The following is the most romantic post about stomach flu you'll read all day...
I got sick this week. Quite sick. The kind of sick you don't talk about at dinner parties. And for the last 36 hours or so I've been lying on my couch waiting for the sick to pass. And, lying in the overstuffed and oversized chair five feet from me has been my also very sick wife. (It seems she got me sick with the flu she had last week...and, not to be outdone, I returned the favor this week. I didn't think it was possible either, but then again, here we are). We have spent the last day-and-a-half trying to sleep, trading turns in the bathroom, and trying to guess how long ago four hours ago was so that we can take the next batch of Tylenol.
OK...I'll give you...not a formula for high romance.
However, for some reason, it was romantic. We were sharing the experience together. We took care of each other, watched each other get worse, and we've begun to watch each other get better. We called out quietly for one another in the hot and wakeful midnight hours, and we did so hoping that, for some reason, the other person would be awake enough to respond, just so we know that they're there. We hoped for each other, and even prayed for each other a little bit. We loved each other in our sickness...the kind of love that is bigger than grossiness and pukiness and trashcans by the bedside.
I loved my wife today...and she loved me. It's a strange thing to say, but I actually enjoyed being sick with Stacy. Being sick is life, and I love having life with her.
Peace,
Justin
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Saturday, May 06, 2006
I've been trying to post for two weeks about something I'm not sure how to talk about...
I have written a number of posts, edited them, and deleted them...all because I'm not sure how to say what I want to say on this very difficult and inflammatory issue, about which I am extremely emotionally connected.
All to no avail. So...on the excellent advice of my friend Steve...I've promised myself I'm just gonna write it and let it be what it is. Here is what I've been trying to say:
...
...I think being an illegal should be illegal.
...
...
...there, I've said it.
Whew...that feels better.
I'll expound a little.
I tend to think of myself as a liberal, progressive, dare I say Democratic kind of guy. I tend to think that I'm a compassionate kind of guy...at least in certain squishy areas of humankind. I also tend to think that I tend to speak without thinking, so I took some extra time to think about this one before I started speaking. And I still think being an illegal should be illegal.
If you've turned on the TV...or the radio...or the newspaper...(let that one go)...you've surely seen the great debate on immigration in America. Or, more specifically, the debate on Hispanic immigration into America. Nobody seems too concerned about the extraordinary number of people from India, or Korea, or China, or Eastern Africa who are streaming into the United States. And there's a perfectly good reason for that...
...they came here legally.
What's pissing everybody off is that people from Cuba are floating in on rafts, people from the D.R. are stowing away in the bottoms of freighters, and people from Mexico are t across the border in the middle of the night to get into this country. And get in they are...to the tune of an estimated 700% growth in illegal Hispanics living in the U.S. over the last ten years.
...wait, I'm not done. That part isn't pissing everybody off. In fact, as you may have noticed, illegal Hispanic workers have been living in the U.S. for quite some time, and doing a fine job at it. I don't know who was legal and who was illegal, but I know that Hispanic workers with very little English at their disposal have cooked my meals, mowed the lawn where I work, constructed my gym, cleaned my hotel rooms, delivered my Chinese food (which was a strange surprise), and so much more. And you didn't hear me complaining. They work cheap, they work hard, and they seemed happy enough.
That's where we get to the part where everybody is pissed off.
The seemed happy enough...for a while. And then, protests started. Protests about equal pay for equal work, protests about getting social services and schooling for the children of illegal immigrants, protests about minimum wage increases...and...here's my very favorite...protests about the U.S. Government's attempt to enforce and toughen immigration laws.
You know what, let's change the POV here to make things easier...
---
The following is an open lettter to pissed off illegal Hispanic immigrants:
---
Dear pissed off illegal Hispanic immigrants,
Thank you for doing all that hard work for me. You do really good work...truthfully, you do better work than I would have done, and you worked twice as hard without complaining. Thank you for doing that...I'm really glad that you chose to do that work, and I'm thankful that I could benefit from your tremendous work ethic.
However, I'm a bit concerned. You see...you're not supposed to be here. I know it sounds insensitive and elitist...but I'm actually just telling you what the law says. The law says that you're not supposed to be here. It says that you're welcome in this country...as tired and/or poor as you may be...and that you may come and work our fertile lands to make your living. All you have to do is what everyone else on the planet who wants to come and work in America has to...you have to apply, and you have to be accepted. I'm sorry that we let you make your living here without kicking you out sooner, because I can see why you'd get the impression you had the right to be here after a few years of nobody saying anything. That was our bad. But now you need to go home.
You see, I have a good friend named Maria. Maria is a brilliant woman, and a gifted lawyer. She wants to move to America from Peru so she can be a lawyer in the US and make a life for herself here. She went to school here on an educational visa, she fell in love with an American man, and now she wants to work here. She applied for a work visa and was denied, unfortunately, so she went back to Peru where she now waits for a chance to return to America, see her love again, and try to get a visa again. She's playing by the rules, and it hurts her. My prayer is that she gets her visa, moves here, and gets married to that man. My hope is that she may even some day wish to be a citizen of the US, though I will always respect her even if she doesn't.
So, here's the thing...I don't think you should be here. You weren't invited, you weren't cleared, and you sure as heck weren't approved for a work visa. In fact, we did everything we could to keep you out...we spent millions and millions of dollars building fences and hiring guys to drive up and down the border, just so you wouldn't come. But you made it through our fences, and you made it past our guards, and somehow you made your way into your current job. I admire your courage and your resolve...but you still shouldn't be here. This isn't "Red Rover"...just because you made it across the border and through the locked arms of the patrol doesn't mean you get to stay on this side. You don't get to stay, you don't get to work, and you sure as shit don't get to live off our social services.
You are here against the laws of this country. You broke the law, and like any other resident of the US who breaks the law, you are subject to consequences. You can march in the streets, sing our anthem in your language, and fly your flag above ours...you may be as polite or rude as you like (that's the beauty of our first amendment), but you're still here illegally. And until we make running over the border in the middle of the night a legal shortcut to the immigration process, you will remain illegal.
It sucks that you come from a shitty country. It sucks that I was fortunate enough to be born into a free country with great opportunity, and that you weren't. I hope that your country changes, and I hope that my country changes its laws so that good people can find good homes here easily. But that hasn't happened yet, and you're not supposed to be here.
Go home, find the application office for an American work visa, and get in line. While you're there, look for Maria...I'm praying she's up near the front.
Good luck,
Justin
---
Peace,
Justin
I have written a number of posts, edited them, and deleted them...all because I'm not sure how to say what I want to say on this very difficult and inflammatory issue, about which I am extremely emotionally connected.
All to no avail. So...on the excellent advice of my friend Steve...I've promised myself I'm just gonna write it and let it be what it is. Here is what I've been trying to say:
...
...I think being an illegal should be illegal.
...
...
...there, I've said it.
Whew...that feels better.
I'll expound a little.
I tend to think of myself as a liberal, progressive, dare I say Democratic kind of guy. I tend to think that I'm a compassionate kind of guy...at least in certain squishy areas of humankind. I also tend to think that I tend to speak without thinking, so I took some extra time to think about this one before I started speaking. And I still think being an illegal should be illegal.
If you've turned on the TV...or the radio...or the newspaper...(let that one go)...you've surely seen the great debate on immigration in America. Or, more specifically, the debate on Hispanic immigration into America. Nobody seems too concerned about the extraordinary number of people from India, or Korea, or China, or Eastern Africa who are streaming into the United States. And there's a perfectly good reason for that...
...they came here legally.
What's pissing everybody off is that people from Cuba are floating in on rafts, people from the D.R. are stowing away in the bottoms of freighters, and people from Mexico are t across the border in the middle of the night to get into this country. And get in they are...to the tune of an estimated 700% growth in illegal Hispanics living in the U.S. over the last ten years.
...wait, I'm not done. That part isn't pissing everybody off. In fact, as you may have noticed, illegal Hispanic workers have been living in the U.S. for quite some time, and doing a fine job at it. I don't know who was legal and who was illegal, but I know that Hispanic workers with very little English at their disposal have cooked my meals, mowed the lawn where I work, constructed my gym, cleaned my hotel rooms, delivered my Chinese food (which was a strange surprise), and so much more. And you didn't hear me complaining. They work cheap, they work hard, and they seemed happy enough.
That's where we get to the part where everybody is pissed off.
The seemed happy enough...for a while. And then, protests started. Protests about equal pay for equal work, protests about getting social services and schooling for the children of illegal immigrants, protests about minimum wage increases...and...here's my very favorite...protests about the U.S. Government's attempt to enforce and toughen immigration laws.
You know what, let's change the POV here to make things easier...
---
The following is an open lettter to pissed off illegal Hispanic immigrants:
---
Dear pissed off illegal Hispanic immigrants,
Thank you for doing all that hard work for me. You do really good work...truthfully, you do better work than I would have done, and you worked twice as hard without complaining. Thank you for doing that...I'm really glad that you chose to do that work, and I'm thankful that I could benefit from your tremendous work ethic.
However, I'm a bit concerned. You see...you're not supposed to be here. I know it sounds insensitive and elitist...but I'm actually just telling you what the law says. The law says that you're not supposed to be here. It says that you're welcome in this country...as tired and/or poor as you may be...and that you may come and work our fertile lands to make your living. All you have to do is what everyone else on the planet who wants to come and work in America has to...you have to apply, and you have to be accepted. I'm sorry that we let you make your living here without kicking you out sooner, because I can see why you'd get the impression you had the right to be here after a few years of nobody saying anything. That was our bad. But now you need to go home.
You see, I have a good friend named Maria. Maria is a brilliant woman, and a gifted lawyer. She wants to move to America from Peru so she can be a lawyer in the US and make a life for herself here. She went to school here on an educational visa, she fell in love with an American man, and now she wants to work here. She applied for a work visa and was denied, unfortunately, so she went back to Peru where she now waits for a chance to return to America, see her love again, and try to get a visa again. She's playing by the rules, and it hurts her. My prayer is that she gets her visa, moves here, and gets married to that man. My hope is that she may even some day wish to be a citizen of the US, though I will always respect her even if she doesn't.
So, here's the thing...I don't think you should be here. You weren't invited, you weren't cleared, and you sure as heck weren't approved for a work visa. In fact, we did everything we could to keep you out...we spent millions and millions of dollars building fences and hiring guys to drive up and down the border, just so you wouldn't come. But you made it through our fences, and you made it past our guards, and somehow you made your way into your current job. I admire your courage and your resolve...but you still shouldn't be here. This isn't "Red Rover"...just because you made it across the border and through the locked arms of the patrol doesn't mean you get to stay on this side. You don't get to stay, you don't get to work, and you sure as shit don't get to live off our social services.
You are here against the laws of this country. You broke the law, and like any other resident of the US who breaks the law, you are subject to consequences. You can march in the streets, sing our anthem in your language, and fly your flag above ours...you may be as polite or rude as you like (that's the beauty of our first amendment), but you're still here illegally. And until we make running over the border in the middle of the night a legal shortcut to the immigration process, you will remain illegal.
It sucks that you come from a shitty country. It sucks that I was fortunate enough to be born into a free country with great opportunity, and that you weren't. I hope that your country changes, and I hope that my country changes its laws so that good people can find good homes here easily. But that hasn't happened yet, and you're not supposed to be here.
Go home, find the application office for an American work visa, and get in line. While you're there, look for Maria...I'm praying she's up near the front.
Good luck,
Justin
---
Peace,
Justin
Monday, April 24, 2006
I've been neither funny nor clever in recent days, and as much as I'd like to post my shopping list and a copy of my insurance policy, I thought I'd post something of real content.
This is a blog entry from someone who I don't know who that someone is. Another someone sent it to me, and I thought it was both brilliant and sort of stupid at times. I thought the collective you might like it.
------
When you build up a structure and slap the word church on a sign out front, it becomes very easy for people to forget that church is not a place to go once a week, but rather something that we are. Uh oh, here I go...
Forgive me, but I dont need a weekly program of rehearsed hooky tunes followed by a barrage of announcements and a puffy theological dissertation. I dont need cell groups, home groups, singles groups, young married groups or mens groups. Frankly, I'm pretty grouped out. What I need is fellowship. Not "Fellowship Bible" or "Fellowship Community" or "Fellowship Covenant" or "Fellowship Baptist." I need community. Not "Christ Community" or "Faith Community" or "Real Life Community." And dont get me started on grace. God knows we need that, but not in the form of another catchy church name. I don't need to read another trite quip on a marquis telling me that a church is "prayer conditioned" or that "regular bible check ups prevent truth decay." And I don't need to be professionally greeted at the door of the sanctuary. I need to be known, not counted and alphabetized. After all, Mr. Greeter, is it really nice to see me, or are you just happy to see another seat filled? No, I don't want a bulletin. Associate Pastor Whats-His-Name is going to read it all to me during the prayer-slash-announcement time anyway. Besides, it's a good way for him to squeeze in some face time between "worship" and the offering. Oh excuse me, I mean "tithe" (the word church leadership uses to ensure Gods promises will be fulfilled to His people). The "freedom isn't free" sales pitch: Freedom comes at a cost! And that cost is 10 percent of everything you have. But if you're a guest, please don't feel obligated to give (only members should feel obligated). Excuse me, do you not see that we are clinging so desperately to these laws that Jesus [admittedly] lived to fulfill, but also bled and died to free us from? James says if you take on one law you must carry the weight of the entire law on your shoulders. Brothers and sisters, that is not a burden we were meant to carry in light of the finishing work of Christ! Tithe is merely a control device for leaders who can't trust the work of the Holy Spirit in the Body if Christ (or who don't understand that we have been freed from those regulations and rules). It's the same thing they did back in the early church with circumcision. Am I saying we shouldn't give? By no means! The apostle Paul has plenty to say about that. He said that we should excel in the grace of giving just as we excel in the other good gifts (he also had a teensy weensy tiny bit to say about the end of the law too, which includes the mandate of tithing). I didn't want to get started on tithe. Guess its too late for that. This is not merely a piece on tithing. Rather, it is a satirical challenge issued to the prodigal church of America.
You see, we don't need churches with schedules to keep, fundraisers to promote, and people to reintroduce to life under law. No thanks. I'm over that. What I need is a safe place for people who know each other intimately and, at a moments notice, can lay hands on one other and exercise their gifts with confidence and without fear. Gifts like prophecy and healing. It isn't wrong for me to desire a place where I can come to be prayed over without the formality of a scheduled altar call at the end of a service. Besides, what kind of service is it to erect a building and obligate everyone to come and help pay the utility bills, outrageous mortgages, expansion funds, and salaries (for a staff who claims to equip, but mostly enables laziness amongst the members by doing all the work for them) when there are congregants who can't find healing from a common cold, let alone afford to pay their own rent? And when we do attempt to reach out to those people, we stamp our church brand all over the project and piously advertise our "mission."
Is that authenticity? Yes, it is very authentic. But I can take you out in my back yard and show you something very authentic that my dog left behind - and no amount of clever marketing will make it stink any less. We don't need authenticity. We need truth. And truth is not a marketing strategy. It is not programmed. Truth is only a formula when it is math. The gospel is not math. It is not an equation. It is mystery - mystery revealed in the person of Christ our Deliverer, who never prepared a four point sermon, rented out a billboard, or handed out a tract. He taught, he corrected, he rebuked, he interacted, he had compassion, he healed, he prayed, he studied, he believed in others, he cared for the poor, he had close friends who knew him well, and he looked people in the eyes simply because he took the time to. But most of all, he loved. And that's the truth.
-----
What do you think?
Peace,
Justin
This is a blog entry from someone who I don't know who that someone is. Another someone sent it to me, and I thought it was both brilliant and sort of stupid at times. I thought the collective you might like it.
------
When you build up a structure and slap the word church on a sign out front, it becomes very easy for people to forget that church is not a place to go once a week, but rather something that we are. Uh oh, here I go...
Forgive me, but I dont need a weekly program of rehearsed hooky tunes followed by a barrage of announcements and a puffy theological dissertation. I dont need cell groups, home groups, singles groups, young married groups or mens groups. Frankly, I'm pretty grouped out. What I need is fellowship. Not "Fellowship Bible" or "Fellowship Community" or "Fellowship Covenant" or "Fellowship Baptist." I need community. Not "Christ Community" or "Faith Community" or "Real Life Community." And dont get me started on grace. God knows we need that, but not in the form of another catchy church name. I don't need to read another trite quip on a marquis telling me that a church is "prayer conditioned" or that "regular bible check ups prevent truth decay." And I don't need to be professionally greeted at the door of the sanctuary. I need to be known, not counted and alphabetized. After all, Mr. Greeter, is it really nice to see me, or are you just happy to see another seat filled? No, I don't want a bulletin. Associate Pastor Whats-His-Name is going to read it all to me during the prayer-slash-announcement time anyway. Besides, it's a good way for him to squeeze in some face time between "worship" and the offering. Oh excuse me, I mean "tithe" (the word church leadership uses to ensure Gods promises will be fulfilled to His people). The "freedom isn't free" sales pitch: Freedom comes at a cost! And that cost is 10 percent of everything you have. But if you're a guest, please don't feel obligated to give (only members should feel obligated). Excuse me, do you not see that we are clinging so desperately to these laws that Jesus [admittedly] lived to fulfill, but also bled and died to free us from? James says if you take on one law you must carry the weight of the entire law on your shoulders. Brothers and sisters, that is not a burden we were meant to carry in light of the finishing work of Christ! Tithe is merely a control device for leaders who can't trust the work of the Holy Spirit in the Body if Christ (or who don't understand that we have been freed from those regulations and rules). It's the same thing they did back in the early church with circumcision. Am I saying we shouldn't give? By no means! The apostle Paul has plenty to say about that. He said that we should excel in the grace of giving just as we excel in the other good gifts (he also had a teensy weensy tiny bit to say about the end of the law too, which includes the mandate of tithing). I didn't want to get started on tithe. Guess its too late for that. This is not merely a piece on tithing. Rather, it is a satirical challenge issued to the prodigal church of America.
You see, we don't need churches with schedules to keep, fundraisers to promote, and people to reintroduce to life under law. No thanks. I'm over that. What I need is a safe place for people who know each other intimately and, at a moments notice, can lay hands on one other and exercise their gifts with confidence and without fear. Gifts like prophecy and healing. It isn't wrong for me to desire a place where I can come to be prayed over without the formality of a scheduled altar call at the end of a service. Besides, what kind of service is it to erect a building and obligate everyone to come and help pay the utility bills, outrageous mortgages, expansion funds, and salaries (for a staff who claims to equip, but mostly enables laziness amongst the members by doing all the work for them) when there are congregants who can't find healing from a common cold, let alone afford to pay their own rent? And when we do attempt to reach out to those people, we stamp our church brand all over the project and piously advertise our "mission."
Is that authenticity? Yes, it is very authentic. But I can take you out in my back yard and show you something very authentic that my dog left behind - and no amount of clever marketing will make it stink any less. We don't need authenticity. We need truth. And truth is not a marketing strategy. It is not programmed. Truth is only a formula when it is math. The gospel is not math. It is not an equation. It is mystery - mystery revealed in the person of Christ our Deliverer, who never prepared a four point sermon, rented out a billboard, or handed out a tract. He taught, he corrected, he rebuked, he interacted, he had compassion, he healed, he prayed, he studied, he believed in others, he cared for the poor, he had close friends who knew him well, and he looked people in the eyes simply because he took the time to. But most of all, he loved. And that's the truth.
-----
What do you think?
Peace,
Justin
Monday, April 10, 2006
I just had a terrifying dream.
I tend to dream vividly, and, fortunately, I tend to demonstrate no hint of a gift for prophecy in my dreaming. Which is comforting when you have the dream I just woke up from.
Bear with me...it may be hard to follow...
I dreamt that I was on a gameshow. I don't remember much about the gameshow, other than at the very end, it was possible to run up a giant ramp and grab a big TV and slide down with it. (Your prize was that you got to keep the TV). My brothers and I were competing as a team on this show, and I was the last to go. I ran as fast as I could, I grabbed the TV, and I got it back before the buzzer. (This is not the bad part of the dream). I handed it to my older brother and we all celebrated.
Then, something happened. I don't remember precisely what, but something. Somebody criticized me for not doing it fast enough, I think. I was hurt, and yelled back. Fine, no big deal. But the conversation escalated into a full-blown argument, which escalated into a full-blown fight. Once again, I don't remember why, and I don't think it matters much why. All I know, is I felt a rage boiling up in me, and I'm pretty sure that's why I had the dream in the first place...to address that feeling. Our verbal fight soon became a physical confrontation, and my twin brother, at this point, was smart enough to walk away. That left me and my older brother. I felt like he painted me into a corner...he had called me irresponsible and foolish, and had threatened to prove it to everyone I knew. The only thing I had left was my weight to push around, so I did. I attacked him, and I did so viciously. It was a good fight, and it should have been a fair fight...it was on paper, anyway. I did not significantly out-strength or out-skill him...it's just that I was so angry, I went nuts on him...and really hurt him. And I was glad.
...I wish the story ended there. I love my brother very much, and that was bad enough. But it didn't end there....
...On the way out the door, as my brother lay beaten on the floor behind me, I ran into a friend of mine. My friend is a she and she is a good friend and a good person. She asked what was going on, and I tried to explain why what had happened was totally reasonable and how I was pushed to it. She became frightened and angry and...worst of all...disappointed in me. She began to yell at me and even worse, I could see in her eyes that she didn't trust me. (BTW, I'm fairly sure she represented Stacy...because while I like this friend and all, I don't have the sort of heart investment in her that would make this dream as scary as it was. My guess is that my subconscious couldn't handle the thought of this being Stacy, so it made the nightmare more bearable by making it someone else). She saw me as a different person, and despite all of the relationship equity that we had built up over the years, it was all forgotten because of one bad choice. She threatened to tell everyone what a monster I was. I felt painted into a corner. I was angry, hurt, and felt trapped. (Are you seeing a pattern yet?) She tried to leave...so I hit her.
...I couldn't believe it. This strange gameshow dream had turned into a horrible nightmare...and it wasn't a nightmare where I'm chased by a knife-weilding psycho or confronted by an armed mugger on a dark street. In this dream, the psycho was me, the mugger was me...and that was even more terrifying.
I hit her twice. She fell to the ground, bruised and a little bloody, and yelled for help. Nobody came. As soon as I had done it, I knew it was wrong, and I immediately begun to apologize. I tried to help her up, but it was too late...she wouldn't let me come near her (and with good reason). She called the police from her cell phone. My she called my twin brother, and my parents, and even a couple of friends of mine who are much, much bigger than I am...just to protect her from me. They showed up, they comforted her, and they told me how despicable and disgusting I am. They stared at me with disappointed and hateful eyes. A couple of the men threatened to kill me if they ever heard that I did this again. In short, they did what I would do if I heard this about someone I knew.
The last thing I remember is my twin brother looking at me with a hurt, anger and disappointment and saying, "you're disgusting." That's when I woke up, and that's when I started to write this blog entry.
...please bear in mind, I have NEVER hit my wife. Nor any other woman. I haven't even been in a fight with another man for years. I am, for the most part, a gentle person who keeps his fists reserved to the punching bag, not for hurting others. I have never hit a woman, and that's part of why this bothered me so much. Why would I have a dream like this? Am I secretly a wife-beating husband? Am I harboring some deep resentment I don't know about? Am I truly dangerous?
This was a horrible dream. I woke up sweating and scared. I want to dismiss it and forget it, but my mind doesn't work that way. The best way to deal with it, for me, was to write it down. So I have.
I scared myself this morning.
Peace,
Justin
I tend to dream vividly, and, fortunately, I tend to demonstrate no hint of a gift for prophecy in my dreaming. Which is comforting when you have the dream I just woke up from.
Bear with me...it may be hard to follow...
I dreamt that I was on a gameshow. I don't remember much about the gameshow, other than at the very end, it was possible to run up a giant ramp and grab a big TV and slide down with it. (Your prize was that you got to keep the TV). My brothers and I were competing as a team on this show, and I was the last to go. I ran as fast as I could, I grabbed the TV, and I got it back before the buzzer. (This is not the bad part of the dream). I handed it to my older brother and we all celebrated.
Then, something happened. I don't remember precisely what, but something. Somebody criticized me for not doing it fast enough, I think. I was hurt, and yelled back. Fine, no big deal. But the conversation escalated into a full-blown argument, which escalated into a full-blown fight. Once again, I don't remember why, and I don't think it matters much why. All I know, is I felt a rage boiling up in me, and I'm pretty sure that's why I had the dream in the first place...to address that feeling. Our verbal fight soon became a physical confrontation, and my twin brother, at this point, was smart enough to walk away. That left me and my older brother. I felt like he painted me into a corner...he had called me irresponsible and foolish, and had threatened to prove it to everyone I knew. The only thing I had left was my weight to push around, so I did. I attacked him, and I did so viciously. It was a good fight, and it should have been a fair fight...it was on paper, anyway. I did not significantly out-strength or out-skill him...it's just that I was so angry, I went nuts on him...and really hurt him. And I was glad.
...I wish the story ended there. I love my brother very much, and that was bad enough. But it didn't end there....
...On the way out the door, as my brother lay beaten on the floor behind me, I ran into a friend of mine. My friend is a she and she is a good friend and a good person. She asked what was going on, and I tried to explain why what had happened was totally reasonable and how I was pushed to it. She became frightened and angry and...worst of all...disappointed in me. She began to yell at me and even worse, I could see in her eyes that she didn't trust me. (BTW, I'm fairly sure she represented Stacy...because while I like this friend and all, I don't have the sort of heart investment in her that would make this dream as scary as it was. My guess is that my subconscious couldn't handle the thought of this being Stacy, so it made the nightmare more bearable by making it someone else). She saw me as a different person, and despite all of the relationship equity that we had built up over the years, it was all forgotten because of one bad choice. She threatened to tell everyone what a monster I was. I felt painted into a corner. I was angry, hurt, and felt trapped. (Are you seeing a pattern yet?) She tried to leave...so I hit her.
...I couldn't believe it. This strange gameshow dream had turned into a horrible nightmare...and it wasn't a nightmare where I'm chased by a knife-weilding psycho or confronted by an armed mugger on a dark street. In this dream, the psycho was me, the mugger was me...and that was even more terrifying.
I hit her twice. She fell to the ground, bruised and a little bloody, and yelled for help. Nobody came. As soon as I had done it, I knew it was wrong, and I immediately begun to apologize. I tried to help her up, but it was too late...she wouldn't let me come near her (and with good reason). She called the police from her cell phone. My she called my twin brother, and my parents, and even a couple of friends of mine who are much, much bigger than I am...just to protect her from me. They showed up, they comforted her, and they told me how despicable and disgusting I am. They stared at me with disappointed and hateful eyes. A couple of the men threatened to kill me if they ever heard that I did this again. In short, they did what I would do if I heard this about someone I knew.
The last thing I remember is my twin brother looking at me with a hurt, anger and disappointment and saying, "you're disgusting." That's when I woke up, and that's when I started to write this blog entry.
...please bear in mind, I have NEVER hit my wife. Nor any other woman. I haven't even been in a fight with another man for years. I am, for the most part, a gentle person who keeps his fists reserved to the punching bag, not for hurting others. I have never hit a woman, and that's part of why this bothered me so much. Why would I have a dream like this? Am I secretly a wife-beating husband? Am I harboring some deep resentment I don't know about? Am I truly dangerous?
This was a horrible dream. I woke up sweating and scared. I want to dismiss it and forget it, but my mind doesn't work that way. The best way to deal with it, for me, was to write it down. So I have.
I scared myself this morning.
Peace,
Justin
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
I'll give you... a space western is stupid.
...That's why it surprised me so much when I fell spurs-over-lasers in love with one.
Truthfully, I only kind of like cowboy flicks (save for Young Guns II and Tombstone...pseudo-cowboy, but fine filmmaking), and I really can't tolerate science-fiction. Star Wars makes me angry, Star Trek bores me and Star Crunch tastes like chocolate-covered boogers. (OK, I like Star Crunch, and it tastes nothing like boogers, but points are best made in threes).
So, when my friend Allan told me to pop in a DVD of a failed TV series from 2002 called "Firefly," I kept waiting for the punchline. However, it was better than editing the video I was supposed to be editing at the time, so I tuned in.
Holy....
...
....shit.
I have never loved a television series more. I have never had more heart investment, more head investment, and more wallet investment in a television series. I've bought the series DVD set twice, I bought the movie version twice (which we'll get to in a minute), I bought the comic book, and...good lord...I even bought the action figures. I love each of the ten principal characters with an interest that borders on perversion, when you consider that all of them are fictional, and when you consider that one of them is a spaceship. I've found myself using words like "Warp drive," "Grav-boot," and "Pert Near" in casual conversation. I've even cussed in Chinese once, which may seem odd, but it makes sense when you see the show. I listen to the podcasts about the show, I keep up with websites about the show, and I'm even a member of a couple of them.
I...am...a...geek.
I didn't mean to be. I've actually been in a six-month-long get-cooler regimen, including new clothes, frequent haircuts, and a scented spray I'm told is made of toilet water. This regimen isn't actually making me any cooler, but at least it's expensive. But this whole "Firefly" thing is really screwing things up.
It's the writing more than anything. The writing is so....so....so well-done. The writer, Joss Whedon, writes like I would if I were twice as smart and thrice as clever. It's deep...it's meaningful. Like, actually meaningful...it's about God, it's about family, it's about love, it's about trust, fear, gender roles, free speech, prostitution, God, the government, and sometimes it's about guns. The acting is almost entirely brilliant, with some exceptions, and even those exceptions are poorly-acted resucitated by well-written.
The show was cancelled because nobody watched it. Nobody watched it because it was on against something that was apparently much more interesting, and because Fox made them play the episodes out of order, so they made no sense. It also failed because "Space Western" is a pretty stupid idea.
But it worked. It totally worked. It is powerful, and it is profound.
The show failed, but the fans spread the word. They did such a good job, that the DVD sales of the failed show (it lasted less than a season) blew away expectations. They had to do a second and a third run...they flew off the shelves, and as word spread, they did more flying. They sold so many that Universal Studios picked up the failed (now extremely profitable) TV show and did the unprecendented and unthinkable...they made a big-budget movie out of it. The movie is called "Serenity," and it's a phenomenon.
Please please go rent the movie. If you can't rent it, borrow it from me. If you don't know me, buy it on Amazon. Better yet, buy the series. Watch at least three episodes. If you don't like it after that, I'll buy it from you.
I hate science fiction. I love Firefly. Go see Serenity, go and buy Firefly.
Now, I have some geekdom to get to.
Peace,
Justin
...That's why it surprised me so much when I fell spurs-over-lasers in love with one.
Truthfully, I only kind of like cowboy flicks (save for Young Guns II and Tombstone...pseudo-cowboy, but fine filmmaking), and I really can't tolerate science-fiction. Star Wars makes me angry, Star Trek bores me and Star Crunch tastes like chocolate-covered boogers. (OK, I like Star Crunch, and it tastes nothing like boogers, but points are best made in threes).
So, when my friend Allan told me to pop in a DVD of a failed TV series from 2002 called "Firefly," I kept waiting for the punchline. However, it was better than editing the video I was supposed to be editing at the time, so I tuned in.
Holy....
...
....shit.
I have never loved a television series more. I have never had more heart investment, more head investment, and more wallet investment in a television series. I've bought the series DVD set twice, I bought the movie version twice (which we'll get to in a minute), I bought the comic book, and...good lord...I even bought the action figures. I love each of the ten principal characters with an interest that borders on perversion, when you consider that all of them are fictional, and when you consider that one of them is a spaceship. I've found myself using words like "Warp drive," "Grav-boot," and "Pert Near" in casual conversation. I've even cussed in Chinese once, which may seem odd, but it makes sense when you see the show. I listen to the podcasts about the show, I keep up with websites about the show, and
I...am...a...geek.
I didn't mean to be. I've actually been in a six-month-long get-cooler regimen, including new clothes, frequent haircuts, and a scented spray I'm told is made of toilet water. This regimen isn't actually making me any cooler, but at least it's expensive. But this whole "Firefly" thing is really screwing things up.
It's the writing more than anything. The writing is so....so....so well-done. The writer, Joss Whedon, writes like I would if I were twice as smart and thrice as clever. It's deep...it's meaningful. Like, actually meaningful...it's about God, it's about family, it's about love, it's about trust, fear, gender roles, free speech, prostitution, God, the government, and sometimes it's about guns. The acting is almost entirely brilliant, with some exceptions, and even those exceptions are poorly-acted resucitated by well-written.
The show was cancelled because nobody watched it. Nobody watched it because it was on against something that was apparently much more interesting, and because Fox made them play the episodes out of order, so they made no sense. It also failed because "Space Western" is a pretty stupid idea.
But it worked. It totally worked. It is powerful, and it is profound.
The show failed, but the fans spread the word. They did such a good job, that the DVD sales of the failed show (it lasted less than a season) blew away expectations. They had to do a second and a third run...they flew off the shelves, and as word spread, they did more flying. They sold so many that Universal Studios picked up the failed (now extremely profitable) TV show and did the unprecendented and unthinkable...they made a big-budget movie out of it. The movie is called "Serenity," and it's a phenomenon.
Please please go rent the movie. If you can't rent it, borrow it from me. If you don't know me, buy it on Amazon. Better yet, buy the series. Watch at least three episodes. If you don't like it after that, I'll buy it from you.
I hate science fiction. I love Firefly. Go see Serenity, go and buy Firefly.
Now, I have some geekdom to get to.
Peace,
Justin
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Transvestites make the best freaking moccachinos.
...at least, that's been my experience.
Yesterday, Stacy and I followed the advice of a good friend to check out the isolated little burg of Yellow Springs, Ohio. It's about an hour northeast of Cincy, and is the home to Antioch College, WYSO, and Dave Chappelle. It is also a little island of liberal thought in an otherwise uber-conservative state. The "downtown" area consists of about three blocks of shops, most of which sell batiked scarves and Indian jewelry and incense holders and....err-hmm...tobacco water-pipes. It's a little hippie paradise with a terrific record store, a tasty place to get a veggie burrito, and a lot of women with nose piercings. It was, in short, a very cool place to be.
It is also home to a very tall man who dresses in women's clothing as he serves coffee drinks at the Mermaid Cafe and Bookstore. He stands probably 6'2", wears a long brown wig, has yellowed teeth and a baritone voice, was donning a string of pearls and bracelet to match, and sported a flower-print dress that June Cleaver would have envied. He was very kind, well-spoken, and friendly...and he made a hell of a moccachino. (I'm referring to this person as "he," by the way, because I'm not certain if he would consider himself a "transvestite" [man dressing as a woman] or a "transgendered person" [woman stuck in a man's body]...and I never got to asking his name, because the only reason I wanted to know was out of morbid curiosity...and that seemed exploitative to me). He served several other customers while I was there, and nobody really had anything to say about it...or even seemed surprised or taken aback by this very tall man in women's clothing.
...and, for some reason...this made me feel quite proud of this little town.
I have heard Yellow Springs and its university anchor, Antioch, referred to as "progressive" on several occasions. This is usually spoken to mean "open-minded," "non-traditional," "having a diversity of thought" and...most accurately, I think, "liberal." That is to say, reflecting the values of social and political liberalism...
read as: ...save the environment, local business is better than big-business, the government can't be trusted, political activism is the highest form of patriotism, feed the poor, use less, live communally when you can, women should have the right to choose, being gay is just fine thank you, have a veggie burrito...etc., etc.
These things are called "progressive," implying that subscribing to these ideologies is more than just a choice that a person makes, for better or for worse...but that it is actual progress. That this an ascent of sorts...someone who lands on these believes has progressed from a less-evolved state of being to a more-evolved state.
...Here's where I'm headed with this.
I was proud of this "progressive" little town, with it's "progressive" little cafe run by a crossdresser, because I think deep down, I do believe that this is progress. I think I agree with those who call it "progressive" to have a town where a man can dress as a woman and still keep a job and still sell coffee and not be mocked or laughed or shunned day after day. Now, I'm certain that the guy at Mermaid's has had his share of ridicule...but I saw nothing but smiles and friendly faces buying books and coffee from him for the 90 minutes I was there. It was as if this was ...gasp... OK. And, that was heartening to me...it was encouraging.
I don't know whether or not crossdressing is morally wrong. I don't even know if that's a fair question. I think a better question is, "is it healthy for that person?" For instance...if his gender-identity issues had driven him to the point of suicide...and he instead opted to simply embrace his feminine side and dress as a woman in order to carry on with his life...it's hard for me to call that wrong....I'd call choosing a string of pearls and a pair of panty hose over a bullet pretty damned healthy. However, if he dresses like that in order to avoid dealing with some very deep hurt that needs addressing...if he's using it as a crutch to stave off the sense that he has to deal with the tough stuff of his past...then I would suggest it is unhealthy. Either way, I don't know that it's a matter of right and wrong...more a matter of what is going to bring this person closer to God and to his own personal mission.
If that's the case...and I'm perfectly aware that you may not be convinced it is...then why should he be ridiculed? Why should be shamed, ousted, or even encouraged to change his ways? To love people where they are, while still encouraging them towards the things that will bring them closer to God, seemed to be Jesus's way. I want to live that way. I want to live as a person who does not judge or condemn others, but helps them to discern what is most healthy and likely to reconnect them with God. Sometimes, this may mean a "tough love" approach of telling people that the choices they are making are not healthy, but I suspect that most advice needs to be worked out on an individual basis...not as a blanket rule of "activity x is morally wrong" or "activity x is morally acceptable."
It's possible that the guy working behind the counter at the Mermaid Cafe in Yellow Springs is living the healthiest possible life he can right now...and that that healthy life involves doing something I don't understand and can't possibly empathize with...dressing as a woman. I hope that I would always walk into a situation like that wanting to understand him first, and then, if allowed, to help him find whatever is most likely to bring him closer to God...without self-righteous judgement, without condemnation, without ridicule. To me...that sounds a great deal like progress.
Peace,
Justin
P.S. - Let's face it, I am quite judgemental...my previous posts should make that abundantly clear. I'm just judgemental about other issues. As much as I'd like to be the loving, Jesusesque guy described above...well, I'm not. But I'm working on it.
...at least, that's been my experience.
Yesterday, Stacy and I followed the advice of a good friend to check out the isolated little burg of Yellow Springs, Ohio. It's about an hour northeast of Cincy, and is the home to Antioch College, WYSO, and Dave Chappelle. It is also a little island of liberal thought in an otherwise uber-conservative state. The "downtown" area consists of about three blocks of shops, most of which sell batiked scarves and Indian jewelry and incense holders and....err-hmm...tobacco water-pipes. It's a little hippie paradise with a terrific record store, a tasty place to get a veggie burrito, and a lot of women with nose piercings. It was, in short, a very cool place to be.
It is also home to a very tall man who dresses in women's clothing as he serves coffee drinks at the Mermaid Cafe and Bookstore. He stands probably 6'2", wears a long brown wig, has yellowed teeth and a baritone voice, was donning a string of pearls and bracelet to match, and sported a flower-print dress that June Cleaver would have envied. He was very kind, well-spoken, and friendly...and he made a hell of a moccachino. (I'm referring to this person as "he," by the way, because I'm not certain if he would consider himself a "transvestite" [man dressing as a woman] or a "transgendered person" [woman stuck in a man's body]...and I never got to asking his name, because the only reason I wanted to know was out of morbid curiosity...and that seemed exploitative to me). He served several other customers while I was there, and nobody really had anything to say about it...or even seemed surprised or taken aback by this very tall man in women's clothing.
...and, for some reason...this made me feel quite proud of this little town.
I have heard Yellow Springs and its university anchor, Antioch, referred to as "progressive" on several occasions. This is usually spoken to mean "open-minded," "non-traditional," "having a diversity of thought" and...most accurately, I think, "liberal." That is to say, reflecting the values of social and political liberalism...
read as: ...save the environment, local business is better than big-business, the government can't be trusted, political activism is the highest form of patriotism, feed the poor, use less, live communally when you can, women should have the right to choose, being gay is just fine thank you, have a veggie burrito...etc., etc.
These things are called "progressive," implying that subscribing to these ideologies is more than just a choice that a person makes, for better or for worse...but that it is actual progress. That this an ascent of sorts...someone who lands on these believes has progressed from a less-evolved state of being to a more-evolved state.
...Here's where I'm headed with this.
I was proud of this "progressive" little town, with it's "progressive" little cafe run by a crossdresser, because I think deep down, I do believe that this is progress. I think I agree with those who call it "progressive" to have a town where a man can dress as a woman and still keep a job and still sell coffee and not be mocked or laughed or shunned day after day. Now, I'm certain that the guy at Mermaid's has had his share of ridicule...but I saw nothing but smiles and friendly faces buying books and coffee from him for the 90 minutes I was there. It was as if this was ...gasp... OK. And, that was heartening to me...it was encouraging.
I don't know whether or not crossdressing is morally wrong. I don't even know if that's a fair question. I think a better question is, "is it healthy for that person?" For instance...if his gender-identity issues had driven him to the point of suicide...and he instead opted to simply embrace his feminine side and dress as a woman in order to carry on with his life...it's hard for me to call that wrong....I'd call choosing a string of pearls and a pair of panty hose over a bullet pretty damned healthy. However, if he dresses like that in order to avoid dealing with some very deep hurt that needs addressing...if he's using it as a crutch to stave off the sense that he has to deal with the tough stuff of his past...then I would suggest it is unhealthy. Either way, I don't know that it's a matter of right and wrong...more a matter of what is going to bring this person closer to God and to his own personal mission.
If that's the case...and I'm perfectly aware that you may not be convinced it is...then why should he be ridiculed? Why should be shamed, ousted, or even encouraged to change his ways? To love people where they are, while still encouraging them towards the things that will bring them closer to God, seemed to be Jesus's way. I want to live that way. I want to live as a person who does not judge or condemn others, but helps them to discern what is most healthy and likely to reconnect them with God. Sometimes, this may mean a "tough love" approach of telling people that the choices they are making are not healthy, but I suspect that most advice needs to be worked out on an individual basis...not as a blanket rule of "activity x is morally wrong" or "activity x is morally acceptable."
It's possible that the guy working behind the counter at the Mermaid Cafe in Yellow Springs is living the healthiest possible life he can right now...and that that healthy life involves doing something I don't understand and can't possibly empathize with...dressing as a woman. I hope that I would always walk into a situation like that wanting to understand him first, and then, if allowed, to help him find whatever is most likely to bring him closer to God...without self-righteous judgement, without condemnation, without ridicule. To me...that sounds a great deal like progress.
Peace,
Justin
P.S. - Let's face it, I am quite judgemental...my previous posts should make that abundantly clear. I'm just judgemental about other issues. As much as I'd like to be the loving, Jesusesque guy described above...well, I'm not. But I'm working on it.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
I don't claim to know much about politics.
Whatever it is that I might know about one political happening or another I learn in one of two ways:
1. By catching it on Morning Edition on NPR. Morning Edition is my way of both getting a healthy dose of intellectual-sounding words in my head before I get to work, and getting just enough liberal crap in my head to offset all of the conservative crap I hear on my radio alarm clock, which is tuned to AM talk radio. My hope is that I’m fairly moderate, or at least appropriately confused, before I get to work.
2. By reading the free New York Times or USA Today that gets left on the doorstep of my hotel rooms. I don’t know how they decide which one to leave me on any given day, but I’m starting to collect some quantitative data on that, and so far I have linked it to whether or not I rehang my bathroom towels.
And, true to my form, despite having a breadth of political knowledge that resembles a Necco wafer, I tend to spout off about it a lot. So, in that vein, here are my honest positions on issues that make people angry:
The Death Penalty: If I could write a slogan more clever than this one, which I saw once on a bumper sticker outside of a Catholic school, I would: “It seems wrong to me to kill people who kill people to show people that killing people is wrong.” The death penalty is not a deterrent, it’s not a cost-saver, and the only person it seems to stop is the guy strapped into the chair. The defenseless guy strapped into the chair. The fact that we’re killing people based on our legal system, which is biased, influenced, affected, racist and flawed (as any legal system is) really really freaks me out. Since the birth of DNA evidence analysis, more than 60 inmates have been released from death row. Just… …think… …about… …that…
Abortion: For all of you who are waiting for this Christian to say something right-wingy and intolerant about how cruel and awful abortion is…
…you’re right on time. Abortion is cruel and awful. I’m a little mixed on situations where the mother’s life is in danger, because then it’s kill one person or kill another…but babies, unborn or otherwise, are people, and they deserve the same chance to screw up or champion their lives as the rest of us do.
Homosexuality: I don’t know if being gay is wrong. I think most gay folks are born gay, and I’m guessing a few other folks subconsciously become gay because of one reason or another, and very very few choose to be gay on purpose. The Bible says it’s wrong. My heart says it isn’t. So…what do you do with that? I’ll tell you what you do, if you’re me: you realize that if being gay is wrong then gay people are doing wrong stuff just like I’m doing wrong stuff every day, and that I’m no different…no better or worse or more loved by God or less loved by God…then they are. Bottom line. If you choose to be gay, then you’re a braver man than I’ll ever be…I can’t imagine all that you’d have to put up with. Point is, I’m not better than you are, and I’m no worse. You’re a child of God, not a gay child of God or a straight child of God. Go be gay, don’t be gay, but God loves you and I just the same.
Euthanasia: I respect people’s right to die, and particularly respect their right to kill themselves, so long as they don’t kill or wound anybody else in the process. I think your right to die and your right to your thoughts are just about the only two inalienable rights on the planet, and unless we can prove that you are mentally unfit to make any decisions about your own life or death (such as a jilted lover who, in a fit of depression, goes running to her GP looking for a lethal dose of sodium pentathol). If you’re a cancer patient who is struggling with the pain everyday…or even just a cancer patient who doesn’t want to fight it anymore and is ready to go home…and has carefully thought this out…by all means, Doc, make it happen. Seems contradictory to be so against the death penalty and abortion and so in favor of euthanasia, doesn’t it? The key difference is who is making the choice. I respect your choice to die, though I hope you’ve got a damn good reason.
The President: George W. Bush is a monkey. He is a magical monkey who learned how to talk. I think we should congratulate him. I don’t think he’s immoral…I just think he’s retarded. And not in a cute way, either.
The Bible: I like the Bible. I downright love parts of it. The Bible seems to be the richest fount of knowledge, spiritual insight and historical teaching I’ve read thus far. It tells the story of a man who I believe was/is God, and it does it through the eyes of those that knew him…or, if you believe the Jesus Seminar, those that knew the guys that knew the guys that knew him. I think it is God’s inspired word. With that said, I’m also not entirely sure it’s God’s infallible or uncorrupted inspired word. Every translation is an act of interpretation, and after 3,000+ years, the thing’s been screwed with pretty heavily. I’m not sure that every word in the original text is the inspired word of God, either…but I know that I’m not a competent judge of what is and isn’t God’s inspired word, and that I know that I’ve had parts of the Bible validated by my own first-hand experiences with God…so I know at least some of it is, and I’ve yet to find nonsense in there. The bottom line on the Bible is that it seems to know a hell of a lot more than I do, and if I use my own sense of right and wrong as my sole moral plumb-line, I’m going to end up a morbidly obese sex-crazed drug addict who dies in prison on a car-thieving rap after trying to steal the original KITT. So, I have to look somewhere else….I look to the Bible…but that’s not the end of it. I ask my friends. I ask people smarter than me. I check with my gut. It’s not a great system, but I’ve yet to go to jail, and as far as I know KITT is still in Orlando.
OK, so that was just six issues. But it’s enough controversy for one post. I hope you agree with me, because that means the world looks one more person just like me, which means I stand a better chance of getting a better mortgage loan. But, if you disagree, I hope you post and tell me why. And do it loudly, so I’ll be sure to hear.
Peace,
Justin
Whatever it is that I might know about one political happening or another I learn in one of two ways:
1. By catching it on Morning Edition on NPR. Morning Edition is my way of both getting a healthy dose of intellectual-sounding words in my head before I get to work, and getting just enough liberal crap in my head to offset all of the conservative crap I hear on my radio alarm clock, which is tuned to AM talk radio. My hope is that I’m fairly moderate, or at least appropriately confused, before I get to work.
2. By reading the free New York Times or USA Today that gets left on the doorstep of my hotel rooms. I don’t know how they decide which one to leave me on any given day, but I’m starting to collect some quantitative data on that, and so far I have linked it to whether or not I rehang my bathroom towels.
And, true to my form, despite having a breadth of political knowledge that resembles a Necco wafer, I tend to spout off about it a lot. So, in that vein, here are my honest positions on issues that make people angry:
The Death Penalty: If I could write a slogan more clever than this one, which I saw once on a bumper sticker outside of a Catholic school, I would: “It seems wrong to me to kill people who kill people to show people that killing people is wrong.” The death penalty is not a deterrent, it’s not a cost-saver, and the only person it seems to stop is the guy strapped into the chair. The defenseless guy strapped into the chair. The fact that we’re killing people based on our legal system, which is biased, influenced, affected, racist and flawed (as any legal system is) really really freaks me out. Since the birth of DNA evidence analysis, more than 60 inmates have been released from death row. Just… …think… …about… …that…
Abortion: For all of you who are waiting for this Christian to say something right-wingy and intolerant about how cruel and awful abortion is…
…you’re right on time. Abortion is cruel and awful. I’m a little mixed on situations where the mother’s life is in danger, because then it’s kill one person or kill another…but babies, unborn or otherwise, are people, and they deserve the same chance to screw up or champion their lives as the rest of us do.
Homosexuality: I don’t know if being gay is wrong. I think most gay folks are born gay, and I’m guessing a few other folks subconsciously become gay because of one reason or another, and very very few choose to be gay on purpose. The Bible says it’s wrong. My heart says it isn’t. So…what do you do with that? I’ll tell you what you do, if you’re me: you realize that if being gay is wrong then gay people are doing wrong stuff just like I’m doing wrong stuff every day, and that I’m no different…no better or worse or more loved by God or less loved by God…then they are. Bottom line. If you choose to be gay, then you’re a braver man than I’ll ever be…I can’t imagine all that you’d have to put up with. Point is, I’m not better than you are, and I’m no worse. You’re a child of God, not a gay child of God or a straight child of God. Go be gay, don’t be gay, but God loves you and I just the same.
Euthanasia: I respect people’s right to die, and particularly respect their right to kill themselves, so long as they don’t kill or wound anybody else in the process. I think your right to die and your right to your thoughts are just about the only two inalienable rights on the planet, and unless we can prove that you are mentally unfit to make any decisions about your own life or death (such as a jilted lover who, in a fit of depression, goes running to her GP looking for a lethal dose of sodium pentathol). If you’re a cancer patient who is struggling with the pain everyday…or even just a cancer patient who doesn’t want to fight it anymore and is ready to go home…and has carefully thought this out…by all means, Doc, make it happen. Seems contradictory to be so against the death penalty and abortion and so in favor of euthanasia, doesn’t it? The key difference is who is making the choice. I respect your choice to die, though I hope you’ve got a damn good reason.
The President: George W. Bush is a monkey. He is a magical monkey who learned how to talk. I think we should congratulate him. I don’t think he’s immoral…I just think he’s retarded. And not in a cute way, either.
The Bible: I like the Bible. I downright love parts of it. The Bible seems to be the richest fount of knowledge, spiritual insight and historical teaching I’ve read thus far. It tells the story of a man who I believe was/is God, and it does it through the eyes of those that knew him…or, if you believe the Jesus Seminar, those that knew the guys that knew the guys that knew him. I think it is God’s inspired word. With that said, I’m also not entirely sure it’s God’s infallible or uncorrupted inspired word. Every translation is an act of interpretation, and after 3,000+ years, the thing’s been screwed with pretty heavily. I’m not sure that every word in the original text is the inspired word of God, either…but I know that I’m not a competent judge of what is and isn’t God’s inspired word, and that I know that I’ve had parts of the Bible validated by my own first-hand experiences with God…so I know at least some of it is, and I’ve yet to find nonsense in there. The bottom line on the Bible is that it seems to know a hell of a lot more than I do, and if I use my own sense of right and wrong as my sole moral plumb-line, I’m going to end up a morbidly obese sex-crazed drug addict who dies in prison on a car-thieving rap after trying to steal the original KITT. So, I have to look somewhere else….I look to the Bible…but that’s not the end of it. I ask my friends. I ask people smarter than me. I check with my gut. It’s not a great system, but I’ve yet to go to jail, and as far as I know KITT is still in Orlando.
OK, so that was just six issues. But it’s enough controversy for one post. I hope you agree with me, because that means the world looks one more person just like me, which means I stand a better chance of getting a better mortgage loan. But, if you disagree, I hope you post and tell me why. And do it loudly, so I’ll be sure to hear.
Peace,
Justin
Sunday, February 26, 2006
If, right at this moment, you only have five minutes to read a blog.
Read Ryan Cook's.
Ryan wrote a response to our discussion on how I'm a jerk. He's my friend, and he's the kind of thinker and writer I want to grow up to be.
Peace,
Justin
Read Ryan Cook's.
Ryan wrote a response to our discussion on how I'm a jerk. He's my friend, and he's the kind of thinker and writer I want to grow up to be.
Peace,
Justin
Friday, February 24, 2006
This is a post about epicureanism, about Jesus, and about my dead fish.
I'll start with the latter.
This week, my fish died. He was a Beta, and his name was Sparky. As there was no funeral, please allow me to make my eulogy here.
When we were first married, Stacy and I attended an auction to raise money for my grade school. It was a good auction...we bought two things we couldn't afford for more than they were worth, which means the fundraiser went well. At the end of the night, the final thing to be auctioned off were the centerpieces on each table, which consisted of a rotund vase, filled with polished colored stones, with a green leafy plant poking out of the top and a Beta fish swimming around the plant's watery tendrils. I haven't owned a fish since I was five or so, and I was broke from buying whatever the heck it was we bought...so I was ready to pass. Happy and half-drunk auction attenders quickly snapped the fishy centerpieces up and, one by one, carried the large vases out with the lone fish inside of each sloshing around as its proud new owner toted it out.
As Stacy and I were leaving, a middle-aged woman with too much perfume and a very friendly smile came up to us with her own fish-in-a-jar, and begged us to take it, as her husband didn't seem to want a new pet as much as she did. Sparky had been a pet for all of five minutes, and already he was an orphan being moved into a foster home. Poor guy.
We took him. And for the last four years, he's been with us. He swam his lazy circles while we laughed, while we talked about getting pregnant, while we fought, while we tinked wine glasses to toast our first home purchase, while we celebrated my new job, while we cried over Stacy's first job (long story), and he swam while we did the thing married people do. We fed him as frequently as we remembered to, which probably averaged out to about once every week or so. Stacy changed the bowl water every month...give or take...mostly take. The plant that Sparky shared his bowl with has long since died, but Sparky pressed on. In fact, he pressed on, even when we went on vacation and forgot to feed him for a couple of weeks. He pressed on when we tried to change his water and dropped him on the floor. He pressed on when we moved the bowl to a place where we couldn't see it over the Christmas holiday, and thereby forgot to change the water for a couple of months. He even pressed on when he slipped by the sieve we use when we change his water and dropped right down into the garbage disposal...I had to fish him out with my hand, and he pressed on.
Sparky was a survivor.
And for some reason, that meant a lot to me. I'm not kidding...I really liked Sparky. I liked him more than the cats...which bothers me, because Sparky was free and required no effort at all, and the cats are expensive and loud and, let's face it, they're cats, which sucks. He pressed on, day after day, year after year, and never asked for much. I miss Sparky.
---
This ends the eulogy. And begins the other bit.
---
I had a very strange night a couple of nights ago. I was in Philadelphia working, and met up with a friend in Philly for a beer. Whilst sipping a stout dram of my favorite Scotch draught, two girls approached us and told a very long and complicated lie which I won't bother repeating but which was basically a long, stupid and highly involved pick-up line involving fake names and a greek man who doesn't really exist. As you might imagine, I opted out of the whole, "being picked up" thing. If you are wondering why right now, you haven't read enough of my blog or I haven't blogged enough of my love. I did, however, offer to play "wingman" for my very single friend, who is a bit of a ladies' man. To keep things short and tasteful, I spent the bulk of the evening talking to one girl about my marriage and her recent breakup, and he spent the bulk of the evening getting quite laid. He had a great time, she had a great time, and the girl I spoke with eventually left to meet up with some guys she met in the bar who had cocaine. And thus, the evening ended.
And I woke up the next morning and called my buddy and we had breakfast...and here's the thing...
...he was really happy.
He didn't sit down and say, "My god, man...I knew her for two hours before we had sex...what am I doing with my life?" He didn't say, "Man, I am so unfulfilled...I'm totally just living for myself...where's the bigger picture?" He sure as hell didn't say, "Justin, could you tell me about something better than this...like Jesus?"
In fact, he was really happy. He got to have sex with a pretty girl, and she was really excited about it, and they didn't have to exchange "I love you's" or digits or even learn each other's last names. And that's it. Lots of endorphins and fun and giggling and things that feel good when they touch you. And that was it.
Now don't get me wrong...I love sex. He loves sex. I do it with one person every time, he does it with different people. And that's totally cool with him.
That's what struck me...there was no gaping hole. There was no sense that, at the end of the day, he sits at the end of his bed and feels desperately alone and empty. There was no sense that he's missing a big chunk of his heart that only God could fill. He's a smart, successful, very cool guy, and he seems really generally pretty happy. And I think that's what confuses me so much.
When I was with Young Life ministry, we were told that every person needs Jesus. When I was with the Vineyard, we were told that every person has a God-shaped hole in their hearts/souls that calls out to be filled with what were offering. And those things may be true...but I don't know that I see it. And I don't know that those with the hole feel it as clearly as I assumed.
Truth is, epicureanism seems pretty great. It seems fun, and exciting, and somewhat fulfilling. Living each day as a hedonist seems like a pretty great way to live...and assuming you're not hurting other people, it's pretty hard to argue with. This presents a problem with evangelism as I know it.
How do you talk to someone about filling a hole in their hearts when they don't feel a hole? How do you tell somebody about Jesus's healing power when they don't feel sick? How do you share the story of Jesus fixed a broken you when he doesn't sense a broken him? And what happens when you don't sense a broken him?
I don't have answers. I want to know what you think. Christians speak up. Hedonists speak up. Christian hedonists, speak up. I need to think about this with other people.
Peace,
Justin
I'll start with the latter.
This week, my fish died. He was a Beta, and his name was Sparky. As there was no funeral, please allow me to make my eulogy here.
When we were first married, Stacy and I attended an auction to raise money for my grade school. It was a good auction...we bought two things we couldn't afford for more than they were worth, which means the fundraiser went well. At the end of the night, the final thing to be auctioned off were the centerpieces on each table, which consisted of a rotund vase, filled with polished colored stones, with a green leafy plant poking out of the top and a Beta fish swimming around the plant's watery tendrils. I haven't owned a fish since I was five or so, and I was broke from buying whatever the heck it was we bought...so I was ready to pass. Happy and half-drunk auction attenders quickly snapped the fishy centerpieces up and, one by one, carried the large vases out with the lone fish inside of each sloshing around as its proud new owner toted it out.
As Stacy and I were leaving, a middle-aged woman with too much perfume and a very friendly smile came up to us with her own fish-in-a-jar, and begged us to take it, as her husband didn't seem to want a new pet as much as she did. Sparky had been a pet for all of five minutes, and already he was an orphan being moved into a foster home. Poor guy.
We took him. And for the last four years, he's been with us. He swam his lazy circles while we laughed, while we talked about getting pregnant, while we fought, while we tinked wine glasses to toast our first home purchase, while we celebrated my new job, while we cried over Stacy's first job (long story), and he swam while we did the thing married people do. We fed him as frequently as we remembered to, which probably averaged out to about once every week or so. Stacy changed the bowl water every month...give or take...mostly take. The plant that Sparky shared his bowl with has long since died, but Sparky pressed on. In fact, he pressed on, even when we went on vacation and forgot to feed him for a couple of weeks. He pressed on when we tried to change his water and dropped him on the floor. He pressed on when we moved the bowl to a place where we couldn't see it over the Christmas holiday, and thereby forgot to change the water for a couple of months. He even pressed on when he slipped by the sieve we use when we change his water and dropped right down into the garbage disposal...I had to fish him out with my hand, and he pressed on.
Sparky was a survivor.
And for some reason, that meant a lot to me. I'm not kidding...I really liked Sparky. I liked him more than the cats...which bothers me, because Sparky was free and required no effort at all, and the cats are expensive and loud and, let's face it, they're cats, which sucks. He pressed on, day after day, year after year, and never asked for much. I miss Sparky.
---
This ends the eulogy. And begins the other bit.
---
I had a very strange night a couple of nights ago. I was in Philadelphia working, and met up with a friend in Philly for a beer. Whilst sipping a stout dram of my favorite Scotch draught, two girls approached us and told a very long and complicated lie which I won't bother repeating but which was basically a long, stupid and highly involved pick-up line involving fake names and a greek man who doesn't really exist. As you might imagine, I opted out of the whole, "being picked up" thing. If you are wondering why right now, you haven't read enough of my blog or I haven't blogged enough of my love. I did, however, offer to play "wingman" for my very single friend, who is a bit of a ladies' man. To keep things short and tasteful, I spent the bulk of the evening talking to one girl about my marriage and her recent breakup, and he spent the bulk of the evening getting quite laid. He had a great time, she had a great time, and the girl I spoke with eventually left to meet up with some guys she met in the bar who had cocaine. And thus, the evening ended.
And I woke up the next morning and called my buddy and we had breakfast...and here's the thing...
...he was really happy.
He didn't sit down and say, "My god, man...I knew her for two hours before we had sex...what am I doing with my life?" He didn't say, "Man, I am so unfulfilled...I'm totally just living for myself...where's the bigger picture?" He sure as hell didn't say, "Justin, could you tell me about something better than this...like Jesus?"
In fact, he was really happy. He got to have sex with a pretty girl, and she was really excited about it, and they didn't have to exchange "I love you's" or digits or even learn each other's last names. And that's it. Lots of endorphins and fun and giggling and things that feel good when they touch you. And that was it.
Now don't get me wrong...I love sex. He loves sex. I do it with one person every time, he does it with different people. And that's totally cool with him.
That's what struck me...there was no gaping hole. There was no sense that, at the end of the day, he sits at the end of his bed and feels desperately alone and empty. There was no sense that he's missing a big chunk of his heart that only God could fill. He's a smart, successful, very cool guy, and he seems really generally pretty happy. And I think that's what confuses me so much.
When I was with Young Life ministry, we were told that every person needs Jesus. When I was with the Vineyard, we were told that every person has a God-shaped hole in their hearts/souls that calls out to be filled with what were offering. And those things may be true...but I don't know that I see it. And I don't know that those with the hole feel it as clearly as I assumed.
Truth is, epicureanism seems pretty great. It seems fun, and exciting, and somewhat fulfilling. Living each day as a hedonist seems like a pretty great way to live...and assuming you're not hurting other people, it's pretty hard to argue with. This presents a problem with evangelism as I know it.
How do you talk to someone about filling a hole in their hearts when they don't feel a hole? How do you tell somebody about Jesus's healing power when they don't feel sick? How do you share the story of Jesus fixed a broken you when he doesn't sense a broken him? And what happens when you don't sense a broken him?
I don't have answers. I want to know what you think. Christians speak up. Hedonists speak up. Christian hedonists, speak up. I need to think about this with other people.
Peace,
Justin
Friday, February 10, 2006
On a plane back from Baltimore…
I tell that you that only because I’m still in that stage where I feel cool saying on I’m on a plane back from anywhere. Even someplace silly, like Baltimore.
Here’s what I learned about Baltimore while I was there: 1) Crab Cakes are tasty when they’re made from crabs who were swimming just the day before, 2) even cities you don’t think about much can have big traffic problems, and 3) Cal Ripken Jr. was apparently quite popular for doing whatever it is that he did.
It’s a very pretty city…the harbor is beautiful, and there are lots of fun places to go. I was pretty busy, but I may return sometime to try out some of the neat-o stuff I drove by on my way to less neat-o stuff.
This ends the section about Baltimore.
This begins a section about how I’m not that great.
A guy who logged in anonymously but left me the name “Tito” had something to say in a comment to my post about Verizon Wireless and Capitalism (see previous post). If I’m reading his comment right, he basically said, “hey, you’re a funny guy. Not much of a Christian, but a funny guy.” Am I reading that right, Tito?
Man, I completely agree. Seriously, please don’t read this as sarcastic or cutting or facetious…I mean it. I’m really not a great Christian. And, I think it was really cool that you had the guts to point that out. I think the way you said it was, “you’re not much like what Jesus called us to” or something like that (can’t look it up, on a plane)…and I think you’re exactly right. I’m really not.
It’s not something I’m proud of. As much as I like giving the middle-finger to things and saying “I’m not following your rules, man!” [or insert some other suburban-white-kid-raging-against-the-world comment here], living as God wants me to live isn’t one of those things. In fact, that’s probably the only set of guiding rules and regulations that really matter in the loooooooooooong run [read:eternity], and I’m screwing many of them up.
Let me give you a laundry-list. It’s by no means complete, but at least it’s somewhat deplorable:
1. I’m very self-centered. I think of myself nearly all of the time, and I rarely do anything that makes me even remotely uncomfortable, regardless of how it might help other people
2. I swear like a sailor. And not just righteous swearing, like when I’m bowling or when I really mean something…I swear around kids sometimes on accident, and I swear at my wife when I’m angry. I picked it up as a little shingle of rebellion, and I haven’t learned how to put it down when it’s not going to be helpful. Swearing is great in some circumstances…lord knows I’m a proponent at times…but you’ve got to be able to hold your tongue when your tongue bears holding.
3. I’m a pervert. My mind is constantly darting in directions I don’t want it to, and while I don’t let my wang follow it in those directions, I can’t even claim that as righteousness because thinking and doing are so freaking married that it’s like I’m three-quarters-doing whatever it is I’m patting myself on the back for not doing. Nuff said on that topic, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.
4. I’m extremely critical and judgmental. I pick these niggly little human flaws and bitch about them to total strangers. Why? Probably just to make myself feel better about my own failings. Which, by the way, makes me a
5. Total hypocrite. As cute as it is to sit here and play humble by listing stuff I do wrong, the reality is that I really live this stuff. I criticize others, and I continue to live a life which begs criticism.
You know what? I was going to keep listing but my plane is landing and I’m starting to get depressed. I just picked the first five things I can think of…there are, no doubt, hundreds more. So, you’ll have to figure them out as you go, just like I am.
Sometimes, I’m a great guy. Sometimes I do great things for people and, every great once in a while, I do it for the right reasons. And sometimes…most of the time…I’m a pretty mediocre guy. I do and think things that are neither good nor bad but just are…I choose to live in lukewarm grays and browns for long periods of time without being outstanding in either direction. And sometimes I am a terrible guy, for a thousand reasons and in a thousand flavors.
I’m not great. I’m OK…I’d like to think I may get to be a better guy…but right now I’m just OK. Tito, man, the truth is you’re right…bottom line.
Peace,
Justin
I tell that you that only because I’m still in that stage where I feel cool saying on I’m on a plane back from anywhere. Even someplace silly, like Baltimore.
Here’s what I learned about Baltimore while I was there: 1) Crab Cakes are tasty when they’re made from crabs who were swimming just the day before, 2) even cities you don’t think about much can have big traffic problems, and 3) Cal Ripken Jr. was apparently quite popular for doing whatever it is that he did.
It’s a very pretty city…the harbor is beautiful, and there are lots of fun places to go. I was pretty busy, but I may return sometime to try out some of the neat-o stuff I drove by on my way to less neat-o stuff.
This ends the section about Baltimore.
This begins a section about how I’m not that great.
A guy who logged in anonymously but left me the name “Tito” had something to say in a comment to my post about Verizon Wireless and Capitalism (see previous post). If I’m reading his comment right, he basically said, “hey, you’re a funny guy. Not much of a Christian, but a funny guy.” Am I reading that right, Tito?
Man, I completely agree. Seriously, please don’t read this as sarcastic or cutting or facetious…I mean it. I’m really not a great Christian. And, I think it was really cool that you had the guts to point that out. I think the way you said it was, “you’re not much like what Jesus called us to” or something like that (can’t look it up, on a plane)…and I think you’re exactly right. I’m really not.
It’s not something I’m proud of. As much as I like giving the middle-finger to things and saying “I’m not following your rules, man!” [or insert some other suburban-white-kid-raging-against-the-world comment here], living as God wants me to live isn’t one of those things. In fact, that’s probably the only set of guiding rules and regulations that really matter in the loooooooooooong run [read:eternity], and I’m screwing many of them up.
Let me give you a laundry-list. It’s by no means complete, but at least it’s somewhat deplorable:
1. I’m very self-centered. I think of myself nearly all of the time, and I rarely do anything that makes me even remotely uncomfortable, regardless of how it might help other people
2. I swear like a sailor. And not just righteous swearing, like when I’m bowling or when I really mean something…I swear around kids sometimes on accident, and I swear at my wife when I’m angry. I picked it up as a little shingle of rebellion, and I haven’t learned how to put it down when it’s not going to be helpful. Swearing is great in some circumstances…lord knows I’m a proponent at times…but you’ve got to be able to hold your tongue when your tongue bears holding.
3. I’m a pervert. My mind is constantly darting in directions I don’t want it to, and while I don’t let my wang follow it in those directions, I can’t even claim that as righteousness because thinking and doing are so freaking married that it’s like I’m three-quarters-doing whatever it is I’m patting myself on the back for not doing. Nuff said on that topic, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.
4. I’m extremely critical and judgmental. I pick these niggly little human flaws and bitch about them to total strangers. Why? Probably just to make myself feel better about my own failings. Which, by the way, makes me a
5. Total hypocrite. As cute as it is to sit here and play humble by listing stuff I do wrong, the reality is that I really live this stuff. I criticize others, and I continue to live a life which begs criticism.
You know what? I was going to keep listing but my plane is landing and I’m starting to get depressed. I just picked the first five things I can think of…there are, no doubt, hundreds more. So, you’ll have to figure them out as you go, just like I am.
Sometimes, I’m a great guy. Sometimes I do great things for people and, every great once in a while, I do it for the right reasons. And sometimes…most of the time…I’m a pretty mediocre guy. I do and think things that are neither good nor bad but just are…I choose to live in lukewarm grays and browns for long periods of time without being outstanding in either direction. And sometimes I am a terrible guy, for a thousand reasons and in a thousand flavors.
I’m not great. I’m OK…I’d like to think I may get to be a better guy…but right now I’m just OK. Tito, man, the truth is you’re right…bottom line.
Peace,
Justin
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
I’m on the way home from our nation’s capital.
Actually, to be more specific, I’m on the way home from a little cookie-cutter suburb about half-an-hour north of our nation’s capital, named Rockville, Maryland.
It's possible that Rockville, Maryland might be the capital of something, but the odds are pretty good that it’s the “200+ Thread-Count Duvet Capital” or “The Residents Who Undergo Regular Prostate Exams Capital” or something equally mundane. For the most part, it was just hotels and chain restaurants…though I’ll concede that I really only saw as much as was within walking distance…which includes my hotel, and the chain-restaurant complex next to my hotel. So, for all I know, it may very well have been a small town inhabited by mermaid queens and fairie pixies of yore…but most of what I saw was little Mexican men working behind the swinging white doors at the chain restaurants, and little Haitian women who leave new soaps by your tub every morning.
I promise, this is not a blog entry about race, class, immigration, or the plight of poor Spanish-speakers in America.
It is, however, a post about the mystery of capitalism.
See, here’s the thing…when I was growing up, my dad and mom would come each evening into my bedroom and take turns lying down for 5-10 minutes with me to help me go to sleep. We’d talk about the day, we’d talk about what to expect tomorrow, and we’d talk about whatever it is they felt like talking to me about in order to get me to calm down enough to sleep. My mom, for the most part, nurtured. It’s what she’s best at, and I can tell you she’s brilliant at it. She would say comforting things and kind things and sleepy-bye kinds of things. It’s a wonderful topic for another post.
My dad, however, preferred to teach. I loved it. He would talk about how combustion engines work, or what Mastadons looked like, or how our bodies turn oxygen into carbon dioxide or how a bill becomes a law. Mind you…I was, like seven. But he told it so well, and with such interest and drama, that I was enthralled, and I was actually learning it.…it’s one of the reasons I think I know so many helpful little bits of reality today. One of my favorite talks…and one which I remember fondly…was the one about capitalism. He would tell me, night after night, about supply and demand. About widgets, and how the trick for the manufacturer was to create interest in widgets through advertising and PR, thereby increasing the demand, and then to meet that demand by orchestrating a supply. And the sweet spot, he explained, was to come as close to meeting demand as possible with the supply…that’s where the real profit was. He always said, “A thing is worth whatever someone is willing to pay for it...no less, and no more.” It was a beautiful and simple explanation for a terrifically complex subject, and it’s the reason why I can always pay less for a hotel, an eBay purchase, and concert tickets.
And I’ve always believed it. I believe Adam Smith when he says that supply and demand will control the market. I believe my college economics prof when he says that competition will hone the skills and agility of business the way natural selection hones the skills and agility of the woodland critters. I’ve believed that good businesses (or bad businesses with good marketing) will succeed, and bad business will either sharpen its operation, or it will fail.
Yes, yes…I believed all of it…my dad, my economics prof, Adam, Karl…
…and then, I went to a Verion Wireless store.
Good freaking god.
Let me back up. My phone died two days ago. Dunno why, just ceased to function. Fortunately, my hotel was directly across a very busy street from a Verizon Wireless retail store, which has a counter marked “customer service,” and a counter marked “technical support.” (The poetic irony of these two appellations will strike you in a minute). I was so excited; I thought I may be able to turn my phone in on my lunch break, and perhaps pick it up later that day or early the next.
Yes, that’s what I thought indeed. And it's only now that I realize, that’s a little like thinking, “perhaps my sweater will turn to solid marmalade that I could eat on my flight home.”
Instead, what happened was I entered a customer-support-hell, full of very very angry customers, and some tremendously stupid employees.
I don’t mean stupid like, “My god, that pizza man is so stupid, he forgot to give me back my change.” Rather, I mean stupid like, “Hey, is that tubby guy with the absent grin pooping his pants right now?”
The Verizon Wireless store in Rockville Maryland, should anyone ever ask you, is operated by a gang of imbecilic 17-year-olds whose IQ’s are only subbed by their basmented sense of motivation and pride in their work. I won’t get into the furry details, lest you get so empathetically angry that you punch your screen…but I will summarize:
Phone dies =
6 trips to Verizon Wireless store in Rockville Maryland.
4.5 total hours spent waiting in the lobby for the lethargic teens of tech support to diagnose the problem
2 new batteries, one of which didn’t fit in my phone, but was jammed in forcefully by Malak in tech support, in the hopes that maybe if the wrong battery is pushed into the wrong phone hard enough, God will sympathize and provide power to the phone.
1 complete loss of all my address book and contacts. The only reason this "1" wasn’t a higher number is because, let’s face it, you can only completely lose something once.
2 battery covers, neither of which fit, and one of which, I’m pretty sure, was just the top to a peanut butter jar.
2 brand new V710 Motorola phones to replace the one that Malak-the-tech-support-guy broke with the battery. (The second new one was to replace the first new one, which Greg in tech support broke when he dropped it trying to get the wrong battery cover on it).
And…in case you’re interested…I eventually did what the guys in Tech Support at Verizon Wireless could not…I figured out what was wrong with my original phone.
...The battery charger wasn’t working.
Seriously…it just needed a new battery charger.
Not a new battery, mind you. A charger. The little thing you plug into the wall.
That’s it.
And now I’m out a phone.
I was not alone…in the 4.5 hours that I stood in line at Verizon Wireless over the course of six trips, I watched at least 50 people get very very very angry with the people who work there. The employees were slow, they were stupid, they were poorly trained, they were poorly equipped, and they lacked basic customer support skills.
And, if capitalism works like it is supposed to, this store would be shut down. Its managers would be fired and its employees would be thrown to the wolves with nothing but their glitter encrusted cell phones, Usher or Beyonce ring-tone blaring, to protect them. If capitalism works, I would have a working phone and I would have spent another hundred bucks on cheap plastic electronic goodies while I was there, just because I was so enthralled with this amazing store and it’s brilliant associates.
Instead, I’m just pissed. And Verizon Wireless is still getting my $120 a month, because they offer better shitty service than the other shitty phone companies.
Hey, I wonder if the Verizon Wireless store in Rockville, Maryland is hiring? I’m pretty sure I know a guy…he sat two rows behind me at an Over the Rhine concert recently…
Peace,
Justin
Actually, to be more specific, I’m on the way home from a little cookie-cutter suburb about half-an-hour north of our nation’s capital, named Rockville, Maryland.
It's possible that Rockville, Maryland might be the capital of something, but the odds are pretty good that it’s the “200+ Thread-Count Duvet Capital” or “The Residents Who Undergo Regular Prostate Exams Capital” or something equally mundane. For the most part, it was just hotels and chain restaurants…though I’ll concede that I really only saw as much as was within walking distance…which includes my hotel, and the chain-restaurant complex next to my hotel. So, for all I know, it may very well have been a small town inhabited by mermaid queens and fairie pixies of yore…but most of what I saw was little Mexican men working behind the swinging white doors at the chain restaurants, and little Haitian women who leave new soaps by your tub every morning.
I promise, this is not a blog entry about race, class, immigration, or the plight of poor Spanish-speakers in America.
It is, however, a post about the mystery of capitalism.
See, here’s the thing…when I was growing up, my dad and mom would come each evening into my bedroom and take turns lying down for 5-10 minutes with me to help me go to sleep. We’d talk about the day, we’d talk about what to expect tomorrow, and we’d talk about whatever it is they felt like talking to me about in order to get me to calm down enough to sleep. My mom, for the most part, nurtured. It’s what she’s best at, and I can tell you she’s brilliant at it. She would say comforting things and kind things and sleepy-bye kinds of things. It’s a wonderful topic for another post.
My dad, however, preferred to teach. I loved it. He would talk about how combustion engines work, or what Mastadons looked like, or how our bodies turn oxygen into carbon dioxide or how a bill becomes a law. Mind you…I was, like seven. But he told it so well, and with such interest and drama, that I was enthralled, and I was actually learning it.…it’s one of the reasons I think I know so many helpful little bits of reality today. One of my favorite talks…and one which I remember fondly…was the one about capitalism. He would tell me, night after night, about supply and demand. About widgets, and how the trick for the manufacturer was to create interest in widgets through advertising and PR, thereby increasing the demand, and then to meet that demand by orchestrating a supply. And the sweet spot, he explained, was to come as close to meeting demand as possible with the supply…that’s where the real profit was. He always said, “A thing is worth whatever someone is willing to pay for it...no less, and no more.” It was a beautiful and simple explanation for a terrifically complex subject, and it’s the reason why I can always pay less for a hotel, an eBay purchase, and concert tickets.
And I’ve always believed it. I believe Adam Smith when he says that supply and demand will control the market. I believe my college economics prof when he says that competition will hone the skills and agility of business the way natural selection hones the skills and agility of the woodland critters. I’ve believed that good businesses (or bad businesses with good marketing) will succeed, and bad business will either sharpen its operation, or it will fail.
Yes, yes…I believed all of it…my dad, my economics prof, Adam, Karl…
…and then, I went to a Verion Wireless store.
Good freaking god.
Let me back up. My phone died two days ago. Dunno why, just ceased to function. Fortunately, my hotel was directly across a very busy street from a Verizon Wireless retail store, which has a counter marked “customer service,” and a counter marked “technical support.” (The poetic irony of these two appellations will strike you in a minute). I was so excited; I thought I may be able to turn my phone in on my lunch break, and perhaps pick it up later that day or early the next.
Yes, that’s what I thought indeed. And it's only now that I realize, that’s a little like thinking, “perhaps my sweater will turn to solid marmalade that I could eat on my flight home.”
Instead, what happened was I entered a customer-support-hell, full of very very angry customers, and some tremendously stupid employees.
I don’t mean stupid like, “My god, that pizza man is so stupid, he forgot to give me back my change.” Rather, I mean stupid like, “Hey, is that tubby guy with the absent grin pooping his pants right now?”
The Verizon Wireless store in Rockville Maryland, should anyone ever ask you, is operated by a gang of imbecilic 17-year-olds whose IQ’s are only subbed by their basmented sense of motivation and pride in their work. I won’t get into the furry details, lest you get so empathetically angry that you punch your screen…but I will summarize:
Phone dies =
6 trips to Verizon Wireless store in Rockville Maryland.
4.5 total hours spent waiting in the lobby for the lethargic teens of tech support to diagnose the problem
2 new batteries, one of which didn’t fit in my phone, but was jammed in forcefully by Malak in tech support, in the hopes that maybe if the wrong battery is pushed into the wrong phone hard enough, God will sympathize and provide power to the phone.
1 complete loss of all my address book and contacts. The only reason this "1" wasn’t a higher number is because, let’s face it, you can only completely lose something once.
2 battery covers, neither of which fit, and one of which, I’m pretty sure, was just the top to a peanut butter jar.
2 brand new V710 Motorola phones to replace the one that Malak-the-tech-support-guy broke with the battery. (The second new one was to replace the first new one, which Greg in tech support broke when he dropped it trying to get the wrong battery cover on it).
And…in case you’re interested…I eventually did what the guys in Tech Support at Verizon Wireless could not…I figured out what was wrong with my original phone.
...The battery charger wasn’t working.
Seriously…it just needed a new battery charger.
Not a new battery, mind you. A charger. The little thing you plug into the wall.
That’s it.
And now I’m out a phone.
I was not alone…in the 4.5 hours that I stood in line at Verizon Wireless over the course of six trips, I watched at least 50 people get very very very angry with the people who work there. The employees were slow, they were stupid, they were poorly trained, they were poorly equipped, and they lacked basic customer support skills.
And, if capitalism works like it is supposed to, this store would be shut down. Its managers would be fired and its employees would be thrown to the wolves with nothing but their glitter encrusted cell phones, Usher or Beyonce ring-tone blaring, to protect them. If capitalism works, I would have a working phone and I would have spent another hundred bucks on cheap plastic electronic goodies while I was there, just because I was so enthralled with this amazing store and it’s brilliant associates.
Instead, I’m just pissed. And Verizon Wireless is still getting my $120 a month, because they offer better shitty service than the other shitty phone companies.
Hey, I wonder if the Verizon Wireless store in Rockville, Maryland is hiring? I’m pretty sure I know a guy…he sat two rows behind me at an Over the Rhine concert recently…
Peace,
Justin
Monday, January 23, 2006
I just lost a great post.
I had written a blog entry about loss. (Yes, I can see the irony oozing out from under my spacebar). I had written about four hundred words contemplating whether or not you ever truly get over losing something you love...or whether you just spend the rest of your life with a tender spot in you that hurts if it is poked or slept on wrong. It told the story of an acquaintence of mine who lost his mom...it's a tragic story, and it may very well have made you cry. I told the story of an old heartbreak of mine... a trivial story in light of somebody's mom dying, but nothing is trivial when you're seventeen, you're insecure, and you're infatuated with romanticism. I was just getting into a section about how I have a hard time letting go...that memories, even happy ones, produce a kind of melancholy in me and feel a lot like loss...
...and then I closed the window.
Why would I close the window, you ask?
Because I'm an idiot. I wanted to check my calendar for something, and so I instinctively clicked the little red "close" icon in my web browser to clear a path.
So, here we are. I didn't want to rewrite the whole post because I'm trying to spite my web browser by not giving it the sastisafaction of watching me retype the whole thing. Also because the second time, it's just not going to feel as good as the first one...that first one is gone in a tragic moment now, and much like Curt Cobain or John Lennon, it is thereore perfect, and can never be replaced.
At the same time, I didn't want to write about anything else because, let's face it, I wanted to talk about loss.
So, here is a very short thought about loss that I didn't type in the original post...
I think part of your development process can halt abruptly in the presence of loss. Based on what I heard last night from my acquaintence, I wonder if he is still waiting for his mom to come home. I think there may still be a five-year-old inside of him who stands at their afternoon rendevous point, waiting for a mom who will never arrive. I think, in many ways, I am still waiting as well. I don't want to get into it...it's too personal for me and probably too boring for you, but there is a part of me that is still waiting, hoping that I'll get what I've been waiting 24 years or so for. I don't know if I'll ever get over it...I don't know if I'll ever stop waiting. I wonder if any us do...if we ever stop waiting for that girlfriend to call and apologize, for Dad to call Mom and say he's returning, for your wife to come home from the hospital, for that shaggy golden retriever to come bounding through the door, or for God to answer.
I tend to think not. I tend to think there is a little part in us that keeps calling out, keeps waiting, keeps a hope alive that in the end, it's not a loss...it's just a delay.
Peace,
Justin
I had written a blog entry about loss. (Yes, I can see the irony oozing out from under my spacebar). I had written about four hundred words contemplating whether or not you ever truly get over losing something you love...or whether you just spend the rest of your life with a tender spot in you that hurts if it is poked or slept on wrong. It told the story of an acquaintence of mine who lost his mom...it's a tragic story, and it may very well have made you cry. I told the story of an old heartbreak of mine... a trivial story in light of somebody's mom dying, but nothing is trivial when you're seventeen, you're insecure, and you're infatuated with romanticism. I was just getting into a section about how I have a hard time letting go...that memories, even happy ones, produce a kind of melancholy in me and feel a lot like loss...
...and then I closed the window.
Why would I close the window, you ask?
Because I'm an idiot. I wanted to check my calendar for something, and so I instinctively clicked the little red "close" icon in my web browser to clear a path.
So, here we are. I didn't want to rewrite the whole post because I'm trying to spite my web browser by not giving it the sastisafaction of watching me retype the whole thing. Also because the second time, it's just not going to feel as good as the first one...that first one is gone in a tragic moment now, and much like Curt Cobain or John Lennon, it is thereore perfect, and can never be replaced.
At the same time, I didn't want to write about anything else because, let's face it, I wanted to talk about loss.
So, here is a very short thought about loss that I didn't type in the original post...
I think part of your development process can halt abruptly in the presence of loss. Based on what I heard last night from my acquaintence, I wonder if he is still waiting for his mom to come home. I think there may still be a five-year-old inside of him who stands at their afternoon rendevous point, waiting for a mom who will never arrive. I think, in many ways, I am still waiting as well. I don't want to get into it...it's too personal for me and probably too boring for you, but there is a part of me that is still waiting, hoping that I'll get what I've been waiting 24 years or so for. I don't know if I'll ever get over it...I don't know if I'll ever stop waiting. I wonder if any us do...if we ever stop waiting for that girlfriend to call and apologize, for Dad to call Mom and say he's returning, for your wife to come home from the hospital, for that shaggy golden retriever to come bounding through the door, or for God to answer.
I tend to think not. I tend to think there is a little part in us that keeps calling out, keeps waiting, keeps a hope alive that in the end, it's not a loss...it's just a delay.
Peace,
Justin
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
It seemed easy enough...
I had the mic, I had the headphones, I had the really neatO computer. I had a blog that I really enjoyed writing on, but I found myself without the time to do it. I also had a bunch of things that would probably sound cool if spoken in a nice deep voice about two inches off of the fuzzy mic-cozy. It seemed easy enough.
I'll make a podcast!
Yee-haw, look at me everybody! I'm going to join the internet revolution! I'm going to be cutting-edge! Yes, yes....I'll be cutting-edge...and perhaps, if I do a really, really good job, I'll also be other buzzwords...like "postmodern," and "relevant," and "innovative." Yes, I'm headed for the future of communication...I'll join the likes of David Bowie and Ricky Gervais and some guy named Mike from New Jersey who likes to talk about his cat...I'll be a podcaster!
I'll just plug this mic in...test, test, test...
And I'll just record this. Chickity-check, microphone check.
OK, now I'll just take what I recorded...and add some music...and export as an mp4...
And now...ummm...
OK, folks. See, this is where I got kind of hung up. What happens next?
I don't know. But I sure as shit tell you what doesn't happen next. You don't hit the "publish my podcast" button on your keyboard and wait to get famous. No sir. You don't do that at all.
Instead, you spend three or four days going to hundreds of websites and downloading a dozen or so applications trying to turn your mp4 file into a usable podcast. You process your audio every which way possible to try and get it into podcasteriffic form...to no avail. You check out help sites, user forums, FAQ's...you write to the people at iTunes, the manufacturer of the podcasting software, and even the guys who made your microphone, on the off chance that they can help. You even get the magic key at the bottom of the labrynth, give it to the werewolf in the dark forest, get the silver medallion of Moon'sRune from him, and use the medallion to gain entrance to the witches quarters, where you hope she will give you the magic Podcasting tonic, so that you might be able to join the other relevant, cutting-edge postmodernists who have joined the podcasting revolution.
All to no avail.
I have no clue how to podcast. But I made podcast. And I would love for you to hear it.
If you're interested, it's at http://www.archive.org/details/JustinMastersonsPodcastEpisode1/
Just click on the mp4 file. It's like podcasting, but for techidiots like me who can't figure out how to podcast, so instead we just upload an audio file and make you do all the work.
I don't know that I'll make a habit out of doing audio recordings...but it was really fun. I may do it every once in a while. Tell me what you think, eh? Would you rather read, or listen? Or neither?
Let's look to the next wave of blogging...TACTILE BLOGGING. I'm not sure how it'll work, but you'll be able to TOUCH everything the blogger is talking about.
I'll get right on that. In the meantime, download the mp4 file eh? It'll make me feel like all that work wasn't for not.
Peace,
Justin
I had the mic, I had the headphones, I had the really neatO computer. I had a blog that I really enjoyed writing on, but I found myself without the time to do it. I also had a bunch of things that would probably sound cool if spoken in a nice deep voice about two inches off of the fuzzy mic-cozy. It seemed easy enough.
I'll make a podcast!
Yee-haw, look at me everybody! I'm going to join the internet revolution! I'm going to be cutting-edge! Yes, yes....I'll be cutting-edge...and perhaps, if I do a really, really good job, I'll also be other buzzwords...like "postmodern," and "relevant," and "innovative." Yes, I'm headed for the future of communication...I'll join the likes of David Bowie and Ricky Gervais and some guy named Mike from New Jersey who likes to talk about his cat...I'll be a podcaster!
I'll just plug this mic in...test, test, test...
And I'll just record this. Chickity-check, microphone check.
OK, now I'll just take what I recorded...and add some music...and export as an mp4...
And now...ummm...
OK, folks. See, this is where I got kind of hung up. What happens next?
I don't know. But I sure as shit tell you what doesn't happen next. You don't hit the "publish my podcast" button on your keyboard and wait to get famous. No sir. You don't do that at all.
Instead, you spend three or four days going to hundreds of websites and downloading a dozen or so applications trying to turn your mp4 file into a usable podcast. You process your audio every which way possible to try and get it into podcasteriffic form...to no avail. You check out help sites, user forums, FAQ's...you write to the people at iTunes, the manufacturer of the podcasting software, and even the guys who made your microphone, on the off chance that they can help. You even get the magic key at the bottom of the labrynth, give it to the werewolf in the dark forest, get the silver medallion of Moon'sRune from him, and use the medallion to gain entrance to the witches quarters, where you hope she will give you the magic Podcasting tonic, so that you might be able to join the other relevant, cutting-edge postmodernists who have joined the podcasting revolution.
All to no avail.
I have no clue how to podcast. But I made podcast. And I would love for you to hear it.
If you're interested, it's at http://www.archive.org/details/JustinMastersonsPodcastEpisode1/
Just click on the mp4 file. It's like podcasting, but for techidiots like me who can't figure out how to podcast, so instead we just upload an audio file and make you do all the work.
I don't know that I'll make a habit out of doing audio recordings...but it was really fun. I may do it every once in a while. Tell me what you think, eh? Would you rather read, or listen? Or neither?
Let's look to the next wave of blogging...TACTILE BLOGGING. I'm not sure how it'll work, but you'll be able to TOUCH everything the blogger is talking about.
I'll get right on that. In the meantime, download the mp4 file eh? It'll make me feel like all that work wasn't for not.
Peace,
Justin
Monday, January 09, 2006
The New Look...
My hair has a cowlick.
My wardrobe is lackluster.
My body type is what scientists call "Exomesomorphic," and what Lee Jeans calls "husky."
So, you change what you can.
Hence, the new look to the blog.
(My goodness, from a distance, this looked suspiciously like a haiku. A very very stupid haiku).
Will post soon.
Peace,
Justin
My hair has a cowlick.
My wardrobe is lackluster.
My body type is what scientists call "Exomesomorphic," and what Lee Jeans calls "husky."
So, you change what you can.
Hence, the new look to the blog.
(My goodness, from a distance, this looked suspiciously like a haiku. A very very stupid haiku).
Will post soon.
Peace,
Justin
Friday, January 06, 2006
I think my eyes are starting to go.
It's a weird thought...that I wouldn't be able to see as well. I've always had perfect vision...better than perfect, really. My vision was 20/25...what most people could read clearly at 20 feet, I could read at 25+. It's hardly adamantium claws or telekenesis...but I guess I always thought of it as my little mutant power. I could read road signs well before the other people in my car, I could read addresses on darkened houses as we drove by, and I could pick out the time on my alarm clock from across the room.
But now, things look kind of blurry. I have to really try to focus on something...my casual glance isn't enough...I have to make a real effort to see it clearly. For those of you with glasses/contacts...is this a sign that my eyes are going downhill, or is it possible that they're just tired or overwhelmed?
Perhaps it's a mental thing. I have trouble focusing my mind...why shouldn't it carry over? Perhaps my brain just lags a bit...instead of looking with focus, I look...and....then....I.... ummm.....wait for it.... focus. Perhaps I'm afraid to focus...afraid to see too closely. To look at the faces and expressions of my friends and my co-workers and my wife up close...to get that intimate. Hmmm....
If it turns out that my eyes are going weak...I wonder if I would be a glasses guy or a contacts guy. What do you think, those that know me? Stacy says my face doesn't work for glasses...which, however accurate that might be, is a strange thing to tell a person.
All this seems shallow, to be sure. But I love my eyes...I love what they do for me, what with the whole "seeing" thing and all, and I'd hate for something to go wrong with them.
Peace,
Justin
It's a weird thought...that I wouldn't be able to see as well. I've always had perfect vision...better than perfect, really. My vision was 20/25...what most people could read clearly at 20 feet, I could read at 25+. It's hardly adamantium claws or telekenesis...but I guess I always thought of it as my little mutant power. I could read road signs well before the other people in my car, I could read addresses on darkened houses as we drove by, and I could pick out the time on my alarm clock from across the room.
But now, things look kind of blurry. I have to really try to focus on something...my casual glance isn't enough...I have to make a real effort to see it clearly. For those of you with glasses/contacts...is this a sign that my eyes are going downhill, or is it possible that they're just tired or overwhelmed?
Perhaps it's a mental thing. I have trouble focusing my mind...why shouldn't it carry over? Perhaps my brain just lags a bit...instead of looking with focus, I look...and....then....I.... ummm.....wait for it.... focus. Perhaps I'm afraid to focus...afraid to see too closely. To look at the faces and expressions of my friends and my co-workers and my wife up close...to get that intimate. Hmmm....
If it turns out that my eyes are going weak...I wonder if I would be a glasses guy or a contacts guy. What do you think, those that know me? Stacy says my face doesn't work for glasses...which, however accurate that might be, is a strange thing to tell a person.
All this seems shallow, to be sure. But I love my eyes...I love what they do for me, what with the whole "seeing" thing and all, and I'd hate for something to go wrong with them.
Peace,
Justin
Sunday, December 18, 2005
An short poem to the guy who sat two rows behind me at tonight's Over The Rhine concert:
---
Cell phone, it rings.
Ring, cell phone, ring.
Beer bottle, it tinkles
It tinkles noisly on the concrete floor.
Your laugh is loud, your cheers are harsh,
Your exclamations are random and out of place.
Ring, cell phone, ring.
Your demeanor is gruff, you smell like cigarettes,
And you keep leaving the door to the lobby open on your repeated trips for more beer.
RIng, cell phone, ring.
You pick up the phone and talk,
Despite the fact that the concert is still going on.
Ring, cell phone, ring.
You are a dick.
---
Peace,
Justin
---
Cell phone, it rings.
Ring, cell phone, ring.
Beer bottle, it tinkles
It tinkles noisly on the concrete floor.
Your laugh is loud, your cheers are harsh,
Your exclamations are random and out of place.
Ring, cell phone, ring.
Your demeanor is gruff, you smell like cigarettes,
And you keep leaving the door to the lobby open on your repeated trips for more beer.
RIng, cell phone, ring.
You pick up the phone and talk,
Despite the fact that the concert is still going on.
Ring, cell phone, ring.
You are a dick.
---
Peace,
Justin
Sunday, December 11, 2005
It is one of my chief disappointments that life happens at 60i.
I'll explain.
Be prepared for three short paragraphs of nerd-talk, then on to the relevant stuff.
The term "60i" is video-nerd-speak for "60-frames-per-second, interlaced," which is the speed at which standard video is recorded. Basically, it means that my video camera takes 60 half-pictures per second, and then interlaces each half into a whole, for a very clear and crisp 30 frames of video.
But there are other standards for shooting. There is 30p, or "30-frames-per-second, progressive," which means that it takes 30 WHOLE pictures a second, instead of 60-half-pictures. Then, there is 24p, which is just like 30p except it only takes 24 pictures per second. (This is what movies are shot in).
If you want to think of the difference visually...watch an episode of COPS, then an episode of CSI, then watch Braveheart. COPS is shot in 60i...it looks depressingly like real life. It's full-motion...very crisp...and very...ummm...real. CSI, however, is shot at 30p. It's video's best attempt to look like film. (Video is MUCH cheaper to shoot and process than film is, so it would be very rare for a television show to be shot on film...though it's been done). It feels a little more...dramatic. A little strobe-ier, a little dreamier. Braveheart, and every other feature film for that matter, was shot on 24p. It looks like...well, it looks like the movies. The drama is more dramatic...less like life, more like movies. Things move a little slower. I can't explain it any better than to tell you to watch all three, and you'll see what I mean.
OK, enough with the video stuff. Here's the point: I don't want to live at 60i anymore.
Real life is to crisp...to clean...too real. It's the green flourescent buzzing over your head at the Jiffy Lube while you wait for your car to get done...it's the awkward hug you have with your dad after a saturday breakfast...it's the little bits of acne under your beard...it's the cell phone ringing in the theater. It's the difference between the triumphant moment at the end of the film where the two long-lost lovers embrace for the perfect kiss (the one that embodies every bit of passion, angst and energy that the audience has been storing up for the first 90 minutes of the film...and the one that ensures that they will always be together), and the lackluster first-kiss I had in a parked car outside of Talbot's at the Kenwood Mall (subject for another post). Real life is sharp, full-motion, crisp, and broad-scoped. The movies are dreamy, targeted, scripted, and narrow. And I can't help it, but every time I come out of a movie, I long to be back inside.
I'm getting the feeling I'm not expressing myself very well here. But I'll press on...let me know if this gets more clear.
It's interesting to me the way movies work on us. I think they work because they make us think of things that remind us of real life. For instance, I watched "The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe" last night, and the film opens with the bombing of London during WWII. During this very brief scene, my ears teared up as I watched a young English family scamper through their backyard into a homemade bomb-shelter, as blasts echoed in the streets of London. I was not, as you might expect, ever present at the actual bombing of London...nor have I ever been present at any bombing of any kind...ever. (I saw a car on fire once in fifth grade...that was about the closest thing). So why was I tearing up? Because I do know what fear feels like, and love for my family, and the belief that one or all of us may soon suffer pain or die. And the movie reminded me of those things...on a mostly subconsicous level, I think...and that made me cry. It reminded me of something that actually happened to me in my actual real life, and which I had actually stored in both my conscious and subconscious minds. A group of actors on a set surrounded by very expensive lights followed a script that some gifted writers had written. Then the film that was shot was brought to some gifted post-production guys, who added sound effects and lighting tricks, and made it feel like an actual bombing raid, and not a sound stage in northern London. Some guys, in real life did something fake to remind of real life, then mailed it to where I really live, so I could pay nine bucks to experience fake real life long enough to remind me of something real in my life.
And the amazing thing is...it worked. I cried a little bit in this otherwise unoutstanding film. And I left the theater regretting that real life is nowhere as great as the movies.
Huh.
Peace,
Justin
I'll explain.
Be prepared for three short paragraphs of nerd-talk, then on to the relevant stuff.
The term "60i" is video-nerd-speak for "60-frames-per-second, interlaced," which is the speed at which standard video is recorded. Basically, it means that my video camera takes 60 half-pictures per second, and then interlaces each half into a whole, for a very clear and crisp 30 frames of video.
But there are other standards for shooting. There is 30p, or "30-frames-per-second, progressive," which means that it takes 30 WHOLE pictures a second, instead of 60-half-pictures. Then, there is 24p, which is just like 30p except it only takes 24 pictures per second. (This is what movies are shot in).
If you want to think of the difference visually...watch an episode of COPS, then an episode of CSI, then watch Braveheart. COPS is shot in 60i...it looks depressingly like real life. It's full-motion...very crisp...and very...ummm...real. CSI, however, is shot at 30p. It's video's best attempt to look like film. (Video is MUCH cheaper to shoot and process than film is, so it would be very rare for a television show to be shot on film...though it's been done). It feels a little more...dramatic. A little strobe-ier, a little dreamier. Braveheart, and every other feature film for that matter, was shot on 24p. It looks like...well, it looks like the movies. The drama is more dramatic...less like life, more like movies. Things move a little slower. I can't explain it any better than to tell you to watch all three, and you'll see what I mean.
OK, enough with the video stuff. Here's the point: I don't want to live at 60i anymore.
Real life is to crisp...to clean...too real. It's the green flourescent buzzing over your head at the Jiffy Lube while you wait for your car to get done...it's the awkward hug you have with your dad after a saturday breakfast...it's the little bits of acne under your beard...it's the cell phone ringing in the theater. It's the difference between the triumphant moment at the end of the film where the two long-lost lovers embrace for the perfect kiss (the one that embodies every bit of passion, angst and energy that the audience has been storing up for the first 90 minutes of the film...and the one that ensures that they will always be together), and the lackluster first-kiss I had in a parked car outside of Talbot's at the Kenwood Mall (subject for another post). Real life is sharp, full-motion, crisp, and broad-scoped. The movies are dreamy, targeted, scripted, and narrow. And I can't help it, but every time I come out of a movie, I long to be back inside.
I'm getting the feeling I'm not expressing myself very well here. But I'll press on...let me know if this gets more clear.
It's interesting to me the way movies work on us. I think they work because they make us think of things that remind us of real life. For instance, I watched "The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe" last night, and the film opens with the bombing of London during WWII. During this very brief scene, my ears teared up as I watched a young English family scamper through their backyard into a homemade bomb-shelter, as blasts echoed in the streets of London. I was not, as you might expect, ever present at the actual bombing of London...nor have I ever been present at any bombing of any kind...ever. (I saw a car on fire once in fifth grade...that was about the closest thing). So why was I tearing up? Because I do know what fear feels like, and love for my family, and the belief that one or all of us may soon suffer pain or die. And the movie reminded me of those things...on a mostly subconsicous level, I think...and that made me cry. It reminded me of something that actually happened to me in my actual real life, and which I had actually stored in both my conscious and subconscious minds. A group of actors on a set surrounded by very expensive lights followed a script that some gifted writers had written. Then the film that was shot was brought to some gifted post-production guys, who added sound effects and lighting tricks, and made it feel like an actual bombing raid, and not a sound stage in northern London. Some guys, in real life did something fake to remind of real life, then mailed it to where I really live, so I could pay nine bucks to experience fake real life long enough to remind me of something real in my life.
And the amazing thing is...it worked. I cried a little bit in this otherwise unoutstanding film. And I left the theater regretting that real life is nowhere as great as the movies.
Huh.
Peace,
Justin
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
As I write, I sit.
As I sit, I stare.
I am looking at a wall of books in front of me...nine feet tall, about five-and-a-half feet wide. They sit on white shelves, colorful and silent, inviting and intimidating.
And the best part is...they're in my living room.
About three months ago, a very generous friend of mine made me a giant bookcase for my house. It was made to fit right inside of the wall of my living room. It is made of what my carpenter-friend calls MDF, which I can only assume stands for "Multi-Dimensional Foam," which is odd considering it is nothing like foam and a great deal like wood. It can, however, boast that it exists in all three dimensions.
...that was three months ago.
For the last 90 days, give or take, it has been sitting in pieces in the corner of my living room. The day after I got it, in my new-bookcase zeal, I primed it with white primer paint. (For the uninitiated, primer paint is a lot like regular paint except you can put it on with a great deal less care, as you're just going to paint over it anyway. I think it is less a painting technique and more just a right of passage). Then, I stacked the shelves inside the empty case, and put my painting and sealing materials down below the bottom shelf.
...and then I walked away.
...and I haven't touched it in three months.
...until yesterday.
...(forgive me, but ellipses were on sale again this week, so I stocked up).
Yesterday, I got tired of staring at the barren shelves stacked up inside of the empty bookcase...so I did what any responsible homeowning husband would do with a disassembled half-painted bookcase would do...
I just hung the damn shelves and put books on them.
Sure, sure...I could have painted them. I could have dragged them outside in the 35-degree afternoon, painted one side, waited for it to dry, painted the other side, and re-caulked the half-caulked bookcase in the meantime. Then I could have waited for it to dry. Then I could have sanded it, repainted, waited for that to dry, and then hung the shelves.
And I could have perhaps invented a cure for square-toe, baked a pineapple bundt cake, and called my mom just to chat. But I didn't. I just hung the damn shelves and put books on them.
And, if you don't mind me saying so, they look awfully nice, thank you very much.
At some point I had to be realistic with myself. I'm not going to paint those shelves. Not soon, anyway. I'm searching for time to do the things I love and that I absolutely need to do, and painting my bookshelf falls in neither category. However, my poor wife has had to stare at the half-assembled bookshelf long enough. So, I took a long, hard, honest look at myself, and I saw a man who does not paint bookshelves. At least, not right now.
So, I dug a few boxes of my books out of the basement and stuck 'em up there. I would guess I've got 400 or so up there...just random selections from the boxes...and stuck 'em up there in no particular order at all.
And as I sit, staring at this bookshelf...I am very, very pleased. There is so much potential up there. I haven't read all those books...there are still some left to read. And that is potential. If you'd like to borrow something, let me know...I'll see if I have it.
And if I do, I'm going to just reach up and grab it off of my bookshelf.
Because I can.
Peace,
Justin
As I sit, I stare.
I am looking at a wall of books in front of me...nine feet tall, about five-and-a-half feet wide. They sit on white shelves, colorful and silent, inviting and intimidating.
And the best part is...they're in my living room.
About three months ago, a very generous friend of mine made me a giant bookcase for my house. It was made to fit right inside of the wall of my living room. It is made of what my carpenter-friend calls MDF, which I can only assume stands for "Multi-Dimensional Foam," which is odd considering it is nothing like foam and a great deal like wood. It can, however, boast that it exists in all three dimensions.
...that was three months ago.
For the last 90 days, give or take, it has been sitting in pieces in the corner of my living room. The day after I got it, in my new-bookcase zeal, I primed it with white primer paint. (For the uninitiated, primer paint is a lot like regular paint except you can put it on with a great deal less care, as you're just going to paint over it anyway. I think it is less a painting technique and more just a right of passage). Then, I stacked the shelves inside the empty case, and put my painting and sealing materials down below the bottom shelf.
...and then I walked away.
...and I haven't touched it in three months.
...until yesterday.
...(forgive me, but ellipses were on sale again this week, so I stocked up).
Yesterday, I got tired of staring at the barren shelves stacked up inside of the empty bookcase...so I did what any responsible homeowning husband would do with a disassembled half-painted bookcase would do...
I just hung the damn shelves and put books on them.
Sure, sure...I could have painted them. I could have dragged them outside in the 35-degree afternoon, painted one side, waited for it to dry, painted the other side, and re-caulked the half-caulked bookcase in the meantime. Then I could have waited for it to dry. Then I could have sanded it, repainted, waited for that to dry, and then hung the shelves.
And I could have perhaps invented a cure for square-toe, baked a pineapple bundt cake, and called my mom just to chat. But I didn't. I just hung the damn shelves and put books on them.
And, if you don't mind me saying so, they look awfully nice, thank you very much.
At some point I had to be realistic with myself. I'm not going to paint those shelves. Not soon, anyway. I'm searching for time to do the things I love and that I absolutely need to do, and painting my bookshelf falls in neither category. However, my poor wife has had to stare at the half-assembled bookshelf long enough. So, I took a long, hard, honest look at myself, and I saw a man who does not paint bookshelves. At least, not right now.
So, I dug a few boxes of my books out of the basement and stuck 'em up there. I would guess I've got 400 or so up there...just random selections from the boxes...and stuck 'em up there in no particular order at all.
And as I sit, staring at this bookshelf...I am very, very pleased. There is so much potential up there. I haven't read all those books...there are still some left to read. And that is potential. If you'd like to borrow something, let me know...I'll see if I have it.
And if I do, I'm going to just reach up and grab it off of my bookshelf.
Because I can.
Peace,
Justin
Saturday, November 12, 2005
50th blog entry.
Moving on...
Here is a nonsense poem I wrote this morning during a long, long, long meeting.
It sits. Silently. Slipping beneath the slithering words off the tongue,
Thundering, stumbling under its own clumsy lumbering.
It's a misogynist. An optimist.
An offering offered for providents,
Proffered beyond its own aspirations,
Taciturn nations betraying relations
For longstanding vows of promoted vocations.
And then I stopped writing because it was my turn to say something in the meeting. I think it's a poem about sound. Or the war in Iraq. Or summer camp. I'm not really sure. I only kind of like it, but I really enjoyed writing it down. It was a little like blowing your nose...messy and stealthy, but relieving. I'm sure I would have written more nonsense on it, but I had to stop.
The point of this blog entry is threefold: 1) To get over the intimidation of writing entry #50. 2) To share that 5-minute train-of-thought poem with you. 3) To say this:
I've discovered that I learn best when I'm doing something other than listening.
What I mean is this...if I sit down and try to make listening to someone talk my primary activity, I won't hear much. I'll have an overflow of energy...a desire to shift around...a need to look around a lot...a restlessness in my legs and arms and chest. They call it Attention Deficit Disorder. I don't agree. I think it is an over-abundance of attention...it just needs to be multi-directed. I think I've got more attention to go around than I have things to pay attention to. That's not a deficit, it just needs more than one focus.
So...I've discovered that I learn best when I'm doing something else. Here's how I figured it out. I was at the Willow Creek Leadership Summit at the Vineyard back in August. I sat through the first three hours of white men in colorful shirts telling me about leadership...and probably retained about 8-10% for more than a few minutes. And that was the peak...the first 45 minutes or so. After that, I started to go downhill...and my guess is that by the end, though my eyes were locked on the speaker...I was really only hearing about 2% of what was being said, and retaining nothing but the stuff immediately after something loud happened onstage. So...in a moment of martyrdom, I made a tough decision on how to use my time.
I decided to go play X-Box.
I went in the back room, called Robbie, and started a game of Halo 2 with him. In an effort to at least give the impression that we were working, I put the live audio from the Summit on the overhead speakers while we played. I kept on shooting Robbie and he kept on shooting me, and more than a few grenades were exchanged. And...in the meantime...without trying or even recognizing it...I learned a lot about leadership. I absorbed, I would guess...about 80% of what was being said. I'm serious...I'd say I actually heard (sound goes to ears, ears change sound to electrical impulses, impulses go to brain, brain turns them back into words, heart understands words) about 80%. After the session was over, I had retained a good half of what was said. That's huge for me, and I would imagine it beats the heck out of whatever that human average is for that sort of thing. Robbie and I continued to play as we discussed what the speaker said...we went deep, and went comprehensive. And we didn't even mean to...it's just what made sense to talk about...after all, it was what we had listened to for the last hour or so while we bloodied each other up with rifles and plasma guns and the like. We heard it, and we kept it. And it was a secondary activity.
I learn best that way. I am writing this blog while a co-worker presents a bunch of her findings on new opportunities for my company to break into new markets. And I can all but guarantee that, if you ask me two days from now what she said, I'll be able to tell you at least half of it. And, by my standards, that's incredible.
Peace,
Justin
Moving on...
Here is a nonsense poem I wrote this morning during a long, long, long meeting.
It sits. Silently. Slipping beneath the slithering words off the tongue,
Thundering, stumbling under its own clumsy lumbering.
It's a misogynist. An optimist.
An offering offered for providents,
Proffered beyond its own aspirations,
Taciturn nations betraying relations
For longstanding vows of promoted vocations.
And then I stopped writing because it was my turn to say something in the meeting. I think it's a poem about sound. Or the war in Iraq. Or summer camp. I'm not really sure. I only kind of like it, but I really enjoyed writing it down. It was a little like blowing your nose...messy and stealthy, but relieving. I'm sure I would have written more nonsense on it, but I had to stop.
The point of this blog entry is threefold: 1) To get over the intimidation of writing entry #50. 2) To share that 5-minute train-of-thought poem with you. 3) To say this:
I've discovered that I learn best when I'm doing something other than listening.
What I mean is this...if I sit down and try to make listening to someone talk my primary activity, I won't hear much. I'll have an overflow of energy...a desire to shift around...a need to look around a lot...a restlessness in my legs and arms and chest. They call it Attention Deficit Disorder. I don't agree. I think it is an over-abundance of attention...it just needs to be multi-directed. I think I've got more attention to go around than I have things to pay attention to. That's not a deficit, it just needs more than one focus.
So...I've discovered that I learn best when I'm doing something else. Here's how I figured it out. I was at the Willow Creek Leadership Summit at the Vineyard back in August. I sat through the first three hours of white men in colorful shirts telling me about leadership...and probably retained about 8-10% for more than a few minutes. And that was the peak...the first 45 minutes or so. After that, I started to go downhill...and my guess is that by the end, though my eyes were locked on the speaker...I was really only hearing about 2% of what was being said, and retaining nothing but the stuff immediately after something loud happened onstage. So...in a moment of martyrdom, I made a tough decision on how to use my time.
I decided to go play X-Box.
I went in the back room, called Robbie, and started a game of Halo 2 with him. In an effort to at least give the impression that we were working, I put the live audio from the Summit on the overhead speakers while we played. I kept on shooting Robbie and he kept on shooting me, and more than a few grenades were exchanged. And...in the meantime...without trying or even recognizing it...I learned a lot about leadership. I absorbed, I would guess...about 80% of what was being said. I'm serious...I'd say I actually heard (sound goes to ears, ears change sound to electrical impulses, impulses go to brain, brain turns them back into words, heart understands words) about 80%. After the session was over, I had retained a good half of what was said. That's huge for me, and I would imagine it beats the heck out of whatever that human average is for that sort of thing. Robbie and I continued to play as we discussed what the speaker said...we went deep, and went comprehensive. And we didn't even mean to...it's just what made sense to talk about...after all, it was what we had listened to for the last hour or so while we bloodied each other up with rifles and plasma guns and the like. We heard it, and we kept it. And it was a secondary activity.
I learn best that way. I am writing this blog while a co-worker presents a bunch of her findings on new opportunities for my company to break into new markets. And I can all but guarantee that, if you ask me two days from now what she said, I'll be able to tell you at least half of it. And, by my standards, that's incredible.
Peace,
Justin
Friday, November 04, 2005
Let me tell you of God’s goodness…
Nevermind. I can’t. I can’t begin to understand what goodness is. Or justice. Or mercy.
But this week I got one thing a little clearer.
Let me tell you of God’s grace.
This week, I had the biggest single business-related moment of my life…and I almost blew it all.
I had a thing for P&G. It was important to me, and to the people who showed up, and entirely irrelevant and unimpressive for your life. So we’ll move on. Suffice to say, it meant a lot to me, and it meant a lot to all the people who paid a bunch of money for it.
And, after a good three weeks or so of working on it for 12 hours a day, the time came to present it…and I wasn’t ready. I stayed up for three days (I’m not exaggerating…if I were, I would have come up with a more impressive number) to get it done…and time came, and I wasn’t ready. I did everything I could, I worked as hard as I could, and I wasn’t ready. I showed up at the meeting with holes in my presentation, missing links in my media, and two entire videos that had gone AWOL.
Then the timer started, the suits started filing in…the countdown got up on the screen…and it was time to present.
And here’s the grace-y part…
Everything went without a hitch.
I’m not kidding. Stuff was there that shouldn’t have been, videos played that hadn’t worked only an hour before, and I swear to you there were slides and video commands I don’t remember putting in. It went brilliantly, and a whole bunch of people who are used to speaking in corporate acronyms told me I did a really nice job and that they wanted me to do it some more. It worked out great…and I have no good reason to believe it was because I did great work.
This was grace.
Don’t get me wrong…I did a lot of work. A bunch of us did…Stacy put a bunch of time and energy in, my brother Brian bravely worked through the night with me…we did a ton of work. But not enough. God showed up and filled in the gaps. Got stuff working that shouldn’t have. Made things go.
I’m not delusional enough to presume that God gives a damn about whether or not P&G sells more of whatever it was I was helping them sell. I don’t think he gives a damn about whether or not Seek gets more work with P&G, either. I do think, however, that he hates to see me hurt. And I was hurting. I was scared out of my mind…crying to my wife at 3:00 in the morning, hadn’t slept in days, and it wasn’t going to get done. I cried out to God, and he listened. And he chose to make it better…to make it go.
I don’t understand goodness. It is too complicated. Somehow, God’s goodness includes both the birth of babies and the death of them. I can’t understand that, not ever. I can’t understand God’s bigness either, nor his mercy. These things are outside of my reach. But this week, I understood his grace in a tangible way. In a simple way. In a way that saved me at a very tough time. In a way I didn’t deserve.
I cried all the way home. I cry now as I write this, four days later. It is unthinkable, and it is wonderful.
Glory be to God; He is Graceful.
Peace,
Justin
Nevermind. I can’t. I can’t begin to understand what goodness is. Or justice. Or mercy.
But this week I got one thing a little clearer.
Let me tell you of God’s grace.
This week, I had the biggest single business-related moment of my life…and I almost blew it all.
I had a thing for P&G. It was important to me, and to the people who showed up, and entirely irrelevant and unimpressive for your life. So we’ll move on. Suffice to say, it meant a lot to me, and it meant a lot to all the people who paid a bunch of money for it.
And, after a good three weeks or so of working on it for 12 hours a day, the time came to present it…and I wasn’t ready. I stayed up for three days (I’m not exaggerating…if I were, I would have come up with a more impressive number) to get it done…and time came, and I wasn’t ready. I did everything I could, I worked as hard as I could, and I wasn’t ready. I showed up at the meeting with holes in my presentation, missing links in my media, and two entire videos that had gone AWOL.
Then the timer started, the suits started filing in…the countdown got up on the screen…and it was time to present.
And here’s the grace-y part…
Everything went without a hitch.
I’m not kidding. Stuff was there that shouldn’t have been, videos played that hadn’t worked only an hour before, and I swear to you there were slides and video commands I don’t remember putting in. It went brilliantly, and a whole bunch of people who are used to speaking in corporate acronyms told me I did a really nice job and that they wanted me to do it some more. It worked out great…and I have no good reason to believe it was because I did great work.
This was grace.
Don’t get me wrong…I did a lot of work. A bunch of us did…Stacy put a bunch of time and energy in, my brother Brian bravely worked through the night with me…we did a ton of work. But not enough. God showed up and filled in the gaps. Got stuff working that shouldn’t have. Made things go.
I’m not delusional enough to presume that God gives a damn about whether or not P&G sells more of whatever it was I was helping them sell. I don’t think he gives a damn about whether or not Seek gets more work with P&G, either. I do think, however, that he hates to see me hurt. And I was hurting. I was scared out of my mind…crying to my wife at 3:00 in the morning, hadn’t slept in days, and it wasn’t going to get done. I cried out to God, and he listened. And he chose to make it better…to make it go.
I don’t understand goodness. It is too complicated. Somehow, God’s goodness includes both the birth of babies and the death of them. I can’t understand that, not ever. I can’t understand God’s bigness either, nor his mercy. These things are outside of my reach. But this week, I understood his grace in a tangible way. In a simple way. In a way that saved me at a very tough time. In a way I didn’t deserve.
I cried all the way home. I cry now as I write this, four days later. It is unthinkable, and it is wonderful.
Glory be to God; He is Graceful.
Peace,
Justin
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