Sound Stage

Ok, so I love sound. Yes, I’m glad that I can physically hear and cognitively decode the mechanical waves into chemical signals my brain then interprets, and I’m fairly confident that if you can hear whether you’ve thought about it or not you’re thankful for the ability. That’s not what I’m talking about, though. What I’m talking about is some subjective, intimately subtle and barely noticeable quality of certain sounds.

Leprechauns that only make themselves known on blue moons when Democrats are in office, the sounds I love require just the right conditions to be detected, and may likely never be detected again. They aren’t everyday honks or bangs or screeches but minute vibrations of atmosphere which are to be captured and relished in memory, not in the prostitution of recording. They are the naked sound of cigarette paper and tobacco crackling as the smoker inhales. The unsullied sound of a knife being whet, grinding viscously and then emitting a slight ephemeral ring as stone releases steel. The felt more than heard sound of a bat’s super-sonic squeal just behind my ears at 3:47 am above Little Yosemite. These are the sounds that I love and with them I am never alone, and rarely bored.

My favourite sound, however, is found in College Station, TX. Rudder Auditorium still sports a very fashionable décor from 1972, and as such is usually as silent as a tomb. While outside the darkened neo-Stalinistic glass walls the free speech area throngs and sizzles with fish and fools, inside you can feel 68^o F silence as you move through the cool stillness like a gauze curtain you can’t quite make out. There is one exception, however. The air conditioning ducts lightly ping, a hollow resonance which somehow only enhanced the quiet. Rudder Auditorium is the best place in the entire world to take a nap. I used to walk through Rudder for a distance of perhaps 87 yards between classes, cherishing every step and trying my best to muffle every thunderous footfall, stifle every hurricane gale breath, shoe-lace ends intermittently providing staccato artillery blasts to my heresy. The sound of Rudder’s silence still takes my breath away.

Sing a Song of . . .

A visited a friend’s church last Sunday night; it was a very different and very enjoyable experience. The people who gathered to worship in this church’s basement in a small rural California town sang with passion and reckless abandon, shared their lives openly and intimately with everyone there, and took the immanent stirring of God in their lives very seriously. While their service was full of joy and thankfulness, an outpouring of many of the Body’s experience with God throughout the week, I couldn’t help but think of the Biblical witness to the lives of people who are called to follow Christ. Starvation, explusion, inverted crucifixion. I couldn’t keep the words of the Psalmists out of my head, cursing their enemies. Expressing confusion. Crying out in pain and abandonment. Then I tried to think of songs the Body sings to express these emotions, and the list was very short. This, however, is my favourite. The expression of hopefull injury is something that I think could benefit many if sang from the loft and preached from the pulpit a good deal more than it is.

Come let us return
He has torn us into pieces
He has injured us
Come let us return to the Lord
He will heal us
He will bandage our wounds
In just a short time He'll restore us
In just a short time He'll restore His church
So we might live
We might live in His presence
In His presence

Oh that we might know the Lord
Oh that we might know the Lord
Oh that we might know the Lord
Let us press on to know Him
Let us press hard into Him
Then as surely as the coming of the dawn
He will respond

- Hosea; Shane Barnard

All Too Easy

All hail the power of the information age!

'Bout That Time?

Audience participation returns to the Texafornian! Today's question: If you were a racehorse, what would your racehorse name be?

Practical Theology

"[Forgiving and forgetting or ignoring the past are] a travesty, of course, but it is something to beware of. No, we need something more positive to say about forgiveness. We need to recognize both the reality of the past and the hope of a future of forgiveness. Because real forgiveness is something that changes things and so gives hope. The occasions when we feel genuinely forgiven are the moments when we feel, not that someone doesn’t care what we do, but that someone does care what we do because he or she loves us and that love is strong enough to cope with and survive the hurt we have done. Forgiveness of that sort iscreative because it reveals new dimensions to a relationship, new depths, new possibilities. We can find a love richer and more challenging than before. If someone says to me, “Yes, you have hurt me, but that doesn’t mean it’s all over. I forgive you. I still love you,” then that is a moment of enormous liberation. It recognizes that reality of that past, the irreversibility of things, the seriousness of damage done, but then it is all the more joyful and hopeful because of that. Because this kind of love doesn’t have illusions, it is also all the more mature and serious. It can look at and fully feel my weakness, and still say, “I love you.”

- Rowan Williams in Proclaiming the Scandal of the Cross

In the Beginning

Then Illúvatar spoke, and he said: 'Mighty are the Ainur, and mightiest among them is Melkor; but that he may know, and all the Aiunr, that I am Illúvatar, those things that ye have sung, I will show them forth, that ye may see what ye have done. And thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined.'

- From the Ainulindalë¹ creation narrative, Tolkien


^{1. The Ainulindalë is one of the five books contained within The Silmarillion.}

Scene It

I live for the unexpected momments in my life in which reality steps out for a quick cup o’ joe and the fantastic insuperably inserts itself in an all too infrequent cameo. This is probably why I like Scrubs. This morning, having had an appointment cancel on me, I thought I would swing by Barnes and Noble to see if they had in stock a certain book I might be interested in purchasing. As I swung my gallant Honda down the parking aisle feeding directly into the main entrance to my place of previous employment, it happened: The Momment.

“Double-non-fat-three-splenda-extra-hot-half-caf-vanilla-laté for Reality? . . .”

I became acutely aware of the radio, which had been previously blathering some rather innocuous music or another, but now was playing something very similar to Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries¹. My point of view shot up 25 feet and I saw my car lurch forward, hammer both sets of front doors from their hinges and spray parchment in every direction with impunity, spin 5 brodies in the cheap carpeting and finally streak off down Blackstone leaving a wake of dangling modifiers and mangled diphthongs.

I didn’t much care for the time I spent employed by Barnes and Noble, nor did they have the book I was hoping for.

^{1. Scroll down to track 6 for a sample if you're unfamiliar . . .}

Diggin' Dogtown

My Junior High really only had two factions growing up. There were some ethnic minorities along the fringes that clashed from time to time, but in my North Clovis school the battle for campus hegemony was between the Skaters and Jocks. I wasn’t really part of either camp, weighing 115lbs soaking wet, sporting glasses, and yet not owning a single pair of Vans or cords. As chance would have it, however, I became friends with one of the Skater Barons, Anthony, and we remained friends throughout high school. There was a brief halcyon period between the two factions in the spring of ‘97 when a political marriage was hammered out between Skater Queen Amanda and Ronnie the Jock, but peace was brittle and the tenuous truce followed the unfortunate fate of its initiating liaison. The jocks were just too mainstream. Too clean-cut, too button-down to mix with the skaters. Both smoked pot, drank heavily, drove recklessly and despised authority but found themselves in the ironic position of the Nazis and Communists during the 1940’s; the two ideologically opposed factions found themselves pursuing similar goals through similar means with differing aesthetics and despised each other for it.

Dogtown and Z-Boys was my Silmarillion of skating culture. Providing a richly textured examination of skate boarding’s nativity from the economically depressed 1970’s Venice surf scene into a fully developed and independent sport as well as character sketching skate legends Tony Alva and Jay Adams, all the drama I saw unfold in my adolescent years suddenly made so much more sense when informed by this film. Set to a mishmash of 70’s rock, raw footage of long-haired bedraggled street hooligans bumming around on homemade decks and contemporary contemplations on the birth of the other true American art form, Dogtown and Z-Boys traces the roots of the Zephyr Skate Team from rag-tag surf rats to international icons. Exploring the urban-guerrilla mindset of pool riding, the fiercely territorial mindset of the sport’s first superstars and reckless pursuit of perfecting a craft, Stacey Petralta’s work behind camera draws the honesty and authenticity only a lifelong friend could from his subject. Whether you wore battered cut-offs cords or Tommy Hilfiger plaid button-downs in high school, Dogtown and Z-Boys is worth a watch to gain an appreciation for what has emerged to be a significant subset of youth culture today. A labour of love which easily held my attention through an enjoyable 90 min.

Grade: B+

God Bless America

If they ever digitially remaster The Goonies, they should totally put one of these things in.

Talladega Naps

Disclaimer: I don’t much care for Will Ferrell.

I didn’t have many expectations coming into Talladega Nights, mostly because of the disclaimer above. I’ve seen Anchor Man, Old School, Zoolander the BOSNL disks and found very little that wasn’t passé by 5^th grade in Ferrell’s arsenal. If this makes me sound like I have a stick up my ass and I don’t really know how to have a good time then so be it. I know a few people who thoroughly enjoy Ferrell’s antics, I even think some of them are reasonably intelligent people, I just don’t happen to be one of them. Besides a good laugh at Eleanor Roosevelt’s spurious quote to open the film and a few of the PSA’s, I had to remind myself that this was a comedy consistenty throughout the movie. The plot was as fresh as a driver’s jock after lap 700 and the vast majority of the jokes laboured harder than a wound-out big block V-8 trying to pass to the outside. Sacha Baron Cohen’s Jean Girard managed to finagle a smile from time to time solely on the tenacity of his ridiculous French accent and TR reminded me of my second cousin from Greensboro, but in general I found very little to salvage from this wreck of a movie. If you are a die-hard Ferrellite you’ll probably love the flick, but I found myself glad to start cleaning my apartment ¾ through it. The Ballad of Ricky Bobby was more a dirge for me.

Grade: C

Staind

“I ruined my witness to those guys,” divulged our Pastor one Sunday evening service as he was recounting his life as a former MTV cut-out Fratboy. I slipped on the comfortable phrase as I have countless times before, but this time I’d had my hair cut in it. It itched and itched for almost two full days until Tuesday night when I had to rip it back over my head and check out the damage.

What does ‘our witness’ mean in front of people who do not share faith in God the Father, Christ His Redeemer and the mysterious Spirit? What carries a better witness and a more authentic picture of discipleship and the Christian life: The perfection persona or being honest about the change which is taking time to be perfected in us? Should we flee our previous crowd upon conversion lest they tempt us or ‘bring us down?’ Where is the line between the two, because I don’t pretend that the answer hangs cut and dried on one side of the smoke shed or the other.

I’m still brushing the barbs out of it all, but the question is one that I’ve been wrangling with for a while in several different iterations. To what extent do we really believe that the light will shine in the darkness and that the darkness will not overcome it? Also, does that light come from us being behaviourally perfect or from letting others see the darkness fall off of us as we follow Christ?

I Flick, You Flick

I've been toying with the idea of introducing a regular feature on The Texafornian for a while now. Now I know that some of yall might be thinking, 'Shawn Simas has been at the movie reviewing game much longer than you have, Micah. Who do you think you are muscling in on his racket?!' Well, my fine fellow critics, there will undoubtedly be some overlap in our catalogue, but it is my intention to review the movies sent my way by the benevolent Netflix, so this is your chance to get reviews on films that either haven't been in the theatre for 20 years or never made it to a theatre in the area. Our first feature, however, is a recent blockbuster staring The Cowboy Christian Bale and everyone's favourite to play Smurfette should the live action Smurf movie ever get the green light, Katie Holmes. Also present: Lliam Nielson (apparently unable to turn down any cameo appearances his agent throws his way), Michael Caine (keeping the investment portfolio alive w/ bit parts) and Cillian Murphy (of zombie movie fame).

Batman Begins was actually an enjoyable movie and arguably the most well crafted of the series. It covers an incredible amount of ground, zipping through Wayne's adolescence, nascest development and on through to his institution as Gotham's cowled crime fighter all in a reasonably coherent package. The characters have just enough depth to hold the viewers interest and the plot is strung together just enough that you don't feel like you're being completely left in the belfry. This is a military jet of a movie: It moves at an incredible rate of speed, is rigidly but not superfluously bolted together and has a mission to accomplish. A thoroughly enjoyable addition to the saga. B+.

Other recent flicks:

The Producers (c. 1968): B, enjoyable and lighthearted with Gene Wilder is in his prime and Mel Brooks as a singing Hitler. What else do you want?

Thank You For Smoking: A, great movie about the art of discourse. Immaculate and savoury film.

Little Miss Sunshine: B, enjoyable movie with a few entertaining shifts. The Vow of Silence and Young Tail monologue alone pull this movie up from a likely more accurate B-.

Babel: B-, lost out on hype factor. An ok movie about global cooincidences and people's lives that go awry, but I just coudln't get myself into it. Go figure.

The Unmentionable

I've stumbled across another interesting passage in my reading and thought I would toss it up here for some public reflection. People in every emploi in the Church have debated for centuries about the issue of homosexuality and our appropriate response to it, and I think this guy has something to say worth considering. I don't by any stretch of the imagination agree with everything that he says, but this small bit struck me. This is Willard S. Krabill in Chapter 7 of a book entitled 'Sexuality: God's Gift.'

We have not broken fellowship with those whom we disagree on business practices and ethics, on the payment of war taxes, on registration for the draft, on lavish versus simple lifestyles, on the use of alcohol, and on many other issues. Instead, on these issues we keep talking, praying and striving for the will of God.

Althought the issue of homosexuality tends to be diverse, must it be a matter over which we divide our communion? Personally, I hope not. I believe that, mindful of the inexhaustible grace of God, we need to work responsibly on diverse issues and seek God's will in both our lifestyles and our discernment proceses. This will enable us to maintain fellowship with our fellow believers.

What Might Have Been

Thomas Alva Edison once said, "Opportunity is missed by most because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work." This one's for the Jameses.

Friends are Friends Forever

The sculpture above is entitled Friendship by Miguel Guía. This week while reading a chapter on intimacy for one of my classes, I read this section I wanted to share with yall.

Most people don't realize that relationship success also creates systemic pressures that make balancing closeness and intimacy difficult. The more valued the relationship, the more there is to lose. We feel more anxiety in being intimate in the sense of being honestly and fully ourselves. Yet if we want passion, we need the spark and invigoration of intimacy. One of the central dilemmas of [relationships] is that the more important a relationship becomes, the more difficult it is to sustain passion. This is so because the tension between closeness and intimacy becomes increasingly profound. The paradox of closeness and intimacy is that the only way to really have either is to be willing at times to sacrifice closeness for the sake of intimacy. In other words, to be liked we have to be willing to risk not being liked, for the sake of being known accurately.

The above paragraph was written with romantic couples in mind, but I think the points presented are readily applicable to all types of relationships. Does this paragraph resonate with yall at all? The line that keeps coming back to me is '[we must be] willing at times to sacrifice closeness for the sake of intimacy.'

SAT Prep

Directions: Fill in the blank to complete the analogy. Answer any or all questions, and there is no penalty for guessing. Feel free respond anonymously.

1. Pornography : Men :: _______ : Women
2. Christ : Church :: Church : ______
3. Cookies : Cookiemonster :: ______ : You

Point :: Counterpoint

James Lyons is rightfully burnt out on the contemporary music scene. Hell, I gladly listen to ex-jocks blather on and on about the same handful of inane topics on sports talk rather than sit through most music on the radio. For me, the only fix is a magical one.

CTRL + ALT + DEL

My wife was a double major in college: English and Journalism. She is a fabulous writer, a better wife, and this weekend while perusing through one of her old text books I learned the distinction between the two commonly misappropriated words 'nauseous’ and ‘nauseated’. Things which are nauseous cause one to feel nauseated, but technically speaking one does not ‘feel nauseous’ according to the Holy Bible of proper English utility, The Elements of Style. These are the kind of things which interest me, and in this case haunt me.

This weekend I attended my godsister’s wedding in Seattle with my wife, mother, father, sister and brother in law. After arduous hours of travel by land and by air (and very nearly by sea a few times, thanks to the legendary Pacific Northwest weather systems) we toured Pike Place Market, nearly got embroiled in a lover’s spat involving one exceptionally large and irate black man, one small but hurtful black man and one perplexed black woman, enjoyed the local cuisine, and sat through a lovely ceremony eternally and existentially smelting my godsister and her then fiancé in the bonds of Christian marriage. After the festivities died down, we decided as a family to take in the one essential feature of downtown Seattle: The REI. After skittering up and down narrowly glistening streets towards our destination, we came to a public parking structure half a block from REI and decided to make use of its services. We waved at the attendant, parked in the section labeled ‘Visitor Parking for Local Retail’ and ran like cows to feed toward our destination. The time: 6:17pm. 90 minutes and $120.00 later, we left Bobo Mecca contentedly laden with our purchases and headed back down to our tan rented Mercury van, only to discover that our every ingress to the previously hospitable parking structure had been cinched down tighter than a bullfrog’s rectum¹. On a wall near the main gate of the parking structure in unobtrusive letters a small sign read: ‘Sat: 8:00am – 7:30pm.’ Hello, Nauseous. Hello, Nausea.

We managed to track down a very convivial and very helpful security guard girl who went to extraordinary lengths to help us extricate our vehicle from the acquisitive parking garage, and after nearly 50 minutes of chicanery and a good measure of Tom-foolery we were back on the road towards Portland. I never thought that the movie Dodgeball would be apropos to anything in my life, but reading that stupid sign I found myself wanting to quote Christine Taylor’s character: “Yeah, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit . . .”

¹That is: Water tight.

The Miracle of Music

If (when?) I form a face-melting rock band of mythic proportions, this will be our first album cover. The only appreciable difference will be the light rays forming the shape of a Gibson Firebird.

I've been trying to blog for the last three days, but every time I sit down at the computer I feel my brain congeal to concrete and my fingers consolidate to inarticulate flippers. Tonight as I was sitting down to bang my concrete head against the proverbial wall, I actually came up with an uncomfortably personal topic to write about. Thankfully, 'Video Killed the Radio Star' came up on my iTunes shuffle and inspired me to write about the magical ability music has to modify (most frequently mollify) my mood.

Audience participation portion:

1. What bails you out best when you're feeling beat down?
2. What does the song 'Video Killed the Radio Star' remind you of? (and yes, there is a right answer to this question)
3. Suggestions for the afore mentioned face-melting rock band's name.
   

Pride Goes Before the Fall

I'm not proud of it, but I love sugar wafers. Even though I bellyache about processed food, MSG, transfats and addictive chemical additives to our food more than most (as my wife will be glad to attest) I just can't get enough of the eerily preserved pink, brown and yellow wafers filled with some sort of sweet tasting goo invented to trap rats in WWII. Ah, well, we all have our vices, right?

This past week has been effing murder. Tuesday saw two very important and very difficult tests both covering a glut of information on disparate topics come and go, followed by my faculty review for practicum today. I just ate a package of 'strawberry' sugar wafers; it seems to have taken the edge off.

See Below

I'm not quite sure what's been going on inside my head for the last week or so, but I'm think I might have transmittable spongiform encephalitis. Damn the cattle industry and their cost-cutting ways. In all reality I’m probably just more stressed than I’m willing to admit, but I have been dropping the ball on a variety of life tasks for the last few days ranging from badly butchering the cornbread recipe tonight to somehow mistaking a class’ start time. Classic. While my life has been swirling, however, there have been three things that burn brightly through my mental fog. Apropos as it may be, one of them actually happened to me (I think) and the other two manifested out of the morass that is YouTube.

1. While tutoring earlier this week, I looked up to see one of my students hastily retrieving his left index finger from his right nostril. I cocked my eyebrow at him, and he looked slightly abashed for a moment. He then scrunched up his face in an entirely unabashed fit of laughter and confided in me, “I pick my nose almost every day!” Nuff said.
   

2. I somehow stumbled across a Phil Collins video that had me dumbstruck for nearly 15 minutes. I honestly can’t even remember how I found it, but after blindly clicking through a completely random series of ‘linked’ videos, I saw the MTV video for ‘Against All Odds.’ Great song. Inexplicable video. I can’t say much more without totally ruining everything, but I will say bare-chested Jeff Bridges + Count Collin-acula = solid gold music video.

3. As my test for psychopathology approaches, I surf more and more blogs. I found a link to a guy beat-boxing several different songs on a flute on Cory’s. On a FLUTE! If you want to know what it feels like to actually do what this guy is doing in the video, keep sucking in air and blowing it out as fast and as hard as you possibly can for about 3 min. But before you start, go ahead and call the Ambulance because you'll probably fracture your skull when you pass out and smack your noggin at the 53 sec mark. Props, dude.

PS: My dad played flute as well as starting flanker for Hughson High in 1965. We live in a different world now.

PPS: If you watched Phil, check out IMDB for more background on the video.

Shout Out

Yo yo you, holla atcha boy. Imma give a shoutout tuh ma boy JRCO for strait hooking my blog up wid a sweet new look. Wurd.

All My Exes

Through some unlikely twist of fate, I have had six ex-girlfriends in my 25 years at large on the general public. Some of those relationships split because of intense stupidity on my part, some broke off because of fairly erratic behaviour on their part and some simply drifted apart as lives are wont to do when you're still in 5th grade. As much as I'd like to say that my relationships with these girls all ended on good notes, my sophomoric and inexperienced approach to the dating realm left me with really only half of them wrapped up in a mature fashion. I have never regretted dating anyone, however, and still genuinely respect and enjoy all of them as people. That being said, there is no more peculiar experience than bumping into an ex at an unexpected time. I ran into my ex from Jr. High with alarming frequency at unfathomable locales. I found her on the Presidio in Monterrey one Fourth of July casually lounging with her Firefighter boyfriend. Several years later, she happened to start working at the rock gym I climbed at after I graduated college. Just creepy stuff. The funny thing about running into exes, however, is the flood of memories that return. Relational interactions you imagined long dead rear their heads again in spectral imitation of a life long past, questions of etiquette stare you harshly in the face and all the bad memories dash back into the wainscoting.

Tonight I went back to the Church I grew up in for the first time in a very long time. Confronted with the dichotomy of returning from a leadership retreat for the church I currently attend and returning to a service at the Church which I credit with forming me into the man I am today, I'm left feeling like I just ran into my ex while shoe shopping with my current girlfriend¹, and it’s left me reeling a bit. The message delivered tonight was impeccable, the friends I still have in that Body were enjoyable and the building itself folded me back like I had never left. And yet, I have left. In the six years since I have attended that Body regularly I have graduated college, moved six times in two different states, gotten married, worked diligently through 3^1/2 semesters of graduate school and maintained a full beard for nearly 3 months. I’ve undoubtedly changed, but I can’t say that I have 'moved on,' because University Presbyterian Church will always be my home church and cannot be supplanted. I think that The Well has a lot of great things going for it, and am entirely confident in my worshiping there; I am very glad I had the chance to sit in University Chapel tonight and enjoy worship with the Body there.

Same Ol Feeling

I hate Tech. Again.

My Normal Life

I was a pretty boring guy all the way through college. I had a soap opera quality social life, but I never got arrested, crashed the ‘Girls Gone Wild’ filming or even had a car to smash into anything. I don’t like loud parties much, being drunk actually kinda freaks me out and the only time I was sitting in a circle having the Magic Dragon passed ‘round I turned it down more out of plausible deniability than moral fortitude. My wife has told me on several occasions that she always wanted to marry a nerd, so I guess that makes me one lucky guy, right? One September night my senior year of college, however, I drove to Austin, Texas with two friends in a bright red Jeep to sound my proverbial ‘YAWP.’ I had just finished a long hard summer of classes and putting my heart back together from a messy relationship the year before. It was a sticky summer of close friendship, head shaving, toe painting and soul searching that left me with a lot of emotional steam to release and I found my catharsis when I heard Chris Carrabba pipe,

‘And the picture frames are facing down
and the ringing from this empty sound
is deafening and keeping you from sleep.
And breathing is a foreign task
and thinking's just too much to ask
and you're measuring your minutes by a clock that's blinking eights.’

And so it was that I made the pilgrimage to see this sage for myself; to sit at his feet and behold in person the angst which flowed so palpably through his plaintive voice. To for one night lap up what MTV had been pitching. When Lee, Karen and I made it to 6^th Street in Austin, found some parking and made our way to Stubb’s BBQ, I had officially left College Station and found myself instead on the set of Wild On. The kaleidoscope of humanity, bouquet of olfactory sensations and cacophony of traffic mixed with shouts of revelry mixed with the deep resonance of driving bass grabbed me like a shore-breaking wave and easily subsumed my person into its energy.

Just outside the gate to the venue, I happened to run into my roommate from the year before, his eyes already glazed and lolling. Needless to say he was thrilled to see me. From there we barely dodged some projectile vomit from a young looking blonde and then somehow managed to keep her from plummeting to the ground after it until an EMT could be found to attend to her. From the midst of the throng of several hundred revelers, we let the music wash over us and felt our sweat mingle with that of our impossibly close neighbors and the water from the hose they intermittently sprayed the crowd with. After several hours of roiling participation in the rite, we made our way back the Jeep cotton-eared and reeking of God only knows what. I had never experienced anything quite like it before and never have since.

My cousin had jello shots at her wedding reception last night, and it kinda brought it all back for me.

Fresh Eyes

Binocular vision is a tricky thing. I've never had the experience of monocular vision, but from personal experience I can say with certainty that the former is far from perfect. Although purported to sport the functional benefits of depth perception and improved detection of distant objects, I seem to have a startling propensity to completely miss what is sitting two inches from my own nose. I could have sworn that's what binocular vision was supposed to fix. One of the many valuable features on slate.com is David Plotz's blog through the Bible. Starting in Genesis and currently extending through Ezekiel, his unique and intelligent take on Scripture has been refreshingly binocular to my customary fashion of addressing The Book. Plotz by no means provides a scholarly commentary for serious Biblical study, but the blog is rife with perspective and priceless for brain fodder.

Another example of completely missing what's in front of my nose: Today I bought a mountain bike with a huge dent in the down tube. It wasn't until I was prancing it around in front of my friend Scott that he said, "Hey, did you see this big old dent here in the down tube?" I wonder if that's what those Mennonites have harping on and on about . . . ? Tomorrow I go to Herb Bauer's to do battle with James the cycling manager.

The Killing Game

If you listen to the radio long enough, you can hear just about anything. Due to the nature of the medium and the existence of radio shows devoted to nothing but talking, odds are sooner or later you’ll hear something that stops you dead in your tracks. From HG Wells duping the nation to shaved hamster stories on Love Lines, and everything in between, the public airwaves have always been abuzz with scintillating tales and titillating stories.

This morning on my way to the gym I was listening to sports talk radio (1430 KCBL) and had the pleasure of hearing Jim Rome interviewing Lennox Lewis. Now normally I don’t like Jim Rome, but his interview with Mr. Lewis had three pleasant surprises. The first was that Lennox Lewis was remarkably articulate for a former world heavy weight champion. Bill Clinton he was not, but he was fairly pellucid and managed to stay coherent and engaging through the entire interview. I was impressed, and Lord knows he's doing better than I would be after 40-some-odd heavy weight fights. The second was that because Jim was talking to a huge death machine of a man, much of his customary smarminess had magically evaporated. It was like listening to a 6^th grade girl interview Tom Brady; Rome was all giggles and breathlessness and profuse, “Thank-you, Mr. Lennox”es. Priceless. Better than either of these two combined, however, was Lewis introducing Chess Boxing, the sport which has finally combined the game of Chess with the sport of Boxing. I won’t try to take away from it by explaining the whole process, but check out the wiki site and the WCBO site. Pure genius and about damn time.

Spunges Among Us!

One of the unexpected fringe benefits of getting married has been the legitimate utilization of the mesh sponge. (Side bar: I always heard of these things referred to as luffas. This seems to be a misnomer, since the luffa gourd is the source of authentic luffa sponges.) I was never raised in a frou-frou environment, and for most of my life bathing consisted of some hot water, bar of Irish Spring soap and some elbow grease; at the most there may have been some 40 grit sandpaper or steel wool for those really stubborn oil and grease stains. In my single days, there was no conceivable situation that would precipitate me marching myself into any retail establishment and purchasing a mesh sponge. I was infinately more likely to shoplift it. A more likely purchase would have been (and this was my favourite store run as Town Driver for Calvin Crest) a package of adult diapers, tampons and six litres of rootbeer. Now I have body wash and a mesh sponge, and I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t like it.

Marriage has taught me to realize that sometimes being right can be utterly wrong, how to apologize and mean it, how to truly appreciate being alone and how to truly appreciate being together. And it has taught me to love the luffa.

A Reprise

I spent some more time thinking over my previous post about sexuality, and realized that I had made a terrible mistake. Public forum isn't the best place to discuss something as intimate, personal and often wounded as personal sexuality. I appologize, and I'm actually glad that nobody posted much because in retrospect it probably wouldn't have been appropriate.

Whether you post or not, though, I still really believe that it is important to continue examining our sexuality and what it means. In that vein, I ask another question on sexuality: How did the man Jesus Christ, Son of God, express His sexuality? If we really do espouse the doctrine of a fully human Christ (as well as fully divine), it would seem to me that Christ's life would have included sexuality. Did He chase girls on the playground? Suffer through the awkward stages of puberty? Did Joseph ever sit Him down and have 'the talk?' I haven't formulated many of my own thoughts on the subject yet, but I'm interested in what yall think about this . . .

It Bears Repeating

Gregg Easterbrook once again managed to insert some sage observations into his weekly sports column.

Americans Now Hear the Word "Pleasure" 100 Times for Every Actual Experience of Pleasure: TMQ is being driven crazy by the modern affectation of saying "my pleasure" in formal settings that have nothing to do with pleasure. When you call a Hyatt hotel and ask to be transferred to a guest room or the front desk, the Hyatt operator says, "My pleasure." Lots of corporate-run chains are instructing workers to say "my pleasure" in situations far removed from what the word means. It's even catching on with intellectuals; recently David Remnick, editor of the New Yorker, signed off from an NPR interview by invoking this phrase. (NPR: "Thanks, David." Remnick: "My pleasure.") "My pleasure" is a ridiculously overloaded surrogate for "sure" or "happy to do it" or "you're welcome." More, its adaptation as a hollow chestnut of mundane interaction seems part of the overall cheapening of the meaning of words. Pleasure is one of the greatest and highest experiences of life; in our short stay on this Earth, we know far too little. And pleasure is almost always intimate in nature. Using the word "pleasure" in contexts that have nothing to do with intimacy or delight seems a cruel little joke in a world of too much work and too little enjoyment.

My momments of pleasure have been randomly interspersed throughout my life, but when they come they are unmistakable. A glance across the breakfast table at my wife, a ski across an undisturbed meadow, or driving through the desert have all had a way of bringing me up short by the emotional unswelling of pleasure they evoke. They hit me like a back massage all at once, and my senses open up to take in the most subtle of details; time crawls by while I watch in ammusement. When was the last time you experienced true pleasure in an activity or interaction?

The Fig Leaf

The spring semester has started, and brought with it the promise of rejuvenation and excitement. At the end of last semester, I was bushed. Bedraggled. Beat up, beat down, tapped out. After a relaxing and thoroughly enjoyable trans-continental holiday, I'm facing this semester with a sense of optimism and (dare I say?) excitement. I have a lot to look forward to coming into this semester. I get to begin working with actual people, interview for internship positions and . . . I get a whole class on human sexuality.

While I knew that this class is essential in training to become a psychologist, I was apprehensive coming into it. Would it be awkward? Shameful? Informative? Growth-inspiring? Would I be able to talk about it with people outside of the class, or do I leave that one off the list when people ask me what I'm taking this semester? So far the class has been remarkably un-awkward and refreshing. We are able to talk about people's sexuality in a way that isn't predicated on selling or exploiting anything. We have explored the dualistic philosophical roots much of the Victorian sexual mores have been based on. We have attempted to let Biblical texts inform the readings we have in some remarkably secular texts. It's also helped me to start actually thinking about sexuality instead of blindly reacting to it or away from it.

The class has only gone through two sessions to date, but one of the most interesting questions yet broached is: What does sexuality look like for celibate people? (either permanently or temporarily celibate). Coming to mind are passages like Eph. 5 and the entire book of Song of Solomon, but what do yall think? How do celibate people still incorporate and metabolize a visceral part of who we have all been created to be as human beings?

Infamy

65 years ago tomorrow, a very momentous occasion in our Nation's history came to pass. May we never forget the horror or war, nor forsake the pursuit of more effective and humane means to our ends.

Big Wheels

It finally happened this morning at 12:23 GMT; my Honda turned 100,000. I got my trusty lil 1997 Honda Accord SE with 63,678 miles on it in the summer of 04, and proceeded to put over 35,000 miles on commuting to Madera, heading up the Hill and driving to Texas a few times. I have poked and prodded into its innermost parts, mixed our blood together as knuckles scraped greasy metal and ridden in extreme comfort through countless miles of worry-free driving. My Honda is second only to my wife's wedding ring in important purchases over my 25 years, with the Star Trek communicator I got mail-order in fourth grade coming in a close third. All that is to say, in honour of my Honda turning 100 000, I thought I would come up with a nice cliche Top Ten List of Honda memories. And yeah, this list is in order from least to greatest. I wasn't interested in investing the time and/or engergy to figuring out how to make it go from 10 - 1.

1. The trip to Half Dome which started at about 4 am and ended somewhere around 10 pm. We bumped Marc Broussard from the Gate to the Valley Floor.
2. The trip to Half Dome which started about 9 pm and ended about 4 pm. There's nothing quite like explosive decompression to give you good karma for a hiking trip.
3. The 5:30 am dash to Valley Teen Ranch on Ave. 9. The phantom picking trucks in fog perk you up 10x better than Starbucks.
4. Driving back from Sacramento with Christy on her engagement trip . . . only to realize I somehow got mixed up and had been driving on 99 North for 45 minutes. Crap.
5. Replacing the radiator. The hardest part of replacing the radiator, apparently, is getting the company to ship it to you. In my case, this was harder than one might expect.
   
6. The satisfaction of completing a 3 000 mile road trip twice. The Dallas-Fresno commute is a little long, but you can't beat the scenery.
   
7. Discovering the rear defroster. It only took about a year to stumble upon it, but now I turn it on at random intervals and smile.
   
8. Replacing the seals on the spark plug wells. Not only did this DIY save me approximately $600, it was also a total testosterone boost.
9. Dallas-bound, somewhere on I-20, Honda made it to 120 mph (193 kph).
10. The gang-land check exchange in the Wal-Mart parking lot. If I ever find this shmuck who sold me the car, I'm getting the tank of gas he owes me out of him one way or another.
    

It's All Happening . . .

The momment I have waited for over the past 30 months will happen tomorrow morning. You're not as excited as I am, I garauntee.

Mosaic

I just wanted to at least throw the pic up for Michelle. I'll write more about the process and the result soon, but for now I'll let our creation speak for itself.

Clear Eyes, Full Hearts

Friday Night Lights is a very good show. I am not saying that you should start watching by any means; there are plenty of great things you can do with an hour of your life that don't involve watching a television show. If you are looking for a well written and well acted show that will probably either get cancelled or dummed down next season, however, look no further. Catch up on nbc.com.

National Pastime

Cinema is the defining medium of the 20th and 21st centuries. With the possibilities available in presentation, manipulating sound and picture together, I have even heard tell of extending the sensory experience by adding smells to the show. In homage to Film, I have decided to post my top five film momments in history. They are, from 5th to 1st . . .

5. The Cliffs of Insanity sword fight in The Princess Bride.

This is the scene that led me to take fencing at Fresno City. The coordination between the music and the fighting, coupled with the fact that it's actually Cary Elwes and Mandy Patinkin doing all the sword play make it one of the most impressive and enjoyable action sequences of all time for me. So many action sequences in recent movies (as evidenced by the recent Star Wars movies) frame their shots so close and frantic I can't tell who's who and what's what. The far shots of two actors legitimately fencing both physically and verbally set this scene far above others for me.



4. Retrieving the Idol in Raiders of the Lost Arc.

The quenisetial Indiana Jones momment. After navagating his way past the steaming Amazon rain forest, trecherous local guides and a lethal Incan temple, he finally arives at the altar. Hunching over the altar with the sand bag . . . sweating . . . taking out a handful of sand . . . weighing it . . . taking out a pinch. The switch and roll. The smile, the hat cock. All hell breaking loose. This is what being Indiana Jones is all about. Harrison Ford's character was, and in many ways still is, the epitome of masculinity for me. He is the avatar of confidence under pressure, ingenuity, a passion for his work, and plain dumb luck. Of all the fantastic scenes in the trillogy, this is the one which stands out among the others; perhaps it's because it is the first scene in the series or perhaps its because he dives out of the temple, narrowly avoiding being crushed by a boulder, only to find himself face to face with a crowd of angry Hovitos. Either way, it's a great scene.


3. THE scene from The Usual Suspects.

If you haven't seen this movie, STOP READING RIGHT NOW and skip to number 2. If you're still with me, lets agree that this is just a fantastic end to a great movie. When Agent Kujon starts putting the pieces together and it cuts to the limp, the first time I saw it my scalp tingled. Let's be honest and up front about two things: 1. As the anti-Santa, Kaiser Sose is cooler than any of us ever will be and 2. This scene is magical. Limp . . . limp . . . limp . . . straiter . . . straiter . . . confident stride. Damn. That is a man of will.


2. Russel Crow removing his helmet in Gladiator.

When he delivers the 'Husband to a murdered wife, father to a murdered son' line I'm fairly convinced that Joaquin Phoenix actually wets himself on the soundstage. Talk about tingling scalps, that scene is palpable. I was going to put another scene in from this film as well, but had to self censor and say that there can only be one top 5 scene per movie; it merits mentioning, however, because it was also masterful. The 'busy little bee' scene caused me to loose sleep for about a week after I saw it. Tingly in all the wrong ways.


1. Wendy Peffercorn!

From one of my favourite movies, this is far and away the best scene in any movie I have seen. All the way from 'Shut up! I got a lot on my mind!' to 'Guys, he planned that!' Just priceless. The entire movie is full of great characters, but Squints is by far my favourite and by far the coolest of the Sandlot gang. I may be a tad bit biased since I was an emaciated child with glasses as well, but let us examin the facts. While the Jet did steal home in a Major League game, it was for the Dodgers and he had a creepy child molestor mustache. Squints married Wendy Peffercorn. They had nine kids. I rest my case.


These are my top 5. What are some that I missed?

This Is What I Was Talking About

It's a bit past 'gamboling' but it's something to shoot for . . .

Unacceptable

The brawl between Miami and Florida International University last Saturday was unacceptable, as were the sadly unsurprising comments made by Lamar Thomas. It's not O.K. that men were on the field, swinging their helmets and stomping people like it was LA, 1992. One game suspension against a winless opponent? Laughable. This was assault, as plain as the chin on Leno’s face, and the people responsible should be brought up on charges by the D.A. Is that unreasonable?

I thought Ultimate Fighting Championship was cool. Then I saw a match. The shameless beating of any helpless individual is inexcusable and should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Is there any doubt that if this had been caught on tape outside a 7-11 that these men would be in County right now, trying to get someone to post their bail? It’s disappointing how unsurprising the Haynesworth episode was, and in Miami as well as the NCAA’s unsubstantial sanctions, we have a clear and present example of why.

Born a Gamboling Man?

This may come as a complete shock to some of yall, but I am not a dancer. This has not always been true, for I remember in 6th grade when I danced the Salsa with our student teacher in front of the whole school. I have also danced vicariously before, entranced by a scene of innocence and joy. I was visiting a friend of mine's church in Austin, and a small group of 5-7 year-old girls had formed a circle and were simply dancing together during the music in the service. About half way through the set, an elderly lady who looked to be mid-60's got up and danced with them; they were all simple hand movements and smiles and sways, and I was with them in their circle. While there have been some notable exceptions (high school proms, anyone?), I pretty much lost my groove somewhere between that cafeteria stage in 6th grade and puberty. The resurgent dancing shows have not stirred my recumbent inner-Shakira, but an envy for the freedom my youth still remembers has gurgled up the surface this afternoon.

After some cursory introspection, I'm reasonably sure that the only thing that keeps me from dancing more around other people is my pride, and that's a horrible reason to do (or not do) anything. So consider this your memo: I hereby resolve engage in dance-like movements more often around my friends; so go ahead and take those few short seconds to determine whether I'm dancing or actually having a seizure before you call the paramedics.

Dante's Oversite

Dante got it all wrong with his nine layers of hell. There are 11. Level 10 is euphemistically called Nevada. Level 11 is called Lubbock, TX and the Dark Prince's Throne Room is located at Jones SBC Stadium. I have disliked Tech since 2002 when I was adopted into the Fightin' Texas Aggie Family, but after four years of being subjected to their arrogant shenanegens, I really do hope that their football program fades back into obscurity and they start loosing to Rice and Texas State. I hate Tech with the burning passion of a thousand imploding suns, and to make matters worse . . . they keep kickin our ass.

You've Got a Friend

I've got to start out by lauding the virtues of Google Image. Where else could I have found this picture of Kirk hugging Spock? Priceless.

This past Thursday, one of the kids that I tutor gave me a hug. I had just finished my four hour shift and was thinking about what I was going to do that night, how things had gone that evening at work, and a million other trivial things that would and should quickly evaporate as quickly as the vapor in my car's exhaust. And then, there was a Jordan hugging my leg and saying 'Thanks, Micah. Have a good night.' This event would not leave me quite so quickly. It was an unexpected and uninhibited expression of spontaneous emotion that so many of us never experience in the giving or receiving, and it has stuck with me over the weekend.

This event was brought into even more relief Friday morning. I run my dog every M/W/F morning and every morning I see two men in their mid 60's walking and talking together. I often wondered how long they have known each other, what their lives are like, and who I'll walk with every morning when I am 64. This Friday I saw them meet on the street to begin their walk for the first time, and as one approached the other they both smiled, shook hands and warmly embraced. Thier expression of affection, while much less unexpected, was no less uninhibited thank Jordan's impromptu embrace the prior evening. Suffer the little children in all of us to embrace each other.

So get out there, people, and give some love. Expected or unexpected. Just don't call me to post bail if you get carried away.

99 Problems . . .

For all of the complaining I've done about the addition of our newest family member, I must admit that I have become attached to Reba. Yes, she's inconvenient. Yes, she gets into things. Yes, she's a sock pirate. But she is also exceptionally intelligent, affectionate and I suspect she has hypnotic powers. There have been several instances in the short month that we have had her in which a group of people will find themselves watching her, slackjawed with wonder, while she chews on a rawhide bone. Hypnotic. I held out as long as I could, but in the end her wrinkly forhead and goofy antics won me over and now I'm stuck loving and caring for this dog potentially for the next 10-15 years.

A Penny Saved . . .

This weekend, my best friend James and I saved me another bundle of cash by installing a new radiator in my Honda. Testosterone boost . . . check.

Next weekend? His radiator and maybe my breaks.

The word of the day is: Theophany.

the‧oph‧a‧ny  /θiˈɒfəni/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[thee-of-uh-nee]
–noun, plural -nies.
1. A manifestation or appearance of God or a god to a person.

This word has appeared in my life at this time, much like a manifestation of God to a person. Miraculously, without explanation or clear implication. I thought I would share it, as well as this stunning picture of the Salamander. This particular one is a Eurycea guttolineata, or Three-lined Salamander, from the state of Virginia. God appears to us all in many ways. These penumbral theophanies are not God, but they are a way to see what He is doing around us.

FYI

Read this on YahooNews and thought it was interesting. We'll see if anything shakes loose from it, but it does seem curious that while we're paying more than ever before because of 'higher costs,' they're making twice as much money as they did last year. Things that make you say 'huh.'

And yes, that is a picture of a viscious eye-gouge. Eesh.

Wierded Out

I was flipping through the Genesis last night in my Biblical Interpretation class, and I came across Genesis 6. I know that I’ve read the story before, but I don’t think that I’ve ever been as struck by it as I was last night in class. What the hell are the Nephilim?! In the context of the story, it sounds like they are the product of a sexual union between women and ‘the Sons of God,’ but who were they? I have absolutely no answers to these questions. I know that the Nephilim are referenced again in Numbers 13.33 when the girly men who went with Caleb gave their daunting report of Canaan, but even there the description is vague.

I have heard that the word Nephilim is derived from the Hebrew word for ‘fallen,’ and people take that to understand that they are fallen angels. If I am reading the text right in Genesis, however, the Nephilim refer to the offspring of these Sons of God that are running amok before the flood. If you have any idea what the heck these Giant people are about, I’d love to hear it.