Being Green

Last Stand at the Magic Bus

2008-06-26T01:24:00.002-04:00

I don't think I can continue on this 'site. I don't like it much. I don't want to quit blogging, but this 'site makes it a bit difficult to be innovative. My new 'blog 'site is www.joeymustain.wordpress.com.

I hope you'll continue to drop by and say hello.

The Uncle Dave Macon Festival will be posted on that 'site (once it gets here).

I gotta go. I'm watching Rain Man. Ray's going nuts because of the smoke detector.

RC & Moon Pie Festival, June 21st, 2008, Bell Buckle, Tennessee

2008-06-24T15:53:00.006-04:00

So we ended up in the cultural epicenter of middle Tennessee this past weekend--Bell Buckle, Tennessee. I know the name ranks alongside Bucksnort, Finger, and Sweet Lips, Tennessee (all real towns, I assure you), but it really is a pretty sweet place--real sweet. It's the home of the infamous Webb School, a private school that has cranked out all sorts of important people in history ("one of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong," he sings). It's also the home of the Bell Buckle Cafe, a sweet little dive that's just a hair better than Miller's Grocery in Christiana, another whistle-stop town on the same rail-line. The most prestigious event that calls Bell Buckle home is the annual RC & Moon Pie Festival. 10,000 people descend on this small town raising the population to 10,053 if only for a day.

I heard about the festival when I moved here a few months ago. Few people know about my obsession with Moon Pies, so I'm sure my eagerness to go surprised the folks who were sarcastically informing me. Of course I'll go! I wouldn't miss that for the world. After all, I missed the cornbread festival down in South Pittsburg, Tennessee, near Chattanooga. I thought I was going to cry when I found that out. I wasn't about to let this cultural event go by. So, like an old man on his second marriage, I cherished what was in front of me because I can't change what I'd missed out on in the past.

To make up for cornbread, I embraced Moon Pies.

Here's the sign:

While the festival is for both RC and Moon Pie, I think RC gets the shaft. Most of the advertising and gimmicks had to do with the MP. There were a few RC deals, but not many.

Here's a pic' of some good ole boys under the gazebo:

They had me at the Braves cap, but then they threw a Hound Dog and a Kentucky Mandolin in the mix. It was nice. All they lacked was a good, well-timed bassist. I was leery when I first heard them, but then I saw that they were playing in B. The mandy-man didn't even need a cheap banjo capo to make up for the painful pinky stretches that come along with the dreaded B key. Good livin'. Good stuff.

Yep. It is what it is. She's about to baptize the Twinkie in a full-immersion, baptizo, Holy Ghost, funnel cake batter vat. It's a part of a Hostess Mission effort. They've converted I don't know how many Twinkies. Praise God for the second birth!

This is a lost art, isn't it.

Droves, y'all. They came out in droves with sweat, fanny packs, and an extreme penchant for the chocolate, banana, vanilla, or strawberry sandwich of the gods. They danced for her, sang for her, and bought wares in her honor.

See what I told ya? All the attention for the the Moon Pie, but no RC to be found. I guess they should realize that they're in Sun Drop country. That's my poison.

Okay, I gave in on a couple things. I don't why it's this way, but the two most unlikely places for something hot to eat are a hot, nasty amusement park and a summer festival. Why, oh why, Lord, do I continually drift toward a hot corndog at these places? This one was a footlong. A crunchy, brown, buttery cornbread placenta with a long, hot, swollen peice of meat resting inside. It was good, but let me tell you something: it was nothing compared to what I have next for you. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

There it is, just below the paragraph below the paragraph below the paragraph below this paragraph.

The holy grail. King Tut's tomb. The nasty scraps from the Nag Hammadi. What do they all have in common. They pale in comparison to what I found. For some people it's a detestable pile of cholesterol, fat, grease, and carbs. Edible death. But for me, it's a heavenly mixture of everything that's good about our country. In the South, we will fry a turd if we had the leg strength to squat over the fry daddy. In fact, if it wouldn't burn so badly, we'd sit there reading the local Swap Shop paper until we got an unsightly fry-daddy ring on our butts and our legs go numb. If we'll do that, you know we'll fry a Moon Pie.

Of course, the South is the home of Ted Turner, the undisputed King of overdoing it, so we can't stop at frying the blasted thing. We have to sprinkle it with powdered sugar and drizzle a warm stream of thick chocolate syrup over the top.

All that for mere sock change: $3.00. You can't beat it with a stick. Besides, if you did, you'd get bark in the marshmallow, and there's no need in adding fiber to this mix.

The boy in the hat participated in the Moon Pie Toss (which is what I was about to do at home from all the grease in the fried one I had). He was standing by his pie when his brother came up and tried to eat his. As would naturally occur, a fight ensued. I would have scuffled, too. No way would I give mine up. I would have hit that little boy, too! Right in the mouth.

So much attention for the Moon Pie. I tried to make the RC feel better about himself. All those 'roids will make one feel a little inadequate already. He didn't need the pressure of having to live up to the attention bar raised by his festival-mate. Although, I need to come to the Moon Pie's aid on this one. You really can't fry an RC. That would just be unhealthy. All that sugar!

These lonely steel bars forever separated by thickheaded slabs of wood are heading toward Christiana and on up to Murfreesboro.

We'll be in Murfreesboro next. Yes, I know I live there, but there's another festival coming--Uncle Dave Macon Days. It's a banjo player's paradise in the old Cannonsburgh Village held in honor of the great Uncle Dave Macon (surely that was obvious).

This Friday night, Karen and I are headed to the Oaklands Mansion down on North Maney for a WSM premiere of the new documentary about the festival. I'll try to update you on that one.

My church is hosting a table at the ministry fair on the Sunday of the event. And you better believe I'll be in the audience when they honor John Rice Irwin, founder of the Museum of Appalachia (pronounced by those in the know "ap-puh-latch'-ya," and by ignorant yanks "ap-puh-lay'-shya"), and Bobby Osbourne, a sweet tater-bug picker from Kentucky.

See ya soon!

Elvis and God: Ruminations on Omnipresence

2008-04-08T10:21:00.004-04:00

I was watching Dancing with the Stars last night with Karen. I don't mind the show. After all, there aren't that many shows with good looking women who don't wear much that my wife actually wants me to watch with her. I watched it with her last year, too (Go, Helio!). I'm not a Priscilla Presley fan at all (even though I like fans), but I couldn't help but let my mind wander (as I wander) to her past. I mean, what a woman! She was married to the greatest rock and roll icon the world has ever known to date. She had the man's child! When I visited Graceland with my wife, mom, aunt, and cousins, I was visiting Priscilla's house! That plane across the street, that was hers, too. The name Elvis is almost like Jesus in that you would just feel weird about naming your child that. It's like the name has been retired or something. The only Elvises I ever met were old and had the name well before the King had it.

Elvis's influence is unbelievable. If you were looking for it, you would see it everywhere, I'm sure. He was so influential that here we are, however many years later, and we're watching some woman dance on primetime television simply because she was married to him.

-----

The great modern theologian, George Strait, has a pretty stellar song out now called "I Saw God Today." I don't know that he's ever made a bad one (song that is [black gold, Texas Tea]). It's not hard to figure out: the speaker had let life pass him by, and he, for the first time, saw something that opened up a new world to him--the one where God is everywhere and in everything.

That's no new sentiment (Of course, there is nothing new--even pointing out the fact that there is nothing new is not new).

Quick trivia:

Who wrote the line "I find letters from God dropt in the street"?

[do do do do do do do, do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do, do do do do do do do] (Jeopardy!)

Let's see what you wagered . . . $10,000?! Now, let's see your answer . . . "Who was Walt Whitman?"

And that is correct!

Song of Myself! Some people try to say that God he was referencing was not the Christian God, and I say that's bullcrap. Half of the allusions in his work are Biblical! He knew exactly what he was saying. Just because he was gay didn't mean he was an atheist. His point in that line is amazing. I mean, what do you drop in the street? (Nothing, I hope, you litterbug, you [friendly punch to the chin]) But, seriously, we drop our trash and our surplus in the street. Stuff we have so much of that we don't think anything about dropping it. Litter is everywhere! Walt was saying that he saw God absolutely everywhere!

God's influence is everywhere. God created the world millions of years ago (or thousands, if that makes you feel better about yourself), and here we are discussing God however many years later. The Bible is filled with people who are only famous because they were associated with God. The book of Job shows God explaining his influence, and Paul told us in Romans that nature is dripping with evidence of God's existence and methods. God is so prevalent in this world, according to Paul, that we don't even need scripture to understand salvation or God's presence. That's rather extensive.

George Strait, Walt Whitman, and Paul all saw God everywhere.

You can, too.

-----

Next week: Part two of this discussion - "Sophie Neveu's Patriarch: The Realization of Our Spiritual Being"

My One-time Plea

2008-02-08T19:20:00.000-05:00

This has never really been a political 'blog so this is a bit new for me.

I can't sit by saying nothing knowing that this, my one media outlet, was not used to urge my readers to consider voting for one of the finest men in our country - Barack Obama. I won't harp on it, but I have included his moving speech, aptly titled "Yes We Can," below. Take the thirteen minutes it lasts to watch and be motivated.

I love him because he makes me want to be a better American, citizen, and person. He is the perfect person for the job of representing that which is in our country's best interests, and his leadership will compel those who are truly ready to be proud of our nation again. This is my generation's first shot at being able to support a man who will be remembered alongside our country's greatest presidents: Washington, Lincoln, T. Roosevelt, FDR, JFK, Obama.

The time for change is now. The audacity of hope is an American right. The president that will help our country back onto the road to world diplomacy, fiscal responsibility, economic safety, and a revival of the innate pride in who we are, is Barack Hussein Obama.

"In the unlikely story of America, there has never been anything false about hope."

2008-02-08T19:19:00.000-05:00

News to Me

2008-02-02T01:05:00.000-05:00

To me, the worst part of something good is the end. There have only been a few great books that I can honestly say should never have ended. Anderson Cooper's Dispatches From the Edge and almost anything Dan Brown has written will always be on my list of books like that. All the great elements of substance and technique combine to form what seems to be the perfect world, even if the stories describe a less than perfect world. I'm starting to think that way about Lost, too. I can't imagine having to say goodbye to Jack, Kate, John, Sawyer, et al. I just don't want to do it, but I know that it will soon happen.

All of that to say this: Karen and I are nervously excited to announce that we will be moving to the next phase of our life together beginning March 1st. I have accepted a position with the Kingwood Heights church in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. As the new associate minister I will be spearheading the new small groups and local evangelism ministries to help connect that congregation both internally and externally. It's a big job and a big move and we are ready to grasp it with open arms.

The peripherals will be wonderful. Not only will we be working with a wonderful group of friends, but we will soon be able to begin more grad' work, Karen on her PNP, and I on my Ph.D. Also, we will be in a far more centrally located place in regards to all of our family members.

Yes, it seems as if this is going to be a move that is as close to perfect as is possible, but there is at least one down side: leaving Florence and the Macedonia church.

Karen has lived in Florence all of her life. Even during her brief stint at Freed-Hardeman University she was home almost every weekend. In fact, when we married in 2003, I helped her move out of the very room she occupied when she was an infant. Macedonia taught her about her God and helped her become the incredible woman she is today. She's watched it grow, split, grow, split, move, split, and grow again. She's seen the world and brought the hope within to people in that world through several mission trips that were based out of the Macedonia congregation. She also married her husband (that's me) in the very sanctuary in which we worship every Sunday there at Macedonia.

For me, I've never lived in one place as long as I have lived in Florence. It's become a home to me. I love going to places all around this county and knowing names and faces who know me. I love going to Macedonia and feeling as if I am a part of a family. I love standing on the stage in the sanctuary and leading my friends in worship. I love knowing that the very place I stand is the spot on which I vowed to my wife that I will love her as Jesus loved his people.

While we appreciate the experience that we've had with Macedonia, we know that it's time to move on and create new experiences with our new family at Kingwood. Macedonia has been an incredible story that we wish didn't have to end, but just like any great book or story, if you don't allow the end to take place when it's necessary then you'll never discover that there's another book or story that will leave you with the same feeling.

Who knows? Maybe this next story will be the one that doesn't need to end.

Incredible

2007-11-16T18:08:00.000-05:00

Gods on a stage.

Being Green Part II: The Politics of Envrionmentalism

2007-11-14T12:12:00.000-05:00

"A tyrant must put on the appearance of uncommon devotion to religion. Subjects are less apprehensive of illegal treatment from a ruler whom they consider god-fearing and pious. On the other hand, they do less easily move against him, believing that he has the gods on his side." Aristotle

Let's say you could predict the next big movement of stock on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. You've somehow secured credible information about an innovation in computer batteries that allows them to power laptops for three times longer than the average extant battery. Only one company has the technology and the brains to do it, and their salespeople have already secured 2.5 billion dollars in buyer-promises from computer manufacturers and businesses who provide technology to employees. Now they're looking for capital to begin production. Where do they turn? Stockholders.

What do you do?

This situation is such a rare find that no one really has the protocol patented to offer the correct advice needed to proceed intelligently. However, I don't think anyone will have an ounce of hesitation at the suggestion of buying as much of that stock as humanly possible. In fact, if you have the ability to finance the entire operation, it would be more than exciting to be able to do it; no thinking necessary. Own it all! Let the laptops of the world fuel your grandchildren's grandchildren's retirement!

Now suppose, for a moment, that that same type of thing happened with global warming and the push to ask the citizens of the world to be more environmentally conscious. Strange, I know. How could that information be exciting? What gain could come from that?

Think.

What does being more environmentally conscious and global warming require? Yes, like I said yesterday, responsibility, but there's something more. Change. Lifestyle changes, mindset changes, choice changes. It might also ask us to restrain and refrain. Start washing the dishes instead of buying styrofoam, start riding the bike instead of driving to run your local errands, start thinking before you simply discard.

Sound like torture? Of course it does. We've misdefined "freedom" as "carefree" and "consequence-free." We think it means doing what we want, when we want, how we want, without the intervention or regulation of anything other than our own self-serving minds. Obviously, the requests of those who would have us be stewards of our land sound too much like "being told what to do" and many will rebel just because they think they can.

Here's the kicker: What if you're a politician and you find out about all of this before the general poulation does? Could this benefit you to embrace? How can you become a hero with this information? Easy. Deny it.

Ignore science, history, research. In fact, ignore the short-sleeve t-shirt you're wearing in mid-November. Ignore New Orleans and call it the wrath of God. Tell America to keep doing what they're doing, and claim that anyone who asks them to do otherwise is attempting to enslave them in the bonds of communism.

Go even further by throwing God in the mix. Start saying things like "man cannot destroy what God has created" in spite of the Badlands Bighorn, the Oregon Bison, and the Southern Californian Kit Fox. Ostracize Christian Environmentalists because they are aligned with the liberal scientists who caught on to the trend. Tell them they believe in abortion and gay-marriage because they recycle cans and refrain from aerosol.

What have you done? You've politicized our home. You've created a list of beliefs and required that anyone who ascribes to one of them must surely ascribe to all of them: atheist, evolutionist, democrat, liberal, homosexual, abortionist, feminist, universalist, communist, environmentalist.

If the people believe you because of your political move, what have you done? You're a hero. Everything you say is right because you're defending freedom. There is no oil shortage and our economy can handle gasoline at $3.00/gallon without a raise in the minimum wage and an endless supply of money falling into the black hole of a war that is essentially against "evil." The people are on your side because you've saved them from responsibility. The corporations are on your side because everyone gets to make more money. And, God is on your side because you've defended the manner in which the Earth was immuteably constructed.

It's a brilliant move, right? Because we all know that quality of life is determined by what what we get to do while we're alive instead of the fact that we're alive.

Being a steward of the land? Come on. God just wants us to have well-managed, well-funded bank accounts so we don't have to ask him for so much. He can take care of his own stuff. After all, we don't ask him to take care of ours.

Guess what. You just got elected. And your platform is going to kill us all.

At least we'll be smiling.

Being Green

2007-11-13T09:16:00.000-05:00

It's time for another shift in direction.

I'm blown away at the reaction to the recent push to be more environmentally conscious. Actually, I'm surprised that it's even a debate. It kills me to hear rhetoric about keeping our lives free from the stain of the world come from the same mouth that condemns those who would like to extend that logic to every applicable place. If something is true then it's true always. So why are we so worried that people will begin to care for the Earth?

The quote I've listed below the 'blog title is an example of how this logic extends to every place it applies. We are to be stewards of what we are given: our lives, our bodies, our intellects, our finances, our families, and, yes, our environment.

The same people who fuss about abortion and gay marriage--because they're biblically illegal--are the same people who can't see straight after they've stuffed themselves full of garbage at the local buffet. They're the same people who pay no attention to the activities of their children and allow them to listen to and watch all sorts of garbage on iPods and sex-obssessed cable t.v. They are the same people who will laugh at the idea of exercise and cannot understand how that, too, is a biblical principle.

It seems like the only common thread I can find is responsibility. As long as these people aren't being reminded of their responsibilities, they will happily "fight the good fight." Abortion and homosexuality, though theses issues may be closer than they know, aren't a part of their daily lives. Getting angry over an abortion doesn't change their nightly routine. Fighting gay marriage won't disturb Saturday night on the town. However, guarding our environment is an entirely different story.

Keeping a separate box for paper and plastic will upset the amazing scenery of their costly kicthens. A compost pile looks ugly from the road. Driving less means watching your money and only poor people do that. A smaller car might look more like the money you actually make instead of the money you want people to think you make.

Why do these people think God is fine with our drive to disturb his creation? The math' alone proves that he cares a great deal for the Earth. After all, he spent five days on the Earth and only a part of one day on humanity.

This is only part one of my rant. Part two will deal with how this got to be political and how the right is using it as method of manipulating the population.

Stay tuned!

Just Some Good Livin'

2007-08-27T18:38:00.000-04:00

Oh So Sad

2007-08-27T17:17:00.000-04:00

You've got to see this.

Click here to be blown away.

Unused Hatred

2007-06-04T10:08:00.000-04:00

It's been a while, I know. I've had a lot on my plate of late and it seems like it won't wane for a couple more months.

I'll take a moment now to enter a few thoughts on a subject that is riddling our media discussions.

Living in the South, I'm constantly reminded of moments from the past that haunt our land. On any given day I drive by acres upon acres of cotton fields that were once teeming with emaciated slaves working feverishishly on sweltering days for the blessed King Cotton, as James Henry Hammond and David Christy once proclaimed. Behind my own home is a field that was once used for cotton crops and I can't help but wonder whether I daily stand on a spot where an African slave was beaten for slow productivity or, even worse, for no reason at all.

The decades that followed those horrid nineteenth century years found a struggle that barely proved an ameliorated state for the supposedly freed slaves. Yes, they were freed from the obligation to work as property, but their hell had only just begun.

Segregation, anger at the outcome of the war, the foreign cotton market, the New South's rush to rebuild a broken land, and the eventual onset of the twentieth century's racist modus operandi found African-Americans in such a position of submission that their plight could hardly be called progress.

I won't belabor the point in arriving at the present when such great men as Colin Powell and Barack Obama are on our screens and in positions of great power and prestige. No, I don't think the African-American fight for equality is over, but where they are is only a wonderful foreshadowing of where they will be.

But, what of unused hatred?

This weekend in Tuscumbia, Alabama, the second of the Shoals' two KKK meetings in the last year took place on the courthouse lawn. White cone-shaped masks, black and red maltese cross patches, Hitleresque gestures, and hate speech, all sprawled on the deadening, drought-ridden grass to preach yet another hate sermon to the gathered crowd. But, this time, the focus was much different from what was heard circa 1950 (give or take forty years). The verbiage was the same, but the noun had changed. This time they began their hate parade on immigrants.

To those who are positioning themselves against the influx of world citizens to America, think on this: your stance aligns you with the Ku Klux Klan. It's sad to think of the progress America has accomplished in creating a land of opportunity and then couple it with the modern day, supposedly kosher, form of the KKK: the Minutemen. Entire presidential campaigns are run on the spun term "border security." Tall Irishmen with a few dollars and a syndicated show on terror-fed news channels are bickering like nineteenth century imbeciles on national television over the thought that immigration on driving under the influence are somehow connected. It's sad. All the way to tears.

The most discouraging scenes are those that contain people who find their soul in some form of religion yet are a party to this horrid line of reasoning. Pulpits of evangelical communities are poisoned by preachers who are jeopardizing their congregations' tax status (and rightly so) by delivering hate-filled homilies in an attempt to persuade their weak-minded parishioners. It's almost as if they've performed surgery on their Bibles; the same Bibles that teach that we are children of God well before we are citizens. These preachers forget that socialism is the way of Jesus, and, depending on your view of Jesus, the way of the Christian God.

It's as if the hatred from the nineteenth century is unused. It's as if people have some sort of innate need to hate. I posit that the anti-"illegal" position is merely sanctioned hatred.

Solution:

We are humans. We are all humans. Before we are Christians, before we are citizens, before we are even members of families, we are human. To use a popular maxim from the world of homiletics, "we should make every attempt to view the world through the eyes of the Creator." The Creator sees all of its creation as-is. All concotions of human-kind are merely illusions of divisions, supposed methods of peace. The Creator sees no time, no nationality, no citizenship, no club, no affiliation. The Creator sees only the created. I applaud those ministers who are using their God-given position to further that position; to call those who declare Biblical affiliation to provide safe-haven for humans. It is not illegal to be a human.

---

I just re-read this post. It's broken, emotional, and far from cohesive. However, I'm going to post it as-is. I'm not going to correct errors. I'm not even going to continue the thought. If I have more points, I'll write them later in a new post. For now, please evaluate your position to be sure that you're not feeding a position of sanctioned hatred. Learn to view each human through the eyes of the Creator. Try to envision the circumstances of each world citizen you encounter. Their story could be missing link between their place in life and your perception.

EWTN

2007-04-27T00:56:00.000-04:00

I've been watching a lot of EWTN lately. I've learned so much from the friars and the prayers. I thank God for Mother Angelica and her station.

I'm amazed at how many people shut Catholicism out in the cold because they think it's some kind of devilish demon. You know what I like about it? The solidarity. I'm getting so tired of a thousand answers to one question. Being a Lit' man, it can boggle my mind to approach all of the critical angles available. That's what I've found every other day in Protestant and protestant-spawn churches, too. It seems like there's a different idea for every church out there! Some only use a KJV, some want to handle snakes, some want to make their women wear long dress and horrible hairstyles, and some want to clap. Each of the preceding take issue with their particular hang-up and each of them use the same Bible to support their confusion. But, there's only one God, one church, one baptism, one, one, one! I don't feel like I hear that on EWTN. I absolutely love to hear the confidence and unity in the responses and homilies of those on that channel.

I know, I know. Someone is saying that the confusion is the same with members of the Catholic church. Yes. I understand that, but the answers seem to be the same at the core with those who are the leaders and are devout.

No. Don't worry. I'm not going to convert. I wouldn't even know where to buy a Rosary! However, I wish more people would give more consideration to their teachings. They go back farther in history than any other religion, and for well over a thousand years, they were all that was available.

Oh, well. I know this is not a very literary or pensive post, but I've had our Catholic brothers and sisters on my mind for quite a while now and I thought I would share that with you.

Estonia

2007-02-08T01:26:00.000-05:00

Perfect. All was right. Sublime. Actual, ancient order, Sublime (with the capital "S," just as Kant would have wanted it).

Standing on the sand of that Baltic cove, I was on holy ground. The sandbox of a young god. Rubbing hallowed grains between my toes. The sun sank silently while the waves sang a hymn of sweet surrender, and I sang, too. I sang because mine was the only part I'd ever known and everywhere I'd gone, someone was already singing my notes. But, there on the banks of the Bay of Finland, every note in the song was present--every note but mine. I was meant to be there. To stand among elements like mine. And sing.

So, I sang.

I closed my eyes and let the notes take me in high tide, overwhelm me and immerse me in the song I'd been meant to sing all my life. It was like I'd spent each moment learning how to react to that day. My day.

I could have jumped into the waves, head first, eyes and mouth wide open, ready to float away to every port to which the current carried my newly sacred corpus.

I want another day like that. Perfect. sublime. Sublime. When the stars sing a chorus to the gods and they, out of ecstasy and clumsiness, respond favorably, opening, for only a moment, all the colors, sounds, smells, and art with which they entertain themselves. All for us. For me.

occasio perfectus, occasio sublimis, unus sanctum sanctorum

Housekeeping

2007-02-05T09:07:00.000-05:00

Yes, it's been a while, but I've had a good reason. My wife and I have successfully caught up on Lost from its beginnings. If you're not watching it, it must surely be because you've just not gotten around to it. It is by far one of the two best television shows in the history of the boob tube (along, of course, with 24).

No, I've not posted the book list yet. I suppose I could just post the titles and let you sift it out. Had I gone through the list in December when there was more time . . . but alas! the lamenting restores nothing but faith in the fact that I'm talking about it. So, here are the titles, in no pre-determined order:

Jane Eyre – Charlotte Bronte
Blue Like Jazz – Donald Miller*
Through Painted Deserts – Donald Miller
The Da Vinci Code – Dan Brown*
The Gospel of Mary of Magdala – Karen L. King
Heart of Darkness – Joseph Conrad
The Engendering God – Carl and Susan Raschke
The Hobbit – J.R.R. Tolkien
Climbing Mt. Cheaha – Various
Facing the Music – Larry Brown*
The Catcher in the Rye – J.D. Salinger*
Dispatches from the Edge – Anderson Cooper*
The Last of the Mohicans – James Fenimore Cooper
Hannah Fowler – Janice Holt Giles
Shane – Jack Schaefer
Sackett’s Land – Louis L’Amour
Slow Learner – Thomas Pynchon*
Billy Ray’s Farm – Larry Brown
An Hour Before Daylight – Jimmy Carter
When God Was a Woman – Merlin Stone*
Mrs. Dalloway – Virginia Woolf
Ulysses (in progress) – James Joyce
Father and Son (in progress) - Larry Brown
Fantomina – Eliza Haywood
My Ántonia – Willa Cather
Everything You Always Wanted to Know About God – Eric Metaxes
Sundance Choice: Short Stories of the American South - Various
Big Bad Love (in progress) – Larry Brown
The Study of American Folklore – Harold Brunvand
The Pursuit of History – John Tosh
Heritage and Challenge: The History and Theory of History – Paul Conkin and Roland Stromberg
Proverbs
Joshua
Judges
Ruth
1 Samuel
2 Samuel
1 Kings

* - Get your tail off the internet and to the nearest bookstore to read this one! It's been waiting on you.

Maybe I'll comment later on a few of them. For now, I'm hungry and I want some breakfast.

The '06 Book List

2006-12-21T11:00:00.000-05:00

It's been far too long since I've posted, I know.

This is just a quick note to inform you of the upcoming '06 book list. I've got a couple I plan to finish before the new year begins. Either way, there are almost 30 books I read in 2006, and you'll be able to get a quick review here on Negatives very soon.

If you haven't yet read last year's list click here to peruse the reviews posted back in January.

j

Eruditionis

2006-11-15T10:09:00.000-05:00

"Capitalism is the astounding belief that the most wickedest of men will do the most wickedest of things for the greatest good of everyone."

- John Maynard Keynes

“Advocates of capitalism are very apt to appeal to the sacred principles of liberty, which are embodied in one maxim: The fortunate must not be restrained in the exercise of tyranny over the unfortunate.”

- Bertrand Russell

“In the Soviet Union, capitalism triumphed over communism. In this country, capitalism triumphed over democracy.”

- Franz Lebowitz

“Capitalism has destroyed our belief in any effective power but that of self interest backed by force.”

- George Bernard Shaw

“Fascism is capitalism plus murder.”

- Upton Sinclair

“This American system of ours, call it Americanism, call it capitalism, call it what you will, gives each and every one of us a great opportunity if we only seize it with both hands and make the most of it.”

- Al Capone

Mas jugo, por favor

2006-10-25T12:07:00.000-04:00

I reminisce about the smallest things sometimes.

Yesterday, I made breakfast for Karen since it was her first day off in quite a while. It wasn’t anything spectacular, just a warm bowl of maple-sugar oatmeal, some cinnamon toast, a juice-glass of grape juice (she likes it), and a juice glass of chocolate milk. I had it all laid out on the dining room table on a gold-colored place mat which lie adjacent to my own on which was my bowl of Cheerios and some cinnamon toast. I drank coffee.

As I was preparing the whole thing, I got to thinking about how Karen laughs at some of the necessary food combinations I make. By “necessary” I mean that it is imperative to me that certain foods be served together. I can’t fathom fish sticks without macaroni and cheese. It’s like shoes and socks to me; there’s no point in separating them, it’ll just give you blisters. I don’t understand pizza without chips and cheese dip. I know it’s a mixture of cultural cuisines, but it still makes all kinds of sense to me. Grilled cheese sandwiches have been married to bowls of tomato soup for longer than I’ve been living. Oreos need milk. Ice cream is unbearable without a cup of water. These things just go together for me.

I was smiling yesterday morning because I couldn’t grasp a lone juice glass on a breakfast spread. Mom always had two for us (my brother and me). I figure it was a plot to get us to drink at least one of the liquids set before us because I do remember a stipulation of going through one to get to another, or not being able to vacate the premises until both glasses’ contents were emptied of all but backwash.

Karen didn’t say anything about my having provided her with two drinks. In fact, she guzzled them both and appreciated my loving, ante meridiem gesture. Either way, however, I remembered and smiled.

It’s funny how your mind can be therapy enough; especially with a great family.

Barbarian Arbors

2006-10-07T13:16:00.000-04:00

Fall is blowing in now.

Leaves fall.

I pray.

One particular season may not manifest itself as the finest ever experienced, but it has to have its time. It has to do what it does. Then it will leave and another will replace it. And it’s in the midst of the change that the natural skirmish renders man helpless to its effects. Hopeless for any chance to reverse its effects and become what it once was. It’ll have its chance again next year.

Under this hickory, I can hear the wind whisper where it’s been. I never hear it say where it’s going. Mindless gibberish filled with erratic fluctuations in pitch fill the air as the branches interpret what I never could have heard without them. And, I wait.

I wait to hear if the wind ever speaks of me.

My questions are many and people have been no help. Surely in this ever-repeating cycle the wind has learned something or seen another like me.

So, I listen.

Nothing.

It probably couldn’t have known the difference between cheeks like mine and mine. I’m troubled by things that do not torment the wind.

American Idol Update

2006-09-11T08:10:00.000-04:00

Well, it was a fun run!

Here’s how the weekend went:

Karen and I arrived in Jackson, Tennessee, on Friday evening in time to eat supper at Los Portales with David, Pam, B & B, Mom, Bill Baldy, and little Gary Roeder (Kevin and Holly’s son). I do believe that I must eat Mexican food 3 – 5 times a week in order to function correctly!

We left and enjoyed a stroll at Wal-Mart and a reminiscent drive through Henderson talking about houses we’d either lived in or liked. At the Lynch home we enjoyed cookies and home movies, and then drove to Casey and April’s to say hello.

When we woke on Saturday, I had no idea that we had slept until almost 10 a.m.! The bed was so comfortable, the room was dark because it was on the western side of the house, and it was slightly overcast. I think we could have slept longer!

After morning hugs and hellos I received a peculiar admonition from Mom: “When you see the car, son, remember that this is a ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ event for us, too.”

With eyebrows raised I stepped to the storm-door and beheld a beautifully vandalized mini-van. “Beale Street or Bust!”, “Alabama Idol on Board!”, and “I Love Joey” are the only phrases I can remember that were written on the windows in window-paint white though there were a few more. I knew then the hopes I’d had of keeping this thing low-key were A.W.O.L. and most likely would not return.

Pam had stayed up the night before making a wonderful breakfast casserole and a cheese dish that begged you to have seconds. Karen and I enjoyed the meal while reading the large poster board signs boasting that I was my family’s American Idol and how much they loved me. It was all so overwhelming.

Before we loaded up in the “limo’” (Pam’s van), Candice, Thomas, April, Casey, Colby, and Gabby all stopped by to wish me luck and pass out hugs and encouragement. I know we can’t afford it right now, nor do we have the time, but seeing all those sweet babies makes me look at my beautiful wife with visions of little versions of ourselves.

After Mom played a couple of my songs on the van’s CD-player, we took pictures and took off.

Cars on all sides of us from Henderson to the Peabody honked, waved, smiled, and broke their necks attempting to read the van’s exclamations. The passing strangers had no idea that their ogling excited us as much as anything we’d experienced so far.

When we finally arrived at the Peabody, mom directed Pam to drive into the hotel’s parking deck where we were stopped by guards.

“This lot is only for people with reservations,” the black lady stated (I think she’s quite proud of her job). “Do you have reservations?”

“Yes,” mom replied, “Mustain.”

“Debra?” the lady said after a second of looking through her long list of the privileged.

“Yes.”

“Of course, go through this gate and . . .”

It felt good. Our family has been on a lot of lists, but this is one of the first times I can recall being on an exclusive list of people who were staying at the nicest hotel in the entire city of Memphis. My parents are wonderful!

Once we parked, I began to anticipate looking a little strange. You see, we’d packed in normal luggage for the most part (there were a couple Big Star sacks floating around, though they were not the rule), but one thing stuck out like a Bentley at a Waffle House – a shiny, gray and white, 20” box fan; the staple of any sleeping member of my family. We were about to walk in to the posh and historic Peabody Hotel with a box fan. It was awesome!

We settled in to the room, drank the complimentary water, executed the token running leap onto the bed, and rested. Lulled by the melodious tones of Fred Sanford on the TV, we must have napped for about an hour before we decided to try to see the famous "March of the Ducks" and hit the town.

It was far too crowded to actually see the ducks. In truth, we missed them, but we can at least say that we were present.

We stepped out of the hotel onto Grand Avenue and were met by a cavalry of carriages and a tidal wave of the sweet smell of ribs and Bar-B-Q, the natural aroma of the Memphis air. After promising a carriage owner that we would return to take him up on his offer, we hiked to Beale Street to take in the Blues culture.

We walked a few city blocks and stumbled upon the legendary thoroughfare in all its music, food, and wanderers. Quite a crowd had already gathered. We passed a man creating dream-like scenes of fantasy using only spray-paint. Guitars, singing, drums, laughter. The undulating crowd was going everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Hunger pangs dictated our next destination: The Hard Rock Café.

At the foot of boots worn and signed by Rufus Thomas and to the right of a shirt worn by Adam Levine of Maroon 5, we enjoyed our meal (I had nachos, of course) and watched Tennessee whip California (yee-haw!), and heard about the Braves hard loss to the Phillies (grr! What a frustrating season this has been!).

We left full and walked to Coyote Ugly so Pam and Mom could have their picture taken in front of the sign like the rebels they are, then headed back to the hotel and mounted a white carriage decorated with Christmas lights, tinsel, and patriotically themed ornaments. Memaw, you would have loved it.

The night air was perfect. The breeze danced on our faces and the sights flirted with our minds as we gazed upon the beautiful parks and architecture of the city.

We returned to the hotel to see everything we’d just seen one more time, but this time from above on the roof of the Peabody. The elevator took us to the floor marked “S” which held the Duck Palace and one of the most spectacular views of the nighttime skyline.

After pictures and phone calls, we retired to the room, played a couple hands of Texas Hold ‘Em, and began to prepare for the morning.

. . .

The prize for the Alabama Idol competition was nice, but I didn’t like it at first. I thought that the winner got a guaranteed audition with Paula, Simon, and Randy, but we found out that it was actually a “Fast-Pass” of sorts. I was a bit disappointed, and it wasn’t until this past weekend that I realized how valuable it actually was.

In Birmingham, Karen and I waited in the registration line from 4:30 a.m. until 8:30 a.m. We returned to the audition line two days later at 5:00 a.m. and weren’t seated in the BJCC until almost 9:00 a.m. By the time I auditioned that day, we had collected almost 8 hours of waiting in line! Not so in Memphis. Thanks, Alabama Idol!

I didn’t have to be at the FedExForum until 7:00 a.m. on Sunday, and since Mom and Dad got such a great hotel, we only had about a 5 minute walk to get there. I think I finally fell out of bed around 5:45 or 6:00 a.m. on Sunday the 3rd. After a quick shower and a shave (my head), we walked out the door and Mom and I arrived at the venue about ten minutes early.

The line was magnificent! They said it was the biggest audition turn-out this season at almost 16,000 contestants! You can double that since everyone was allowed to bring in one guest. At the time of audition, I was on the floor surrounded by well over 30,000 people. My quote in the Jackson Sun was accurate – it was quite unnerving!

Mom and I were taken inside the doors to the lobby well before the line was allowed to enter. We were among several who had won similar prizes from affiliate stations in other states.

It was here that we found that we weren’t totally exempt from waiting. In the lobby we waited for about 3 hours or so before we were taken below to the floor of the arena, but 3 hours versus 8? We’ll take 3 any day of the week!

Karen, Pam, B & B faithfully waited outside in their fold-out chairs holding their signs and watching the crowd of strangers, hopefuls, and weirdoes pass into the future. Karen and I called each other several times and passed love signals through the window from a distance, and after the crowd had waned they packed up and went back to the hotel to catch a few more moments in their heavenly beds.

Mom and I were eventually called about 10:00 or 10:30 a.m. to the corridor that took us down below. She had to leave me since the guests weren’t allowed to go where we were going. After hugs and encouragement she returned to the lobby and snuck in the arena to watch from above.

I waited in another little line before walking on the floor to audition, and then we lined up to sing.

There were 14 tables lined up with black, cloth-curtain dividers between each. Two judges sat at each table and four people lined up in front. At any given time there were 96 people auditioning, fourteen people singing, and 30,000+ people in the seats talking, singing, shouting, laughing, cheering, and waiting. That’s quite an obstacle.

It was then that I realized something I’d not thought before: the producers are not looking for great singers at this point in the auditioning! They can’t be! You can’t hear whether or not they can sing. Instead, they’re looking for personalities. “Will this person standing before me, whom I cannot hear, make a good show if the television is on and the sound is muted or there’s too much going on in the room to hear the music?”

Six people sang before me then I was up. I sang my song, Eric Benet’s version of the Kansas song “Dust in the Wind,” and she, the judge, stopped me to go to the next person. I thought I had failed again, and that was okay with me, but then she sparked a moment’s hope that I hadn’t anticipated. She asked me to sing a second song! I perked up with the bridge of Brian McKnight’s “Back at One” and tried to sing my heart out. She stopped me.

I did my best. I wasn’t chosen. That is 100% of all I can do, and I am satisfied.

. . .

I left the arena, found Mom, who already knew, and we marched our recessional to the sounds of phone calls all around us. People were calling home, friends, and spouses telling of their fate. I was no different. I called Karen who consoled me so sweetly. We called Dad and Shane who did the same. And we walked.

We entered the hotel just in time to see everyone leaving the scene of the ducks marching. We’d missed it twice. It’s okay.

When the elevator opened on the tenth floor, the girls were ready and waiting with the luggage and the fan. Hugs and consolation ensued and I appreciated every bit of it. It’s wonderful how something as simple as a hug can be so warm and perfect when you need it (and even when you don’t).

Karen held me a while and we all walked onto the elevator speaking of how we’d not be watching the show this year and how mad the whole process made us, but really, I was fine.

We loaded up, made a quick stop at Graceland to take a couple pictures and see the spoils of fame, then went to The Olive Garden to enjoy some grease, cheese, bread, and fat. It was almost as comforting as the hugs.

Most of the van slept on the way home. We were worn out mentally and physically. Poor Pam was just tired as any of us, but she had to drive. Thanks, Pam!

Back at the Lynch house in Henderson we sat on the couches and talked and watched some video footage of the weekend. The news showed some of the Memphis auditions, but the reporters were far more excited about it than we were. It was great, but we were beginning to realize that it would have still been one of the most memorable weekends of our lives had we re-done everything and deleted the auditions. Well . . . maybe not.

We held a devotional in the living room and took communion. That was wonderful. I love to worship with my family. Then we finished the weekend together almost exactly as it began – at a Mexican restaurant. We watched UK fall hard at the feet of Louisville, heard that the Braves had beaten the Phillies, and relived the weekend while smiling at acquaintances who came to eat there as well.

Afterward, we left for Casey and April’s to drown our sorrow in Texas Hold ‘Em and Oreo Cookies.

Karen and I left Henderson around 10:30 p.m. to head home. We sang, talked about the weekend, planned for the future and stared at the headlight-lit pavement as it slid beneath us like a treadmill. We marveled each time we saw deer by the road. We saw almost twenty by the time we had lain our heads on our pillows.

In one weekend’s time, I realized that I was a celebrity to my family. I didn’t need some desperate show to validate myself (though I don’t guess I would have turned it down). I was valid. I am valid. I come from years upon years of faithful Christians, solid marriages, loving households, and fine citizens. We celebrate birthdays and holidays together, and since Heaven is more wonderful than we can comprehend, then we’ll surely celebrate the day we all walk in together. And you’d better believe that one of us will be toting a box fan!

I needed all of you to find out what I needed for eternity in a wife and that’s how I knew Karen was who I needed for the rest of my life. She has been and always will be the most incredible answer to my family’s and my prayers.

I am not worthy of any of this, but I vow to you all and to God to live the rest of my life in gratitude for it.

Thank you for all of your prayers and support. I am among all men most blessed.

Condensed and Apoplectic

2006-08-12T19:13:00.000-04:00

Just when you think things are going well, it changes.

The one thing that you’ve been looking for turns out to be everything you had no idea about, and BOOM, it all falls to the ground like leaves on an autumn tree.

People are stupid in general. I mean, they’re good, but they’re stupid. Most of the time people truly believe that they are the only real humans on Earth. That’s why they treat everyone around them like an employee or a distant relative who’s come to botch up the Christmas traditions.

I’ll be back. I need to go kill some people on Splinter Cell.

The Lost Beattitude

2006-07-28T17:20:00.000-04:00

He swayed left and right while he walked. It made him move like I used to when I would get on the hanging bridge part of a jungle gym and shake the mess out of it to scare everyone who was on it with me. I was playing. He wasn't.

I don't know if it was a congenital issue, but the crippled soul walking by fixed his eyes directly in front of him. I bet he was tired of the pity. I bet he was over the people who couldn't get over him. He couldn't bear to watch people who couldn't bear to watch him. People like me.

I don't know why I get so uncomfortable around the handicapped. I just get this "I-gotta-dodge-'em" feeling and look the other way trying to find the nearest object that looks interesting enough to seem like I was actually looking at it. I did that very thing today, but I don't think he saw me.

"Oh, what a shame," I think. "How awful it would be to have to live that way."

The problem is -- I'm the problem. It's horrible to live that way because I think thoughts like that and back them into corners or stuff them into stereotypes. The pity of that life has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the one doing the pitying. Society even goes so far as to call them "invalids." In-valid? That's ridiculous! Since when did validity find foundation in a gait or the ability to park closest to Barnes & Noble?

The Russian girls in this picture taught me a valuable lesson about John 9:

"As he went along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, 'Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?'
'Neither this man nor his parents sinned,' said Jesus, 'but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life.'" (1-3)

These girls, like the man I saw today, have a gift from God. Never once did they feel the pity or shame of human examination. I know that because I could see the Lord in their eyes and on the faces of the kids there in Tallinn. They didn't treat them like outcasts or invalids, but with respect and reverence. It was as if they knew that those girls had been divinely blessed with their differences.

When I read that God will not give us more than we can bear, I used to think that I would have it made. All of my future woes had been promised to be tolerable. All of my future woes. It's only been recently that I began to apply that verse to the places I've been or what I have become.

God won't give me more than I can bear: I live in America -- I wouldn't have made it otherwise. I was born and raised to and in faith-trusting family -- I wouldn't have made it otherwise. I am a white male -- I wouldn't have made it otherwise. I am not ugly -- I wouldn't have made it otherwise. I am not poor -- I wouldn't have made it otherwise. I am a heterosexual -- I wouldn't have made it otherwise. And, here, in this instance, I am not handicapped -- I wouldn't have made it otherwise.

Blessed are the blessed, for they can handle it.

Wonderland

2006-07-19T12:50:00.000-04:00

Lewis Carroll

...

"One day Alice came to a fork in the road and saw a Cheshire cat in a tree.

'Which road do I take?' she asked.

'Where do you want to go?' was his response.

'I don't know,' Alice answered.

'Then,' said the cat, 'it doesn't matter.'"

The Pan

2006-07-19T12:38:00.000-04:00

J. M. Barrie

...

"As soon as you can say what you think, and not what some other person has thought for you, you are on your way to being a remarkable man."

Negatives

2006-07-18T14:11:00.000-04:00

Everything that exists must have its polar opposite. So, if all we know comes from what we've seen, what might we find if we studied what we have not seen?

How can you study what you have not seen? Simply. Think.

The archives of our lives are built by units upon units of photographs. In order to see again what you once saw, the image had to become everything it was not. A negative. Go look at yours and try to see if there are things you hadn't seen. You will.

To recreate what was true in order to learn from it, everything must invert in order to see what would be if the counter were true. There's more than meets the eye. You may find out things you didn't know, you may see what's being avoided, you may see what you wish were true but isn't. In any case, it's all invisible until you invert.

Negatives -- every thing its opposite.

Changes, Water and Layers

2006-07-18T11:45:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, I really feel like this blog is a slice of me, I mean a real peice, as opposed to just something onto which I throw a few thoughts, ideas and experiences. I guess that could be considered a fault. It's like I can't just be a little of me, or put simple representations of myself out there for anyone because I would be wasting a tremendous amount of time thinking, writing and revising if it was just a mask, or a glimpse. It would waste your time, too.

I do that with just about everything though. If I can't personalize my endeavors, then they are left in the dust to soon be buried beneath the weight of a thousand other missed opportunities.

I say all that to say this: I feel like I've changed. I'm not talking about politically or physically or something like that. I'm still a Demo-lican and my pants still measure 34 to 36 (depending on the brand and my last couple days' consumption). I just mean that I can sense something is different.

. . .

I used to drink about 2 gallons of water per day -- literally. I did it partially for health, but also for attention. I would carry around these large, 64 ounce mugs from Wal-Mart that resembled pony kegs and I would drink like four per day by 5 p.m.! I peed. A lot. But, I gave it up for a while. I guess I got tired of it, or maybe people just stopped noticing, I don't know. Either way I stopped.

But, when we returned from Estonia, I started drinking it again. I'm not doing it anything like I used to, but at least I'm doing it. I'm not doing it to be noticed, and I'm not doing it for the sake of knowing that I drank an ungodly amount by the time I eat supper (I barely hit 100 ounces by the end of the day). I'm doing it because I saw my desires through the people in Estonia.

Before we went I could name for you a long list of wants. I wanted a truck, a boat, a newer house, a wave-runner, more money, et cetera. It was a load of material crap that mean nothing and spent every day descending to worthlessness. But, when all that I was used to was stripped, when the layers that were disposable fell to the ground like patches off a disowned Boy Scout, when my bed was 8,000+ miles away, when my house was but a pining, when my ability to go to the refrigerator and open a cold Diet Sun Drop left, or when my ability to snack on something all day long vanished, all I could think about was water. I looked at the kids around me. They wanted water -- nothing else. Sure, they drank a Coke every now and then, but not like me.

When you finally realize that everything you think you know turns out to be circumstancially fueled, only then can you truly find what it is that you want. I wanted water. Do I drink Cokes now (and, by the way, in the South, a Coke means simply "a soft drink of some kind" -- it can represent virtually any brand), do I drink Kool-Ade? Yes. But now I drink water, too. I got closer to the core of me than I had been in quite a while and saw that that's what I really wanted. I have to feed the inner-me, the me that takes a pilgrimage to northeastern Europe to exhume, not just the me that functions using the layers to bear the brunt of the blows dealt to me by this materialistic world.

So, what does that mean? Tons. But, for today it means that since this blog is a part of me, and since I feel like I'm changing, I think I need to change the look of this blog.

So, it's changed.

Well, there you go.

2006-07-16T15:33:00.000-04:00

Just a quick shot of my beautiful wife and me. She and I drew closer to God and each other in ways that can not be described by "drew closer." As I said in the last post, I will be opening a few windows to the trip so that you may enjoy an insufficent glimpse of what has happened. I pray that you too may enjoy a similar journey to your wife and your God.

2006-07-16T15:26:00.000-04:00

On the shores of this sea water we rediscovered ourselves. Our purpose in this world baptized in capitalism and disease is not to continue to shelter ourselves from it, but instead to become aware of it and become available to God and to people as a channel of what He has crafted for us. We were made for this.

In this I take pleasure: that I have been spared long enough to see the value of people. They breathe. They bleed. They're needy. I am, in every way, just like everyone I meet every day. I breathe, bleed, and need, and I always will.

In Genesis, God said that he made both man and woman in His image which means that He is inherently infused into the inner working of each individual human from the beginning of time. We, as followers of God, have found water. Truthfully, the water found us. It is our duty to inform our fellow humans, who all bear the image of God, where to find it so they too may drink. It is a simple task and it goes no further. The thirsty need no instruction on how to drink.

In the coming days I will continue to post pictures and lessons Karen and I have learned from our recent trip to Tallinn, Estonia. The picture here is of the water in the Bay of Finland, which is fed by the Baltic Sea.

It has been indescribable.

God is bigger than we thought.

You Me a Phoenix Make Each Time We Touch

2006-06-21T01:09:00.000-04:00

You me a phoenix make each time we touch.
From ash I rise and soar above the world.
You rise on me and guide my soul to such
A land unknown by souls. With wings unfurl’d

I feel the breeze that lifts my body’s flight,
And though it feels as soft as sight of dove,
I know, tucked deep inside the cave of night,
It’s not the sweet caressing of your love.

We, flying high above the land we’ve known,
See hills and streams we ne’er before have seen;
The water’s blue; the bright gray light of stone;
The waving fields by meadows’ new bright green.

We didn’t know these colors yesterday,
Or see these things we’ve seen here from our birth.
So high and fast it looks so far away.
We fall to touch and lie on our New Earth.

Now down below we ground our childish feet
And gaze up at the path we’ve always flown.
The sea-soaked sky and sun’s deep orange heat
All listen to the rook’s new golden tone.

We didn’t see that sky, not yesterday,
Or any gone before we two were nigh.
So low and slow it looks so far away.
We listen after seeing our New Sky.

The whispers of our praise dance on the wind.
Our perfect union’s hymn now nature’s song.
Discordant notes? No tone I dare to mend.
If this be Mother’s tune, may it be long!

I didn’t hear this music yesterday.
My deaf ears open’d at the sound of you.
So calm your psalm sweet carries me away
To lands, more lands I’ve been, but now are new.

You me a phoenix make each time we touch.
From ashes rise I now alive, and you,
You live with me and guide my soul to such
A land, your land, I’ve been, but now is new.
-jlm for kdm (6/21/06)

White Washed Interaction

2006-06-17T00:59:00.000-04:00

It’s a task of great difficulty for me to figure out whether or not I’m being sincere in all situations. I’ll not go into all the things which upset me about this idea of being “fake,” but I’m pretty sure you know what I’m talking about: how are you? how's your family? are you okay? etc. It gets pretty old to me because it bothers me to even hear questions like those, much less say them. But, in the South, How are you? and Hi are perfect equals. It bothers me because I honestly know that I typically don’t really want to know the answer to what I’m asking. No, that doesn’t make me heartless or calloused. It actually makes me utterly truthful for admitting it.

By the way, did you catch what I just did twice?! Look at the last couple of sentences – do you see them? Of course you don’t because you are just as used to it as the next person. Why in the world would I need to use words honestly and actually? Taken literally, one could deduce that I had been writing only half truths and partial falsehoods until I added those words, and that the only reason that I wrote them was to somehow overcompensate for something I wasn’t sure you would believe, or even something I wasn’t sure I would, but I desperately wanted you to anyway.

The moment I hear key words and phrases like honestly, truthfully, to tell you the truth, actually, truth be told, and so on, I shut down. I’m either about to hear a load of crap or a load of unsure, and not knowing which and not wanting either, I stop listening.

I’ve said all this to say: I’ve become an ultra-stickler for real. I know that if I began to tell the average questioner the answer, the real answer, to how I feel, how my family is, or whether or not I’m okay, they would think I’m a bit strange or even psychotic.

Where am I going with this?

The other day I saw a child and his mother in a store. The kid was a bit unruly and I couldn’t help but wonder about the mother’s skills as a parent. The child was beyond annoying with loud cartoon sounding noises, endless questions, and constant grabbing. He had thrown three items out of his mother’s cart while they had been standing in line at the check-out lane.

I don’t know what caused her to finally snap, but as he was attempting to get out of the cart, something against which she had apparently already warned him, she grabbed him by the arm and did the mother whisper (you know, the one that is voiceless so as to be considered a whisper in technique, but loud enough to be quite audible for several feet) in his ear: is that how we taught you to act? You’d better start acting right or I’m going to tell your father!

At that point, I stopped feeling sorry for the mom. Yes, I realize that she could have been an overworked, underpaid, single mother of three, but I still lost respect. It has nothing to do with the arm grabbing because there were times when I sincerely wished that I could have had a simple arm-grabbing when I was younger. It also meant nothing to me that she could have deafened the boy with the loud whisper. Instead, I sighed wishing the boy could have been taught how to be instead of how to act.

Isn’t that the major paradox of our salesperson society? How do we switch gears so quickly and maintain any level of sincerity? It seems to me that we are so insecure, sometimes, that we feel like we need to sell people on the idea of us as if what was there wasn’t good enough. The actuallys, the truthfullys and all the others are simply examples of our acknowledgement that we live alone behind of wall of separation twenty-four hours a day. The result = public behavior.

It’s an entirely different register. We speak differently, smile differently, eat differently, drink differently and even sit differently. The things most people tell you in their living rooms, depending on how many times you have been there, will widen significantly from what they would have told you in an elevator. It happens in nearly every case of interaction between two or more people in a public environment. It’s even a joke when someone does something a little out of the ordinary to say something like you don’t get out much or we can’t take you anywhere.

There are a few people, however, who don’t seem to give a rip about the group etiquette. Of course, they’re judged, and deemed too smart or dumb to handle the rigors of human interaction. Some, of course, do it on purpose, and that gets on my nerves. It seems to me that doing it willfully defeats the purpose because you’re changing who you are in public in order for the public to notice. That does nothing. But, it’s the people who waive the pressures of the norm sub-consciously, naturally, without motive, who intrigue me. What’s the difference? The ones who do it naturally because that’s just who they are and what you see is what you get all the time, those guys are. They simply are. They were taught by their parents, or whomever raised them, how to be, how to live. The ones who switch register, whether to public etiquette or away from it, purposefully are actors; they were taught how to act. They are the ones who act out or act up; they act wrong and act right. It’s all an act, and, if privy to it, I don’t think anyone really likes that if they are being honest with themselves.

Every Trip is a Short One

2006-06-02T17:46:00.000-04:00

"I have an existential map. It has 'You Are Here' written all over it." -Steven Wright

Tim Dumb

2006-05-05T11:52:00.000-04:00

“I tried to study the Bible once, but I got confused,” the guy said to me. “When I try to put it up against itself, I don’t make a lot of sense out of it.”

“How so?” I replied.

“For example: ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ right?”

“Correct.”

“Then why does God sanction war? I see that line in the ‘Big 10,’ but I make no sense of it elsewhere. And, too, how can we justify Christians going to war? War implies killing. Does that mean they’re going to hell?”

I had a reply. I almost gave it, but I stopped myself just before I spoke. I must have looked rather dumbfounded and stumped, and in some ways, I guess I was. This was not the first time I had been asked this question; I had asked it of myself as well, but how could I honestly give him my answer?

You see, my first reaction was to say that the command applied only to unjust killing; that it was meant to pertain only to killing in a murderous fashion. I know some of you are nodding your heads in agreement with that, but I had to stop before I said anything of the kind. The Bible doesn’t say that. I had to admit that to myself in a split second before I looked the fool by adding meaning to the reference which could not have been inferred by merely reading it in context.

“I’ve just decided that I’m going to go on with dumb faith,” he said. He must have seen a hint of puzzlement in my eyes as I pondered his questions. I don’t know that he was looking for an answer, but I’m sure he felt that I thought I should have had one. “I’ve asked myself this stuff a hundred times about far more than this one instance, so I decided to leave it alone in order to keep some measure of faith.”

Dumb faith? How is that appealing? I thought.

I make it a point not to initiate religious or political conversation with people, especially those I’ve not called friend for very long. No one likes someone with an agenda and those topics are trigger points for every almost every human. If it’s going to come up, I want it to come up naturally, and, if possible, on the other guy’s terms. Some may interpret that as spineless or non-evangelistic, but I think it’s the more mission-minded approach. By the time the religious conversation rears its head, trust has become a key issue and vulnerability essential.

Tim was opening himself up to me in a big way. Not only had we arrived at a point in which he felt comfortable telling me that he had committed a Southern cardinal sin by question the Bible, he was also letting me know that he had decided to be dumb about that which he believed. That is what dumb faith is isn’t it? Even if we took the word literally to take a little of the edge off it would still mean something along the lines of faith without a voice, speechless faith, faith inherently incapable of explaining itself. It takes a great deal of trust to provide the courage to divulge to someone else that you’re living within that perspective.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not knocking dumb faith. I think a lot of people are satisfied with that, and I guess that’s okay. It’s certainly worse if someone arrives there as a result of laziness, but I don’t think that’s where Tim was. I think he had grown so tired of being asked to believe things he couldn’t explain or without reason that he had mentally thrown his hands up and did the responsible thing.

By responsible I mean that many do not choose this route and end up far gone. This type of questioning can lead to a lot of things and the most common destination is some form of atheism.

It goes like this: Something makes no sense to someone; they ask questions and request guidance, and are greeted with skepticism and heresy rhetoric as if questioning were the unpardonable sin. Since, as humans, we are built to reject that, that someone typically reacts negatively feeling that the mere act of seeking should have been viewed as progress. That rejection is devastating.

Tim, instead of giving up on God, realized that God was real, and, being God, quite complex. His complexity doesn’t mean that He cannot be figured out, but it does mean that He may not be understood by a human mind, or if we can, we haven’t figured out how using the methods of reason and thought we are taught to employ presently.

Dumb faith. I’m not so sure it’s wrong, and I can’t say I’m convinced it’s right, but I know surely that it is, in its basest form, giving up.

Here are a couple things I’ve learned: I know that there are answers to every question, and I know someone knows those answers beyond doubt.

What I have had to conclude without any proof beyond logic, though, is that if I believe in another realm with beings who inhabit it i.e. Heaven, then perhaps those inhabitants know some of the answers that we simply can’t figure out here simply because we're here and they're there. That makes sense to me. I don’t like it, but it makes sense. Still, if that is true, then I must also recognize that I can’t know what they do and do not know and must therefore continue to search in case what I am seeking can be found here.

Well, maybe I added that last line in there because I just don’t like thinking that I can’t know something. I mean, I have no problem understanding that I don’t know something because God knows there’s plenty of that: Calculus escapes me, math in general bores me, science, man's greatest map to the mind of God, means a lot to me in terms of figuring out the intricacies of God, but I don’t care if I ever understand the mystery of pi or the mystical physics of gravity, black holes and String Theory. My point is that I just like the safety of knowing that I can know something if I want to.

I guess that’s the reason we have libraries.

I say all that to say this: I can’t figure out, as of this writing, the answers to Tim’s questions. I’m sure there are answers, and I’m sure they can be figured out if I just give them time and effort (or maybe just time), but for now, I just don’t know them.

I do think, however, that there are more researchable questions in the story: why do so many people go Tim’s route? Do they not understand the gravity of not understanding the scripture? Is it possible that they are just giving in to their own desires and attempting to make God’s theology match the way they want to live?

I know, statistically, that it has to be a fact that some readers have shouted a resoundingly self-righteous "YES" to those last two questions, and I would be a fool not to concede that there are some believers like that, but I think that the sincere ones have figured out that they can resign themselves to be that way, and it won’t send them to Hell.

I think there’s an issue at hand causing this mentality that most certainly can be fixed, but there are few who are willing to go there.

“I don’t know if the way I’m thinking on all this is wrong or not,” Tim began to conclude. “If it’s wrong, then I guess I’ll have to live or die with that. I just know I’m tired of getting nowhere and feeling bad for it.”

I had nothing to say.

The Man Beside My Bed

2006-04-25T18:29:00.000-04:00

I spent my kindergarten through second grade years just outside of Dayton, Tennessee, in a town called Spring City. My father had graduated in 1984 from the East Tennessee School of Preaching and Missions in Karns, Tennessee, just outside Knoxville, and his very first preaching position was there at the Spring City church of Christ.

I don’t remember much about our family’s time in Rhea County because I was so young, but I do remember the brick and siding split-level house about five miles outside town. It had a gravel drive that seemed like a mile going to get the paper or the mail on hot summer days, and an air conditioner that was as cool as the other side of the pillow after I had outrun the sweat bees on my way back from getting that paper or the mail.

In 1986, I sat on our brown couch in that house and watched the Challenger shuttle explode before America’s eyes on television. And, it was in the kitchen of that house that I accidentally killed Sea Monkeys by picking up the little plastic container by the lid instead of the base spilling its contents all over the linoleum. I felt like a mass murderer.

I learned to ride a bike without training wheels; I learned that Daddy didn’t like us boys to go out behind the old chicken coop; I found out that you can’t catch rabbits with a homemade trap made out of a Hardee’s cup, a stick and a few stale Doritos; and even though I didn't know it at the time, I learned about my great-great-grandfather, Arthur Jenkins.

If you entered the house through the front door, walked about four steps and turned right, you would be at the foot of the stairs that led to the bathroom, Dad’s office, my parents’ bedroom, and my brother’s and my bedroom. We slept on parallel twin size beds with a bookshelf between us. During the day in that room we would play church by mimicking the Holy Communion sacraments on a coffee saucer, and at night we would read Berenstain Bears books by lamplight and giggle ourselves to sleep.

One night something I could not explain broke me from my sleep. Without moving, I lie awake and listened, but I couldn't hear anything more than my younger brother, Shane, snoring, fast asleep in his bed three feet away, and I didn’t see anything other than what the yellow light from the bathroom down the hall revealed through our open door.

What I did next gave me a memory that has remained with me as clearly as any film or picture I have ever seen in my life.

Since I didn’t see anything while facing my brother, I turned to my other side just to re-position myself and returned to sleep. It was this move that exposed the reason I had stirred.

A man. An older bald man wearing a red, white and blue suit, a white shirt with a string bowtie, and holding on to a smooth hickory cane. He was sitting, smiling and looking at me in the same safe and warm way my granddad did when I walked through the door of his house on Christmas day after a long van ride from east Tennessee to southern Indiana. And, while I certainly wasn’t expecting to see some man next to my bed, I must say that the whole scene never scared or even startled me. In fact, seeing him made me feel good and well-protected.

I noticed he was in a rocking chair rocking back and forth, and after a second of just looking at him, he reached out his long arm to place his large hand on my side, and I immediately returned to sleep.

The next night it happened again.

I was lying on my side, the same as the night before, and awoke in the same fashion. This time I just knew he was there beside me so I barely leaned my body backward and peeked out of the corner of my eye. Sure enough, he was there smiling and attempting to lean forward himself to let me know that he knew I saw him.

It wasn’t until much later, in junior high, when I found out who he was.

I was standing in my great-grandmother’s dining room rummaging around next to her old record player through quite a collection of old canes. There was a long white one that looked like the striped cylinder that hangs outside a barbershop; a bamboo one that surely accompanied a dancer in the 30s; and then there was one that looked just like that old smooth hickory cane that I saw the man holding when I was in Spring City.

I grabbed it and ran into the kitchen to tell my grandmother the story that cane reminded me of.

I told her all about the man: his cane, his clothes, his head, his smile. Her expression looked as if she couldn’t believe her ears and walked away. I didn’t know if I had made her angry or sad until she returned holding an old, gold-framed picture taken in 1978 of her grandfather, “Paw-paw,” Arthur Jenkins.

When I saw the picture, I was speechless. In her very hands was a picture of the man beside my bed. She told me that while he did get to hold me when I was a baby, I’d never really met him because he died not long after my birth. The suit I had described to her was the very one in which they buried him.

We sat at the kitchen table for the next couple of hours talking about Paw-paw. And while the living room could have held us, we all chose to remain packed around the kitchen table glued to the unfolding stories of the family members who filed in one-by-one telling of the time that they too saw Pawpaw.

In Tune With the Storm's Garden (Ponderings About the Neutrality of the Future)

2006-04-08T12:59:00.000-04:00

Right now someone is doing something for the very last time. It may even be me. Tying their shoes, cooking lunch, arguing, saying "I love you." It's the calm before the storm. The time when those who will die have no idea and every idea at the same time. They will say and do things that will be remembered on Monday when they are buried.

"How strange that he..."

"She told me..."

"I had no idea that would be the last time I ever heard his voice."

Something will be left undone. Something else will be wrapped up sufficently. Everything will end tonight for someone who did everything right and still died, and for someone who ignored and dies as a result. No one is safe. Nothing is sacred.

Say: I love you. I hate you. I will miss you. I need you. I'll be back.

Fate has you now and you will rest or roam with the answers to all your questions. Even answers you didn't know you would need to questions you never thought you would ask.

And, as much as you will want to tell me, and as badly as I'll want to know -- we can't communicate any longer.

Tonight will be the worst night of someone's life. Tonight will be the best night of someone's life. Tonight will be remembered forever. Tonight will never be thought of again. Tonight.

Forever tonight. Into the oblivion of time either on the line never visited again or on the circle to return one day.

Head to the east. Their sages can save you atop mountains of stone and knowledge where moderation and flow move through the body tuning every discordant note. The music will not fix you. It will not prepare you. It will not guide you. It will only accompany you.

The garden will not soothe you. It will order you. But only if it's in control. The sand, the rocks, the birds, the rake -- but instruments of splendor which by themselves represent only the ability. Combine with capability and acceptance, movement and light, sound and air.

Tonight marks not the beginning or the end, the middle or the prior, the thought nor the afterthought.

It will not be bad. It will not be good.

It will be.

So breathe.

(written while listening to "Mending Your Own Mind" and "Calming Insight of Ourselves" both from Dean Evenson's album Healing Sanctuary while contemplating the coming storms of April 7th, 2006 in the midwest and southeast)

New Short Fiction Coming

2006-03-29T10:05:00.000-05:00

My newest short fiction piece is in the works. Below is the beginning to "Dusty's Trail," which is supposed to act as a bit of a teaser for you, though it actually may have the opposite effect.

Dusty's Trail

"Up ahead is the trail Dusty told me about. I don’t think I ever would have seen it without his help. When you’re not looking for it, it blends in with the rest of the woods, but looking at it straight on it’s obvious. The new and old oaks rise and bend over it making the whole entrance look like a tall cathedral window so Dusty calls it Cathedral Trail. It’s religious for him, and it’s becoming that way for me.

I’ve been here to this field a hundred times. It never gets old because the seasons are always changing. Sometimes my feet drag the green grass and leave a light slug trail that’s visible when the sun is out. Other times the leaves crunch under my shoes and the sound of the rustle echoes for what feels like a thousand miles. I hate making noise out here. I feel like I’m disturbing all of nature, like laughing in church.

The air is a bit cleaner right here and it’s always windy. I have a theory about that. The trees trap this field on every side. The only breaks are the path I took to get here and the trail Dusty told me about. Sometimes it feels like protection and sometimes it feels like a lynching, but either way I think the breeze finds its way here because the trees open up like they do and allow the wind to fall to the ground pretty hard. I don’t really know that for truth, but I feel like it makes sense. But, I don’t guess nature makes a lot of sense. Like the trees – they’re here, I always see them, but for most of the year they’re dead, and I walk on the drippings of their death making all kinds of embarrassing noise.

There’s no time to be studying this place right now. I’ll be back soon enough. For now, I’ve got to find that stone-slab table he was talking about. Once I get to the trail it won’t be so loud and I think I can be to the table in about twenty minutes.

That table, according to him, either was or is a horrible place. Dusty said that a local Satan worshipping group used it to sacrifice their animals and do all their little rituals. Maybe I’m sadistic for wanting to go see it, but the thought of something like that being in these very woods is just haunting enough to be tempting.

I’ve never admitted this kind of thing to anyone, but I’m a little freakish like that. I love death and funerals and crime scenes. When I go to a place where I know someone has died, it feels holy, like a portal. All the seconds of someone’s life were counting down to this very place and maybe they, the seconds themselves, even knew it, watching sadly, or not, this human or animal do everything for the very last time. Maybe I am the only person in my life that doesn’t know when and where I’ll die, or how."

Would You Like to Buy Any Oil?

2006-01-14T00:00:00.000-05:00

"In the United States, doing good has come to be, like patriotism, a favorite device of persons with something to sell."
-H. L. Mencken

Think About It

2006-01-13T23:53:00.000-05:00

"CHRISTIAN, n.: One who believes that the New Testament is a divinely inspired book admirably suited to the spiritual needs of his neighbor. One who follows the teachings of Christ in so far as they are not inconsistent with a life of sin.

"I dreamed I stood upon a hill, and, lo!
The godly multitudes walked to and fro
Beneath, in Sabbath garments fitly clad,
With pious mien, appropriately sad,
While all the church bells made a solemn din --
A fire-alarm to those who lived in sin.
Then saw I gazing thoughtfully below,
With tranquil face, upon that holy show
A tall, spare figure in a robe of white,
Whose eyes diffused a melancholy light.
'God keep you, strange,' I exclaimed. 'You are
No doubt (your habit shows it) from afar;
And yet I entertain the hope that you,
Like these good people, are a Christian too.'
He raised his eyes and with a look so stern
It made me with a thousand blushes burn
Replied -- his manner with disdain was spiced:
'What! I a Christian? No, indeed! I'm Christ.'"
-Ambrose Bierce
The Devil's Dictionary (1911)

Books I Read in 2005:

2006-01-13T18:01:00.000-05:00

Inherit the Wind
by Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee

Based on the infamous Scopes Trials in a 1925 Dayton, Tennessee courtroom, this play offers an only slightly varied version of the happenings that summer. Considering the current battle over the issue, and the apparently blinded Christian attitude toward it, this would be a fine read lasting you barely two days time.

My favorite thing:
Hornbeck’s wit. Compare it to that of the great writer/journalist/philosopher, H.L. Mencken, the man on whom the character is based.

Searching for God Knows What
by Donald Miller

Donald Miller should be considered the most prolific Christian writer of our present day. His grasp on logic and reality is reassuring in that those who would identify will no longer have to feel alone in the world. He approaches the Christian life truthfully in the relational manner in which it was intended to be lived instead of the rule-oriented, broken down, throwback to the Old Testament idea of formulas and bullet-points. A must read for everyone who has grown accustomed to breathing.

My favorite thing:
Most of the pages of text found between the front cover and the one in the back.

The Auto-Biography of an Ex-Coloured Man
by James Weldon Johnson

Follow the life of a nameless boy, a child born to a white man from a black mother, into manhood. His countenance is so fair that he could pass as a caucasian, but doesn’t quite understand the power of such a thought until he lives a most extraordinary life worthy of any world class man of affluence, yet still finds that he will be limited by something as merely biological as pigment.

My Favorite Thing:
Notice the underlying theme music plays in his growth and how it affects, with great consequence, the outcomes of his life.

Prisoners Without Trial
by Roger Daniels

A very dry read about the injustice paid to the hard-working Japanese-American citizens leading up to and after the Pearl Harbor incident. Called “relocation,” the wrongful incarceration of over 120,000 citizens based on ethnicity alone fits in well with the history we have with African-Americans and Native Americans. While it will not be very entertaining, as if it should be, the material is “must know” information on the history of our country and the precedence on which the future may seek counsel.

My Favorite Thing:
I was quite intrigued at the parallels revealed between what happened then and what could happen in the future in light of the watershed moment that occurred on September 11th, 2001 in New York City.

Fahrenheit 451
by Ray Bradbury

A world without books would be a true hell. Bradbury speculates with great imagination a world in which books are illegal and firemen are meant only to burn to the houses of those who own them. Intellect and wisdom have been forsaken in order to embrace mega-bytes and motherboards leaving professors and sages to exile themselves as homeless, train-track vagabonds reminiscing about the days when String theory and the enigma of time were worthy subjects.

My Favorite Thing:
The closing scene in which the hobos were actually banished thinkers who had apparently descended to the bottom rung of the socio-economic ladder. (Not that I like the idea, but the thought that that could be the result of such a society is alarming.)

Night
by Elie Wiesel

Wiesel, Nobel laureate, recounts his grueling discovery of the true meaning of life and purpose through his survival of the horridly rancid stain on our Earth that was and is the Holocaust. The details given were most likely nowhere close to the reality of the atrocity though what has been recorded is enough to turn your stomach and earnestly implore the mercy of our gracious God. This should be required reading for all humanity in order to educate the world in the hideousness of hate, exclusivism, racism and narcissism. So that these people will not have been murdered in total vanity, please read this account of the Jewish fate in World War II.

I shall not disgrace this book by providing you a sentence in which the word “favorite” is employed.

The World According to Mr. Rogers: Important Things to Remember
by Fred Rogers

This is a simple collection of quotes by the man we all envied for having a trolley and a traffic light in his living room. It’s nice, and a few things are actually quite thought provoking.

My Favorite Thing:
The author.

Muddy Shoes

2006-01-13T16:42:00.000-05:00

Only the creators of the sidewalk cast disapproving eyes on your use of the grass.

Jackie Chan, Quartets, and Relationships

2005-12-21T21:48:00.000-05:00

The following is an excerpt from my book in progress entitled "the Real world:"

"My Dad, my brother and I used to be big Jackie Chan fans. We loved the fight scenes and the fact that plot was never really all that good which meant that our brains could be left alone for almost two hours. If you didn’t pay attention, though, you would miss that one move he would make in every scene which might go by so fast that you don’t notice it, but if you did you were amazed at his precision and speed. We would look for it in the previews, we scoured the theater screen for it, and when we rented it, we would keep the remote in hand and replay it over and over again at varying speeds. Sometimes we would even attempt the move ourselves with devastating effects.

"What we saw, however, was the good take. We saw the time he actually moved so smoothly that they could keep it and distribute it to the entire world to be analyzed behind buttery popcorn. Who knows how many times he had to re-hash and re-do each kick and jab in order to perfect the scene.

"I loved the fact that he did his own stunts. So many actors just won’t do that anymore, and I must say that if I were in their shoes and knew that my body and my ability to make another movie was my ability to make money in general, then I would probably desire a six foot, bald guy to pretend like he was me, too.

"The acting in these movies was never that great, but the actors who played the villains were incredible at making you hate their character. I despised them. It was usually the leader of some gang who was terrorizing a neighborhood or a family, or some money hungry drug lord who hated Jackie’s character with extreme passion. I loved to see this character step to Jackie without any thought that he would lose, and Jackie would clean the floor with the guy. Yes, I know its all violent sounding, but the truth is – that’s just plain appealing to a guy!

"What I loved most about these movies, however, were the credits. It was here that the viewers got to see the cast in a very real state: missing lines, screwing up the blocking, and, my favorite part, messing up in the action sequences. I know that sounds a little sick on my part, but I liked it for a different reason than what appears on the surface. I liked seeing how quickly those outside the frame would come to his aid. Gasps and shouts were heard, all the technical equipment was visible, and the cast and crew shot to his side. It made the people and the situation descend to a more real level than what the perfected and polished final product seemed.

"I especially liked to see one particular person with a look of compassion on his face – the guy who played the villain. They could be in a heated argument or an all-out scuffle, and when Jackie got hurt, even the bad guy wanted to make sure he was okay. You could hear the pain in his voice as he attempted to be sure that his co-star was fine or at least coherent. I loved that. It provided resolution, or reconciliation even. It told me that these guys were really friends and that in the end, they weren’t really mad; they were just playing a part.

"It’s a lot like listening to a quartet sing. As their song comes to a conclusion and we’re all waiting on the big finish, they come to the last chord and the baritone and bass move to it quickly while the lead and the tenor hang out one chord back for what seems to be an hour just milking the moment for every penny. When they finally settle in with the other two who have been patiently waiting, the entire audience is relieved and may at last scoot back in their seats.

"That’s exactly what I feel in the Chan outtakes. It didn’t matter how horrible the acting was, just like it didn’t matter how poorly the quartet’s song was sung, when the resolve comes, I feel just fine about everyone in the song and the film. When the bad guy jumps to his side, the chord completes. When a movie doesn’t end with outtakes like Jackie Chan’s movies do, I feel a lot like the quartet never resolved; like if I ever saw the actor who played the villain on the street, then I would be forced by duty to pull a little Chan on him myself. I hate that. I hate it because I can’t really see the man in another film, especially as the good guy, without thinking of the horrible things he did in the last one. It’s like he’s now forced to be bad in every situation. I’m pretty sure this is what leads to the ever-dreaded typecasting.

"I think this is why I like reconciliation so much in relationships. I’m pretty sure I like it more than seeing someone “get saved,” be restored, or be baptized. I mean, I love that stuff as well. There’s nothing greater than when someone else joins the family – like the birth of a child. Still, when two family members who couldn’t get along before make up and mend their brokenness, I like that better than the birth. That’s what really attracts people to our Father. That’s the stuff that causes more births. That’s the stuff that proves beyond doubt that Jesus works. The lost most likely haven’t seen anything quite like that before, and when they see that, when they see our love and how it heals even the deepest most purposefully caused wounds, they’ll be curious."

Clarification

2005-12-15T13:45:00.000-05:00

This time away from going to church has revealed a lot. I really don't think that I'm as far off as others seem to believe. I think I may have said this in a blog, but I've been in a continual search mode seeking the things that are ultimately true about God. When the major leaders of a congregation, and in several others as well, react to sinners and sin the way some of the ones I have seen did and have, I can't help but question the Way they profess. All of the sermons and classes these guys give tell of doing exactly the opposite of what has been done so many times. It didn't make any sense that these people of God who spoke of His forgiveness and acceptance would reject and spread rumors and gossip!

Just last night I walked by a couple who are attending nowhere now because of the rejection they were given due to some domestic issues. They've not gone anywhere and the church's reaction to this is that they don't come because he beats his wife! I say even if he does it everyday, then the church should be the first to come to their aid - not just hers, but his as well! The other day I spoke with a man who divorced his wife and is now on drugs. He is the offspring of church leader and rejected. The very problems which should be the reasons they are being suffocated with love and attention have become the reason they are rejected!

My reactions are based on this thought: if the same church that taught these leaders taught me, have I learned the right things? There are many more things yet to be learned, though I can say that I have learned a lot. Mainly: don't put stock in God's people as being more than people. A friend down here put it best when he told me that if I would be more surprised when church people did things right than when they did things wrong, I would probably like them more.

Most of the time people are just asking about whether or not my wife and I have been to church. No one asked how we were with God, Christ, the Spirit (which would imply the term "spiritually") or otherwise. They simply assumed that no one could ever come to terms with God outside of being in a church building. Even before I began to question and seek a little more about God, I was well aware that that was a strange conclusion. But, now that I have learned more, I can see that even they are simply reacting by saying what they've been taught to say.

No naturally-thinking human being, bringing no biases to the table, can take church attendance away from Heb. 10.25. Neither could the idea of "church," as we have it today where the buildings are bigger than many synagogues and rival Catholic cathedrals, be taken away from the New Testament in general! It was not a legalized religion at the time of the Bible's writing - they couldn't have met in scheduled masses. Pentecost cannot be counted among mass meetings either because Acts 2.6 speaks of the crowd gathering "when this was noised abroad." The apostles were being loud and the people were looking at the spectacle. It is a great example of mass conversion, but not church as we see it today.

The end of the chapter spells it out best when the relationships were formed from "house to house" in verse 46. Yes, the term "temple" is also there, but we know that those were Jewish temples not Christian ones because in Romans 12 the Christian ones (N.T. ones) are the bodies of Christians. The Spirit is in the temple as he has always been, and, so that he could reside in us, God just changed where the temple was to be located.

Still, if one would like to farcically imply that the "temple" in v. 46 was actually a meeting place of Christians like we have it today, then that one would have to meet there daily: "and they, continuing daily with one accord in the temple..."

I think a lot of this comes from a complete misunderstanding (even though most would say they know this, though they just don't speak or live according to what they know) of the word "church." It means "a calling out." The Lord added to those who were being called out daily. This means that the church directory in Heaven was growing not the one at the local building. The end of chapter 2 in Acts shows the first reaction to salvation of those at Pentecost to be to sell everything, pool their resources and meet with each other daily "house to house" - communism at its finest! It’s the best deal this side of Heaven!

I am in no way bashing church, leaving church, or making excuses. This is simply a crusade to be pure and know the truth about it all, and maybe I should keep it to myself.

I came to a conclusion last night, however, which I have not entertained before. If we want to meet like that (in big buildings), then as Christians, we can. But the real "forsaking" comes when we don't continue it with each other daily and when we don't seek Him in such a fashion that causes our lives to react. The curser can focus on quitting cursing, the drinker on drinking, the smoker on smoking, and the killer on killing, but just because they stop doesn't make them better people. Christianity was never meant to create moral people - plenty of moral people exist in all religions and walks of life and are going to hell, but I want to follow Him and seek Him in such a fashion that my life naturally reacts. I don't want to stop doing anything just because I'm a Christian - I want my life to look like a Christian and be lived like a Christian because I am a Christian.

I do hope this gives a little more insight into what's been going on in my head lately. I really want you guys to know that I'm just seeking to at least know what the purest way is.

I think God finds a great deal of honor in that.

Happy Holidays!

2005-12-14T01:54:00.000-05:00

This is getting ridiculous!

Christians: IT'S OKAY TO SAY "HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!"

It's okay to hear it, read it, buy it, smile about it and even endorse it! We seem to only stand up about something when we feel there's no real sacrifice, and believe me, there is no honor in this battle.

So what if the employees at your local department store do not say "Merry Christmas?!" They don't sell to Christians only! These are not LifeWays or Family Christian Stores! Bacon's, Dillard's, Parisian and so many others specialize in clothing and home items - not Bibles and Matzo crackers!

"But, Joey, we have got to stand for something or this world is going to walk all over us!"

Where were you when Gone With the Wind gave us cursing?! Where are the massive protests over the deaths of innocent babies everyday?! How many times have you changed the channel or ignored the Christian Children's Fund?! (and don't give me the junk about not knowing if all of the money goes to the kids - God calls you to give and He calls them to be good stewards!) Where are the protests over the fact that our country's minimum wage hasn't increased in 10 years?! I didn't hear your voices protesting the government's slow-as-molasses response to the Katrina disaster! (again I don't want to hear the crap about how they brought it on themselves - WE BROUGHT SIN ON OURSELVES AND WE STILL EXPECT GOD TO JUST FORGIVE US WITHOUT REAL RECOMPENSE! Let's revere Him a little more for not making calls that reflect the ones we would have made!)

I'm telling you the truth - there are much grander and heavier issues than this whole Christmas versus Holidays thing.

I will continue to shop at Target.

I will continue to be annoyed by those stinking bell-ringers.

And, while I do not shop there, I will still listen with joy to the great Garrison Keillor who advertises Land's End quite often.

I'm so flustered right now about the way "Christians" are acting about this that I can't continue this blog right now.

Explain this for me, please.

2005-12-13T15:02:00.000-05:00

It is no secret to those who know me that I have not been of the church-going mindset for quite some time now. This place marketed as a center of hope, peace, reconciliation and family seems to contain a few sincere people who are sincerely fooled and a few false people who are falsely sincere. It's just too much because you never know which one with whom you are dealing. If you get the sincere ones, the conversation will lack substance. If you get the false ones, you won't know if you've gotten substance or not.

Confusing?

Exactly my point. A place of enlightenment for the down-trodden and weary forfeits its purpose if no one can figure it out. It's okay if the purpose is lost, however, because the place can always become, as most churches have, a social club. Holiday parties, gospel meetings, concerts, benevolence by proxy and so many other things have clouded the ability to see the void.

As depressing as all this sounds, I do have a point.

I don't know whether we are genetically built to go to church or we just get so used to it that we long to return to what was a mainstay for so long, but I am beginning to miss it.

"Just go then," you say, but it's not so easy.

My absence has not been the result of laziness or worldliness (as some of the self-righteous may say) because I have been in a constant search. I believe I have found a purer truth having not been there than I did in all the years I was there. But, I still find myself missing it all.

So, at the beginning of this week, I called God out. Karen went to the church this past Sunday (I was at work) and told me that she had put $30.00 in the collection plate. Cynically, I looked at the sky and said, "God, I want to see a $60.00 check this week!" I was thinking that if it happened, I would go back, but I knew this wasn't going to happen and thought it to be a safe way to get out of the supernatural pull this realist has been feeling.

Now, I don't believe in what I call the "kookiness" of this religion stuff. I don't want to hear about the miraculous disappearance of cancer overnight; angels visiting and saving from certain death; resurrections; feelings during prayers; and everything else that makes no sense in the real world. It lacks intelligence on the part of what God designed. You can try to convince me with all the times it has happened to you and tell me the story you think to be immutable, but it doesn't work with me. It isn't logical.

Still, I can't explain the $125.00 check which came unexpectedly yesterday. My apprehensions are great, but I cannot dismiss that peice of paper which now resides in the bedroom and that we had no idea was coming. Part of me would like to brush it off because it wasn't the $60.00 to which I challenged Him. Another part would like to forget about it because I was thinking it would come in the mail (if it were even to come) - this check was handed to us.

But, I do know this: in spite of all my attempts to forget about it, or attribute it to chance, I still know in the back of my mind that it would be absurd to give it no attention.

I guess I'll be pondering this all week.

Sentence Fragment of Truth

2005-12-09T02:35:00.000-05:00

"...any man who afflicts the human race with ideas must be prepared to see them misunderstood, and that is what happened to Jesus."
H. L. Mencken
from Treatise on the Gods Part IV

Decorations for Generations

2005-11-30T13:32:00.000-05:00

The entire house will be finished soon, and when it is complete, it will look as if we would need a soundtrack to set the tone for each of our steps as we walk through and look at the alluring array of cozy Christmas decorations.

You know, it is said that half of the fun of these comfy cottage caparisons is found in the actual act of decorating, but I say "BAH!" to such a notion. I would hate to think that once I'm finished, it's half over! There has to be more. In fact, there is more and I am forced to go through it with you...

Concerning decorations...

As we enjoy the season, it is an integral part of one or more of our evenings to drive around admiring the houses donned in their holiday apparel while thinking on days we've forgotten until that very moment. Days when snow was not a question; when aromas were never void of apples, cinnamon and spices; when Granny was alive and laughing in that chair by the record player; when batteries were included but power switches were not; when a bag of switches was the ultimate deterrent. We smile to ourselves and continue the trek to find bigger houses with more lights and larger nativity scenes.

Every community seems to also have within driving distance a house which begins the festivities months in advance stringing thousands of lights whose combined energy will exact double that of their house payment. We drop a dollar or two into a homemade box nailed near the entrance or exit and step into another world. A world where Santa really does exist; where he's never bothered with health conscious gratuities but is lavished by longing little ones with cookies cooked with cautious care in order to more fully thank him for the wonder he brings; where candy canes are currency; where elves are the majority and adults are the lurking Jabberwockies seeking only to remove our place on the precious "nice list." These are the only places which contain a feeling for which children long almost as much as that blessed dawn.

These are just the outside decorations! We've hardly come inside which is where we must go for the true sentiment. I'm talking about the pieces which are bigger than any yard could contain for neither Macy's nor Bloomingdale's could even price these objects and heirlooms.

There's always that one piece which conjures more reminiscence than a library of photo albums. For me it is/was a small, half-of-an-egg shaped, musical, ice-skating scene. It was barely the size of two or three of my father's palms wide, candy cane red on the bottom, and flattened on top by a mirror underneath which was a set of rotating magnets. These magnets were attached to a type of mechanism which, when wound, would guide a most in love Mr. and Mrs. Claus across the "ice" while spinning the two lovebirds to music and rendering an Olympic skating performance worthy of Greece itself all within the confines of the Harris living room.

Just the thought of this takes me back to days when the journey from the majestic hills of east Tennessee was as anxious and amazing as the final peregrination to Heaven itself; when the load of bright, colorful, gifts all loaded in clothes baskets slept tightly in the back of a maroon Nissan mini-van bound for paradise; when only Mom knew what was in these presents and Dad, like other dads, would simply say "You're welcome! Merry Christmas!" when thanked by their recipients because he had no idea what they had opened, but he was more than thankful for that blessing of blessings who barely slept so that the gifts would all be wrapped; when the pile of surprises beneath Memaw's tree seemed to spill onto the floor and consume an entire room; when the greatest honor which one could receive was the moniker of "Santa" which meant you would be the one passing out all of the gifts; when any given member of the family could find a small, soft, lovingly wrapped bag of the finest, white, calf-length tube socks money could buy; when the kids would have to be told to open them anyway, though they already knew what the wrapping contained, because no one would want to make sweet Edith King feel bad; when the tree on Taggart avenue was the organic version of Babel reaching high into Heaven itself entertaining deity.

Laughter, love, longing, family, faith, fudge, beauty, babies, hope, Heaven, cold days, icy nights, wood stoves in Memaw and Granddad's living room, people sleeping in every room of every house, holiness, Jesus, Mary, mangers, music, pies, packages, and pizza potatoes.

No. I have yet to enjoy a time of decoration so much that I would attribute half of their enjoyment to simply pulling them out of the basement corner and placing them on hearths, mantles, pianos, coffee tables, counters, dining tables, bathrooms, rain drains and yards. As fun as that is, I must give all but one tenth to the days when we were gods, kings, jesters, servants and beggars all in the same day.

And, in the midst of complaints and weariness over broken ornaments, molded boxes, needle-covered floors, crowded stores, annoying remakes of Christmas songs by punk kids with electronic explosions in the place of the traditional wood-block sounds in the "...pop, pop, pop..." line of "Let it Snow," please remember that someone did it all for you so that deep in the exiles of the hallways of our hearts we could exhume these warm feelings and memories once a year of days when Harrises, Jenkinses, Maxies, Cherrys, Brookses, Mustains, Maultsbys, and Kings were still found physically present around our holiday tables, and we, too, must continue these traditions for the generations ahead so that all who come behind us find us faithful in our decorations.

A Typical Morning

2005-11-29T16:19:00.000-05:00

The sun rose quite slowly (more than what seems to be normal) over these Alabama fields this morning. It seemed as if we were going to have to live another wet day in the south, but as the clock did what it does best, we found a wonderful, mid-fall day with plenty of that deceptive sunshine which only looks like it gives warmth on days like these.

I think I've discovered that just-above-freezing temperatures can seem as slightly more chilling than if it were 32 on the nose. I guess that's because we are fooled by the "above-freezing" status and wear a bit less out. (Anything below 50 degrees does seem to fortify the flavor(s) of our coffee though,doesn't it?) I speak as if an Alabamian would ever even need to compare parka prices. A cold front comes through dropping the typical fall temperature of 60-65 degress down to 40 degrees and they're letting schools out early and salting sidewalks!

I really do believe this to be the reason the people down here are not necessarily as educated as students in the north. It has nothing to do with the quality of educators (over half of the professors in my department at the University were trained in Indiana!) or the capability of southern children to learn. The poor kids simply aren't in class as often! I've seen class dismissals here more than I ever thought possible!

Too, you can make more money off of the stock prices in bread and milk than Martha Stewart ever dreamed just by watching the good ol' Weather Channel! If a storm's a-brewin', the lines are long! And, why in the world we choose bread and milk to be our staples of survival may forever escape me. Other than as ingredients, we rarely combine the two in any meal purposefully! They are quite possibly the two most perishable products at any given grocery store! I guess that will have to be another post.

I hope this finds you all at least having days which, at worst, need not to be recalled.

I'm Sorry, Penn

2005-11-24T22:15:00.000-05:00

Some people just get mad everytime they hear an atheist voice his/her opinion. A Christian will read it, say something about what the world is coming to, and then move on angrily digging deeper into his/her hole which shelters from reality. It's sad.

Christians, look at what we've done:

"So, I'm saying, 'This I believe: I believe there is no God.'

"Having taken that step, it informs every moment of my life. I'm not greedy. I have love, blue skies, rainbows and Hallmark cards, and that has to be enough. It has to be enough, but it's everything in the world and everything in the world is plenty for me. It seems just rude to beg the invisible for more. Just the love of my family that raised me and the family I'm raising now is enough that I don't need heaven."

The preceding is a quote from Penn Jillette (the Penn of Penn and Teller). Apparently he has become disenfranchised with the materialistic, leprechaun-like, future-weaving view Christians now have of God. If I were God (a subjunctive which I know will never change), I would be quite angry at this farcical idea, and I'm sure He is.

Multi-million dollar buildings, preachers making $100k+/yr., arena-sized "sanctuaries." It really seems like we, as American Christians, have really looked at God as this love-all, bless-all softy. "I've done this, but God will bless me," or "I know this is wrong, but God can't reject his own." I promise this - He won't reject His own (for actions do determine that category), nor does he hand out millions of dollars. In fact, the only time Christ ever performed a money miracle was to prove to a preacher that he, in fact, should pay taxes!

More of Mr. Jillette...

"Believing there's no God means I can't really be forgiven except by kindness and faulty memories. That's good; it makes me want to be more thoughtful. I have to try to treat people right the first time around."

Perhaps we should hire atheists to be the full-time preachers instead of the crap we get now. I heard an entire lesson, one of those goofy holiday ones, on all the things the minister was thankful for in his life. It was like a thirty minute greeting card without anything funny at the end! There's more in the above paragraph than in the majority of the sermons I have heard in life! I mean, I'm the first one to be quite thankful for grace, but what if we didn't have it? What if we began to live as if our every action was the deciding factor - heaven or hell? That sounds a little extreme, doesn't it? I don't think so. I think grace was/is there for people who think like that. It is a miserable crutch.

"Believing there's no God stops me from being solipsistic. I can read ideas from all different people from all different cultures. Without God, we can agree on reality, and I can keep learning where I'm wrong. We can all keep adjusting, so we can really communicate. I don't travel in circles where people say, 'I have faith, I believe this in my heart and nothing you can say or do can shake my faith.' That's just a long-winded religious way to say, 'shut up,' or another two words that the FCC likes less. But all obscenity is less insulting than, 'How I was brought up and my imaginary friend means more to me than anything you can ever say or do.' So, believing there is no God lets me be proven wrong and that's always fun. It means I'm learning something."

If you haven't heard the sermon you needed to hear by now, then I don't have much faith in your ability to continue with this blog.

It's so true! We are so enamored with this romantic idea of "in the world - not of it" that we have put off the odor that we are no longer in touch with reality! I know some of you probably wear that trophy like a Star of David (or a scarlet "A"), but you need to know that that is quite scary. If you can't prove your "street-cred'" to the average unbelievers, then you may as well not say anything to them at all. The faith-blanket was never meant to cover laziness.

It's a good thing to be open-minded! Learning is your friend. If the world was so horrible, then why did he spend 5.9 days on it and .1 on man?!

"Believing there is no God means the suffering I've seen in my family, and indeed all the suffering in the world, isn't caused by an omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent force that isn't bothered to help or is just testing us, but rather something we all may be able to help others with in the future. No God means the possibility of less suffering in the future."

And again - we have proven ourselves to have missed it again! Our incessant exodus from each other IS NOT APPEALING! I think some of us really believe that every unpleasant situation in which we are found is the direct result of our divine drill sergeant's regimen of examination. I have to give some of the blame to the preachers again. Firstly, it goes to us for our sloth-ridden practices which give God all the sowing and reaping tasks while expecting Him to generously deliver the harvested stock in which we may decandently drown in surplus. But, the preachers have forgotten the reality of hell! They don't preach, write, or even speak on it anymore. You can even go to the "Christian" section in a bookstore and find ridiculous titles like Your Best Life Now by the motivational speaker in disguise, Joel Osteen. It's all about making audiences feel like this hamster wheel really does move forward even if everything looks the same no matter how long you stay on it. If we don't hear about hell, then we're not so worried about going there. And, if we're not worried about it, then we are incapable of giving a rip about whether or not someone else goes. So what do we do? We attempt to cover it all up and accept everything as being the result of a test God is sending instead of an attack by the landlord of hell - SATAN. Why? Because this way we don't have to be bothered with the extra burden of maintaining healthy relationships.

Mr. Jillette, while I do not agree with you, I am quite sorry that you have had to endure such Christians. I promise that these people aren't the example of Christianity because they have not read. They have simply accepted what was given to them, and their attention spans couldn't even hang out long enough to get all of that.

(For Penn Jillette's entire article please click here.)

2005-11-18T11:32:00.000-05:00

"Wonder is the foundation of all philosphy, inquiry its progress, ignorance its end." - Baron de Montaigne

Real Evolution

2005-11-17T16:58:00.000-05:00

Life really can change.

CORRECTION:
Life really can change things.

Yes, there is a difference. In the first it seems like things just evolve and we have to keep up and adapt. That all sounds well and good until you look at history. You see, when I study U.S. history, I can read of towns that still exist and rivers which still flow. When I look at the Elizabethan age, I can close the book and go to England. When I read of Rome being burned by the Indo-European Barbarians, I may still go to Rome and do as they do. I can still visit Alexander's great library dedicated to his mother in that beautiful Egyptian city of Alexandria, and sail north to visit that masterful city his father built, Macedonia.

The above series could continue as long as the knowledge, and each thing proves further that this world isn't changing (Geological specialists in plate tectonics may differ in terms of locomotion, but I am not addressing that specifically). We still revolve, evolve and devolve!

It is a much better statement to say that life can change things. It has an effect on those in it who depend on it, live by it and at times are betrayed by it.

Like this...

I can recall hating salsa. It didn't look, smell, or especially taste good. I was much younger and my tastes were far below what they are today. One day, I just decided that I was going to like salsa. All the adults enjoyed it and seemed to like it as much as the cheese dip (though I still must point out is the only one of the two which actually costs at Mexican establishments). The first bite was, of course, the hardest. I couldn't have winced more had I attempted to bob for a cactus in boiling water, but I simply had to stay the course and show the world that I liked salsa.

Now, it took a few more "heart-warming" experiences like the above, but now I love salsa; it's the chips which do me in. The point is: life changes things.

Humor also has undergone somewhat of an evolution in my lifespan as well...

I remember as a young boy in east Tennessee listening to my parents joke with family and friends. Everyone would laugh, but I had no idea why. I had heard every part of what was being called the joke, but none of it was funny. Now, I can watch children my age interact and I don't think they have a clue about what they're saying. They seem to just laugh like it was some sort of gag-reflex to spilling food on themselves.

Life changes things...

I would never own a dog - her name is Heidi.
I would never own a cat - her name is Alley.
I would never be married - her name is Karen.
I would always drive American - 2 Hondas.
I would always drive a truck - 2 Hondas.
I hated school - currently in my 20th year.
I wouldn't settle down - 11 acres.
I wanted to play footaball - don't really like sports.
Hated English - looking for a Ph.D. in Linguistics.
Bon Jovi - Mozart
Metallica - Nickel Creek

The list could go on forever I'm sure.

I even have a few ponderings about this when it comes to the Bible writers and characters; especially in my attitude towards it all. I guess this is enough for now though. That will have to be in part two.

Country Ham

2005-11-16T20:14:00.000-05:00

What about country ham?! I don't have it often because I'm still enjoying being alive, but today I had a hot piece of that unclean beast. On mornings when I can, I carry Karen to work and she gets me the discounted hospital cafeteria breakfast which 8 times out of 6 is better than the Cheerios I typically eat. I know that hospital food sounds tantalizing in the most disgusting way, but it really is quite delicious.

If you haven't yet had the pleasure of a good slab of ultra-salty pork then you should be ashamed of yourself. Go on and have a slice - life has been waiting on you! However, I must warn you: there are consequences to consuming a week's worth of sodium for two people in one helping. Aside from the surpassing of a southern rite of passage and the completion of hillbilly initiation, you will suffer a physical drought which will leave you craving moisture in the most desperate way. My lips have dried up, my mouth is a desert and my skin even seems to have gone the route of an old piece of jerky which has fallen through the cracks of a dorm-room couch. And my eyes - oh how my eyes are longing for Ben Stein to grace them with his hydrating products!

I truly believe that the blind man healed by Jesus' spit and some mud was not blind at all! He had simply eaten a slice of country ham that morning for breakfast! The miracle lie not in the healing, but in the fact that a little moist earth did the job on the first application instead of the 7th.

Now, I'm no fool. I realize that half of the readers of this blog have by now burned a trail to the nearest Cracker Barrel to satifsy their salivating palate. So that leaves me with the task of convincing the 50% of those who began this script and are determined to finish the course.

One last astonishing statistic for you (this is the heavy artillery which will render you helpless against your base desire for that "full" feeling): only 3 out 6 people die fat and early after having eaten this at 3 or more of their 7 breakfasts in a week's time consistently! The odds of staying married are worse than that and Americans are entering that institution as if you got free gas and some kind of tax break for it! I knew I would get you with that one!

Savor the sow!

Being Green

Last Stand at the Magic Bus

RC & Moon Pie Festival, June 21st, 2008, Bell Buckle, Tennessee

Elvis and God: Ruminations on Omnipresence

My One-time Plea

"In the unlikely﻿ story of America, there has never been anything false about hope."

News to Me

Incredible

Being Green Part II: The Politics of Envrionmentalism

Being Green

Just Some Good Livin'

Oh So Sad

Unused Hatred

EWTN

Estonia

Housekeeping

The '06 Book List

Eruditionis

Mas jugo, por favor

Barbarian Arbors

American Idol Update

Condensed and Apoplectic

The Lost Beattitude

Wonderland

The Pan

Negatives

Changes, Water and Layers

You Me a Phoenix Make Each Time We Touch

White Washed Interaction

Every Trip is a Short One

Tim Dumb

The Man Beside My Bed

In Tune With the Storm's Garden (Ponderings About the Neutrality of the Future)

New Short Fiction Coming

Would You Like to Buy Any Oil?

Think About It

Books I Read in 2005:

Muddy Shoes

Jackie Chan, Quartets, and Relationships

Clarification

Happy Holidays!

Explain this for me, please.

Sentence Fragment of Truth

Decorations for Generations

A Typical Morning

I'm Sorry, Penn

Real Evolution

Country Ham

"In the unlikely story of America, there has never been anything false about hope."