I’m in a list mood. (I think Clinton from Zombie Fights Shark is inspiring me). SO, here is a list of five things I’ve learned in my two days in Mexico:

1. Tacos are genuine Mexican food, but burritos make Mexicans laugh when you try to order them, as they’re apparently something Gringos made up. (Note to self: consult Wikipedia before going anywhere, ever).
2. Fried worms, while entirely disgusting looking, are actually entirely disgusting tasting. (I’ll post the picture as soon as I can find a cable and D/L it to my computer).
3. The people of Mexico City, in great contrast to those bastards in Paris and Milan, are very happy to speak English with you, and are delighted when you give Spanish your very best shot.
4. No, it’s cool, just park that anywhere.
5. Nobody likes it when you correct their spelling or grammar, regardless of how relevant that correction might be. (This has nothing to do with being in Mexico, other than the fact that I just corrected the grammar of the one of my team-mates, and he smiled the kind of polite smile that, if you look deep enough, says, “I went to Harvard Business, and you’re telling me about a misplaced ‘a’?” Point well taken.

There's nothing like a little perspective to give you some perspective...

This is a shot of Seattle at 6:30 this morning, taken from my terrifically crappy mobile phone camera, taken from my terrifically terrific hotel room on the 43rd floor of the North tower of the Westin, Seattle. You can see Puget sound and even a little bit of the mountain ranges. And some buildings. But somehow, even those are pretty.

If you're a long-time blog reader, and you happen to be a mutant with the power to remember even the smallest of details, you may recall that I've been to Seattle for my work before. Just about two years ago, I was in this very spot, writing about the hope and possibility of things to come, and pleased as punch to be leaving my old gig to try something new.

Now, a bit less than two years later, I'm back here, and it feels poetic. I spent the six-hour plane ride out here lamenting the fact that I've been on the road for three out of the last four weeks, and away from Stacy. I've been a bit down about that...feeling like I travel too much...and, in the way only the truly short-sighted can...not taking the time to look back and figure out what's so great about exactly where I am.

Then, this morning, I found that old post. And I marveled at my own capacity to forget the past, and to ignore the clear and obvious signs of blessing on me.

Here I am, eighteen months after my previous post, sitting in the same hotel room, with thousands of miles, dozens of cities, several countries, and a bunch of money between this me and that me. I also have memories of places I never would have gone, conversations with people in cultures I never would have gotten to explore, chances to stretch myself in ways I never would have dared, and the chance to taste food no one should ever eat. I love my job, and, in some kind of moderation, I love to travel. To sit and ruminate about the one down-side of my job while flying to my favorite visiting-city in the US where I'll lodge in my favorite hotel and overlook one of the most beautiful sights in the country...again, short-sighted.

I'm very happy this morning. I woke up at 6:30 (woke up in Newark yesterday...big time difference), opened my curtains and gaped at the Sound. I will drink my Starbucks, and perhaps even play some Indie music while I workout, just to get the Seattle feel. I will be where I am for today, and look forward to what is, rather than wish for what isn't, what was, or what I think should have been.

Starting to sound like a Daily Affirmation, isn't it? Don't mean to get corny, but the view from up here made me want to do something taller.

I had Pacific Oysters for dinner, and they were delicious. Here's to the good things.

Peace,
Justin

I've not made a lot of universal rules. Those I've made have been neither widely disseminated, nor routinely abided. Among those rules nobody seems to follow:

- Orders at Starbucks must be limited to fourteen syllables or less. You came for coffee. You ordered an in-ground pool. Stop it.

- People must show .006 seconds of concern for your well-being after you've told them you just had a bout with food poisoning before they're allowed to ask, "where did you eat?"

- Shut up, cats.

- Martin Lawrence, before being allowed to make a new movie, must sit and watch any of his other movies. If he can still see, he's allowed to make one more.



But now I’d like to make a new rule, and if this one doesn’t stick, damnit if I’m not going to…I dunno…sit and bitch about it some more. Here is my new rule:

- No leaning back in airplane seats if you’re in Coach.

I fly Coach. For those of you who fly Business Class or First Class, let me give you a sense of what us Coach flyers are experiencing back behind that Iron Curtain.

Let’s have an activity…



What I want you to do is to go to your nearest elementary school and steal two chairs. (Don’t worry, you’ll get to put them back when you’re done, and if anyone stops you, just tell them it’s for science). Take these tiny chairs home and put them in the crawlspace of your home, facing a wall, and about seven inches from it.

Then I want you to invite your wife, husband, or domestic partner to sit in that chair, and to rest his/her arm on the armrest of your elementary-school-chair.

Next, I want you to grab a briefcase, a laptop bag, and an old Brookstone plastic bag (The Sharper Image or Chic-Fil-A may be substituted), and fill them with rocks. Once this is accomplished, please re-enter your crawlspace while carrying all three, and work your way back to the elementary school chair without touching any other items or boxes with any of the bags. (If you touch one, please yell “Hey, watch out” at yourself and then glare angrily at yourself, and then start over). Once next to your Significant-Other, you must push your way past your SO to the empty chair without touching your SO with any of the bags, or your butt, or your crotch; then sit in the elementary-school chair and find a way to stow all three bags of rocks under the elementary school chair (or, if you’re an overhead-bin kind of person, in a shoebox nearby).

Sit in that chair, facing the wall, with seven inches of clearance between your chair and the wall, for four hours. If you feel you need to pee, please cram yourself in a ventilation duct to do so, then return to your seat immediately.

You are permitted one snack of eleven peanuts and four ounces of generic spring water at the two-hour mark, but you must refer to them as “refreshments and beverage service,” and can only store them on your lap on top of a tray the size of a graduation cap.



…Now…


Let’s do this…let’s now presume the guy in front of you put his seat back.

…approximately ten minutes into your four-hour journey, I want you to scoot your chair closer to the wall by four of your seven inches.

You now have three inches left.

Your shoulders are pushed back into the elementary school chair, your legs are arched with your shins digging into the wall, and your hands are stuck helplessly at your side as you try to imagine how much better it will feel when the lack of blood in your feet moves from “pins and needles” to “totally numb.”

For additional hilarity, please have your SO, at that very moment, turn to you and say, “ladies and gentlemen, you are now permitted to take out your laptop computers.”



Here’s the thing…

If you’re in an airplane seat, and you lean back, you get MAYBE four degrees of lean. MAYBE. Let’s face it…you’re not any happier…if anything, you’ve just shattered hope that this ride could get more comfortable by eliminating the one option you had to make it so.

Moreover, the guy behind you loses four inches. This may not seem like much, but remember, he only had seven. You’ve just taken away 60% of his space.

I know you’re allowed to lean back in airplane seats. I know that. I’m not saying you’re not. You’re also allowed to fart in small cars, and allowed to use the bathroom on busses for #2. But if you’re any kind of a reasonable, sensible person, you don’t. Because that’s what makes us human.

Can we all agree to this new rule?

So it is written, so shall it be done.

Peace,
Justin

IMG_3062.JPG
Originally uploaded by Justin Masterson.

I am writing this from the comfort of my living room, back here in the good ol' US-of-A.

(I feel like I should give my best Toby Keith sneer when I say "US-of-A." And then maybe there should be beer).

My trip to China was incredible. I lived as a minority in a city older than my own language. I ate food that my culture would eschew as dangerous, or gross or pets. I got to spend time in the homes of very kind and very polite people with deep spiritual convictions, intense dedication to family values, and a household yearly income lower than my monthly salary. I walked the streets and talked with the people and bought a handbag for my wife. I loved my time there as a tourist, as an outsider, and as a curious observer.

One thing I learned is that getting into China is much, much easier than getting out of China. Do you remember how they tell you to get to the airport 3 hours before an international flight, and how you always wonder why when you get through customs and security and still have 2 hours and 45 minutes left to wait?

Apparently, China is the reason they made that rule.

Greg and I got there 2.5 hours before our flight. We spent the first 20 minutes or so being misdirected to several locations in the huge Pudong airport by airport-staff who meant well, but who had apparently been hired some time that morning. Once finding the proper check-in site, we were able to breeze up to the front of the line in about ten minutes. Upon getting to the front of the line, we were greeted by a very smiley and very polite Korean Air woman, who, while very kind, wasn't really in a great position to do business with a couple of Americans trying to get back home.

(Please don't hear this as me being angry at her...we are the Americans who don't speak her language...and she tried very hard to speak ours. She worked very hard to make it work, but it didn't).

After she had called over another woman and checked in our bags to make sure they would follow us to Seoul, then Los Angeles, then Laguardia, then finally to Cincinnati, we began the process of explaining that we were not, in fact, going to LAX or Laguardia, which began a good 15-minute conversation on how Chicago and New York are not the same place, and that CVG (Cincinnati's airport) and PVG (Seoul's airport), despite having similar 3-letter-codes, have several important geographical differences.

I'm still not sure where she got the Los Angeles part from.

After we had sorted out the bag-destination piece, she sent me to the counter where I was meant to pay for the baggage-shipping. This counter was manned by one very very old lady and five teenagers who, it can be presumed, were there as some sort of detention. I waited in line until I got to the front, where I watched a very nervous-looking girl try unsuccessfully to fill out the required baggage paperwork. Several times. Nine, actually. Nine times. She tried nine times. I counted. Nine. There were no computers, so when I say "paperwork," I mean ancient-looking Chinese-government forms which must be filled out in triplicate in Chinese. She would work through each set of three forms all the way before deciding something about them wasn't working for her, then crumple and throw away and start over. Nine times. 30 minutes. Watching her fill out one form.

When she finally had filled it out to her satisfaction, she passed it to the very old woman, who I gather was a cashier. The old woman looked at the ticket and handed it back to the girl, muttering something in Chinese.

The girl threw the form away and started over.

She must have gotten it right on the tenth try, because the old woman took the form, read it over, and pulled out an abacus. As in, "welcome to the museum of natural history, please take a moment to look at this abacus and marvel at its ancientness. Now, on to the stalactite collection..." I'll give you, she was a whiz at the abacus, but still. She wrote out my receipt in Chinese and sent me on my way.

I returned to the counter, where they promptly sent me to security to verify that my electric toothbrush was not a bomb. It was, in fact, not.

We jumped on the plane and went to Seoul. It was a great flight, and very relaxing. Somewhere around midnight, we got off the plane in Seoul and headed out the gate to the "Transit Hotel" which is a hotel cleverly built into the airport, intended to allow international travelers who are simply laying over in Seoul to a place to rest without having to collect their bags and go through customs and immigration.

Aaah, the best laid plans of mice and men...

Apparently, when they built the transit hotel into the Incheon International Airport, they neglected to tell the staff of the Incheon International Airport that they had built the transit hotel. The woman whose job it was to make sure we got directed to the right place had actually never heard of the transit hotel, which was weird because it was her job to send people there. She even had a list of people who had reserved rooms in the hotel in her hand, which ended up becoming the focal point of a very confusing debate between us and her as to whether or not the hotel exists. (She maintains no).

She sent us through immigration (despite a letter in my hand from the hotel which says "DO NOT GO THROUGH IMMIGRATION OR CUSTOMS") and out to Customs before we finally got fed up enough to find someone else to help us. By the fourth person we asked about the hotel, we finally found someone who had heard of it. As it turns out, it's right next to the gate. Aaaaah. Damn sneaky hotel. 90 minutes after beginning our quest to get to our "easy and convenient" hotel, we were able to convince the one employee left in the airport at 1:30 in the morning to allow us through to the hotel. I tried to sleep that night...but honestly, I was pissed enough that I didn't sleep. I did, however, watch the movie "Honey," with Jessica Alba, which, mercifully, had all of its dialogue over-dubbed in Korean.

The rest of the trip home was relatively peaceful, with another magnficent flight on Korean Air. I was sick for the last few days of my visit, and knocked myself out with cold medicine for most of the flight, but my few waking hours were spent munching on great Korean food and playing Tetris with Greg. (He came out the big winner...won twice as many as I did in the end). I got home somewhere around 3:30 on Friday, exhausted and very, very grateful for my trip.

As wonderful as the trip was, though, I will tell you that I'm very, very happy to be home. Upon my return, I got home, fired off a couple of quick emails, and joyously waited for Stacy to get home. She had cleaned the entire house, and made me my very favorite dinner, which was entirely meat-and-potatoes, and undeniably American. She made my favorite dessert and even lit candles. It was magic. I hit the couch immediately afterward, and have slept for 26 of the last 44 hours.

I will upload the final pics Greg and I took (mostly Greg, he has the nice camera) to the ol' Flickr account shortly, and hopefully share a couple more stories. Thanks for prayers and interest throughout my trip...it was really great knowing that my friends back here in the States were following the journey; it made home feel close, and that was very good. I look forward to having slideshows, and catching up on what's going on here. A week's not a long time to be gone...but I was very far away, and really out of touch with American media...so you'll have to let me know if anything really crazy happened.

It's been a fun journey. Thanks for being a part of it. I may head back in April for some follow-up work...I'll keep you posted.

Peace,
Justin

The Cod That Refused to Be...

P2110010.JPG
Originally uploaded by Justin Masterson.

I have been in research all day for two straight days. As a result, I have no pictures to share. In lieu of pictures of those days, I offer you this picture from my first day here, when we ate a fish whose head joined the rest of itself on our dinner table.

I'm learning that "ordering" in Shanghai, China is not what it is in the U.S. in the US, when you "order" something, whether it's a dish in a restaurant or asking to buy a jacket in a store, the employees generally consider this a mandate of sorts to provide you with the thing you asked for.

In China, it seems, "ordering" is actually just an opportunity to open up a dialogue in which the server/shopkeeper gets to tell you what it is you REALLY wanted, and then bring it to you.

Greg ordered a cod. The picture you're looking at is very not a cod. It's some kind of very weird Mandarin fish dish. Greg pointed at the cod on the menu. The waiter pointed at a dish on the other page. Greg said, "No," and pointed back at the cod. More enthusiastically, the waiter pointed at the dish on the other page. Clearly thinking the waiter was simply misunderstanding where he was pointing (I assumed pointing was an international language of sorts), Greg pointed vehemently at the cod. Even more vehemently, and somewhat nonplussed at Greg's refusal to speak Chinese Point-Finger, the waiter pointed at the cod, took the menu, and walked away.

Fifteen minutes later, out came this thing.

It was a fish. A whole fish. They were kind enough to separate the fish's head from it's body, as is traditional in Western fish-eating, but did not go so far as to actually remove the head from the plate. Instead, they deep-fried the head along with the fish, and then doused it in vegetables and some kind of mung-sauce.

We ate a lot of bread.

Some of the Chinese food has been really good. Some has been really not good. Most has just been very exotic, and I'm glad to have the option to try it. Here are a few of the dishes I've tried in the last couple of days:

1. Loose grass-clipping tea
2. Raw "black chicken" (chicken whose skin is naturally black)
3. Pumpkin rind
4. Teriaki eel strips
5. Drunken fish
6. Raw beef
7. Sino-Italian Grapa moonshine
8. Bulgur wheat tea
9. Pork-tofu
10. Unnamed animal on a stick

So, last night, in the middle of the NYC of China, I ordered up my favorite Chinese dish yet.

It was a cheeseburger. And it was delicious.

i have loved this country. But I'm looking forward to my return home.

I'm heading back to the Yu Yuan gardens tomorrow...the thought of having visited such a place without taking pictures made me ill. (Well, that and the raw chicken). So, Greg and I head out tomorrow morning to shoot some shots of the Gardens. I hope to post 'em before I get home on Fri afternoon.

Please pray for our safe return if you find the time and the spirit, and I'll keep ya'll posted.

Peace,
Justin

My Day As an Asian Man...

Yu Yuan Gardens Chinese Archt
Originally uploaded by silverlinedwinnebago.

It's kinda hard to blend into Shanghai, China when you're 6'2", pale as a blister, and wearing a solid white button-up.

Because of overcrowding on our research team, I "subbed out" today while the rest of the team went to do the research throughout greater Shanghai. So, I'm left at the facility in the middle of the city by myself, with 9 or so hours to kill. So, I did what any self-respecting white guy with a nigh-paralyzing fear of the unknown would do...

...I went out.

For those of you who are naturally oriented towards world-exploring in strange and unfamiliar cultures, this story will seem stupid and banal. For those of you who land somewhere in the middle, this story will just seem banal. But, for those of you like me, who automatically think "I wonder if I can find an English-language gameshow network on the hotel room TV" when you have spare time in an unfamiliar country, this story may be slightly inspiring.

...I spent the last five hours, by myself, wandering around downtown Shanghai.

Unfortunately, I sent all four of the cameras that I brought with me out with the research teams, so I don't have any photos to share of my adventures. So, I'll have to use my rapier wit, my cunning language, and my "descriptive words for dummies" tome to paint the picture for you.

As I stood in the elevator of the research facility, I knew I had a choice to make...I was either going to take the easy road and go back to the air-conditioned comfort of the Westin, or I was going to go it alone. I breathed deeply, walked out the front door of the World Trade Tower, and just started walking.

I walked for nearly an hour, peeking into shops and repeatedly saying "Bou Yow" (no thanks) to people who kept yelling "Hello sir! DVD, Bag, Watch, Gucci, Prada?" (The fake stuff black market is alive, well, and downright ubiquitous here). I navigated the streets, I figured out how the crosswalks work, and I dodged entire families piled high on little motorscooters as they weaved in and out of traffic without regard for signals or right-of-way. I exchanged currency, bought water, and asked for directions...all fairly complicated tasks when you don't speak Chinese and the vendors don't speak English. I meandered down the narrow alleys and back roads, ducking under laundry lines and passing fruit stands and lots of men smoking. I got pointed at and laughed at by little Chinese children, which is the furthest thing from offensive and actually quite endearing. (BTW: Chinese children may be the cutest children on the planet. If you have a degree in advanced genetic manipulation so Stacy and I can have one, please let me know). I chatted with old men who spoke English, I admired the waterfront and massive Chinese tugboats at the Huangpu river, and I met a guy who cuts paper and sells it to tourists (again, more interesting than it sounds).
I eventually picked a destination, the Yu Yuan Gardens, and spent another good hour looking for it. I eventually found it, after trading odd directional hand-gestures with several polite Chinese policemen, and paid my 30RMB (US $3.50) to go inside.

I can't possibly do it justice here.

The gardens were built during the Ming dynasty, and have continued virtually unchanged ever since. They are pristine, stunning, and intensely Chinese. It was like walking into a rice-paper painting...every bit as delicate and intricate. The halls and gardens had names which translated to "Hall of Mildness," and "Thoughts While in Silence." The goldfish were huge and odd and, somehow, just as Chinese as their surroundings. People were quiet and respectful, and the loud, bustling city around disappeared among this architectural and horticultural masterwork. My eyes watered with awe throughout...I literally dumb-struck...I didn't speak a word for nearly two hours as I wandered the gardens. It stung deep to not have my camera with me, but the experience will showcase in my brain-movies for years and years to come.

I left the gardens in a sort of Buddhisty trance, and felt lifted and washed.

I was also hungry and desperate to pee...and toilets and English-friendly restaurants have both been a bit elusive here. I pushed and excuse-me'd my way through the throngs of Chinese New Year celebrants in the Yuan district, and eventually found a cafeteria-ish thing with tons of food and a restroom. Score.

I have no idea what I ate. I'd like to guess, but it would be pure speculation. The meat thing seemed to be cooked-animal-kabob, but it didn't taste like any animal I've eaten before. The soup involved a grain, and the drink was either watermelon juice or some kind of coffee. I had the honor of coining the international symbol for "where can I sit to where I'm not looking directly into the sun," and, again, got laughed at by Chinese children. I ate in courage, and, in some ways, I ate in victory.

As I walked back to the hotel, I met a Chinese "friend" (read: guy who pretends to be interested in Americans so he can take you to a hole-in-the-wall store in order to sell you cheap crap), followed him to a tea shop, and chatted for some time about Buddhism, communism, and what a great deal I could get on a genuine Rolex.

(I am now the proud owner of a $40 "genuine" Rolex...it was more about the experience than the having).

As I walked back to the hotel, my feet hurting and my chintz-bag in tow, I felt victorious. I had, in some ways, beaten my fear and done something scary. I couldn't wait to get here and share it with you.

Today was a big day for me. I'm growing.

Peace,
Justin

Fruity Oaty Bars...

P2100004_1.JPG
Originally uploaded by Justin Masterson.

Doesn't this billboard just make you wonder, "what's in the bowl?" The little girl seems to know...in kind of a sly way, at that.

Wow. This morning, Greg and I wandered around Shanghai, shopping and exploring. Wow. This is a very very different place.

I can't wait to tell you stories. We're running out the door now, but I'll write tonight, which will be your this morning.

If I didn't write about it in the next entry, please remind me to tell you about the quest for the black jacket, how to say no to a watch salesman, and the cod that refuses to be.

Peace,
Justin

Fri 743 p.m. (US)

As I write this, I'm eight hours into a 14-hour flight from Chicago to Seoul, South Korea (the good Korea)...and the little map in front of me tells me we're somewhere over Alaska.

I’m flying on a Korean Air 747-400…the double-decker kind of jet…and I’m up on the upper-deck. We took a Comair puddle-jumper from Cincy to Chicago…Delta (sigh)…and I couldn’t help but laugh when they announced that, due to our imminent approach to Chicago, “service would be discontinued in the cabin.” By “service,” I’m assuming they mean the surly woman who grumbled by me with a six-ounce (not kidding) Dasani water bottle and said “want water?” with the same enthusiasm a polite man in a downpour asks, “want my umbrella?” They also offered a tacky piece of dried biscotti in a Delta cello-wrap. Frankly, I was pleased to see it discontinued.

This is compared with Korean Air, where, after being escorted to the upper-deck and shown our all-in-one-music-TV-movie-videogame-shopping-massage-phonecall-vibrating-recliner-seat (with about four feet of legroom), we were given slippers, a glass of wine, a glass of fresh watermelon juice, and a plate of warm cookies. This was followed by two four-course meals during the course of our flight, any number of liquor, wine, beer and coffee services, a bunch of random foods, 65 napkin-replacements, and about 46,000 bows. (Read as in “bow at the waist” not as in “nice bow in your hair). God help me, they even gave us face-spray.

If you read my last blog entry, you'll know that I'm afraid of Asia. Not Asians, mind you...who doesn't like Asians?....but Asia itself. I don't know if you've watched much National Geographic Channel, Travel Channel or anything else at all, but if you have, you may have noticed that Asia is very different than the US.

In China, they speak languages which sound nothing like ours. They write with strokes that look more to me like beautiful little sketches of houses than letters. They don't wear shoes inside. And they eat ducks.

Yes, quite different.

And that kinda freaks me out. I know virtually nothing of China. I can say "hello" in Mandarin, and have learned a number of very dirty curse words from Firefly, but that's about the extent of it. I'm going to be helping out on a project in the middle of a culture I can't possibly understand. I'm nervous.

I miss Stacy already. She always makes me feel comfortable. She's great at that.

I'm REALLY looking forward to this week, but it's a really healthy blend of fear and joyful anticipation.

I'll post pictures. I'll describe things. I'll probably fall asleep fairly early by their clocks, but I'll do my best to post what I can.

China man....freaking China.

Cool. (Slow, slightly shuddery breath). Cool.

Peace,
Justin







Sat 3:48 a.m. (US) 5:48 p.m. (Korea)

I am writing to you from the Sky Lounge from the airport in Seoul, South Korea. Since I’ve been in Korea (which has been about an hour now), and given only the evidence that one can gather from one’s plane at gate 17 to one’s Sky Lounge near gate 26, I have learned several things about South Korea:

1. Koreans are very clean.
2. Koreans are very polite..
3. Koreans are very, very sweet and helpful, even to stupid Americans.
4. Koreans spend a lot of time in airports.

If China is half as clean and kind as Korea, I’m set. (In fact, the rumor is that China is exactly half as clean and kind as Korea). In the 22 hours that I’ve been on this trip so far, I’ve yet to see my fears realized. No attempts to thieve my passport, no communist prisons, no bird flu or SARS, and very little kung-fu battling. Greg and I have gotten along just fine, as everyone seems to speak at least a little English, and we smile and bow our heads a lot.

I’m starting to get tired…as you can see, it’s 4:00 in the morning by my standards, and sleeping on the plane, while pleasant by comparison to most airplane experiences, was still far from restful. I’ve just downed 12 oz of some Korean drink called “Pocari Sweat” which, according to the English side of its label, “is quickly absorbed into the body tissues due to its fine osmoalaity and contains electrolytes.” I also picked up a carton of “Seoul Milk,” which, despite the great opportunity for a heart-inspiring play on words, is actually just milk from Seoul.

I’ve half a day tomorrow to attempt to catch up on sleep…but I think I’d rather spend it out and about. We’re not really going to have any touristy time during our stay in China, so I’ve got to get whatever shopping/tourism in tomorrow morning. For me, this means going to Shanghai’s shopping district, and trying to find something pretty to buy for Stacy. I hope I find something cool…I am very, very far away, so I want to bring back something that feels exotic. I’ll keep you posted.

We’re off to our quick flight to Pudong airport in Shanghai.

There was a time when I would have called in sick, and I would have missed it.


Last night, I stopped by a bachelor party for a friend in my bowling league. ("Bowling league?" you ask. "Yes, my bowling league." I reply, scowling a little at you for your tone). It was a surprise for him...the party, not the marriage...and it was held at a bar down on Main Street.

I'd been in a work-related-social-meeting-thing-with-beer in Newport until about 9:00 or so, and picked up a ride from a friend over the bridge into downtown. I walked into the bar on Main Street where, apparently, everybody but me knows the owner. I was greeted with a rousing chorus of guy-heeey! and about two-dozen handshake-into-hugs. (Hyphens were on sale this Wednesday, you'll have to forgive me). I've seen these guys 35 out of 52 Thursdays a year for the last two years, and they greeted me like I've been in their group of friends since high school.

In my khaki pants, blue ox-cloth button-up, and dark brown blazer, I stood among a sea of ripped jeans, pierced what-have-yous, and t-shirts with cuss words on 'em. I felt grossly out-of-place, and very naively dopey. I felt like a whitewashed condo built in the cool-brick arts district, the new Hyundai you regret trading your beat-up college car for. I really like these guys, and though they accept me as one of them, last night it was clear to me that I am still not...not because of them, but because of me.

You see, I'm still afraid of things...things I don't know much about. Included in this category are (but not limited to): poverty, manual labor, dance clubs, perpetually-hot cities, alternative sex, real illness, hard drugs, and most of Asia. And strippers.

For a long time, things like drugs and strippers and hard drinking and smoking and [insert your favorite un-Christian-sounding vice here] were just plain wrong as far as I was concerned, and therefore deserved no further exploration or learning. But I'm starting to think that's not the case. Are strippers/prostitutes/random hookups wrong? Jeez, I don't know. They're pretty damn wrong for me; I'd prefer to be married, and to be married I need to not be doing those things. Hence, wrong.

Are they wrong for everybody? I'm guessing they feel kinda gross for most of the strippers and prostitutes and people who are being used. Or not, I don't know, I'm not them. Maybe it's not wrong at all for them. Maybe the strippers who showed up at last night's bachelor party (OK, "showed up" is euphemistic...as if my friends hadn't paid hundreds of dollars for them to be there) are confident, self-actualized women who feel free to express their sexuality and make a ton of money at the same time. Again, I don't know, I'm not them.

Whether it's wrong for the strippers, or wrong for the guys who paid them to come, or the guys who stayed to watch, I don't know, and it's not the point. I hope all had fun, and that my buddy felt well-loved by his friends as he got ready to get married. I like him, and I want him to be happy. The point is that, a few years ago, I wouldn't have gone down there to begin with. For me, as ridiculous as it may sound, even going to the bar on Main Street to meet up with a bunch of guys having a raucous bachelor party was pretty risky...pretty scary. It's not my world...at least, it never has been. But I've been afraid of things for a long time, and while it may have saved me from doing things I might later regret; I've also missed a lot of good learning experiences...and I regret that, too.

I think I made a good choice last night. I stopped in and drank with these guys until the strippers showed up, then I took off. I wished them a great evening, gave 'em a goodbye-man-hug, and headed off. That was probably a really good choice for me. [Again: married and happy]. I'm proud of the way I was raised, and I'm proud that I keep to one woman. At the same time, I'm proud that I went down there. I stretched myself a little, and in some ways I aspire to be a little more like them. Without judgement, without condemnation...and in spite of the fear of the unknown that would have prompted both...I went down there to an unfamiliar place and a more unfamiliar situation to celebrate with my friend.

I hope everyone had a good time last night...the guys, the strippers, the bartenders. I hope all wrapped up well, and I'm looking forward to seeing everyone again next Thursday. And when I do, I'm going to go in knowing these guys just a little better; and, more importantly, knowing a little more about the world.

That's just slightly less to be scared of, and that's good.

Peace,
Justin

It's not often that American Idol gets profound.

But tonight, somehow, it got there.

The picture you're looking at is a guy named Jonathon. Jonathon is, without a doubt, mentally retarded. I don't mean that as a rude figure of speech...he actually was mentally retarded. Jonathon tried out to be the next American Idol.

He was horrible.

But...

Jeez, I can't help it, I was really touched. Jonathon could barely put a sentence together...he was awkward, overweight, and sung very poorly...but he was so excited. He really believed he could do it. Like, not in a manic "I'm so hot, I'm 'bout it, so step off" kind of way...like in a "why couldn't I do it?" kind of way. It had never really occured to him that he couldn't do it.

Something tells me that his parents and family told him to go do it, and that something was a big poster he brought with him that said "Go Jonathon!" and "Follow Your Dreams!" He made friends with the very creepy-looking guy next to him, and the two of them, in all of their ignorance and total lack of self-awareness, supported each other through the whole waiting, auditioning, and failure process.

They hugged each other before they went in. They listened intently to the door as the other one sung poorly for the judges. They encouraged each other as they walked out without a gold slip. They railed against the judges together, and told each other that they would make it.

It was sad, and it was beautiful. I got sad because some people are mentally retarded, and I got sad because I wonder what it would be like to have friendship like that. Seriously. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it was pretty incredible. It was pure love...simple, stupid, and kind of perfect. It's probably most what friendship should look like, at its very best.

I'm not going to write more about that. But if you get a chance, watch it.

Peace,
Justin

A murderer of millions was killed a few days ago.





My friend Keith wrote a blog entry linking to a list of 11 reasons not to support the death penalty.

I wrote a response to his post...and I wanted to post it on my blog as well.

So, here it is.

---

Keith,

I was deeply satisfied to watch Saddam Hussein face the gallows. He was hung, without ceremony or fanfare, in a building that he used as a base of operations for his genocidal regime. He is a murderer on a mass scale, and he committed unimaginable crimes for which no punishment could possibly atone. He deserved death at the hands of those he oppressed.

And yet, I believe killing Saddam Hussein was a mistake. I think the death penalty is wrong.

Throughout nearly every philosophy and idealogy that I am attracted to, the notion of killing an unarmed person who poses no threat to others is deplorable. Saddam Hussein deserves death, yes...but that justice is not ours to mete out. We should stop him, and if killing him is the only way to do that, fine. But we did it without killing him. We caught him, desheveled and dirty, hiding in a spiderhole. We disarmed him, we cut off his communications with his regime and network, and we put him in jail where he can't hurt anybody. We didn't have to kill him to neutralize him.

Killing Saddam Hussein felt very, very right. But we made a martyr of him...the same way we did to Timothy McVeigh, and to David Koresh. They can't get old and weird looking and publicly nutzo like Charlie Manson is. They die "at the hands of [insert anti-American derogatory term (i.e. - Western Devil, Great Satan, etc.) here]," and it gives them an immortality that growing old and batty wouldn't. Dying by noose in the prime of your megalomaniacal tyranny is romantic and strong; dying of bladder cancer in your late 80's isn't.

I read a bumper sticker a while back that I liked. It said, "Why are we killing people who kill people to show other people that killing people is wrong?"

I wanted Saddam to die, because it makes me feel better. But I think it's the wrong choice.

Peace,
Justin

IMG_0854.JPG
Originally uploaded by Justin Masterson.

I had a wonderful Christmas...I hope you did too.

Before I dive into the post, I'd like to note a couple of things about the picture which accompanies this post:
1. I just discovered the joy of "Flickr" photo sharing, as evidenced by the fact that there IS a picture accompanying this post. It's a fun tool, check it out.
2. If I would have known I was going to discover Flickr, and post a random happy-moment-with-wife picture from Christmas morning to my blog, I would have come up with something better than a skin-tight red pajama shirt to share with the world.
3. In case you're wondering, that angel over my shoulder is the "top of the Christmas tree" variety of shoulder-angel, and not the "whisper better ideas and gentle admonishments into my ear" variety of shoulder-angel. She stopped coming when I hit puberty.

Now, back to the post.


Christmas wrapped up all of 56 minutes ago. Stacy and I did lots of Christmasy things. We wrapped presents together, we drank coffee together (mulled cider was in short supply), we decorated our tree together, we listened to Christmas music together, we ate with and hung out with my family together, we opened gifts together, and we watched A Christmas Story four times together as it repeated on TBS.

It was a wonderful Christmas. Perhaps the best we've had.

In a couple of days we leave for her hometown to hang out with her parents and family. Their celebration of Christmas, much like Hannukah, lasts for eight days. Her mom is one of 10 kids, and each day the entire extended family moves from house to house looking at who got what and talking about who they got it from and then asking that who how much she paid and how much she could have paid if she would have driven across the state line to buy it and used a coupon. Stacy's family is fun, and, like mine and yours and everyone else's, full of characters and oddballs and drunken uncles and crying babies and fun cousins with life-partners. I like going out there, and it'll be a relaxing three days.

I hope your Christmas was brilliant, warm and deep, and that the Indescribable Love I felt was with you too. God is good, and this was a magnificent time of year to re-learn that.

Peace,
Justin

"You know that old saying about how you always hurt the ones you love? Well it goes both ways."
-Jack, Fight Club (1999)


A friend recently moved into our house for a few days.

She moved into our house, because she moved out of hers.

She moved out of hers, because her husband abused her. A lot.

She moved into our house. For the second time in a week.

The hardest part wasn't that she left him. The hardest part was that she had to do it twice. For me, that hardest part was that she walked back into her house...kids in tow...into the home of an abuser...and lay down next to him again.


I've much to share with you, but tonight I want to share this. I'm amazed and I'm confused and I'm really, really sorry for her, and for her kids. And, in some weird way, for her husband. This is not my world...I'm lucky that way. I live in a home with a woman who I not only love, but most of the time really like. My wife lives with a husband who she loves and most of the time likes, and who they both, deep down, believes won't ever intentionally harm her. I live with a woman I yearn to see after a long day, and she lives with a man she can go to bed at night knowing wants the best for her. I believe that Stacy and I could bring kids into the world and, somehow, raise them to be people who respect and love the opposite sex. Not because we're better, I don't think. We grew up that way...our kids will believe it because our parents, at some level or another, believed it. We were lucky.

My guess is that my friend's husband grew up in a home where he saw his mother treated with contempt, shame, and disgust. My guess is that his father was dominating, and his mother either stooping or overcompensating by raging against the kids. That's just my guess. I'm fairly sure that my friend grew up in a place where she questioned her own worth, and where her parents, by example, taught her that she was only as good as her foul shots and her pretty smile, and she had to know that someday she would slowly lose both.

I think she went back into that house not because she truly believed he would change, but because she believed she didn't deserve for him to. She's smart, educated, strong and beautiful...and yet she learned along the way that she wasn't worth true love; just marriage, and children, and a house, and the abuse.

We helped her get away. For now. I don't know if she'll stay away. I wonder if some twisted sense of destiny will bring her back to him. God, I hope not. No woman deserves that treatment. None.

I'm angry with my wife at this moment. I'm not going to tell you why, because it's her business and it's my business. But it doesn't matter. I'll be over it tomorrow or the next day or maybe next week. That doesn't matter either. What matters is that, by God's grace and decent parenting, I'm choosing to love right now. I'm loving by breathing slowly, remembering who she is and who I am, and typing furiously at my blog until I can fall asleep. And tomorrow, when I wake up and head off to work, I will choose to kiss her goodbye. It is my choice to love her, and it's a choice both of us make each day, whether we feel it with everything we have or whether we conjure it in spite of some squabble, petty or otherwise.

I'm not a great husband. But I'm a good one. And when our friend calls us tomorrow to ask us if she should return to her husband again, I'm going to close my eyes and, for as long as it takes, be grateful for what I have.

Please pray that she stays away, and that he seeks help. Her story is one of millions, and she and her kids deserve better.

Peace,
Justin

My friends just had a baby.

She is beautiful. I held her. She smelled new.



I liked it.

Peace,
Justin

IMG_0393.JPG
Originally uploaded by Justin Masterson.

I am in-between moments of heart-wrenching, sacred pride.

I will tell you about that in a moment. But first, I want to say thanks.



I've received several extraordinary comments, a few emails, and even a couple of phone calls about my last few posts...a sort of still-going chronicle of my fall from the faith or my hopeful toeing right into it, depending on how you look at it.

Thank you. Josh, Jacob, Patrick, Black17, Keith, Ryan, Denis, Anonymous and everyone else...thank you. I've heard everything from, "you're finally evolving [away from fundamental Christianity]" to "I'd like to meet with you, and I promise I won't try to convert you back [to fundamental Christianity]" to "wanna go for a beer and talk? [presumably about fundamental Christianity?]" I feel really loved, and I really appreciate it. Even if you did try to convert me...toward or away from your system of belief...I'd still feel loved, because you care enough to try.

That's all...thanks. I'll keep writing as I keep asking questions and getting answers and finding time between whatever it is I do all the time.




...Now, back to the topic at hand.

I am in-between moments of heart-wrenching, sacred pride.

A couple of weeks ago, my oldest brother married his wonderful and beautiful fiance. It was a gorgeous wedding, held in my parents' home, with a total of ten of us in attendance. I had the great honor of presiding over the ceremony...an honor whose profundity I could not understand until the moment came to actually do the presiding. As I stood between Brian and Maria, standing next to my twin brother and just a few feet from my parents...as I opened my mouth to speak those first words of the ceremony ("dearly beloved..."), it hit me: I have been asked to officiate the uniting of my own brother to his wife. My own brother. My own brother, Brian. My own brother, who I love more deeply than I know how to articulate.

I had the chance a couple of weeks ago to tell you about my twin brother, Matt. Now I'd like to tell you about Brian.

While Matt was my doppelganger present as we grew up, Brian was, in a way, a walking, talking, chest-hair-growing future. He is four-and-a-half years my senior, and acted simultaneously as my bully, my mentor, my spiritual advisor, my mom-ruiner, my hero, and my coal-mine canary all throughout my youth. I followed Brian the way perfume follows your churchy Great Aunt on a Sunday afternoon...just a few steps behind and lingering in the aftermath. Brian taught me how to take a charley-horse, and how to write a rhyming poem. He ruined my mom by breaking all the good rules before I could, so she would tighten them up by the time I got there...then he taught me how to defy her. (Matt needed no teaching in this regard; seemed to come as naturally as a morning pee). He went ahead of me, getting hurt by girls and making best guy friends and discovering clumsy football and taking final exams and picking up an accoustic guitar to see what happens when a guy who can't fix a car or throw a baseball or build a table decides you can be just as much a man with Rosewood and nickel-wounds. He cried over things I couldn't understand yet. He broke curfew doing things I only imagined as I lay in my bed listening to mom worry loudly over the phone to a friend. He was the first to do most everything. He was my brave future, and I loved him for it.

And somewhere in there, we became friends.

I remember when I was 12 or so, when he said, "man...you guys [meaning Matt and I] are cool...it's like you guys actually have personalities now. Like, you're actual people." He was right...when I began to become Justin and not Vince and Pam's son or Brian's brother or "one of the twins," he and I were ready to begin becoming friends. We grew together for the first time...instead of me just following him. We started to open up to each other, to experience life together as peers of a sort, despite our age difference. He soon became the closest friend I've ever known.

Brian and I share most everything. We talk about religion and faith and politics and beer and wives and swearing and philosophy and cars and sex and the Simpsons. I call Brian sometimes with a rhetorical question or one-line joke or a quote from a movie we saw ten years ago...I think I call to reconnect, and I think I call just to hear him. I ask him before I do anything that truly matters to me. I call him when I can't understand my wife, and he tells me when it's probably my fault. I love my time with him, and as he moved out of our house (his temporary digs until he got married), I felt like I was losing another brother, even though he'd be living just up I-71 a bit. I miss him when he leaves, and I love it when I see my message indicator flash on after I've deliberately ignored his call so that he'll leave some ridiculously stupid message. We seem to vibrate at the same frequency, Brian and I, and I think I'm so much better for it. I think I always have been.

Standing that evening, between Brian and Maria...I stood in the past, present and future at once. He was my older brother; a doctor, a rocker, and a traveler. He was still doing the things I've yet to try. But he was also my peer...my friend in a sense so deep I can't possibly express it here. But, in a weird way, I was the older brother for a moment...and perhaps for the first time. I've been married almost four-and-a-half years...I was able to share a few words about some of the pitfallsl, the joys, and the romance of commitment. I got to warn them and encourage them. I got to hug them. And when I got done, and they made their amazing promises to each other...I got to pronounce them husband and wife. It was one of the happiest moments of my life, and one I shall never neglect nor allow to fade.



So now, here I am. My twin brother, Matt, has just passed the Ohio Bar and will be sworn in on Monday. My older brother Brian just got married to a woman I am proud to know, and prouder to call my Sister. I am so damned proud I have no idea how to express it. I wear my joy like a sweater these days.

I'm so proud of you, brothers.

Peace,
Justin

Sometimes revelation is a mountain-top. Sometimes it's church confessional. Sometimes it's a hospital bed. And, every once in a while, it's a long red light on your drive to work.

I didn't expect much from my drive to work yesterday. I was a bit sore from the workout, a bit full from a rare breakfast of eggs and toast, and more than a little anxious about all I had to get done before my noon meeting. I had my iPod plugged in to the car stereo (I have forgone driving with earbuds in; turns out it's fantastically illegal), and it was shuffling through it's 10-GB songload, flitting fickley between genres like a DJ with the very worst kind of ADHD. On I-71 at Smith-Edwards it was Billy Joel, at Kenwood it was Evanesence, and by the time I got to Pfieffer, Elvis Costello was half-finished whiney-warbling his way through one of my favorite love ballads of his, "She."

As I pulled up to the intersection of Kenwood and Pfieffer and waited at a red light whose greatest pleasure is letting everyone go straight and nobody turn left, a new song came on. And this is where the revelation begins.

The song came from a band that doesn't exist anymore, and the only album they ever made and that the vast majority of you have never heard. They were called "Dividing the Plunder," and consisted of a husband and wife just about my age. They live in Greater Cincy, and I came in contact with them when they came by VCC for a performance one weekend. I loved the song they sang, bought the album, and digitized it into my iTunes, where it now sits, nestled in the cultural warm front between Diana Krall and Dr. Dre.

It's a good album. Decent music, OK production, but great writing. That's what caught me. The writing.

The song that came on was called "Maybe It's Faith," and it goes like this:

(the full version...like, the kind with music in it...is on iTunes, I just checked).


---

“Maybe It’s Faith”
Dividing the Plunder - The Ordinary

I wish I had more to say.
It’s such a quiet room.
But today I can’t give voice to anything but doubt.
It starts doubt deep inside me
In my blood and in each cell.
And it makes it’s way to the blank look in my eyes
And the questions on my lips.

I wish I had less to say
It’s such a crowded room.
But the sun came up this morning
And it all began again.
The compulsion's is inside me
And it beats against my doors
It seeps into my sterile polished closet
Brings the skeletons outside.

There was a time I would have covered my face
I would have turned away
I would have broken my bones trying get out the door.
Here it is, come and take a good look.
Get out of the way.
Maybe it’s faith when I just don’t know for sure.

I wish I had a thousand books
To fill in what I’m missing
And a thousand days to read them
And a time back guarantee.
It starts down deep inside me
Every breath and every fiber.
And it makes it’s way up to the empty stare
And the tears on my face.

But I wish I’d never read a word
The answers were too easy
And I’m grown enough to know there’s more mystery than proof.
But it stirs down deep inside me.
And it stirs the dust of faith
Cries out to me about my hollow nature
And the desperate human need.

There was a time I would have covered my face
I would have turned away
I would have broken my bones trying get out the door.
Here it is, come and take a good look.
Get out of the way.
Maybe it’s faith when I just don’t know for sure.

And it’s a little more earthy than I’d like to believe
Like the holes in God’s hands
Like the dirt on God’s feet.
But I’m not alone in that it’s comfort more
Than I ever felt pretending I know anything for sure.

There was a time I would have covered my face
I would have turned away
I would have broken my bones trying get out the door.
Here it is, come and take a good look.
Get out of the way.
Maybe it’s faith when I just don’t know for sure.

---

This is where revelation came. It washed over me like a backrub. Maybe where I'm at is faith.

Yes, I've got more questions than answers. I always have, and I suspect I mostly will. I'm in a place right now where it seems I'm not sure about much. I'm searching for theology, a system to follow, a religion to belong to that I can reconcile well enough to play along. But I don't know that I'm searching for faith itself.

There was a time when the question itself scared the hell out of me. A search for spirituality is, inherently, a search for your own identity. And whenever you question your identity, you're questioning the very essence of who you are, as well as your relationships, your friendships, and everything you know about your social circles. To question fundamental Christianity is to question most of my young adult life, and that's scary. As the song says, "there was a time I would have covered my face, I would have turned away, I would have broken my bones trying to get out the door."

But I think that time is not now. I'm losing that fear. My previous post (Oct 04) was kind of a big deal for me...it's not that I have begun to have these questions, it's that I'm becoming unafraid of what it means that I've had them all along. I think theology can be a wonderful, powerful structure for understanding the entirely ununderstandable...but the quest is a little more earthy than I'd like to believe. It's blood, and it's dirt, and it's God...it's sacred, yes; but it's also human. I can't worship the quest, but I am beginning to recognize it's inherent value. I refuse to believe that God's primary concern is whether or not I had the single salvation experience at some point before I get hit by a bus...our lives are lived in a constant tension between sacred and secular, and our purpose seems to be more about navigating that tension rather than relieving it. The quest is not God, but the quest for God may be salvation itself.

I may find absolute truth, and a theology, existing or created, to match. And I may not. But I don't think I'm lacking faith. Maybe it's faith that I'm continuing to seek God, perhaps now more than ever, despite the personal and social ramifications that result from questioning the faith of my youth. Maybe it's faith that I believe that it's safe to question Christianity, because I believe that Christ himself is greater than both the religion and it's questioning, and that earnest pursuit of Him will inevitably land me in His presence.

I am in a hard period, but it is a good period. I don't know much, and I'm asking a lot. And I think I've long feared that I'm losing my faith because I can't claim the same outward surity I had in high school or college. But maybe it's faith that I just don't know for sure.

I've got a lot more to write to you about. It's about Manhattan, neon at 40 floors, and my brother the Esquire. But it's time to get to work now.

Peace,
Justin

My friend Ryan wrote a great response to my last post...

If you're interested, check it out at:
http://c-change.blogspot.com

More to come...whoever has been reading in New Zealand, post something! I'd love to hear from ya!

Peace,
Justin

Some of my best conversations come over my first cup of coffee in the early morning, and some come over my last beer in the very, very early morning.

This post is about the former.

Lately, I've been working out each weekday morning with a good friend. In my attempt to lose the 35 pounds necessary to remove my least favorite set of chins, I've taken on a fairly rigorous diet and excercise plan. The plan goes like this:
1. Get up at 6:20, pick up friend down the street and get to gym by 6:30.
2. Work out until 7:30.
3. Sit on friend's porch and drink coffee until 8:15, and talk about the stuff of life.

Every morning we tackle the same three topics, and one wildcard. We talk about sex, we talk about faith & religion, and we talk about the squirrels that are eating a hole in his roof. The wildcard topic depends on what movie was on in the cardiocinema, how work is going, and how strong the coffee is. Either way, it's always a pleasant way to start my morning, and I love the conversation.

This morning was harder than previous...

This morning we talked about heaven and hell and what makes a Christian and what makes you saved. My friend is a very smart 20-something with a lifetime of history in the church, several years of missionary experience, and deep knowledge of the Bible. I am a very smart 20-something with a lifetime of history in and out of churches, several years of church employment, and a deep-seated need to keep asking the question.

He talked about his very cool experiences traveling the country and watching pagan people in pagan rituals at pagan festivals worshiping humanism and reveling in relativism. He said he hates relativism. He's got answers that involve Jesus, and the Bible, and what you have to figure out before you die.

I respect that...but I don't have those answers. I've got lots and lots of questions...but not a lot of answers. I know it's supposed to be noble to have questions...it's the intellectual pursuit, right? But that's not entirely true...I do have answers, I just have them for a while. I've known for a long time that a belief that the Bible is infallible feels wrong to me. I've known for a long time that the idea that you must "give your life" to Christ before you die in order to be with God in the afterlife feels wrong to me. I've known that the pursuit of God may be the end in and of itself, and that feels right to me.

It's a weak man that pretends shys away from what he knows is true...and these are what's true, at least as far as I can tell right now. And he shared what he believes is true, and that makes him strong too.

He is what most would call a Christian. And, for the first time since high school, I'm fairly convinced that by many standards, I am not. Some of my questions...and some of my truths...don't match those of the Christians I went to Young Life with and volunteered at church with and sit next to at work. In fact, it's quite probable that I've become the dangerous brand of pseudo-Christian that my youth-group leaders warned us about...the kind that question the basic truths of Christianity, and bit-and-piece out the Bible at there own discretion to match their worldviews. For the first time since becoming a young man, I am the moral relativist compared to those who used to be my peers. I still have so many questions left to answer, and I'm not ready to settle into some of the truths of fundamental Christianity.

I am the outsider in some ways...stuck in bizarre purgatory between religions...and I think I'm learning how to value that.

More to come, I'm sure.

Peace,
Justin

Watching the Simpsons of the last four or five years is a little like having your 95-year-old grandma to Sunday dinner...

You love your grandmother. You have many, many happy memories with her. She has been so good to you for so many years. She was a crucial part of you growing up, and you often spent all week looking forward to a happy Sunday spent with her. Her contribution to your life is immeasurable, and you will always be grateful...

...but now, things are starting to go. You love her, and you want the best for her, and it pains you to see her slowly failing. She doesn't remember who she was, her thoughts are often rambling and incoherent, she keeps telling the same stories over and over again. And, periodically, she pees her pants.

You don't laugh, because it's not funny. It's sad. Every week you hope she'll be more like she use to be than like she is. And you work hard to remember the younger, present, coherent, dignified woman she used to be You still keep inviting her to Sunday dinners because of all she has done for you. But it's not fun anymore...it's more for her than for you.

So, with that in mind, I offer this open letter to the producers of The Simpsons:

Dear James L. Brooks, Sam Simon, and Matt Groening,

I love your show. I have loved your show from its first season. I owned and proudly wore my "Who The Hell Are You?" tee to my eighth grade Catholic school math class, knowing full well I would be asked to remove it in lieu of a school-issued lost-and-found tee, complete with a note sent home to my mother. I gladly accepted this persecution...damn near proudly...because it was for The Simpsons, the first prime-time show in my lifetime with the guts to tell it like is, the willingness to offend me, and the humor to make me laugh about it. Your show changed television forever, and forever upped the bar for comedy TV, cartoons, and adult prime-time entertainment. You created a cultural mega-icon that changed the way we think about marriage, gender roles, politics, religion, and what's really funny, and I am forever grateful.

In that gratitude, I'd like to entreat you to please stop making your show. Please let the film project quietly disappear, let the existing merchandise work it's way through the gift-shops and fast-food happy meals, and let this season's episodes stay vaulted until they can be gifted to your great-grandchildren as a personal reminder of your powerful legacy. Please stop production on everything Simpsons, save for the DVD sets of your existing shows.

I want to remember you as you were, and not as you are now. I want to remember a show that is fresh, clever, biting, subversive, fearless, counter-cultural, and, most of all, funny. Before the weekly random guest-stars, before the nonsensical rambling plot-lines, before Homer went pseduo-effeminate and clinically retarded, before your writers started taking the easy jokes and kitschy pop-culture slams, and before you accurately recognized that true Simpsons fans will watch anything, and were willing to rest into complacency with your ideation and writing.

I want to celebrate everything you were. I continue to tune in every week out of respect...which is my choice, and for which I can't hold you accountable...but I have to admit, I keep hoping every week that you've been canceled. I want to relish my Simpsons DVD's (I will continue to buy them the day they come out...all the way through Season 11) and watch and re-watch your brilliant show in its prime.

Please, save your dignity, and make sure your legacy gets the celebrated and virtually untarnished reputation it deserves. After holding out hope for the last four or five years that you would go out strong, the unfortunate truth is that I'm now begging you to just go out.

Please let me enjoy The Simpsons for its brilliant inception and eleven brilliant seasons. Please stop making The Simpsons, and let's celebrate your hard work together with a glass of champagne as we watch and laugh at those magnificent years.

Thanks.

Respectfully,
Justin Masterson

I have reason to believe that nearly a dozen uteruses are conspiring against me.

In the last six months, approximately all of our friends either got pregnant or had babies. It's not a perfect statistic, but it's pretty damn close.

When the first couple were born, I thought, "Wow, how cool...what are the odds of two of my friends having babies at the same time? I should introduce them...perhaps the little bundles of cry could play together some day." When the next couple were born, I thought, "Wow, how fortunate...that God, in all of His generous bounty, had decided to bless our community of friends with such a cornucopia of little souls for us to tend to." When the next couple were born, I thought, "Wow, how creepy...the condoms around here sure are unreliable." Finally, when the most recent six were born and four more friends got pregnant...the truth became all too clear...

...there is a global conspiracy to try to get me to have a baby.

Somewhere underneath the streets of Cincinnati there is a an underground HQ, complete with large-screen plasma displays constantly updating with new pregnancy info, vertical pieces of glass that you can write on with markers from both sides in order to chart my progress, and a big black onyx table where all of the women in my life meet to plot every nuanced move necessary to change my heart from irresponsible young ragamuffin to responsible, reliable Pop.

...and at the head of that table sits my dear wife...hands tented together, head tilted slightly downward, an evil grin on her face and holding another picture of another cousin who just gave birth to another wrinkly squish-dough screamster.

...


Here's the weird part: it's kind of working. No, I'm not the hardened, wild-oats sowing bachelor who is turning into a big soft teddy bear. I was never that wild, and I'm not that teddybeary now. But my heart is changing. I think I like babies...at least a bit. More likely a lot.

My favorite part is when I get to be one-on-one with them. Nobody taking a picture of me holding the baby, nobody asking me how I'd like to be a daddy, nobody gesturing with their elbow at me holding the baby and then knowingly winking at Stacy. Just me and the baby...little, breathing, warm, helpless, surreal and perfect. That's my favorite part.

I want a son. I want a daughter. I want a newborn baby that kind of looks like me and kind of looks like Stacy and mostly looks like an old man. I want to hold my baby and know that I don't have to give her back. I want to wonder what my tiny son will be like when he's done fighting to stay asleep at night and has begun pulling the covers over his own head to dampen the wail of the alarm clock so he can stay in bed for a few more minutes. I want to fear the rise and fall of her chest, impossibly small and complex in my hand, as her eyes dart wildly beneath closed lids in her newborn dreams. I want a son to teach, a daughter to be perplexed by, and Saturday mornings of fallen Cheerios and headless Barbies.

I want it to be safe, I want it to be scary, I want it to go right and I want to build a rebel. I don't know what I want, but I want the experience as much as I fear it.

We're thinking about it. I'm thinking about it. A lot.

Peace,
Justin