
And you just stood there. And grinned, thinking it was the cutest little thing to see your boy take an average of 45 seconds to grab and scaan an item. Never mind the additional minute it took to place the item in the bag.
Hey, I'm not a parent. I don't know about these things yet. But I have a sneaking suspicion that this kind of thing is great to do UNLESS IT'S THE NIGHT BEFORE A HOLIDAY AND THE PEOPLE IN LINE BEHIND YOU PURCHASING 3 ITEMS WANT TO RIP YOUR GRINNING HEAD FROM YOUR BODY AND SHAKE HARD TO SEE IF THERE IS ANY MASS IN THAT SKULL.
On the plus side, you've got jump-start on the runt's future career as a supermarket checker...
Award: For Bravely Living Life To the Fullest Despite the Onset of Age-Induced Dementia
You were exactly as I imagined you, having talked with you the day before. The visual image I had of you as I listened to your husky, officious voice was almost completely accurate when I met you today: the thumb and the forefinger stained yellow with nicotine, your right eye squinting just a bit from years of having smoke curl up into your eye. Your lipstick, a garish red that looked as if you had freshly sucked the blood from an unlucky victim, the pale skin that showed that on beautiful, sunny days, you prefer to spend it indoors with your 18 cats, 2 of which are incontinent.
Yes. I need your help. Yes, I need to make an appointment to have my car body repaired. But in order to move forward you have to make up your mind. And it is that part of you that clearly has one foot on dry land and the other foot on a jellyfish swimming out to sea. I call you yesterday, and you tell me to fax the information. I don't have it with me. I tell you I can bring the car by, though. No. You want a fax. From my insurance company. Okay, I can do that. I have papers. I make plans to do that today.
I call you today. I tell you have thee papers. I tell you I need the number to fax them. You then tell me that you don't take faxes (and yes, this is the same person I spoke to yesterday so don't try and pull the 'bait-and-switch'), that I need to bring the car in so you can take pictures, AND bring the paperwork.
But yesterday you told me I just needed to fax them.
(Snappish) 'I did not.'
But I offered to bring the car in yesterday, and you said not to bother: I can fax the info in the morning.
(Snappish) 'No, sir, I did not.'
Are you on any medication that we should be aware of?
Enjoy your Thanksgiving: I'm sure it's bound to be salmon loaf that you'll dish out to 'Sammy', 'Tucker', 'Mittens', 'Suzy Q', 'Miko', 'Princess Di', 'Tommy-Boy' and those other 12 cats that have moved in over the past few weeks that you haven't yet had time to name.
I wonder: did they have to fax in their order?
Award: World's Most Brazenly Stupid Driver-
Let me explain how this works quickly: the suicide lane is to be used for a busy street when you either need to enter a lane or make a left turn against oncoming traffic. It's a fairly simply concept, and part of its success is due to the fact that when you get into the third (or 'suicide' lane), you're reasonably close to the area that you want to turn into.
So, can you please explain to me why on God's green earth you pulled into the suicide lane in front of the opening that I and three other cars were patiently waiting to enter, with all of our turn signals blinking so you knew exactly where we wanted to go, but you pulled forward and blocked it off from us, with no lights of your own blinking to show us what your $^%^& intentions were?
Did it make you even feel slightly guilty when, once the oncoming traffic cleared, the first of the three of us had to pull into the oncoming traffic lane and drive 20 feet to get to the entrance?
I'm thinking the answer on that one is a 'No', since you still didn't do a damn thing (like give us an indication of where you wanted to go), other than stare at us defiantly as if we were blocking your road.
So we wait, more oncoming traffic passes and then stops, letting the next car that is facing you wondering what the hell you were doing to finally give a honk and turn into the oncoming lane to get to the entrance.
That left me and you, oh-skanky-white-trash-sleaze (I know this due to the fact that one of your headlights were out and your car was a Japanese model made sometime in the 80's and your hood was blooming a lovely rust to counterbalance the white paint of your car), glaring at each other. I raise my hand in question. You sit there and glare, giving me no indication: apparently this is a new country you've discovered, this suicide lane, and you are going to guard the discovery and maybe plant a flag in the middle of the busiest road in town, claiming it to be 'Cindy-Sue' land or whatever your stupid double name is.
But then you start waving at me, Cindy Sue, like I needed to get out of your way, despite the fact that there was traffic coming in the opposite lane and if I made a move, it would be an instant head-on collision. GREAT idea. Further augmented by your useless boyfriend who used that moment to flip me the bird. You are utterly without class, completely stupid, and incomprehensibly so proud of that fact that you demonstrate it in the most absurd of circumstances.
And yes, whipped little boyfriend with the middle-finger that is probably eternally in the 'up' mode, I may be older and respectable, but sometimes, by god, there's nothing better than a little ass-kicking, and your making yourself quite the target. Though I'm afraid Cindy Sue will jump on my back while I'm throttling you and bite my ear with one of the two front teeth she's managed to keep, and I'll have to get shots for rabies. So put your finger down, bad-boy, and maybe have the guts to follow me into the parking lot.
Traffic clears. I do what my predecessors did: pull into the oncoming lane, drive 20 feet, and make my entrance.
And you?
I watch in the rearview mirror: you drive maybe 30 yards in the suicide lane up to a shop on the left where you finally turn in.
I guess it never occurred to you that you could have gotten out of the suicide lane, drove the 30 yards to where you needed to turn, and then re-enter said lane.
But I have to extend you some grace here.
I'm fairly certain thinking is not one of your strong points.
Enjoy your mobile home and 6 kids while the boyfriend with the finger in perma-lock position is out every night downing Bud Light and cursing the day he met you.
Oh and, nice car.
From time to time my wife, Salome, vents her spleen on the injustices of the world. Or, at least, the injustices visited upon her. All of these are in letter form, and can best be described as 'vituperous' ('Spellcheck' is insisting I spelled this word wrong: I have not, and shall shortly take them to task for this along with all the others who have injured me today), and nothing short of delightful.
I will not do this, however, because this is her idea. Instead, I shall give away awards. Observe:
Honorary mention: The Most Oblivious Shopper In The History Of The World-
Yes, you are well-deserving of a mention here. No doubt you thought the self-checkout line would be a great way to teach your 6 year old (Oh? He's 8, is he? Well, he's a runt) the fine art of credit debt. But did you really need to bring an entire shopping cart filled with goods to check out?
You did? My apologies. And the apologies of all the rest of us behind you with 3 or 4 items who just wanted to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible, as many of us have already been in danger several times by little old ladies pushing shopping carts they can barely see over as they search for little marshmellows to put on their disgusting candied yams.
So, let's say you have a point there. But the next question: while you sat there, oblivious to the growing line behind you, did it ever occur to you that it is not cute and not to let little-Johnny-the-runt pick items out of your cart and try and scan them? I mean, because, runt-boy there could barely see over the counter, let alone find the scanning device let alone find the freakin' UPC code so it could be scanned.
And you just stood there. And grinned, thinking it was the cutest little thing to see your boy take an average of 45 seconds to grab and scaan an item. Never mind the additional minute it took to place the item in the bag.
Hey, I'm not a parent. I don't know about these things yet. But I have a sneaking suspicion that this kind of thing is great to do UNLESS IT'S THE NIGHT BEFORE A HOLIDAY AND THE PEOPLE IN LINE BEHIND YOU PURCHASING 3 ITEMS WANT TO RIP YOUR GRINNING HEAD FROM YOUR BODY AND SHAKE HARD TO SEE IF THERE IS ANY MASS IN THAT SKULL.
On the plus side, you've got jump-start on the runt's future career as a supermarket checker...
Award: For Bravely Living Life To the Fullest Despite the Onset of Age-Induced Dementia
You were exactly as I imagined you, having talked with you the day before. The visual image I had of you as I listened to your husky, officious voice was almost completely accurate when I met you today: the thumb and the forefinger stained yellow with nicotine, your right eye squinting just a bit from years of having smoke curl up into your eye. Your lipstick, a garish red that looked as if you had freshly sucked the blood from an unlucky victim, the pale skin that showed that on beautiful, sunny days, you prefer to spend it indoors with your 18 cats, 2 of which are incontinent.
Yes. I need your help. Yes, I need to make an appointment to have my car body repaired. But in order to move forward you have to make up your mind. And it is that part of you that clearly has one foot on dry land and the other foot on a jellyfish swimming out to sea. I call you yesterday, and you tell me to fax the information. I don't have it with me. I tell you I can bring the car by, though. No. You want a fax. From my insurance company. Okay, I can do that. I have papers. I make plans to do that today.
I call you today. I tell you have thee papers. I tell you I need the number to fax them. You then tell me that you don't take faxes (and yes, this is the same person I spoke to yesterday so don't try and pull the 'bait-and-switch'), that I need to bring the car in so you can take pictures, AND bring the paperwork.
But yesterday you told me I just needed to fax them.
(Snappish) 'I did not.'
But I offered to bring the car in yesterday, and you said not to bother: I can fax the info in the morning.
(Snappish) 'No, sir, I did not.'
Are you on any medication that we should be aware of?
Enjoy your Thanksgiving: I'm sure it's bound to be salmon loaf that you'll dish out to 'Sammy', 'Tucker', 'Mittens', 'Suzy Q', 'Miko', 'Princess Di', 'Tommy-Boy' and those other 12 cats that have moved in over the past few weeks that you haven't yet had time to name.
I wonder: did they have to fax in their order?
Award: World's Most Brazenly Stupid Driver-
Let me explain how this works quickly: the suicide lane is to be used for a busy street when you either need to enter a lane or make a left turn against oncoming traffic. It's a fairly simply concept, and part of its success is due to the fact that when you get into the third (or 'suicide' lane), you're reasonably close to the area that you want to turn into.
So, can you please explain to me why on God's green earth you pulled into the suicide lane in front of the opening that I and three other cars were patiently waiting to enter, with all of our turn signals blinking so you knew exactly where we wanted to go, but you pulled forward and blocked it off from us, with no lights of your own blinking to show us what your $^%^& intentions were?
Did it make you even feel slightly guilty when, once the oncoming traffic cleared, the first of the three of us had to pull into the oncoming traffic lane and drive 20 feet to get to the entrance?
I'm thinking the answer on that one is a 'No', since you still didn't do a damn thing (like give us an indication of where you wanted to go), other than stare at us defiantly as if we were blocking your road.
So we wait, more oncoming traffic passes and then stops, letting the next car that is facing you wondering what the hell you were doing to finally give a honk and turn into the oncoming lane to get to the entrance.
That left me and you, oh-skanky-white-trash-sleaze (I know this due to the fact that one of your headlights were out and your car was a Japanese model made sometime in the 80's and your hood was blooming a lovely rust to counterbalance the white paint of your car), glaring at each other. I raise my hand in question. You sit there and glare, giving me no indication: apparently this is a new country you've discovered, this suicide lane, and you are going to guard the discovery and maybe plant a flag in the middle of the busiest road in town, claiming it to be 'Cindy-Sue' land or whatever your stupid double name is.
But then you start waving at me, Cindy Sue, like I needed to get out of your way, despite the fact that there was traffic coming in the opposite lane and if I made a move, it would be an instant head-on collision. GREAT idea. Further augmented by your useless boyfriend who used that moment to flip me the bird. You are utterly without class, completely stupid, and incomprehensibly so proud of that fact that you demonstrate it in the most absurd of circumstances.
And yes, whipped little boyfriend with the middle-finger that is probably eternally in the 'up' mode, I may be older and respectable, but sometimes, by god, there's nothing better than a little ass-kicking, and your making yourself quite the target. Though I'm afraid Cindy Sue will jump on my back while I'm throttling you and bite my ear with one of the two front teeth she's managed to keep, and I'll have to get shots for rabies. So put your finger down, bad-boy, and maybe have the guts to follow me into the parking lot.
Traffic clears. I do what my predecessors did: pull into the oncoming lane, drive 20 feet, and make my entrance.
And you?
I watch in the rearview mirror: you drive maybe 30 yards in the suicide lane up to a shop on the left where you finally turn in.
I guess it never occurred to you that you could have gotten out of the suicide lane, drove the 30 yards to where you needed to turn, and then re-enter said lane.
But I have to extend you some grace here.
I'm fairly certain thinking is not one of your strong points.
Enjoy your mobile home and 6 kids while the boyfriend with the finger in perma-lock position is out every night downing Bud Light and cursing the day he met you.
Oh and, nice car.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
It's Like Falling Off a Bike
Yesterday I had the chance to do some acting.
For those of you who don't know, my undergrad degree was in Theater Arts (my parents weren't financing my education, so... you know, you get to pick the major and all. Then, when all is said and done, you don't mind having paid your own way through education, but darn, you wish they at least had been a bit more forceful in trying to talk you out of your major. Preferably into one that had an outside shot at making money). I'm not at all certain how it came about, actually: we have a friend who works for a communications company who had been tasked with making a corporate... commercial? Movie short? Puppet show on VHS and sent to cable access? Something.
At any rate, she needed some actors, she got in touch with my wife, my wife pointed her in a direction and also offered our services because it sounded like fun and because she is an actress as well. I get all this in an email, and then am asked to send a picture because, I guess, they need a slightly dorky looking male with enough gray hair to pass for 'father'. I send the picture, and I guess I fit that bill nicely, as I was asked to do the part.
For the record, I have not really acted in anything since, oh, before Y2K: there was a smattering here and there- some skits for church, another small film in Vancouver- but that's really been it. And I've been aching to break out and do something artistic lately. I've missed the stage: have missed it terribly. I broke out some old pictures from my theater days and showed them to my wife, and through the course of it broke down into tears (this is an utter lie, but is meant to heighten the dramatic narrative).
But- God, there is something invigorating about being on the stage. It just transcends time, place and space (which, ironically, are the 3 unities required for a play as specified by some Greek dramatist whose name I could never pronounce). The audience may be bored to tears- as many have been during shows of mine- but there is this otherworldliness to it because it is an entirely other world. It is a thrill rode of emotions, of energy flooding through you. There is that sense of being invincible when you know the audience is with you, hanging on your character's every word. The smell of the greasepaint, the roar of the crowd, and your ego poised atop the zenith of your arrogance.
Love it.
So, it wasn't necessarily a stage production. It was actually in someone's kitchen while the actors sat around drinking bottled water and waiting for their time for a 'take'. A 'take' is a synonym for 'sitting around drinking bottled water and waiting for the light to be adjusted properly and the lens angle to be set while the gaffer takes a piece of tape and sticks it on the floor showing you where your 'mark' is and by god you'd better not miss this because we're behind schedule and I don't want to have to do the whole damn thing over again because you bovine actors are too boneheaded to even accomplish stepping on a piece of goddam tape'. If you've ever dreamed about being a movie star one day- forget the glamour part of it. That comes later when the papparazzi chase you. On the set, you're cattle.
But still, it was acting, and even better, I was getting paid for it (15o smackers for sitting around waiting for an hour and a half, 20 seconds of actual screen time, and all the bottled water I could drink). Believe me, if there is anything better than being an actor (on stage, at least), it's being a
paid actor.
But the best thing is, it felt good to be there. Even if my role consisted of hugging a couple of someone else's kids that I've never met before and acting excited over Chinese take-out the wife I never married had brought home, it was good. It brought to mind again how deeply I miss it, and how I wish they had actually given me some lines to say.
And that was what was truly nice about it: to be able to step back into it, however briefly, and make an utter ass out of yourself. It's like falling off a bicycle: you just never forget how.
For those of you who don't know, my undergrad degree was in Theater Arts (my parents weren't financing my education, so... you know, you get to pick the major and all. Then, when all is said and done, you don't mind having paid your own way through education, but darn, you wish they at least had been a bit more forceful in trying to talk you out of your major. Preferably into one that had an outside shot at making money). I'm not at all certain how it came about, actually: we have a friend who works for a communications company who had been tasked with making a corporate... commercial? Movie short? Puppet show on VHS and sent to cable access? Something.
At any rate, she needed some actors, she got in touch with my wife, my wife pointed her in a direction and also offered our services because it sounded like fun and because she is an actress as well. I get all this in an email, and then am asked to send a picture because, I guess, they need a slightly dorky looking male with enough gray hair to pass for 'father'. I send the picture, and I guess I fit that bill nicely, as I was asked to do the part.
For the record, I have not really acted in anything since, oh, before Y2K: there was a smattering here and there- some skits for church, another small film in Vancouver- but that's really been it. And I've been aching to break out and do something artistic lately. I've missed the stage: have missed it terribly. I broke out some old pictures from my theater days and showed them to my wife, and through the course of it broke down into tears (this is an utter lie, but is meant to heighten the dramatic narrative).
But- God, there is something invigorating about being on the stage. It just transcends time, place and space (which, ironically, are the 3 unities required for a play as specified by some Greek dramatist whose name I could never pronounce). The audience may be bored to tears- as many have been during shows of mine- but there is this otherworldliness to it because it is an entirely other world. It is a thrill rode of emotions, of energy flooding through you. There is that sense of being invincible when you know the audience is with you, hanging on your character's every word. The smell of the greasepaint, the roar of the crowd, and your ego poised atop the zenith of your arrogance.
Love it.
So, it wasn't necessarily a stage production. It was actually in someone's kitchen while the actors sat around drinking bottled water and waiting for their time for a 'take'. A 'take' is a synonym for 'sitting around drinking bottled water and waiting for the light to be adjusted properly and the lens angle to be set while the gaffer takes a piece of tape and sticks it on the floor showing you where your 'mark' is and by god you'd better not miss this because we're behind schedule and I don't want to have to do the whole damn thing over again because you bovine actors are too boneheaded to even accomplish stepping on a piece of goddam tape'. If you've ever dreamed about being a movie star one day- forget the glamour part of it. That comes later when the papparazzi chase you. On the set, you're cattle.
But still, it was acting, and even better, I was getting paid for it (15o smackers for sitting around waiting for an hour and a half, 20 seconds of actual screen time, and all the bottled water I could drink). Believe me, if there is anything better than being an actor (on stage, at least), it's being a
paid actor.
But the best thing is, it felt good to be there. Even if my role consisted of hugging a couple of someone else's kids that I've never met before and acting excited over Chinese take-out the wife I never married had brought home, it was good. It brought to mind again how deeply I miss it, and how I wish they had actually given me some lines to say.
And that was what was truly nice about it: to be able to step back into it, however briefly, and make an utter ass out of yourself. It's like falling off a bicycle: you just never forget how.
Monday, November 19, 2007
What I Did This Weekend: an essay
Some of you may have noticed my distinct absence in the blogosphere during this past weekend.
It was a difficult weekend for me, physically, spiritually and emotionally, and I found myself drained of words.
It all started on Saturday, where I was cruelly forced to sleep in until noon, and which was shortly followed by a rather lard-filled breakfast at Denny's. I'm not sure why we went to Denny's: perhaps it was because we needed a change of grease.
Then it was a trip to Big Lot's, where BIG THINGS could be had for small prices, and which typically leaves me with a BIG MIGRAINE. Neverthless, we managed to get 1/16th of our Christmas shopping done there, as well as purchasing a rather nice throw blanket that the cats have subsequently adopted and are now systematically destroying.
This was followed by even MORE SHOPPING, but as much of it was for me, I'm not about complain about this. Particularly when you find a really cool shirt for half the price.
This bout of fun was rounded out by a... well, I'm not quite sure how to say this.
That's not true. I'm very sure how to say it. I'm just not sure I want to.
Salome, Lakshmi, MGM (this is our new name for Lakshmi's husband, and it stands not for the famous film studio- you know, the one with the lion yawning but the sound guys dub in a fierce roar- but rather, stands for 'Magnanimous', which he certainly is) and myself all donned togas and, yes, with an average age of 37 at this place we were going to, we went to a toga party.
A toga party. Like, I did this in high school, and it wasn't even fun then (Amendment: it was fun back then, particularly since the girls wore only the togas. But then again, so did we guys. You can imagine what happened then. No. Not that. But remember in high school when the sexy French teacher, whom you'd been lustily ravishing among the hay in a barn in your daydream while she enchantingly speaks of 2nd declension nouns suddenly invites you to come to the front of the class and recite? You don't need your book for this exercise, but you carry it anyway, because you have to have something to cover the sign of your budding arousal. Okay. You remember. Now imagine a similar scenario, only all the guys are wearing sheets). Plus side of the party: they had beer. Negative side of the party: the beer was Bud Light. But hey, when it's your 40th birthday, I guess you get to re-live the high school memories that you never really had, and if the beer is free then do I have an actual right to complain?
Back to Lakshmi's and MGM, where we sat and talked and I introduced MGM to the joys of Kahlua, Vodka, milk and Diet Coke, which he graciously pretended to enjoy. Then Salome and I headed for home, and slept until 1 pm.
You're begining to see, no doubt, what a terrible toll this weekend was taking on my psyche.
Up at one, and the wives go shopping. MGM and I have plans, but as always they're somewhat tentative, as we never know when the other one is awake and ambulatory. Our conversations usually go something like this:
Voice mail (from MGM): 'Hey, it's me. I wanted to see if you're still up for going out to...'
Voice mail (from me, an hour later): 'Sorry, I was sleeping. Let me know what's up. Call me...'
Voice mail (from MGM, an hour later): 'Hi, just got your message. I was taking a nap...'
Voice mail (from me, 30 minutes later): 'Hey, sorry. The game was on and I didn't have my cell.'
Phone call (from MGM, an hour later): 'Hey, sorry I missed you. I just went and worked out.'
Me (On the phone with MGM): 'Cool. Wanna go see _____________________ (insert name of the latest, most violent and special effects-ridden movie out there)?
MGM: Yeah, but I gotta eat first.
So, plans that were scheduled to begin at maybe 1 pm actually take place at about 5-ish, depending upon how interesting the game is.
So we sit for two hours watching a movie, share a couple of jokes back and forth, and then each return to our respective homes. I can't of course, speak for MGM, but I come home and Salome and I watch The Amazing Race, and then read for hours.
And people wonder why I'm so tired on Monday morning.
It was a difficult weekend for me, physically, spiritually and emotionally, and I found myself drained of words.
It all started on Saturday, where I was cruelly forced to sleep in until noon, and which was shortly followed by a rather lard-filled breakfast at Denny's. I'm not sure why we went to Denny's: perhaps it was because we needed a change of grease.
Then it was a trip to Big Lot's, where BIG THINGS could be had for small prices, and which typically leaves me with a BIG MIGRAINE. Neverthless, we managed to get 1/16th of our Christmas shopping done there, as well as purchasing a rather nice throw blanket that the cats have subsequently adopted and are now systematically destroying.
This was followed by even MORE SHOPPING, but as much of it was for me, I'm not about complain about this. Particularly when you find a really cool shirt for half the price.
This bout of fun was rounded out by a... well, I'm not quite sure how to say this.
That's not true. I'm very sure how to say it. I'm just not sure I want to.
Salome, Lakshmi, MGM (this is our new name for Lakshmi's husband, and it stands not for the famous film studio- you know, the one with the lion yawning but the sound guys dub in a fierce roar- but rather, stands for 'Magnanimous', which he certainly is) and myself all donned togas and, yes, with an average age of 37 at this place we were going to, we went to a toga party.
A toga party. Like, I did this in high school, and it wasn't even fun then (Amendment: it was fun back then, particularly since the girls wore only the togas. But then again, so did we guys. You can imagine what happened then. No. Not that. But remember in high school when the sexy French teacher, whom you'd been lustily ravishing among the hay in a barn in your daydream while she enchantingly speaks of 2nd declension nouns suddenly invites you to come to the front of the class and recite? You don't need your book for this exercise, but you carry it anyway, because you have to have something to cover the sign of your budding arousal. Okay. You remember. Now imagine a similar scenario, only all the guys are wearing sheets). Plus side of the party: they had beer. Negative side of the party: the beer was Bud Light. But hey, when it's your 40th birthday, I guess you get to re-live the high school memories that you never really had, and if the beer is free then do I have an actual right to complain?
Back to Lakshmi's and MGM, where we sat and talked and I introduced MGM to the joys of Kahlua, Vodka, milk and Diet Coke, which he graciously pretended to enjoy. Then Salome and I headed for home, and slept until 1 pm.
You're begining to see, no doubt, what a terrible toll this weekend was taking on my psyche.
Up at one, and the wives go shopping. MGM and I have plans, but as always they're somewhat tentative, as we never know when the other one is awake and ambulatory. Our conversations usually go something like this:
Voice mail (from MGM): 'Hey, it's me. I wanted to see if you're still up for going out to...'
Voice mail (from me, an hour later): 'Sorry, I was sleeping. Let me know what's up. Call me...'
Voice mail (from MGM, an hour later): 'Hi, just got your message. I was taking a nap...'
Voice mail (from me, 30 minutes later): 'Hey, sorry. The game was on and I didn't have my cell.'
Phone call (from MGM, an hour later): 'Hey, sorry I missed you. I just went and worked out.'
Me (On the phone with MGM): 'Cool. Wanna go see _____________________ (insert name of the latest, most violent and special effects-ridden movie out there)?
MGM: Yeah, but I gotta eat first.
So, plans that were scheduled to begin at maybe 1 pm actually take place at about 5-ish, depending upon how interesting the game is.
So we sit for two hours watching a movie, share a couple of jokes back and forth, and then each return to our respective homes. I can't of course, speak for MGM, but I come home and Salome and I watch The Amazing Race, and then read for hours.
And people wonder why I'm so tired on Monday morning.
Friday, November 16, 2007
An Open Letter to All My (three) Readers
Dear Readers,
Bless you.
I'm new at this, and you have been wonderfully supportive, providing comments and insights with each new blog, and it makes me think that each one of you are wonderful human beings, or that you maybe owe me money.
As a few of you have been turned on to me by my wife, I strongly suspect it's the former. Especially since I don't loan out money, and I happen to know each of you personally (apart from the occasional 'lurker' out there, to whom I say a hearty 'welcome'). Moreover, I have been amazed by each and everyone one of you.
I am not as creative as my wife (for example, I don't knit), so coming up with names that protect your anonymity while giving voice to your characteristics is something I shall have to rely upon her for. Apart from 'DB', I think that all of you are aptly christened, and that we have only scratched the surface of the wonder that you are. What follows is in no particular order:
'DB'- You are anything but. You actually intimidate me at times, because there is a keen and lively brain that understands more than you let on, and a core that works on a deeper level than you perhaps would ever care to admit. But it is coupled with the most humble and generous spirit that I have ever come across. Forgive me, but there have been times when I've deliberately decieved you so that we would do the things that you wanted to do, because I know you would put others needs beyond your own. The capacity of your heart supercedes my own, and you serve as a model for me. I shall come up with a different name for you. 'DB' is a complete misnomer...
Lakshmi- There are universes within you. I have grown to love and appreciate the face that you present to the world, but you know there is more, and I worry that you are afraid to let it out. Don't. You have become dear to me, and I am so grateful for the laughter; for the agility of mind that you evince every time we see you. I am grateful for what you mean to Salome, and at this moment, metaphorically, I am gripping your face and saying to you: 'share that goodness within you.' This world needs it. If there is one gift you have, it is the gift of hope. You haven't yet done what you were meant to. Get to it.
Skroll- Thank you. Thank you for the companionship that you have shared with Salome, and for the objectivity that you bring to your conversations. It's with no light words I use to say that you have saved our relationship on more than one occasion. At times you have taken my side when you've heard the stories of our tempestuous relationship. At times you have taken hers. And over the years, I have realized that you have a keen mind that can weed through emotional turmoil to get to the heart of the matter. I thank you for this, but moreover, I am so grateful that Salome has such a wonderful friend in her life. You can take me to task anytime: you've earned my respect and I will listen.
Gaia: I don't know if you are reading or not. But you are one of those rare people without artiface: what you are is what we see, without pretense or posturing. I have never met someone so adept at making others feel welcome, valued, and appreciated. Nor have I ever met one who who speaks truth with love, nor forgives with such egalitarianism. You have brought forth beauty on this earth, and it is through these two gifts that I have shed my cynicism and believed in the power of family. Thank you.
Salome: Yours shall be the shortest of all. You are my life.
CLP: I don't know if you are reading or not: perhaps you aren't but may one day dig into the archives of this worthless old blog. I want you to know that you have been one of the greatest gifts that Salome has ever had. I had hoped and wished that that would be me. Now, at least, I hope I rank. But I know that there are friendships that endure forever, and yours is one. Thank you for protection of her. For the unwavering support you have shown. Thank you for the ways, both large and small, that you show your love. You are a wonderful person, and it is my wish that as the years go by (provided she doesn't divorce me for all of my money) I will have the privilege of knowing you more.
Jonathon: Thanks for the comments, and thanks for your thoughtful reads. Thanks for supporting Salome in her blogging endeavors, and adding thoughtful comments of your own. My prayers are with your family.
And to all, en masse, there will be entries that are funny (yes, I DO possess a sense of humor), or thoughtful and reflective. There will be spiritual ones as well, as I struggle to bring this 21st century into a theological and decidedly Judeo-Christian worldview that I can live within. This is a journal which I invite you all to share in, to challenge me in, to bring your own thoughts to the fore.
All of you whom I've mentioned, you are valued.
Bless you.
I'm new at this, and you have been wonderfully supportive, providing comments and insights with each new blog, and it makes me think that each one of you are wonderful human beings, or that you maybe owe me money.
As a few of you have been turned on to me by my wife, I strongly suspect it's the former. Especially since I don't loan out money, and I happen to know each of you personally (apart from the occasional 'lurker' out there, to whom I say a hearty 'welcome'). Moreover, I have been amazed by each and everyone one of you.
I am not as creative as my wife (for example, I don't knit), so coming up with names that protect your anonymity while giving voice to your characteristics is something I shall have to rely upon her for. Apart from 'DB', I think that all of you are aptly christened, and that we have only scratched the surface of the wonder that you are. What follows is in no particular order:
'DB'- You are anything but. You actually intimidate me at times, because there is a keen and lively brain that understands more than you let on, and a core that works on a deeper level than you perhaps would ever care to admit. But it is coupled with the most humble and generous spirit that I have ever come across. Forgive me, but there have been times when I've deliberately decieved you so that we would do the things that you wanted to do, because I know you would put others needs beyond your own. The capacity of your heart supercedes my own, and you serve as a model for me. I shall come up with a different name for you. 'DB' is a complete misnomer...
Lakshmi- There are universes within you. I have grown to love and appreciate the face that you present to the world, but you know there is more, and I worry that you are afraid to let it out. Don't. You have become dear to me, and I am so grateful for the laughter; for the agility of mind that you evince every time we see you. I am grateful for what you mean to Salome, and at this moment, metaphorically, I am gripping your face and saying to you: 'share that goodness within you.' This world needs it. If there is one gift you have, it is the gift of hope. You haven't yet done what you were meant to. Get to it.
Skroll- Thank you. Thank you for the companionship that you have shared with Salome, and for the objectivity that you bring to your conversations. It's with no light words I use to say that you have saved our relationship on more than one occasion. At times you have taken my side when you've heard the stories of our tempestuous relationship. At times you have taken hers. And over the years, I have realized that you have a keen mind that can weed through emotional turmoil to get to the heart of the matter. I thank you for this, but moreover, I am so grateful that Salome has such a wonderful friend in her life. You can take me to task anytime: you've earned my respect and I will listen.
Gaia: I don't know if you are reading or not. But you are one of those rare people without artiface: what you are is what we see, without pretense or posturing. I have never met someone so adept at making others feel welcome, valued, and appreciated. Nor have I ever met one who who speaks truth with love, nor forgives with such egalitarianism. You have brought forth beauty on this earth, and it is through these two gifts that I have shed my cynicism and believed in the power of family. Thank you.
Salome: Yours shall be the shortest of all. You are my life.
CLP: I don't know if you are reading or not: perhaps you aren't but may one day dig into the archives of this worthless old blog. I want you to know that you have been one of the greatest gifts that Salome has ever had. I had hoped and wished that that would be me. Now, at least, I hope I rank. But I know that there are friendships that endure forever, and yours is one. Thank you for protection of her. For the unwavering support you have shown. Thank you for the ways, both large and small, that you show your love. You are a wonderful person, and it is my wish that as the years go by (provided she doesn't divorce me for all of my money) I will have the privilege of knowing you more.
Jonathon: Thanks for the comments, and thanks for your thoughtful reads. Thanks for supporting Salome in her blogging endeavors, and adding thoughtful comments of your own. My prayers are with your family.
And to all, en masse, there will be entries that are funny (yes, I DO possess a sense of humor), or thoughtful and reflective. There will be spiritual ones as well, as I struggle to bring this 21st century into a theological and decidedly Judeo-Christian worldview that I can live within. This is a journal which I invite you all to share in, to challenge me in, to bring your own thoughts to the fore.
All of you whom I've mentioned, you are valued.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Words We Live By
There are, for all of us, words that have been spoken to us that have been captured in our memories: gentle or timely words that have either sustained us, challenged us, or validated who we are as human beings. Often they feel like the gentle breath of God, a warm and inviting scent that washes over us like the whisper of warmth coming from the vents on a cold and rainy morning.
They live in our memory, these words, because there are time when we must draw them out and examine them again. When we doubt ourselves, or when we have failed to live up to the expectations we have for ourselves (or that others have for us). Like a warn scrapbook, we rub our hands over the dusty memory and feel the exaltation all over again, and in our hearts we resolve to live up to that which was once said about us, or to us. They are verbal caresses; gentle nudges to get up, stretch our legs, and begin the race again.
On his blog 'BitterSweet Life', Ariel talks about his recent birthday, and the traditional family celebration that accompanies it. As the celebrant sits, the rest of the family, one at a time, tells what they most love and appreciate about them. While there are good natured jests, subtle (but fun) insults, and moments made for laughter, it is also a chance for the family to whisper as one
'You are valued.' You are important. What you bring to the world is unique: there can be no duplicate of you.
He describes this as 'a cocktail for the soul', and I'm at a loss to come up with a simile that can rival that.
Years ago, when I was taking a class on the Old Testament, taught by a wildly irreverent Rabbi Blum, he told us that in Jewish philosophy, the taking of another life is the greatest crime of all, for when you 'kill a person, you are killing an entire universe'.
Think about that for a moment. I know I did.
And I felt really guilty about killing that guy back in Des Moines. But really, one must wonder, what the hell was he doing in my closet?
But that's another blog.
The point, of course, is the uniqueness of all of us. There are no two of us who perceive things the exact same way. Tastes and preferences differ. Perceptions and opinions swing in wildly opposite directions even among people who are similar in a thousand other ways. I regard the world from a jaundiced evangelical worldview, while my friend Dan views the world from a decidedly Calvinist reservoir. Which is why he is destined for hell. The point is, we may agree and see things exactly the same on 1000 different things, but it is the 1001st that separates you from me, and makes our respective lives universes unto themselves (Just for the record, I'm right on that 1001st thing).
I bring all this up as a means of celebration for the individual- the belief that God does not want us to surrender ourselves to Him so that we lose our precious identity, but rather that He wants us to become more ourselves than we ever could be without Him (unabashedly pilfering from The Screwtape Letters).
So Ariel's post left me thinking about praise: what it does for us, but also, what it means.
I have the sentences in my head; those beautiful things whispered about me, said to me, given to me. When I resigned from pastoring in 2003, my congregation threw a party (they were that glad to be rid of me), and in the course of it, when comments were brought from around the room, I learned how I had been a part of people's lives when I felt I was making no difference at all. I cherish those words and that moment until this very day, and have no doubts that I will ever stop.
But praise: is there a difference between our praise for others, and praise for God? I think so, but not in the usual, pedantically Christian party line of 'because we're not perfect but He is.' True, that's right, and that will make for a very good Sunday school class, but I think there's more to it: something in our very language.
When my wife tells me that she loves me, I am filled with gratitude (and an almost irrepressible urge to question her taste). When she tells me the things she loves about me or admires about me, it is embarrassingly good- that cocktail for the soul. But I also sense that somewhere, somehow, there's an imperative in there. Or if not an order, then a plea. Implicit within those words is the hope that those things which she loves me for are not things that I will cease to do or be.
To praise someone for their generosity is to silently importune them that they remain generous.
Praise the laughter they bring is a hope that the laughs will continue to come.
To praise them for 'always being there' has an implied parenthetical tag that says 'and I hope you always will be.'
We do praise others for their attributes, and I pray that we all do so lavishly to those who are important in our life.
But these attributes may change: the generous may not always be generous. Those who share laughter may one day rain insults down on us, and the steadfast ones in our lives may one day be incapacitated. Our praise is not only an expression of gratitude, it is a fervent wish that they remain the same.
So what, then, is the good of praising the immutable?
To say that 'God is good' is not an utterance of praise, but a self-description. It is as intrinsic to Him as my brown eyes are to me: I cannot change them, and neither can He change His goodness. Our language to Him differs greatly than our language to each other: we praise others so that they may remain as they are. We praise God because... because... why?
And this stumps me. I cannot praise Him in hopes that He will remain as He is. He will, regardless. There is no imperative underlying my words, no subtly voiced hope that His goodness will remain. That's the problem with immutability. It never changes. On the other hand, it's always a safe thing to place a $10 spot on.
I think the purpose of praise- one of the purposes of praise- is so that our constantly changing selves has something fixed to dwell upon. We need to meditate on the goodness of God, so that we will know what goodness is. We have to praise Him for his forgiveness, because in doing so, we learn the deeper meaning of forgiveness. As a child, 'goodness' and 'kindness' meant something far different to me than they do today. It is in the course of discovering grace and goodness in my life on a daily basis that I begin to see the glorious complexity of this single syllable word. It is through the greater wrongs that are done me (or that I do) that I have come to understand how difficult forgiveness really is.
We praise people because we love them, and we do not want them to change. Perhaps we praise God, because we love Him, and desperately know we need to change.
They live in our memory, these words, because there are time when we must draw them out and examine them again. When we doubt ourselves, or when we have failed to live up to the expectations we have for ourselves (or that others have for us). Like a warn scrapbook, we rub our hands over the dusty memory and feel the exaltation all over again, and in our hearts we resolve to live up to that which was once said about us, or to us. They are verbal caresses; gentle nudges to get up, stretch our legs, and begin the race again.
On his blog 'BitterSweet Life', Ariel talks about his recent birthday, and the traditional family celebration that accompanies it. As the celebrant sits, the rest of the family, one at a time, tells what they most love and appreciate about them. While there are good natured jests, subtle (but fun) insults, and moments made for laughter, it is also a chance for the family to whisper as one
'You are valued.' You are important. What you bring to the world is unique: there can be no duplicate of you.
He describes this as 'a cocktail for the soul', and I'm at a loss to come up with a simile that can rival that.
Years ago, when I was taking a class on the Old Testament, taught by a wildly irreverent Rabbi Blum, he told us that in Jewish philosophy, the taking of another life is the greatest crime of all, for when you 'kill a person, you are killing an entire universe'.
Think about that for a moment. I know I did.
And I felt really guilty about killing that guy back in Des Moines. But really, one must wonder, what the hell was he doing in my closet?
But that's another blog.
The point, of course, is the uniqueness of all of us. There are no two of us who perceive things the exact same way. Tastes and preferences differ. Perceptions and opinions swing in wildly opposite directions even among people who are similar in a thousand other ways. I regard the world from a jaundiced evangelical worldview, while my friend Dan views the world from a decidedly Calvinist reservoir. Which is why he is destined for hell. The point is, we may agree and see things exactly the same on 1000 different things, but it is the 1001st that separates you from me, and makes our respective lives universes unto themselves (Just for the record, I'm right on that 1001st thing).
I bring all this up as a means of celebration for the individual- the belief that God does not want us to surrender ourselves to Him so that we lose our precious identity, but rather that He wants us to become more ourselves than we ever could be without Him (unabashedly pilfering from The Screwtape Letters).
So Ariel's post left me thinking about praise: what it does for us, but also, what it means.
I have the sentences in my head; those beautiful things whispered about me, said to me, given to me. When I resigned from pastoring in 2003, my congregation threw a party (they were that glad to be rid of me), and in the course of it, when comments were brought from around the room, I learned how I had been a part of people's lives when I felt I was making no difference at all. I cherish those words and that moment until this very day, and have no doubts that I will ever stop.
But praise: is there a difference between our praise for others, and praise for God? I think so, but not in the usual, pedantically Christian party line of 'because we're not perfect but He is.' True, that's right, and that will make for a very good Sunday school class, but I think there's more to it: something in our very language.
When my wife tells me that she loves me, I am filled with gratitude (and an almost irrepressible urge to question her taste). When she tells me the things she loves about me or admires about me, it is embarrassingly good- that cocktail for the soul. But I also sense that somewhere, somehow, there's an imperative in there. Or if not an order, then a plea. Implicit within those words is the hope that those things which she loves me for are not things that I will cease to do or be.
To praise someone for their generosity is to silently importune them that they remain generous.
Praise the laughter they bring is a hope that the laughs will continue to come.
To praise them for 'always being there' has an implied parenthetical tag that says 'and I hope you always will be.'
We do praise others for their attributes, and I pray that we all do so lavishly to those who are important in our life.
But these attributes may change: the generous may not always be generous. Those who share laughter may one day rain insults down on us, and the steadfast ones in our lives may one day be incapacitated. Our praise is not only an expression of gratitude, it is a fervent wish that they remain the same.
So what, then, is the good of praising the immutable?
To say that 'God is good' is not an utterance of praise, but a self-description. It is as intrinsic to Him as my brown eyes are to me: I cannot change them, and neither can He change His goodness. Our language to Him differs greatly than our language to each other: we praise others so that they may remain as they are. We praise God because... because... why?
And this stumps me. I cannot praise Him in hopes that He will remain as He is. He will, regardless. There is no imperative underlying my words, no subtly voiced hope that His goodness will remain. That's the problem with immutability. It never changes. On the other hand, it's always a safe thing to place a $10 spot on.
I think the purpose of praise- one of the purposes of praise- is so that our constantly changing selves has something fixed to dwell upon. We need to meditate on the goodness of God, so that we will know what goodness is. We have to praise Him for his forgiveness, because in doing so, we learn the deeper meaning of forgiveness. As a child, 'goodness' and 'kindness' meant something far different to me than they do today. It is in the course of discovering grace and goodness in my life on a daily basis that I begin to see the glorious complexity of this single syllable word. It is through the greater wrongs that are done me (or that I do) that I have come to understand how difficult forgiveness really is.
We praise people because we love them, and we do not want them to change. Perhaps we praise God, because we love Him, and desperately know we need to change.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Today's Blog...
Will be heavily abbreviated, due to an unexpected cat injury.
Plus, I later burned my 4 left fingers on a pizza that I removed with my bare hands because black smoke was pouring into the kitchen.
That's the end. Thank you for reading.
Plus, I later burned my 4 left fingers on a pizza that I removed with my bare hands because black smoke was pouring into the kitchen.
That's the end. Thank you for reading.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Taking Liberties with my Liberty, III
I use this opening not as a literary device (e.g. 'You know, people often ask me...', when in fact no one as ever asked them), but as literal fact: people have asked me whether I actually did open the trunk.
This shows that people have been reading.
I am humbled.
So, to answer the question I have been asked, of course I opened the trunk. I was tired, goofy from the flight, sweltering in a gray suit in the hot Las Vegas sun and I just wanted to get into my hotel room. Even though I felt I had every right to deny them access, that my civil rights were being violated (you know, that one about 'unlawful search and seziure'), and that here was a grand moment for me to stand up and claim those rights that more and more Americans seem to be abdicating nowadays, it would have been terribly inconvenient. It would have delayed my cool shower and hotel room pumping out air conditioning full blast.
And if there is one thing I cannot tolerate more than being illegally searched, it is being
inconvenienced.
Attribution to Benjamin Franklin for the following quote is quite normally given, but by no means certain. In a letter to David Hume, he denies ever having said it all; merely publishing it. There is a faction of scholars that believes it should actually be accorded to a Mr. Richard Jackson, a fellow diplomat. Nevertheless, you've probably seen it on a bumper sticker at some point:
'Those who would give up Essential Liberty to purchase a little Temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.' -1759, author uncertain
In our house, there is a cat door, that leads into the laundry room. Were you to travel from the cat door in a direct line, cross through the hallway, you would pass through a door on the other side, into our guest bedroom.
For the past two months, we have had a guest.
Her name is Cleo, and she is one of the dearest animals I have ever met. She belonged to an invalid neighbor who passed away during the last year. Sort of a 'palliative pet' for the terminally ill. When he passed, his will went into lengthy probate and the house sat empty. From time to time we would see this cat wandering around, but she always looked well fed, and had a collar on. We assumed that some kind-hearted soul took the animal in and was caring for it.
It wasn't until one night, when we heard a horrible howling outside of the cat door, that we learned the truth. Cleo was shivering outside, terrified to put her head through the door, despite the pounding Seattle rain. As my wife and I are die-hard animal lovers, we did the only thing we could do: rush to grab a bowl of food and entice the cat in far enough to at least give it a meal. It worked, and Cleo ate her full, before disappearing again into the night.
A little over two months ago, we saw her again: she sat, perched on the steps of our back deck. Her fur no longer shiny, her collar missing, on closer examination a portion of her ear had been split and torn. She shied away, but I came again with a bowl of food and set it down on the step, letting her cautiously approach it. What I witnessed broke my heart: she would look into the bowl, take one bite, maybe two, before quickly lifting her head to see what enemies may have snuck up behind her during that briefest of moments when she let her guard down to eat. She was/is tiny- being perhaps 2 years old now, she'll never quite grow out of her kitten size, and yet she has mnaged to survive this long.
I made it a point, then, to help her in any way I could.
At 7 every night, she and I would rendez-vous on the back porch. She would eat, and I would coo at her, until she grew used to my presence and let me sit beside her as she ate. And, eventually, she let me pet her. And then she sat on my lap. And I was smitten.
I introduced her into our home, but there was a curious reaction on her part: whenever another cat came anywhere into her vicinity (mind you, we have two cats, both entering their geriatric years), she would hunker down and let out an ear-splitting yowl. She would never back down (and I silently cheered her for this), but she made it impossible for any other cat to get near her, sniff her, let her know that no harm was intended. Because of her tiny size, and her time on the street, she had come to not trust any cats at all (odd that she trusted humans).
Introducing her into the ways has not been easy. She enters the house and makes a beeline for the guest bedroom: a straight shot that requires no turns, no twists, no corners for other cats to jump and attack her from. And there, faithfully, we place her toys, fill her food and water, and hope that she finds comfort enough to move beyond these surroundings.
She has not. This is her room. There are terrors outside, and even terrors inside (our other two cats) and the only... place... that she feels she can call her own is this tiny bedroom with the lumpy mattress. The world is large, and scary, and I know she is grateful for this little resting spot: this one spot in the universe where she can feel safe, and she can accept love from us without fear. Everywhere else, there the monsters dwell.
As I was waiting to board my flight home from Vegas, I saw someone sitting in the gate chairs who, let's be frank, gave me the creeps. He was one of those guys who, if he has to be on the same flight as you, you pray that at least you don't have to sit next to him (for those of you who may be thinking 'RACIAL PROFILING!!!! You will BURN!', let me say this: he was caucasian. Sorry. He was white- well, really tan- wearing a black leather vest (maybe HE had just come through security nude, too), tattoos trailing up and down his arms. You just knew that he somehow had managed to slip a knife or gun through security). And I remember thinking that I was grateful that he had just come through the same security procedures I had just been excoriating in my mind.
I listen to talk radio a lot: my wife hates it, and we can never have it on in the car. But my secret vice, particularly as a Libertarian (YES, I KNOW we will never win an election. But at least I can forever wear bumper stickers on my car that say 'Don't blame me. I voted for so-and-so'), is that I listen to conservative talk radio. It's grown increasingly amusing, listening to them trying to defend the actions of George Bush. Most have given up altogether.
Yet whenever talks turns to the war in Iraq, terrorism, threats to the homeland et al, I hear a common theme: our fellow Americans are in favor of the provisions laid down by the Patriot Act (if ever there was a mis-nomer). They do not mind the abrogation of their rights citizenry, if it protects them further. Indeed if, when asked to open their trunk when they pull into a gaudy Vegas hotel, they will do so with pride, as if the very act of compliance shows just how patriotic they are.
And there is always the refrain: 'I don't care: I have nothing to hide,' which has never, ever been the point. It's that we should never have to prove we have nothing to hide, unless there is sufficient evidence that mandates such a motion of discovery.
I worry that we have become a country of beaten kitties, making a beeline for the comfort of the guest bedroom where none can touch us, while outside the nations rage.
This shows that people have been reading.
I am humbled.
So, to answer the question I have been asked, of course I opened the trunk. I was tired, goofy from the flight, sweltering in a gray suit in the hot Las Vegas sun and I just wanted to get into my hotel room. Even though I felt I had every right to deny them access, that my civil rights were being violated (you know, that one about 'unlawful search and seziure'), and that here was a grand moment for me to stand up and claim those rights that more and more Americans seem to be abdicating nowadays, it would have been terribly inconvenient. It would have delayed my cool shower and hotel room pumping out air conditioning full blast.
And if there is one thing I cannot tolerate more than being illegally searched, it is being
inconvenienced.
Attribution to Benjamin Franklin for the following quote is quite normally given, but by no means certain. In a letter to David Hume, he denies ever having said it all; merely publishing it. There is a faction of scholars that believes it should actually be accorded to a Mr. Richard Jackson, a fellow diplomat. Nevertheless, you've probably seen it on a bumper sticker at some point:
'Those who would give up Essential Liberty to purchase a little Temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.' -1759, author uncertain
In our house, there is a cat door, that leads into the laundry room. Were you to travel from the cat door in a direct line, cross through the hallway, you would pass through a door on the other side, into our guest bedroom.
For the past two months, we have had a guest.
Her name is Cleo, and she is one of the dearest animals I have ever met. She belonged to an invalid neighbor who passed away during the last year. Sort of a 'palliative pet' for the terminally ill. When he passed, his will went into lengthy probate and the house sat empty. From time to time we would see this cat wandering around, but she always looked well fed, and had a collar on. We assumed that some kind-hearted soul took the animal in and was caring for it.
It wasn't until one night, when we heard a horrible howling outside of the cat door, that we learned the truth. Cleo was shivering outside, terrified to put her head through the door, despite the pounding Seattle rain. As my wife and I are die-hard animal lovers, we did the only thing we could do: rush to grab a bowl of food and entice the cat in far enough to at least give it a meal. It worked, and Cleo ate her full, before disappearing again into the night.
A little over two months ago, we saw her again: she sat, perched on the steps of our back deck. Her fur no longer shiny, her collar missing, on closer examination a portion of her ear had been split and torn. She shied away, but I came again with a bowl of food and set it down on the step, letting her cautiously approach it. What I witnessed broke my heart: she would look into the bowl, take one bite, maybe two, before quickly lifting her head to see what enemies may have snuck up behind her during that briefest of moments when she let her guard down to eat. She was/is tiny- being perhaps 2 years old now, she'll never quite grow out of her kitten size, and yet she has mnaged to survive this long.
I made it a point, then, to help her in any way I could.
At 7 every night, she and I would rendez-vous on the back porch. She would eat, and I would coo at her, until she grew used to my presence and let me sit beside her as she ate. And, eventually, she let me pet her. And then she sat on my lap. And I was smitten.
I introduced her into our home, but there was a curious reaction on her part: whenever another cat came anywhere into her vicinity (mind you, we have two cats, both entering their geriatric years), she would hunker down and let out an ear-splitting yowl. She would never back down (and I silently cheered her for this), but she made it impossible for any other cat to get near her, sniff her, let her know that no harm was intended. Because of her tiny size, and her time on the street, she had come to not trust any cats at all (odd that she trusted humans).
Introducing her into the ways has not been easy. She enters the house and makes a beeline for the guest bedroom: a straight shot that requires no turns, no twists, no corners for other cats to jump and attack her from. And there, faithfully, we place her toys, fill her food and water, and hope that she finds comfort enough to move beyond these surroundings.
She has not. This is her room. There are terrors outside, and even terrors inside (our other two cats) and the only... place... that she feels she can call her own is this tiny bedroom with the lumpy mattress. The world is large, and scary, and I know she is grateful for this little resting spot: this one spot in the universe where she can feel safe, and she can accept love from us without fear. Everywhere else, there the monsters dwell.
As I was waiting to board my flight home from Vegas, I saw someone sitting in the gate chairs who, let's be frank, gave me the creeps. He was one of those guys who, if he has to be on the same flight as you, you pray that at least you don't have to sit next to him (for those of you who may be thinking 'RACIAL PROFILING!!!! You will BURN!', let me say this: he was caucasian. Sorry. He was white- well, really tan- wearing a black leather vest (maybe HE had just come through security nude, too), tattoos trailing up and down his arms. You just knew that he somehow had managed to slip a knife or gun through security). And I remember thinking that I was grateful that he had just come through the same security procedures I had just been excoriating in my mind.
I listen to talk radio a lot: my wife hates it, and we can never have it on in the car. But my secret vice, particularly as a Libertarian (YES, I KNOW we will never win an election. But at least I can forever wear bumper stickers on my car that say 'Don't blame me. I voted for so-and-so'), is that I listen to conservative talk radio. It's grown increasingly amusing, listening to them trying to defend the actions of George Bush. Most have given up altogether.
Yet whenever talks turns to the war in Iraq, terrorism, threats to the homeland et al, I hear a common theme: our fellow Americans are in favor of the provisions laid down by the Patriot Act (if ever there was a mis-nomer). They do not mind the abrogation of their rights citizenry, if it protects them further. Indeed if, when asked to open their trunk when they pull into a gaudy Vegas hotel, they will do so with pride, as if the very act of compliance shows just how patriotic they are.
And there is always the refrain: 'I don't care: I have nothing to hide,' which has never, ever been the point. It's that we should never have to prove we have nothing to hide, unless there is sufficient evidence that mandates such a motion of discovery.
I worry that we have become a country of beaten kitties, making a beeline for the comfort of the guest bedroom where none can touch us, while outside the nations rage.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Taking Liberties with my Liberty, Part II
I apologize for my unseemly and rather hasty departure last night: there is nothing worse than cold crab and cream cheese wontons, and I had to make a choice between finishing my entry or
eating.
While creatively it was enjoyable putting a comical twist on the issue, the truth is of late this has been bothering me a great deal.
The point that I was slowly arriving at was that this quick, hurried trip did not require a great deal of necessities: indeed, I actually wore my suit on the flight so I could save room in my carry-on.
As I wended my way through the security line so that I could make my way to the gate, I went through the usual process of removing my watch, wallet, keys... anything that might set off the metal detectors. Drawing near to the front of the line, I removed my shoes, and went through the process of removing my laptop from its case. And then it dawned on me (remember, please, that this was the first flight where I've ever made exclusive use of
carry-ons, so be charitable), as I was pratically de-nuded at this point, that I was carrying contraband.
Namely, that most dangerous stuff called 'saline solution, toothpaste, and hair gel', all of which, as 'McGyver' knows (those of you mid-20's or earlier will completely miss this reference) could be combined to make one lethal... gelatinous ball of goo. And when I had packed, I had forgotten that they must be less than x mount of ounces for safe travel. And, naturally, I didn't come to this realization until my belongings were already making their way through the x-ray machine.
Yes, I was stopped, searched, my belongings gone through and some of my hygienic products were confiscated. I didn't mind this, per se, as the rules are clearly stated and I was the one to not abide by the regulations. And to be honest, the only thing I was at risk for, after losing these possessions, was a really bad hair day. I mean, we know the rules, and they had just (though terribly silly) cause.
Nevertheless, it did dawn on me, whimsically, as the wand of the TSA agent traveled from crotch to underarm, that the next time I flew I wouldn't even bother to pack. Nor even dress. I'd bring an empty suitcase and all the things I needed in a garbage bag. Then, once I finally passed security, received the all-clear from these honestly very hard-working folks, I'd go ahead and put some clothes on and stuff the rest in my suitcase. I think in airports, you should arrive nude, and depart fully-clothed.
It wasn't until I alit in Las Vegas (kissing the ground, as I always do after a flight, grateful to have arrived safely) and drove to the ostentatious hotel where the conference would be held that I... finally... got angry. Pulling my rental car into the parking garage of the hotel, I was stopped by an officious individual (what made them officious was not their blue jeans or their disinterested demeanor, but the fact that they were wearing intimidating orange vests) who waved my car to a stop, and told me to open my trunk.
Excuse me?
- Open the trunk. You will not park here unless you open this trunk.
Why?
- Sir, we have to see what you have in there, or we will turn you away.
This did not exactly present a problem, necessarily, since I had absolutely nothing in the trunk (unless the rental car company had surreptitiously stuffed a body in there, prior to giving me the keys to this ugly, economical Chevy Cobalt), at least in terms of compliance. There was no reason not to do so, except that... why did I have to? Granted, had this been a major commerce building and I was driving a large truck the reeked of fertilizer, maybe there would have been just cause. But this was a seminar for those in a certain medical field (perhaps the dullest field there is) that I was attending, and for heaven's sake, the name of the hotel was The Flamingo,
(can I write that here?), which I don't think even Al Qaeda would list as a target without a modicum of giggling ('And after we destroy the Infidel's most sensitive commercial and military targets, rendering them broke and unable to respond, we'll go after that damned... *sniggle*... that ugly... *tee-hee*... that- stop that, Ahmed. It's not funny... *snicker*... that accursed hotel full of podiatrists/audiologists/orthodontists/cardiologists/veterinarians').
Moral dilemma: Do I let the officious-looking staff member (because of the orange vest) paw through the trunk of my cheap rental car, or do I make a statement on behalf of all Americans who have rights to demand entrance regardless of whether my trunk is empty or full of C-4, because this is the risk we run as Americans:
That we are free, and as a consequence we are surrounded by others who are also free?
Tomorrow I shall blog about inaccurate attributions to Benjamin Franklin, and Cleo the cat. Trust me. It will all make sense, somehow.
As I often say to my wife, 'bear with me'.
To which she often responds with: 'Shut-up and open the trunk.'
eating.
While creatively it was enjoyable putting a comical twist on the issue, the truth is of late this has been bothering me a great deal.
The point that I was slowly arriving at was that this quick, hurried trip did not require a great deal of necessities: indeed, I actually wore my suit on the flight so I could save room in my carry-on.
As I wended my way through the security line so that I could make my way to the gate, I went through the usual process of removing my watch, wallet, keys... anything that might set off the metal detectors. Drawing near to the front of the line, I removed my shoes, and went through the process of removing my laptop from its case. And then it dawned on me (remember, please, that this was the first flight where I've ever made exclusive use of
carry-ons, so be charitable), as I was pratically de-nuded at this point, that I was carrying contraband.
Namely, that most dangerous stuff called 'saline solution, toothpaste, and hair gel', all of which, as 'McGyver' knows (those of you mid-20's or earlier will completely miss this reference) could be combined to make one lethal... gelatinous ball of goo. And when I had packed, I had forgotten that they must be less than x mount of ounces for safe travel. And, naturally, I didn't come to this realization until my belongings were already making their way through the x-ray machine.
Yes, I was stopped, searched, my belongings gone through and some of my hygienic products were confiscated. I didn't mind this, per se, as the rules are clearly stated and I was the one to not abide by the regulations. And to be honest, the only thing I was at risk for, after losing these possessions, was a really bad hair day. I mean, we know the rules, and they had just (though terribly silly) cause.
Nevertheless, it did dawn on me, whimsically, as the wand of the TSA agent traveled from crotch to underarm, that the next time I flew I wouldn't even bother to pack. Nor even dress. I'd bring an empty suitcase and all the things I needed in a garbage bag. Then, once I finally passed security, received the all-clear from these honestly very hard-working folks, I'd go ahead and put some clothes on and stuff the rest in my suitcase. I think in airports, you should arrive nude, and depart fully-clothed.
It wasn't until I alit in Las Vegas (kissing the ground, as I always do after a flight, grateful to have arrived safely) and drove to the ostentatious hotel where the conference would be held that I... finally... got angry. Pulling my rental car into the parking garage of the hotel, I was stopped by an officious individual (what made them officious was not their blue jeans or their disinterested demeanor, but the fact that they were wearing intimidating orange vests) who waved my car to a stop, and told me to open my trunk.
Excuse me?
- Open the trunk. You will not park here unless you open this trunk.
Why?
- Sir, we have to see what you have in there, or we will turn you away.
This did not exactly present a problem, necessarily, since I had absolutely nothing in the trunk (unless the rental car company had surreptitiously stuffed a body in there, prior to giving me the keys to this ugly, economical Chevy Cobalt), at least in terms of compliance. There was no reason not to do so, except that... why did I have to? Granted, had this been a major commerce building and I was driving a large truck the reeked of fertilizer, maybe there would have been just cause. But this was a seminar for those in a certain medical field (perhaps the dullest field there is) that I was attending, and for heaven's sake, the name of the hotel was The Flamingo,
(can I write that here?), which I don't think even Al Qaeda would list as a target without a modicum of giggling ('And after we destroy the Infidel's most sensitive commercial and military targets, rendering them broke and unable to respond, we'll go after that damned... *sniggle*... that ugly... *tee-hee*... that- stop that, Ahmed. It's not funny... *snicker*... that accursed hotel full of podiatrists/audiologists/orthodontists/cardiologists/veterinarians').
Moral dilemma: Do I let the officious-looking staff member (because of the orange vest) paw through the trunk of my cheap rental car, or do I make a statement on behalf of all Americans who have rights to demand entrance regardless of whether my trunk is empty or full of C-4, because this is the risk we run as Americans:
That we are free, and as a consequence we are surrounded by others who are also free?
Tomorrow I shall blog about inaccurate attributions to Benjamin Franklin, and Cleo the cat. Trust me. It will all make sense, somehow.
As I often say to my wife, 'bear with me'.
To which she often responds with: 'Shut-up and open the trunk.'
Friday, November 9, 2007
Taking Liberties with my Liberty
I have a job.
It pays me.
I like that.
It also requires travel from time to time (usually on a monthly basis- give or take), and this past weekend I was forced to travel to Las Vegas- this required severe arm twisting on the part of my superior, since why on earth would I want to be warm and drink in the sun when I could enjoy the relentless drizzle and the muted daylight that weaves its way through the low-lying fog? Who could pass that up?
So I nobly endured this sacrifice- for the greater good of my employer, of course- and packed enough possesions to get me through 2 days of misery in the city of Las Vegas where there is nothing at all to do.
I should note here that 2 days is not my typical travel time. Usually, I'm gone for four days or more, which necessitates more than one change of underwear and at least two pairs of slacks and button up shirts because I will invariably sweat in... THE POINT BEING, I usually carry more luggage than can be safely stowed in the overhead bins, which means I must check it in. And after a long flight where you've had to take 2 Xanax (Xanexes? Xanaxees? Xanaxi?) because you're terrified of flying, but you were seated next to an obese, sweating and cheerfully good-natured lady (which means that you want to throttle them) who insists on carrying on a conversation despite the fact that you are giving monosyllabic replies and deliberately closing your eyes to feign sleep, or pulling out your laptop and saying 'That's really neat, your membership in the DAR, and I had no idea your ancestors founded the town of Really-Small-and-Completely-Irrelevant in the late 18th century, but I really must get back to my work...', the last thing you do is want to go to baggage claim to stand around for 30 minutes waiting to retrieve your carefully packed underwear.
I do believe that would qualify as a 'run-on sentence', that last bit there.
Regardless, as my trip would be no more than two days, I had the bright idea of packing lightly and doing everything as carry-on. After all, if I had to sit next to another Daughter of the American Revolution (DAR, in case you were wondering), at least I know that when the plane landed I could flee quickly. ZERO risk of having to listen to how her great-great-great grand uncle managed to dodge the American Revolution draft by feigning narcolepsy, and then later became one of the founding members of the American Chapter of Philatelists (that's 'stamp collecting', for those of you with naughty minds).
The Chinese food that I've ordered has been delivered. This thread will therefore be continued tomorrow in what will cleverly be titled 'Taking Liberties With My Liberty, Part II'.
Because I'm sure those two readers I have will be anxiously awaiting the newest chapter.
It pays me.
I like that.
It also requires travel from time to time (usually on a monthly basis- give or take), and this past weekend I was forced to travel to Las Vegas- this required severe arm twisting on the part of my superior, since why on earth would I want to be warm and drink in the sun when I could enjoy the relentless drizzle and the muted daylight that weaves its way through the low-lying fog? Who could pass that up?
So I nobly endured this sacrifice- for the greater good of my employer, of course- and packed enough possesions to get me through 2 days of misery in the city of Las Vegas where there is nothing at all to do.
I should note here that 2 days is not my typical travel time. Usually, I'm gone for four days or more, which necessitates more than one change of underwear and at least two pairs of slacks and button up shirts because I will invariably sweat in... THE POINT BEING, I usually carry more luggage than can be safely stowed in the overhead bins, which means I must check it in. And after a long flight where you've had to take 2 Xanax (Xanexes? Xanaxees? Xanaxi?) because you're terrified of flying, but you were seated next to an obese, sweating and cheerfully good-natured lady (which means that you want to throttle them) who insists on carrying on a conversation despite the fact that you are giving monosyllabic replies and deliberately closing your eyes to feign sleep, or pulling out your laptop and saying 'That's really neat, your membership in the DAR, and I had no idea your ancestors founded the town of Really-Small-and-Completely-Irrelevant in the late 18th century, but I really must get back to my work...', the last thing you do is want to go to baggage claim to stand around for 30 minutes waiting to retrieve your carefully packed underwear.
I do believe that would qualify as a 'run-on sentence', that last bit there.
Regardless, as my trip would be no more than two days, I had the bright idea of packing lightly and doing everything as carry-on. After all, if I had to sit next to another Daughter of the American Revolution (DAR, in case you were wondering), at least I know that when the plane landed I could flee quickly. ZERO risk of having to listen to how her great-great-great grand uncle managed to dodge the American Revolution draft by feigning narcolepsy, and then later became one of the founding members of the American Chapter of Philatelists (that's 'stamp collecting', for those of you with naughty minds).
The Chinese food that I've ordered has been delivered. This thread will therefore be continued tomorrow in what will cleverly be titled 'Taking Liberties With My Liberty, Part II'.
Because I'm sure those two readers I have will be anxiously awaiting the newest chapter.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
I Wuz Smart... Back in the Day
Last night it dawned on me, right in the middle of a game of Trivial Pursuit, that I am dumb.
I had suspected this for some time, to be quite honest. Over the past few years, I've found crosswords have become exceedingly difficult, unless they contain clues like '4 legged furry animal that meows and is usually named something ridiculous, like Fluffy: also, rhymes with 'hat'.' After some deliberation, I usually can get those.
But it seems that somehow, and at some point after my 33rd birthday, a latent 'stupid' gene clicked on (right around the time a latent 'welcome to balding and pot-bellied life' gene also turned on). I suspect it has something to do with my withdrawal from seminary at that time, which also translated into a general retreat from both my ministry and the rest of the world as well. Teeth that had been cut on CS Lewis, Eidersheim, Packer, and later honed on McGrath, Barth and Niebuhr, now sought something moist and chewy to gnaw on. I'd been a voracious reader all of my life: and by voracious I mean it in the fullest sense of the word (though I no longer remember the definition). I often would have three books by my bedside at night: a theological or spiritual tome, a work of literature, and then some piece of cotton candy fluff. I would read from all three each night, before going to bed. No wonder I had such difficulty falling asleep at night, what with the whirlwind of ideas flowing through my head.
Now, it's just the cotton candy fluff. The detective murder mystery, with the damaged existential-code hero (thanks, Thom, for that term), driven, lonely, yet curiously handsome with a sarcastic wit and an intensity that makes the charismatic Barack Obama look like an over-stuffed pillow. Or the 'supernatural thriller' that defies all logic in plot while fulfilling all criteria of the dime-store novel: the threatened heroine who despises the male lead until that terrifying moment when both are in danger, miraculously rescued and through shared experience fall deeply in love. Of course, she is beautiful. He, of course, is a damaged existential code-hero who is driven, lonely, curiously handsome and possesses an intensity that.... you get the point.
I have taken the occasional seminary course since the fall of '33 (that '33 being my age), and even engaged on an abortive study for an MBA. In both cases, I did quite well.
So it's quite possible that I am not exactly 'dumb'. Perhaps, I think, I have simply ceased to be 'smart'.
I've stopped asking big questions.
I no longer strive to see the bigger picture- that fulness wherein all things cohere, and the one who holds all things together.
I've removed most of those in my life with whom I can dialogue, and who challenge me.
I have forgotten what the word parousia means, and now not all of the movies I watch necessarily have to have a plot, provided the CGI is good.
And I find that I am missing myself: I used to be such good company (and I am not speaking this facetiously), both to myself and to others around me. But my retreat from the world was actually a retreat to the world: that chaotic, vapid mess that has so many voices speaking within it that no one bothers to listen anymore, because little is ever said anyway.
And now, for the life of me, I cannot remember the famous 20th century detective who founded the greatest private security company in America (Trivial pursuit: this was for yellow pie).
It was Allen Pinkerton, and I probably knew that when I was 26.
I had suspected this for some time, to be quite honest. Over the past few years, I've found crosswords have become exceedingly difficult, unless they contain clues like '4 legged furry animal that meows and is usually named something ridiculous, like Fluffy: also, rhymes with 'hat'.' After some deliberation, I usually can get those.
But it seems that somehow, and at some point after my 33rd birthday, a latent 'stupid' gene clicked on (right around the time a latent 'welcome to balding and pot-bellied life' gene also turned on). I suspect it has something to do with my withdrawal from seminary at that time, which also translated into a general retreat from both my ministry and the rest of the world as well. Teeth that had been cut on CS Lewis, Eidersheim, Packer, and later honed on McGrath, Barth and Niebuhr, now sought something moist and chewy to gnaw on. I'd been a voracious reader all of my life: and by voracious I mean it in the fullest sense of the word (though I no longer remember the definition). I often would have three books by my bedside at night: a theological or spiritual tome, a work of literature, and then some piece of cotton candy fluff. I would read from all three each night, before going to bed. No wonder I had such difficulty falling asleep at night, what with the whirlwind of ideas flowing through my head.
Now, it's just the cotton candy fluff. The detective murder mystery, with the damaged existential-code hero (thanks, Thom, for that term), driven, lonely, yet curiously handsome with a sarcastic wit and an intensity that makes the charismatic Barack Obama look like an over-stuffed pillow. Or the 'supernatural thriller' that defies all logic in plot while fulfilling all criteria of the dime-store novel: the threatened heroine who despises the male lead until that terrifying moment when both are in danger, miraculously rescued and through shared experience fall deeply in love. Of course, she is beautiful. He, of course, is a damaged existential code-hero who is driven, lonely, curiously handsome and possesses an intensity that.... you get the point.
I have taken the occasional seminary course since the fall of '33 (that '33 being my age), and even engaged on an abortive study for an MBA. In both cases, I did quite well.
So it's quite possible that I am not exactly 'dumb'. Perhaps, I think, I have simply ceased to be 'smart'.
I've stopped asking big questions.
I no longer strive to see the bigger picture- that fulness wherein all things cohere, and the one who holds all things together.
I've removed most of those in my life with whom I can dialogue, and who challenge me.
I have forgotten what the word parousia means, and now not all of the movies I watch necessarily have to have a plot, provided the CGI is good.
And I find that I am missing myself: I used to be such good company (and I am not speaking this facetiously), both to myself and to others around me. But my retreat from the world was actually a retreat to the world: that chaotic, vapid mess that has so many voices speaking within it that no one bothers to listen anymore, because little is ever said anyway.
And now, for the life of me, I cannot remember the famous 20th century detective who founded the greatest private security company in America (Trivial pursuit: this was for yellow pie).
It was Allen Pinkerton, and I probably knew that when I was 26.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
I'm unique. Just like everybody else in the world.
It's always seemed to me that the biggest presupposition underlying the blogging phenomenon is that one actually believes they have something worthwhile to say.
I assure you, immediately, that I do not.
As this is my first blog entry- my online de-virginization, if you will (and you will, won't you? Otherwise this will be a most disappointing endeavor) - I want to set the expectations as low as they can possibly be.
This way, it is guaranteed that I shall meet them.
Oddly enough, that's precisely how I made it through college, too.
I'm not at all certain why I'm beginning a blog, nor why I'm doing it during NATIONAL BLOGGING MONTH, for heaven's sake, making me perhaps the biggest lemming of all. I have been assured that it is fun (which so far, it has been), therapeutic (which, if true, will reduce a certain weekly expenditure and free up a certain hour -usually between 3 and 4 pm- where I am asked probing questions by a man who strangely resembles a goat) and is a sure way to make money.
Okay. That last one is a lie. No one ever said I'd make any money at this.
Regardless, I have this forum now, which will be read by all of two people (both of whom are related to me) and so I make this solemn pledge to all those who read: there will be tirades. There will be rants. There will be polemics against George Bush not simply because I hate him but because... oh, hell: yes, It's because I hate him. Nevetheless, tears will flow, laughter shall ring out, and there will be no long posts detailing what I had for lunch today. Because, as I've been warned, if you're blogging about lunch, no one cares.
Therefore, tomorrow there shall be a detailed description of what I ate for breakfast.
I assure you, immediately, that I do not.
As this is my first blog entry- my online de-virginization, if you will (and you will, won't you? Otherwise this will be a most disappointing endeavor) - I want to set the expectations as low as they can possibly be.
This way, it is guaranteed that I shall meet them.
Oddly enough, that's precisely how I made it through college, too.
I'm not at all certain why I'm beginning a blog, nor why I'm doing it during NATIONAL BLOGGING MONTH, for heaven's sake, making me perhaps the biggest lemming of all. I have been assured that it is fun (which so far, it has been), therapeutic (which, if true, will reduce a certain weekly expenditure and free up a certain hour -usually between 3 and 4 pm- where I am asked probing questions by a man who strangely resembles a goat) and is a sure way to make money.
Okay. That last one is a lie. No one ever said I'd make any money at this.
Regardless, I have this forum now, which will be read by all of two people (both of whom are related to me) and so I make this solemn pledge to all those who read: there will be tirades. There will be rants. There will be polemics against George Bush not simply because I hate him but because... oh, hell: yes, It's because I hate him. Nevetheless, tears will flow, laughter shall ring out, and there will be no long posts detailing what I had for lunch today. Because, as I've been warned, if you're blogging about lunch, no one cares.
Therefore, tomorrow there shall be a detailed description of what I ate for breakfast.
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