Category Archives: Politics & Culture

Things I Don’t Understand #4: Advertising

All About Me, Culture, Home Life, Politics & Culture
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Okay, so no one can escape the insidious and pervasive siren call of merchandising completely. Me and my Guinness hat on the shore of Loch Ness

I don’t get out much. Let’s just get that out there first thing. However, I do watch TV, and I leave the house to go to school every day, so, while it would not be accurate to say that I’ve got my finger on popular culture’s pulse, neither do I live under a rock. That said, I’m having more trouble every day understanding what passes for popular culture these days.

Take advertisements, for example. Have the American people gotten even more gullible than we used to be (how is that even possible?), or have the advertising wonks just abandoned any pretext of respect for us? I keep seeing advertisements for some new Nordic Stairelyptictreadmaster exercise machine thing. It starts out something like, “What’s the number one factor that prevents people from working out?”

Now I, like most of you, am sitting there watching this during my second or third hour of nightly TV watching, with a Diet Coke at my side, a party-size bag of Doritos in my lap, wishing it wasn’t so cold so I could go outside and have a cigarette, and this guy says, “Time. People just don’t have enough time.” Yeah, I think, as I shovel another handful of Doritos into my mouth, that’s why I don’t work out (well, time and allergies, since if I was to try to use any of the exercise equipment in my basement, it would raise such a cloud of dust that I’d probably sneeze myself into a heart attack long before the stress and shock of physical exertion did).

I mean, seriously, is there anybody on earth stupid enough to believe an ad like that? Anyway, this machine is going to solve the time problem for us because it’s been specially engineered to give you the same results as a regular 30 minute stair master or elliptical or treadmill workout in only 15 minutes or so. AND it’s so much more FUN!!! Okay, so I’ll probably buy one. At least then I’ll only have to feel guilty half as long when I walk past it on my way to the garage.

Even more mystifying to me is the advertising gimmicks that cigarette companies get up to. I’m so tired of opening up a pack of smokes and there’s some kind of “Marlboro Dollar” or “Camel Buck” that I’ve got to get past to get to my preciousssssss. I guess the deal is that I can save these stupid things up and trade them in for merchandise. They’ve got all kind of cool(?) stuff. Marlboro hats, shirts, lighters, posters, insulated cooler bags (I guess those are for carrying my beer around), etc., all so that I can proudly show the world that I’m using their product to kill myself. I would have thought that the bad breath, stinky hair and clothes, smoker’s cough, perpetual wheezing, and gasping for air after climbing three steps would have been enough advertising for them. Maybe they just want to make sure that everyone knows that their cigarettes are responsible for my bad breath, stinky hair and clothes, etc. Honestly, it seems kind of counterproductive to me.

It does however, lead me to the next part of advertising that I don’t understand: Why we seem compelled to turn ourselves into walking advertisements. When I was in the Air Force, myself and another guy had to travel to Canada for an exercise. He turned up at the airport wearing this jacket covered with Home Depot logos, so I figured that he must moonlight there. I also though, man, they really give their people some nice jackets. He was also a rabid NASCAR fan, and I had to listen to him go on and on about Tony Stewart. Everything I never wanted to know about Tony Stewart. His stats, his best times, his enemies, his wife’s name, his personal and professional philosophies (which seemed to consist of; drive fast, turn left, drive very fast), and so on. For three days, in cars, on planes, in restaurants, hotel rooms, and airports, I had to listen to it. By the time we got to our destination, I knew more about Tony Stewart than I did about my companion, and I’d worked with him for three years. It wasn’t until some time later that I finally realized that it was not a Home Depot jacket, it was a Tony Stewart jacket. Of course, the fact that it had Tony Stewart’s autograph and number on it probably should have clued me in sooner, but still.

Everywhere I look, people are walking around advertising everything from bands to booze to snack foods, and everything in between, often wearing multiple brand’s merchandise at the same time. And what about sports apparel? Why would anybody wear that? Does a guy built like Homer Simpson think he’s fooling anybody just because he’s wearing a Lakers jersey? Or does he just think that LeBron James (and I’m pretty sure that LeBron James doesn’t actually play for the Lakers, I just don’t care enough to look up who he does play for) needs that little bit extra publicity? Is he afraid that the $63 billion dollars that LeBron gets paid won’t be enough to keep LeBron motivated? That’s a lot of responsibility for a middle-aged, working-class guy.

Okay, so some athletic clothing is kind of cool. I myself used to wear a football jersey as a shirt. Of course, it was my jersey, that I wore for four years playing high school football for Northeastern High School (which is a whole other blog post). Granted, for the first year or so, I looked ridiculous. As a freshman, I got last dibs on the jerseys, so I, an extra-small freshman (4’11”, 98 lbs. seriously) got stuck with an extra-large jersey. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it was #69. It was so big, that when I tucked it in, it looked like #r0, and that was wearing it over the shoulder pads. Untucked, it hung to my knees. I wore that thing for years. I was proud of that jersey. I took some of the worst ass-kickings of my life in that jersey, but I always got back up and back on the line. That jersey meant something to me.

What could a fake Peyton Manning or LeBron James jersey mean to anybody? I mean, other than, “Hi there, my life is so pointless and uninteresting that I’m going around with someone else’s name on my back, hoping that will inspire someone to talk to me.” I guess I can understand it from the point of view of kids, but what kind of grown man does that?

Sometimes the stuff people wear is just disturbing. I’ve seen a lot of young women running around with “Juicy” emblazoned across their posteriors. Now, I don’t know what that’s all about, and there are a lot of adjectives that can apply to the posteriors of young women, but to me, “juicy” doesn’t make the list. When I think of juicy, I think of flying fluid, and that’s just not a visual I personally would want associated with my backside. I sometimes wonder what people are thinking.

Advertising is everywhere. There’s no escaping it. I guess to me the scariest thing is how easy it is for it to seep into your subconscious and make you think, “You know, if I could do it in 15 minutes a day, I would work out.”

Bah, Humbug: A Christmas Rant Just For You

All About Me, Culture, Home Life, Politics & Culture, Religion, Wives

Ok, I’ll admit it: I’ve had it with Christmas this year. I just can’t get into the spirit of things. I tried. I really did. I helped the wonderfully naughty and divinely nice Jess put up the tree and the lights on the house. I went Christmas shopping for the Grandkids, and felt like we got them some pretty cool stuff that was both inexpensive and useful/practical/fun.

Then I went shopping for Jess, and things just nosedived. I found what she had asked for pretty quickly, but I also always try to get her something as a surprise. Nothing expensive, just something not mass-produced, or at least not in this century. Every store I went to to try to find her something special or cool and unusual/unexpected this year was closed. That was disappointing.

I also had to get something for our family White Elephant gift exchange. I thought I’d go to the local “bookstore”, because they’ve got a lot of different stuff, and I thought I should be able to find something suitably stupid/funny. Wrong. First of all, I don’t think it really qualifies as a bookstore anymore. There are hardly any books, and of the books there are, 75 % of them are kid’s books, or “young adult” books. “Young adult”. Who are they kidding? Although it is a much nicer term than “basically grown-up and functionally illiterate, but still thinks carrying a book around will make them look smart”.

They do usually have a pretty good selection of novelty items (cheap, stupid junk that’s good for at least a half-hearted laugh), but not this year. Not unless you’re in the market for a Dr. Who action figure, or even worse, a Game of Thrones action figure (at least Dr. Who has been around for 40 or 50 years). It left me wondering, who do they sell this crap to? Who would want it? Let’s face it, if you’re old enough to watch Game of Thrones, then your action figure days really should be behind you. Way behind you.

Then of course, my guts went sideways on me. You know the feeling. You’re standing there, minding your own business, and suddenly it feels like giant hands are twisting your guts into balloon animals at the world’s worst children’s party. Somehow, this always happens to me when I’m in a bookstore, I’m not sure why. I think it’s just the smell of the books. It gets me all excited I guess. The only thing surprising about all this is that there are still enough real books in the place to get to me. Anyway, I head for the bathroom in that tense, walking-from-the-knees-down-only, whole body clinch (don’t try to deny it, you know what I’m talking about), and when I get there, what do I find? No seat. Seriously. It was deeply, deeply disappointing to say the least.

Now, I don’t have particularly high standards when it comes to bathrooms. I’m not overly finicky, but I do have some minimal expectations. Enough toilet paper, some perfunctory attempt at cleanliness, and a seat. That’s all I ask. The door doesn’t have to latch, I can hold it shut. The seat doesn’t even have to be bolted down securely. I prefer it to be, of course, but I can deal with some swivel in the seat. But there does have to be a seat. Now I’ll admit that I’ve gone into bathrooms that didn’t even have a toilet, just a hole in the floor, with a ceramic footprint on either side of it, but that was in places like Turkey and Kuwait, and it’s a matter of culture, not basic maintenance. At least those were clean.

This was no matter of culture . . . or was it? You know what? I’ll save that rant for another day. Suffice to say that thanks to an act of will perhaps unparallelled in modern times, I managed to duck-walk my way to the parking lot, climbed into my way-too-tall pickup, carefully worked the clutch and standard transmission all the way home, climbed down from my still way-too-tall truck, got into the house, ran the gauntlet of dogs, and made it to my own fully functioning bathroom without befouling myself. That turned out to be the highlight of my day. A little bit later, I went out to get the mail, and what to my wondering eyes should appear? A membership application from AARP.

Honestly, I think Christmas started going south on me a couple of weeks ago when I joined the choir at church. I’m not much of a singer, although I can do a pretty good Neil Young or Tom Petty, but they said they needed help, so I said why not. Now I wake up every morning with those horrible songs running through my head. In case you hadn’t guessed, I really don’t care much for religious music, much less religious Christmas music. It always just seems kind of vapid and fake. All that silent night, no crying, Mary smiling sweetly, Joseph looking on in wonder, Wise Men, solemn shepherds, everything just so . . . precious.

Think about it. Mary had just arrived in Bethlehem after walking, or at best, riding a donkey who knows how far in the extremely late stages of pregnancy. Think about how miserable women today are on a car ride to the hospital to give birth. Imagine if you asked one of them to give birth in a stable, with no drugs, no doctor, just her, Joseph, and maybe a bale or two of hay. There would not be a lot of sweet smiling going on. Not to mention the practical side of a virgin birth. Sure, it sounds wonderful to us, but how would you like to try squeezing a kid out through an intact hymen? Yikes. And then 3 weird rich guys turn up bearing gifts. The gold and the frankincense would be ok, but myrrh was used in funeral preparations. How would you like it if someone brought a coffin to your baby shower?

I think about Joseph, and I think; that poor guy. It’s tough enough for anybody to be a Step-Father, let alone Step-Father when God is the Baby Daddy. Talk about pressure. If he screws this kid up, he’s not going to end up in court. Plus he’s got all the neighbors whispering and giggling (you know they did, and you know we would too), and gossiping. How’s he going to discipline this kid. When this kid says, “You’re not the boss of me,” he’s right. Look closely at your Nativity set. Joseph’s not looking on in wonder, he’s catatonic with shock.

Now, I know some of you are saying that it wasn’t like that, it was just like in Silent Night. God could make it nice, and sweet, and painless, and wonderful. He’s God, he can do anything he wants. My response to that is why would he. God never pulled his punches on any of his other chosen people. He never even held back suffering from his own son.

When we think of all the heroes of the bible, we think of suffering. John and Paul in prison, Peter being crucified, Stephen being stoned (and not in a good way), and most of all, Jesus on the cross, suffering for all of us. It seems to me that maybe by sanitizing and preciousizing Christ’s birth, we do Mary and Joseph an injustice. That maybe we minimize and marginalize their roles, the roles that God chose them for. Because they did have to be very special people. Very strong people, very Godly people, people who knew right from wrong, and good, not only from evil, but from legal. What they did was extremely important, and like anything truly important, it could not have been easy.

Of course, maybe I just picked the wrong time of the year to quit smoking. Bah Humbug, and Merry Christmas anyway.

 

 

Things I don’t understand #3: Harry Potter and the Epicization of Everything

All About Me, Arts, Books and Literature, Culture, Movies, Politics & Culture

So I’m sitting in class today, and the professor is telling us about a meeting of the Honors Club that she’d like us to go to. She’s very excited about it, and then drops what she apparently thinks will be the big draw: the subject for discussion at the meeting will be . . . wait for it . . . HARRY POTTER!!!!! I’ll wait while you seethe in jealousy at the fact that you won’t be able to attend. Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah.

Oddly enough, I lost all interest in attending at that precise moment. I mean, seriously, this is college. This is where you’re supposed to get educated, to learn about new ideas, big ideas, and discuss them, and solve all the problems of the world, and harness all of our youthful enthusiasm (and I’m writing as a typical college student here, and not the crusty old fart that I actually am. What can I say, I got to the game late. Very Very Late.) to go out and set the world to rights. And the Honors Club (Arguably, perhaps even dubiously) the best and the brightest that the campus has to offer is meeting to discuss HARRY POTTER!!!!!

To be honest, I found it to be more than a little disconcerting. Can anybody please explain to me what is the big deal? Now I’ll admit that I’ve never actually read any of them. I did watch the first movie, and I’ve seen bits and pieces of the others. Nothing that I’ve seen has made me think that I’m missing anything. And yet, I’m surrounded by people, intelligent people (or at least people that I consider intelligent) and they freaking’ looooove HARRY POTTER!!!!! (Note. Please understand that the exclamation marks are an attempt to mimic the enthusiasm that otherwise normal people feel for HARRY POTTER!!!!! They are not meant to affect the entire sentence preceding the name HARRY POTTER!!!!! Please also note that I am using 5 exclamation marks, and all capital letters, both universally accepted signs of a diseased mind.)

Why are all these otherwise reasonably intelligent people so worked up about a series of children’s books? Is there anything actually original in them? Anything that hasn’t been done before about a thousand times? Or is it, as I suspect, just a matter of packaging and marketing? The special effects are SOOOO good!

Honestly, HARRY POTTER!!!!! isn’t the only aspect of modern popular culture (and I’m using the term loosely) that I don’t understand. Take the Hunger Games. Please. I took this kid I know to see one of them, and he was so excited. When it was over, I asked him what the big deal is. He started going on about how new and fresh it was, how it had never been done before, etc., etc. He was pretty much unfazed, even when I told him that it had been done before, in the Richard Bachman stories The Long Walk, and The Running Man, and that they had even made a movie out of The Running Man, with Arnold Schwarzeneggar, complete with people killing each other on a game show with a flaky host in a dystopian future, and it was done 30-40 years ago. Ok, I’ll grant you that Jennifer Lawrence is a whole lot hotter than Arnold, but still. Why did they need three books to basically cover something that Stephen King (Bachman was a nom de plume) did in two short and unrelated novellas?

Why does everything have to be so epic? Look at The Hobbit. One of the greatest and best-loved adventure stories of the 20th century. Then Peter Jackson gets hold of it, and it becomes a 9-hour epic. Of course, he had to make up a ton of stuff that wasn’t in the book in order to pad a great adventure into an epic. Granted, the movies are well made (as are the HARRY POTTER!!!!! and Hunger Games movies), but that’s not the point. My dad had a saying, “10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag” to describe a situation where too much stuff is crammed in. These epics have the opposite problem, “5 pounds of gold in a 10 pound bag of shit”. There is lots of good stuff, even in these movies, but it’s completely overwhelmed by all the pointless, repetitious, and just dull filler. And seriously, what’s the deal with the freaking Elves defying gravity and skateboarding across everything? That looked stupid, even in the Disney animated version of  Tarzan.

It’s not just movies, or movie series either. This epicization extends to individual scenes. The interminable fight scenes where, 5 minutes into it, I’m thinking, don’t any of these bad guys have a gun? Somebody please take two steps back and shoot Bruce Willis (or Stallone, or Jason Statham, or Jet Li, or whoever’s kung-fuing his way through hordes of bad guys tonight), so it can end. I don’t care if the bad guys win, I just want this fight to end. Then there’s the ever-popular chase scene. Those have gotten so endless that I don’t even pause the movie to go to the bathroom. Frankly, they’ve gotten so big they’re just dull. Everybody is so busy making things bigger, better, louder, (insert your own favorite _____er here).

It’s really kind of silly, but we just keep buying it. Literally. We bought the DVD, and the video game, and the movie-tie-in version of the book, and the soundtrack, and then the Blur-Ray, and then the Director’s Cut, and then the 10th anniversary edition (because it’s got all those cool “special” features), and the DVD’s and Blu-Rays of all the sequels, because, even though they weren’t really as good as the first, and the last 2 or 3 sucked, it would be aesthetically wrong to not have the whole epic.

It’s even affecting real life. People can’t just like anything any more, they have to be “obsessed” with it. I know people who are “obsessed” with this book, that author, that director, that movie series, those shoes, that tv show, the new flavor at Starbucks. Just liking it isn’t enough. Even loving it isn’t enough. Of course, maybe those people need to become obsessed briefly with a dictionary.

Now I’ll grant that when I was a kid, I got pretty carried away with a lot of things. Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings were my big things. But I got over it. I still really like them, but I’m certainly not obsessed with them. Honestly, I’ve still got a few things like authors that I get carried away with, and will buy pretty much anything they write. I like them a lot, and recommend them to everybody. But I also realize that they’re not everybody’s cup of tea. Frankly, I’d feel a little silly enthusing over a book or movie like a 12 year-old girl with a new copy of Tiger Beat with a fold-out of Justin Bieber (speaking of things I don’t understand).

I think it probably concerns me most because it makes me feel more mature in comparison to those overly enthusiastic fans of anything. Honestly, anything that makes me feel like the adult in any situation concerns me because I know how phenomenally immature I really am.

I just don’t understand.

 

Michigan Renaissance Festival: A little slice of Heaven?

All About Me, Culture, Home Life, Politics & Culture, Religion, Wives

Last month my wife, the lovely and no-longer-dying Jess, and I went up to the Renaissance Festival in Holly, Michigan. I’ve got to admit, I approached the whole thing with significantly less enthusiasm than curiosity. Neither Jess nor I are into that sort of thing. We only went because it was an opportunity to hang out with her sister and her boyfriend, who are into that whole thing.

My initial impression was, I’ll admit, kind of judgmental. Anachronisms abounded. There were pirates with Ray-Bans, elves with cameras, Vikings with laptops, a couple of noblemen on scooters, and of course everyone had a cell phone.

As far as I can recall, the Renaissance was mostly the Black Death, art, music, literature, religion, architecture, and philosophy, and more Black Death. It had something for everybody, especially MOOOORE BLACK DEATH! Now with EXTRA DEATH! Ok I just checked Wikipedia (it’s ok, this is just a blog. Accuracy is optional) and I’m right. Art, science, literature, philosophy, religion, architecture and MOOOORE BLACK DEATH! (admit it, you laughed). However, plague sufferers were entirely absent at the fair (there weren’t even any funny, Monty Python-type sufferers).

There were a lot of really cool and elaborate costumes,  but again, many seemed wildly inaccurate if not just out of place. I quickly realized that the term “Renaissance” was applied very loosely. There were (in addition to the expected pirates, priests, nobles, merchants and peasants) scores of elves, hobbits, wizards, video game assassins, fairies, at least one Shrek, an Ash (from “Army of Darkness”, complete with chainsaw hand) and Spiderman in the costume of a Knight Templar.

Also, I never realized that bare midriffs were so popular during the renaissance. They were certainly in abundance at the festival. All kinds of bare midriffs. Toned ones, muscular ones, less-than toned ones, paunchy ones, even a couple of pregnant ones. Everywhere you looked, there were bare midriffs. Bare midriffs and cleavage. Lots of cleavage. Possibly even miles of cleavage. There was elf cleavage, pirate cleavage, peasant cleavage, noble cleavage, tattooed cleavage, sparkly cleavage, celtic cleavage, fairy cleavage, gypsy cleavage, young cleavage, old cleavage, sparse cleavage, ample cleavage, and even, in one or two unfortunate cases, long cleavage. There was every degree of cleavage, from reasonably demure, to the more brash, if-you’ve-got-it-flaunt-it type, to the extreme one-hop-and-she’s-topless type. Just to be clear, there was a LOT of cleavage.

Oh yeah, there was some shopping as well.

Anyway, at some point, I got to thinking about the world, and Heaven. I’m not sure why (it wasn’t the cleavage and bare midriffs, or at least not entirely). I think it was just because everyone was so happy. They were all just doing their own thing, together. I didn’t see any groups of Ladies in elaborate gowns bad-mouthing the “trampy” pirate girls. The Vikings weren’t beating up the Fairies. There were no hardcore Renaissance types complaining about how the hobbits were making a travesty of their festival. There were no hardbodies making fun of the heavy-set set for showing a little skin (or even a lot). Those who had probably made their own costumes weren’t looking down on those who’d bought theirs. Those who’d obviously spent hundreds, or even thousands of dollars on their costumes weren’t making fun of those who obviously hadn’t, and the ones who either couldn’t or wouldn’t spend much didn’t seem envious or intimidated by those who had. Everybody just seemed to take it for granted that everybody belonged. They were all free to be who they were (or maybe who they wish they were, or who they are in their hearts).

There was a real live-and-let-live vibe going on that I think we could use in the real world. I’m not talking about abandoning all principles and social norms, I’m just suggesting that maybe we should stop taking them quite so seriously. Just because someone votes Democrat doesn’t mean they want to destroy freedom and enslave us all to the government. Most Republicans probably don’t want to destroy the government and enslave us all to our capitalist overlords. Most Muslims don’t want to kill all Christians any more than most Christians want to kill all Muslims. Most gays don’t want to destroy your marriage. Certainly none of them seem intent on destroying mine. There are no gay guys beating down my door to convince me to switch teams (and what’s the deal with that anyway? Not that I’m interested, but it’d be nice to be asked, ya know? Hurtful bastards.), and most of the lesbians we know are related to me, so they’re leaving Jess alone. I mean, that would just be weird.

We’ve gotten so good at making mountains out of molehills, that we’ve forgotten what mountains look like. Nazi Germany was a mountain. 9/11 was a mountain. AIDS is a mountain. Hunger, poverty, racism,and disease are mountains. Obama doing the same thing that every other president before him has done is a molehill.

It seems to me that it would be a much better world if we all stepped back, and kind of re-prioritized things. Spent more time doing something about the actual mountains and less time bitching about the lowering of standards because the kid at the drive-through has turned his earlobes into handles.

Sometimes I think that Heaven’s gonna be kind of like that Renaissance Fair. Everybody (or at least everybody who gets in) free to worship God as they are, as He created them. There will be room for the guys from the Heavy-Metal Church of Christ (seriously, there is such a thing) and the Methodists, etc. We Christians all like to joke (usually smugly) about how we’re all going to be surprised by who will actually get into heaven and who won’t make the cut. Oddly enough though, I get the feeling that when the surprise sets in, everybody there is going to be pissed.

Of course, I could be wrong and Heaven’s just gonna be one big Southern Baptist Jamboree.

Choices: Things I don’t understand #2

All About Me, Culture, Home Life, Politics & Culture
Thanks to Kim Waggoner for the picture!
Thanks to Kim Waggoner for the picture!

I hate going to the store, especially if I have to get stuff from the pharmacy section or anything health-related. There are just too many choices. It’s way too complicated. I mean, just trying to buy toothpaste is enough to induce an anxiety attack.

When I was a kid, you had Crest or Colgate, and, for the late 70’s equivalent of a metro-sexual, Aqua Fresh. That’s it. We were Crest people, so if we needed toothpaste, all mom had to decide was what size tube to get. It was simple. Those days are over. The last time I went to buy toothpaste, my brain just about melted.

Which Crest should I get? Should I get the one with baking soda, or the one with extra whitening? Ooooh, maybe I should get the one with Scope. Or how about the tarter control one? That sounds pretty important. But wait, there’s the Crest Total. Maybe that one would cover all the bases. Of course, if it’s so “total” then why do they need all those other ones? My teeth could all fall out waiting for me to decide.

I decided to get some toothpaste for my wife, the orally hygienic and toothsome Jess. She grew up in a Colgate house, and refuses to recognize the superiority of Crest, so I humor her. Unfortunately, it’s the same with Colgate. 42 varieties.

Ok, I decided, you’re a smart guy, reason it out. . .

Turns out, I’m not that smart. I know, compare the ingredients. Nope, they’re all pretty much identical, and (I’m not too proud to admit), I have no idea what any of them are, or what they do.

Finally, I just closed my eyes, and grabbed one of Crest and one of Colgate, regardless of their purported properties.

It’s the same thing with everything these days. Toothpaste, shampoo, soap, shaving cream, mouthwash, toothbrushes. Even razor blades. Should I get the old twin blade razor, or go for the 6-blade “Decapitator” model?

Why should I have to know what kind of hair I have before I can buy shampoo? Is my hair dry or oily, or frizzy? It really depends on the time of day, doesn’t it? About mid-morning, it’s dry. Towards evening, I guess it’s getting kind of oily (especially on weekends when showers are on more of an as really needed, or as I like to put it, European basis. You know you’re like that too). If I just woke up, it’s definitely frizzy. Do I have problems with split ends? I don’t really even know what split ends are, but it sounds painful.

I don’t want to have to think about what kind of skin I’ve got. I’m not that sensitive (although if I were, there are about 40 “different” soaps for it). I just want soap that will get the dirt off of me.

Who cares what the shaving cream smells like? I don’t know that I want eucalyptus in my shaving cream. I just want to be able to scrape the hair off without losing too much hide. Is that too much to ask?

God help you if you get a cold. There are 10 different types of every cold remedy, no single one of which actually covers all your symptoms. It’s ridiculous.

Even generics have jumped on the choice bandwagon. I remember when generics first came out. Just plain old white containers with labels like “green beans”, or “toothpaste” or even “beer”. Not anymore. Even generics have brand names like “Equate” and just as many choices as the brand names.

This kind of stuff can really get to you when taken on an individual basis, but think about the trauma of a single guy at the store. He makes all his selections, then spends some time cruising up and down, looking for the line with the cutest cashier (you know you do it), waits in line behind all the other guys, puts his purchases on the conveyor belt, flashes her his most winning smile, and, just as she starts to scan his items, he realizes that he’s bought soap for sensitive skin, shampoo for oily hair, shaving cream that smells like a field of daisies in Australia, toothpaste for sensitive teeth, extra-strength mouthwash, and a pink shower puff (I thought it was light red!).

Not only does he look like he’s preparing for a remake of the end of “Blazing Saddles”, but it totally contradicts the manly look he’s so carefully calculated with his Realtree camouflage pants and “Who Farted” t-shirt. Plus, it’s all “Equate” brand stuff. Sure, it looks like brand-name packaging, but they’re not fooling her. This dude is broke. This dude is never going to get a date.

Don’t get me wrong, I like choices in some things, even most things. Pizza toppings? The more the merrier. Ice cream flavors? Bring it on. Books, movies, music, tv, news outlets, any number of things really. I’m all about having choices.

Unfortunately, when it comes to choices I like, they seem to actually be diminishing. Movies and TV shows are becoming more and more the same. Endless car chases, fight scenes that go on so long you don’t even hit pause to go to the bathroom, fart jokes, inappropriate behavior from children, foul-mouthed women, gratuitous nudity (particularly male. When did that start seeming like a good idea?), CGI characters, bottomless gun magazines, and stuff blowing up (mind you, I’m not saying all this stuff is bad, just unimaginative. I’ll leave it to you to figure out which of these I don’t mind). And let’s not forget all those stupid, cookie cutter romantic comedies (does Jennifer Aniston really need that much work?).

Some film-makers have abandoned all pretense at originality. Do we really need 12 “Fast and Furious” movies, or 7 “Transformers”? Anyone who’s seen it knows that the world would be a better place with one less “Die Hard” movie. How many knock-offs of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”, “CSI”, or “Law & Order” before TV reaches critical mass and collapses into a black hole under the weight of all that accumulated apathy (and yes, I realize that looking at it from a physics point of view, that sentence probably made no sense at all. Get over it, I’m a writer, not a physics guy, and you’ve got to admit, it sounds good).

It’s the same for books, music, etc. For every truly original writer like Joe R. Lansdale or Christopher Moore making due with little more than a cult following, there are a dozen John Grisham or Tom Clancy knockoffs topping the best-sellers lists, and getting movie deals. It’s kind of depressing, really.

It seems like I spend way too much time having to make choices that really don’t make any difference to me, and like the choices I spend time on because they do matter to me turn out to be pointless. I just don’t understand.

Things I don’t understand #1: Tattoos

All About Me, Culture, Politics & Culture

Hi there, and welcome back to my blog. This is the 1st in an ongoing series that will examine things I don’t understand, and why I don’t understand them. I find as I get older, the list of things I don’t understand gets longer and longer, so this may be a lengthy series. I want to say here at the outset, that I’m not meaning to condemn or judge anyone, because I’m just as guilty as anyone about a lot of these. If, at some point, I do want to condemn or judge anyone (and lets face it, I probably won’t be able to help myself), I’ll try to make it pretty obvious. Enjoy!

Things I don’t understand #1: Tattoos

I just don’t understand. I’ve known a lot of people with tattoos, in fact, many of my favorite people have them. And I’m not talking about the “normal” military tattoos. Those I understand. I even kind of understand prison tattoos or those Russian mob tattoos. I personally think they’re kind of like walking around with a billboard saying, “Attention police personell! I am a criminal! Make sure you keep an eye on me!!!,” but, you know, to each his own. At the very least, those tattoos have some actual significance.

What I’m talking about is the tattoos all these young kids (and some not so young) are getting. Like tribal tattoos. It’s one thing if you’re an actual member of an actual tribe, and that’s your tribe’s thing, or you’re an actual 7th century Celtic warrior, but most of the people who I’ve seen with them should be getting a wasp as a tribal tattoo. If I was a guessing man (and I am), I’d guess that very few of them could even trace their geneology back more than two generations.

I looked up tribal tattoos on the interweb, just to make sure I was talking about what I thought I was talking about. Yep, I was. You know what I’m talking about, those twisty, cur-le-que ones with all the pointy bits. I looked up some sites to see what they meant. I didn’t get much information on what they actually mean, but I did find out that they’re supposed to make you look valiant, courageous, tough, fertile (who would want to advertise that?), religious, and (this is my favorite one) ethnic.

For more info on tribal tattoo meanings, here’s a place to start. http://stylesatlife.com/articles/best-tribal-tattoo-designs/

I thought you were what made you look ethnic. I mean, look at me. I don’t need a tattoo to let people know what tribe I’m a part of. I’m obviously a member of the Doughboy tribe. I don’t need a tattoo to warn people that I belong to a dangerous tribe. It’s pretty obvious that there are tons of us. So watch what you say.

Then there’s the universally-acknowledged stupidity of getting your boyfriend/girlfriend’s name tattooed on yourself. I don’t think I’ve ever known anybody that thought that was a good idea. Especially people who’ve had it done. And yet, people just keep on doing it. I’ll also add in getting any band name, celebrity’s name or face and things like that into this category. Let’s face it, most of the people who get these tattoos have trouble committing to a game system for more than a year, but “I’m gonna love you forever!!!,” or they’re gonna love Dale Earnhart Jr. forever, or Justin Bieber, or Green Day. Too obvious product placement in a movie or TV show annoys me, but it’s big money, so I can understand why they do it. I just don’t understand why someone would pay to do that to themself.

I also don’t get the “it expresses who I am on the inside, the real me” tattoo. Seriously? On the inside, the real you is a unicorn? Are you saying you don’t really exist? The same applies for the innumerable tattoos of teddy bears, kittens, dolphins, roses, skulls, lions, sharks, etc. A tattoo isn’t going to make you cute, or cuddly, or sensitive. It’s certainly not going to make you a badass. Most of the real badasses I’ve ever known, you never knew they were a badass until it was too late (for you, that is).

If a tattoo could make you something you’re not, then I’d just get two full-length tattoos of skinny guys and be thin siamese twins. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about losing weight anymore.

Or how about the broken heart tattoo? Now I’ll admit I’ve done a lot of stupid things, romantically speaking, but, to tell the truth, some of the people I was doing those stupid things with had broken heart tattoos, and it didn’t seem to slow them down. I get all the reminders I need of the stupid things I’ve done by just looking in the mirror (here’s a hint for all of you recently broken-hearted: you never forget. The best you can do is get over it, and don’t do it again. A tattoo isn’t gonna help with that.)

Tramp stamps are pretty much incomprehensible to me. Why get a tattoo that you can’t even see? How do you even know they gave you what you want until it’s too late? I suppose some think it’s sexy. I’ll even concede that on some women, it is, but honestly, I’d think it would ultimately just be distracting.

When it comes to kids, the worst is the “I’m gonna piss off mom or dad” tattoo. Kids do a lot of stupid things to piss off their parents. Besides tattoos, They do all kinds of weird stuff with their hair, they get their ears, noses, lips, tongues, eyebrows, and pretty much anything else that you can shove a needle through pierced, etc., and all of those things work equally well. The only difference is hair will grow out. Earrings and piercings come out. They’ll piss your folks off, but won’t keep you from getting a good job later.

I know tattoos are becoming more and more popular all the time. There are magazines and even TV shows devoted to them. Like I said, most of my favorite people in the world have tattoos, and most are quite happy about them, even proud of them. The tattoos don’t affect how I feel about them, or what I think of them. I just don’t understand the appeal. If you do, feel free to comment below, and help me understand (or just tell me I’m being an pinhead. It’s ok, I can take it. I’ve got pretty thick skin, even without a tattoo of a rhino to prove it).

Coming soon!!!

More stuff I don’t understand

Like

Why do they put the toilet paper dispensers below the rail in handicapped bathroom stalls?

Why does anybody care what Donald Trump, Ted Nugent, or really, any of those guys have to say?

Why do websites like Facebook, Netflix, etc., keep moving things?

Why do I actually know so few of my Facebook friends?

Why am I, and apparently everybody else in the world, so fascinated with Facebook?

and much, much more. Let’s face it, there is virtually no end to the things I don’t understand.

Happy reading!

Pine Ridge mission trip – A few thoughts: Okay, more than a few

Culture, Politics, Politics & Culture, Religion, Travel

 

The whole motley crew after devotions in the Badlands
The whole motley crew after devotions in the Badlands

The hard-driving and long-suffering Jess and I got home from a mission trip to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation last Saturday night at about 11:00 p.m. I won’t kid you, it was a tough trip, starting about 3 days before we left. Trying to get everything packed into that trailer and my truck is always a challenge, not just because we take a lot of camping gear, but because of the enormous amount of stuff, both clothing and food, that people donate for us to take out there.

The amount of donations is both awesome and terrible. Awesome because people are so generous and eager to help. Many who have never gone on the trip have been our most consistent supporters, and many, I know, have truly given until it hurts, and God bless ’em for it.

It is terrible because we have so much to give, and so many of the Lakota have so little. None of us back here in Indiana think of ourselves as rich, at least nobody I know of. Most of us consider ourselves middle- or at worst, lower-middle-class (although late at night, when we’re lying sleepless in bed worrying about bills, or our kids’ college, or is our car going to make it another year, it’s awfully easy to secretly suspect we don’t even qualify for upper-lower-class).

We get as much love from them as they do from us.
We get as much love from them as they do from us.

Until we get out there, that is. Nothing makes you feel rich like going to the Rez. It’s a real eye-opener, especially the 1st time. We pull up to do our VBS at the playgrounds, and see the grass and weeds anywhere from ankle- to knee-high, and full of ticks, trash, snakes, and who knows what else. We see the basketball court covered with glass from so many broken liquor bottles that it looks like the court is paved with diamonds sparkling in the sun, and the shattered, and frequently shotgunned backboards. All surrounded by shabby, graffiti-scarred government-built houses with yards, some weed-strewn and unkempt, some as neatly maintained as any back home, some surrounded by field fence, some fortified with barbed-wire.

Someone once asked me why some of them will mow their own yard, but not just go on and mow the playground. I asked them, if you lived there, and are lucky enough to have a mower that works, and lucky enough to have a job so you can afford gas for the mower, and are motivated enough to give your own kids a decent, relatively safe place to play, would you take a chance on destroying your equipment and not be able to take care of your own kids’ needs, just to be a nice guy?

How many of us when we’re home go mow or maintain rundown public lands, or even our neighbors’ yards, or do we just bitch about why doesn’t the city or our neighbor do something about that damn dump? Why should we expect more from them than we do from ourselves?

No matter how tired you get, it's hard to say no.
No matter how tired you get, it’s hard to say no.

And then the kids show up, and you kind of forget what a nasty place it must be to live. They are so excited to see us, and especially those of us who’ve made this trip before. They are so grateful and hungry for the attention that it breaks your heart and uplifts it all at the same time. They just can’t seem to get enough. A kid will often pick out one of us and stick like glue. In many ways, it’s like they’re starved for human contact. Although some of them (especially the older ones) want to run and play games, it seems like most just want piggy-back rides, or to sit and talk with us while they draw with sidewalk chalk or do crafts, or they just want to be held, to be touched in a wholesome, loving way.

Of course, it’s not all beauty and light and Mr. Rodger’s Neighborhood with the kids either. Just like our kids, some of them will test you. They want to see if you’re willing to put your money where your mouth is. They know that it’s easy for us to come out there and fling Jesus at them, and make ourselves feel good about ourselves for playing with the “poor little indian kids”. They want (and need) to be loved, not patronized. So they push you to see if you’re the real deal. There’s nothing like the look on the face of a white middle-class, middle-aged housewife and mother after being told to “go F%&@ yourself” by a 6-year-old. They’ll swipe your stuff and taunt you with it. A favorite trick is to get you to let them take a picture of you with your phone. Then, you’ve got to spend maybe 15 minutes, maybe an hour trying to get them to give it back. They want to see if you’ll get mad. They want to see what’s really more important to you, your rich white-guy stuff or your words about Jesus.

Their teenagers like to challenge ours, especially the boys. They love sports, like most kids, and take great pleasure in schooling our guys. They will often try intimidation, to see what our boys will do. It’s a tough position for a teenage boy. If you back down, you’re a pussy, but if you don’t, are you being a christian? Does being a Christian equate to being a pussy? It’s a complicated theological question for a teenage boy in the middle of a pick-up basketball game. There’s also the possibility that if you come back too strong that you’re going to be Custer (although given the pitiful state of history instruction in our schools, there’s very little chance of any of our kids even knowing who Custer was. You can bet the Lakota kids do though.)

Usually, the testing dies off after the 1st day or two. Often the kids who tested you the most are the ones who are most upset at the end of the week when you have to leave.

This is why we do what we do.
This is why we do what we do.

Speaking of our piss-poor education in our own history, it always kinda cracks me up when I’m telling someone about the trip, and they ask me, “Do they still live in Teepee’s?” and stuff like that. It’s not just kids either. It’s educated adults who often ask this. It’s not just a question of education, it’s a matter of complete and utter disregard and neglect of these people by the entire nation. Nobody ever asks do Hawaiians live in grass huts or if Eskimo’s still live in igloos. I’ve actually stood on the Reservation, talking to whites passing through, and been asked, “Are there Indians around here?”

The ignorance of whites about conditions on Indian Reservations, and about Indians in general, is really shocking to me, even though I know I shouldn’t be surprised. Isolation is exactly why we put the reservations where they are. We looked around after taking everything worth taking from them, and, not having the heart to just exterminate them outright, benevolently “gave” them the most worthless bits of land we could find. At least until we found out there was something underneath that worthless ground that we did want, like uranium. Even then, we didn’t make them move, we just went in, took what we wanted, and left them poisoned water sources by way of thanks.

We cheated them, killed them, poisoned them, crushed them and penned up those who were left, to be further cheated, poisoned, and exploited. We did everything we could to make them helpless and dependent on us so we could do what we wanted without resistance, and now many of us have the nerve to talk about those lucky Indians with their government checks and casinos, and shame on them for being drunk, stoned, lazy, and unemployed. I mean what’s wrong with those people? You’d think they’d be eager to learn our ways now that we’ve shown them how awesome we are. Didn’t we even carve our presidents heads into their holy land, just as a constant reminder?

Sorry, I get a little carried away. It’s been said of the Lakota that they were a stone-age people who were unable to even discover the wheel, but that is simply not true. They knew about the wheel centuries ago. Their whole world was a wheel. The sky was a circle, the earth was a ball, even their homes were circular. The plains Indians even made wheels, like the Medicine Wheel in Wyoming. The difference is, that, while we use the wheel to move our stuff around, have to have the wheel, because we have so much stuff, to the Lakota, the wheel anchored their world. The entire earth was their wheel and wagon, and provided everything they needed. They didn’t need the wooden wheel. They lived in their wagon and it provided everything they needed. They didn’t need to take so much stuff with them because they never left the source of their stuff, and didn’t need anything it didn’t provide.

We took that away from them. We took away their wheel and gave them little squares and boxes, with lots of nice sharp corners. Boxes to live in, squares to live on. Imaginary boundaries on a boundless plain. It took the Catholic Church roughly 300 years to accept that the world was round (1492-1822), yet we expected the Lakota (among others) to accept that it was square in roughly 50. Once again, I digress.

Back to the mission trip. This year, we were a bit more disorganized than usual. The last few years, we’ve adopted the philosophy that we’ll go out there with a very loose plan, and be ready to do whatever work God sent our way. This year, we really had no plan at all. The Tennessee group who usually goes out the week following us had to go the same week as us. They are a lot more numerous, and better organized than we are, so it was decided that we’d just follow their lead, and help them out where needed. It turned out, they didn’t really need us. Those guys really have it going on. We expected to help them build a playground set and shelter at Potato Creek. We got there on Monday, saw what they were doing and realized we’d literally just be in their way. Those guys were good.

I think that our VBS/Street Ministry teams were more useful, just because it meant more attention to each kid. The only part of our trip that was unaffected was the Adult Ministry. Still, God sent us plenty of opportunities.

Dave McCoy, Caleb Carithers, and I were driving back to camp one afternoon when we passed a young woman walking along the road with a bunch of little kids, out in the middle of nowhere. We stopped and asked if they needed a ride, and she said they were going to Kyle. That’s about 20 miles from where we met her. Since we camp just outside of Kyle, we offered her a lift. We figured she was going to stay with someone there, but she said she was just going to Kyle to get diapers for her babies. She had 5 little kids with her, the oldest being about 4 or 5, and it was obvious that she’d set out for Kyle a little too late for at least one of the littlest ones

When we got to Kyle, we stopped at the grocery, and Caleb went into the store with her and got them all something to drink. Then we took her over to the police station to get the diapers, which seemed odd to us, but hey, it’s the Rez. There was no one there, so we invited her to dinner at the camp. We took her out there, and had dinner with her and her kids. After dinner we invited her to stay for devotions with us, but she wanted to get her kids home, so we loaded her down with diapers, wipes, leftovers, etc. and Troy Beckner gave them and another Native family a ride home.

Well, this is really getting long, so I’ll wrap it up with this. I get asked frequently if we’re doing any good, if we’re making any kind of difference out there, and I never really know what to say. I think we do. I know that helping people is good. Putting a smile on a sad little kid’s face is good. Putting a warm meal in a hungry kid’s belly is good. Giving desperately poor people the basics for survival, even if it’s only enough for a day or two is good. Giving people a safe place for their kids to play, or for them to camp while they worship is good. Making friends with the isolated and neglected is good. These good things are good not only for the Lakota, but for us as well.

As far as making a difference, I hope we do, but I know that if we do, it’s only because God takes our pitiful, inefficient, flailing efforts and uses them for his purposes.

Well, I guess that’s about it. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to writing stupid stuff about embarrassing bodily functions soon.

For those of you interested in learning more about any of this, just google Pine Ridge Indian Reservation.

Here are a few links to help you get started.

www.redcloudschool.org/reservation

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pine_Ridge_Indian_Reservation

www.4aihf.org/id40.html

 

Rich Mullins movie. Another freaking post.

All About Me, Arts, Culture, Movies, Religion

I got a comment on a previous post about the movie “Ragamuffin”. It was a very nice post from a very nice guy who was disappointed in the movie. He was disappointed that they didn’t show more of Wayne’s funny, charming side. That seems to be a fairly common complaint, so I thought I’d post my response to him here. Keep in mind that I don’t speak for any of the folks who made the movie. This is all my opinion, and mine alone. That said . . .

 

Hey Tom – I think you’re kinda missing the point of the movie. They could have gone with a different angle (and actor) and shown Wayne’s charming, witty, funny side, but that’s the side everyone knows, and the side everyone (well a lot of people anyway) emulates. The side that I think most of us look at and say, “Why aren’t I like that?” But the upshot of making that movie would have just been preaching to the choir, and ultimately just glorifying Wayne as some kind of paragon of Christianity. Let’s face it, if you want that kind of stuff, you can find a shitload without really even trying. Just go to U-tube. What they were trying to do was make a movie that we could all watch and say, “Holy shit, I am just like Rich Mullins in so many ways! Maybe God loves me too.” A movie that ultimately glorifies God and not a musician who sang about him. Don’t get me wrong, I think Wayne was a good man, and a good Christian, if there is such a thing (at the very least, he was a better Christian than me), but I think part of the problem today is this whole cult of personality that has taken over. Even the “real” news is inundated with pointless pablum about celebrities and how great this one is or how bad that one is. The reason for this is that’s what the people apparently want. To hold up Miley Cyrus or Lindsey Lohan as examples of how terrible people are, or to hold up Tom Hanks or Princess Diana or Rich Mullins as examples of what we all ought to try to be. At the very least, us Christians ought to know better, but instead, we make heroes out of guys like Wayne or Amy Grant or Billy Graham, and have the nerve to be offended when we find out they’re just as jacked up as we are. It’s especially bad once somebody like that dies, whether that someone is a celebrity or just a family member. Once they’re dead, we sanctify them. We block out all the bad stuff about them, or, if we can’t block it out, we make it funny and endearing. I’ve lost both parents, a brother and a sister, and did that to all of them. Only when this movie came out did I really start dealing with all of it. Up til now, recognizing the bad aspects of their personalities and behavior seemed like a betrayal of their memory. Now that I’ve started actually dealing with it though, I realize that to deny those aspects or to try to laugh them off is really robbing them of their humanity, and that is unfair to them, and unfair to myself. I love and miss them all, but if I could have them back, I’d want them back warts and all, because that’s who they were. I think if you really want to know who Rich Mullins was, then the movie they made tells a necessary part, especially when taken in context with all the truly wonderful things about him that everyone already knows.

Well, sorry about getting on my soapbox. I do understand where you’re coming from, and I hope my little rant here won’t stop you from reading more (normally, I’m a lot funnier). Anyway, take care and thanks for reading.

 

God, Dad, Me, and Rich Mullins: A Few Thoughts On Rejection

All About Me, Arts, Culture, Movies, Politics & Culture, Religion

There's a phrase you never thought you'd associate with me. Try to get it out of your head though. hahahahaha
There’s a phrase you never thought you’d associate with me. Try to get it out of your head though. hahahahaha. Seriously though, I look like an Irish Buddha. Kinda disturbing, huh?

I wrote this a few weeks ago during a showing of “Ragamuffin: The True Story of Rich Mullins”. I’ve put off publishing it because I’m afraid it’s a little bit muddy. I know what I want to say, I’m just not sure that this says it. I hate to be misunderstood. I hope this makes sense. Feel free to let me know what you think.

I’m sitting in Mr. Coblentz’ old Sunday school classroom in our church basement. Upstairs we’re playing the 3rd showing of the movie “Ragamuffin”, the story of the gospel musician, Rich Mullins, my brother Wayne (sorry, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to call him Rich). This being the 3rd showing this weekend, I’m kind of reaching critical mass with it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good movie, in many ways, a great movie, but it’s painful to watch, for me anyway. It’s even more painful, or maybe difficult, or emotional, or uncomfortable are better terms, to watch it here, in the church we grew up in. Not only does it bring back memories of Wayne, but also of Mom and Dad, my sister Deb, Harold and Martha Coblentz, Bill and Betty Cox, Naomi Green, and so many more that I’ll never see again, at least not in this life. It makes me remember how much I miss them all, and how much I owe to them, and to the folks who are still here. I’m not going to mention any of their names; I’m pretty sure that would just embarrass them. Suffice to say, they are the ones who were here when I was growing up. These are the people who, when I moved back home after being gone for 20 years, welcomed me back with friendly smiles and open arms. The people who, most of all, should have known better. These are the heroes of my own paltry faith, and, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say, of generations of kids who’ve been lucky enough to grow up in this church.

As far as the movie goes, much has been made of Wayne and Dad’s broken relationship in the movie. I can assure you that it was both much worse, and much better than it’s portrayed in the movie. The movie’s portrayal of their relationship seems, as far as I can gather from reading people’s comments on the Facebook, to be helping a lot of people who had dads like mine, and I’m glad. I’m also glad that Mel Fair is a good enough actor to show the pain Dad felt over that relationship. I think he gave an outstanding, nuanced performance in a very tough role. I think though, that a large aspect of that broken relationship has been missed (or maybe it’s just me. I’ve seen this thing about 6 or 7 times, and just realized it this weekend). Everybody seems to get that Wayne’s broken relationship with Dad is symbolic of his broken relationship with God. That he kept trying to get Dad to love and accept him, and Dad just couldn’t do it. That’s true, as far as it goes, but it seems to me that that is the smaller part. To understand the bigger part, I think you have to understand how we all felt about Dad (please keep in mind that this is all based on my own feelings, and my perceptions of my siblings feelings. I do not presume to speak authoritatively for any of my brothers or sisters). When I was little I saw my Dad as God. Not the touchy-feely, “footprints-in-the-sand” God of the New Testament, but the wrathful, “I love you, but for your own good I’ll kick your ass if you don’t do as I say” God of the Old Testament. Dad was everything a man should be, everything the Old Testament said God was. He was stern, he was tough, he was pissed. He was DOING THIS FOR OUR OWN GOOD. He was also perfect, or at least a perfectionist. Dad could make anything, he could fix anything. Things that he fixed lasted longer than one fresh from the store. He could look at a fistful of nuts, and pick out the exact size and thread that he needed. A lot of the reason for the disconnect between Dad and me (and I’m pretty sure the rest of us), wasn’t that Dad was tough, or that he was emotionally distant, it was that we could never measure up. We were all, in slightly varying degrees, totally incompetent at anything practical. We tried and tried, but we were all trainwrecks, a danger to ourselves and others. I think that was the root cause of the disconnect between all of us and Dad. We felt inadequate. It wasn’t that Dad never said he loved us, we knew he did. It wasn’t that he expected us to be as good at things as he was. It was pretty obvious from an early age that none of us were very good at anything practical. He did expect us to do our best, and REALLY our best, not that “I’m doing my best” that we all pull out when we’re half-assing something we don’t really want to do at all. Dad yelled at me all the time when we were working together, but as I think back, I can’t think of a time when he ever said a cross word to me when I really was doing the best that I could. He had more confidence and faith in us than we did. I think a lot of the problem was not that Dad rejected Wayne, but that Wayne rejected Dad, and it is in this that I think Wayne and Dad’s broken relationship represents the broken relationship with God. Of course, it’s possible that I’m just projecting my own issues.

Most of the problem between me and Dad came not from Dad, but from me. I knew I couldn’t be as good, or as tough, or as hard-working, or as right as he was, and so, I rebelled. I couldn’t understand how he could love me as I was, because I knew I wasn’t good enough. I’d find some other way to prove I was good enough. So, as years went by, I found myself constantly looking for his approval. I tried so hard to do the right thing, on so many things, and fell short on pretty much all of them. It never occurred to me that it wasn’t him I was failing, it was myself. Dad loved me just the way I was, even when I was doing some just remarkably stupid things (and if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s finding remarkably stupid things to do). Unfortunately, Dad died just as I was getting old enough, or mature enough, to really appreciate him, and to really know that, although he didn’t approve of the stupid things I did, that he loved me just as I am. I think that a lot of the reason that Wayne didn’t feel God’s love, that many of us feel that way, is that we believe in God, but we KNOW us. I mean seriously, how could a perfect God love me? I know what kind of stupid things I get up to. I know that a lot of the things I really want to do are things I shouldn’t do (but man, do they look like fun!). I know I don’t measure up to God even in my everyday life, when I’m trying to do the things I’m “supposed” to. I know I’m not cutting the theological mustard even on the little things. I know I eat too much, drink too much, cuss too much, smoke too much, don’t pay enough attention to my kids or wife, don’t make enough money, aren’t a good steward of my blessings, and God help me if he comes back in the evening, because it’s far more likely he’ll find me watching Game of Thrones or The Wolf of Wall Street than reading the bible. I also suspect strongly that I am not alone in this. How could God love losers like us? You’d have to go all the way back to Exodus to find another bunch as venal, fickle, unfaithful, self-righteous, and dim-witted as I am. And I’m talking about those of us who go to church regularly, and really try to follow God. Well, you might not have to go back to Exodus. Take a good look at the disciples sometime (I know I don’t measure up to those guys, and they lived with Jesus for 3 years and still didn’t seem to get it, so how much do I suck?). So a lot of us rebel. We’ll be as good as we can, and that’s gonna have to be good enough for God. After all, we’re still a lot better than a lot of people we could mention. I mean, aren’t we all the way God made us? Then, because we know in our heart of hearts that that’s just a load of rationalization bullshit, we feel even worse, like even bigger losers, and push God farther away. It seems to me that what appealed to Wayne about Brennan Manning’s message is that it seems to say (to me anyway),“You are as God made you. You’re not perfect, but he loves you anyway. So stop trying to make him love you, and be the YOU that God made. Do your best, your REAL best, and when you fail, and you will, remember that God will always love you.” Now I’ve read that some people believe that the Ragamuffin Gospel is just a lot of new-age hippie, I’m ok, you’re ok bullshit, but I disagree. I don’t see it as a license to just do whatever you want because, “That’s how God made me.” It seems to me that it is a way to move the stumbling blocks that keep us from loving God, to keep from just giving up. To remind us that God is bigger than we are, is bigger than our sin, our weakness, so that we can always see him, always find our way back to him. I think the question we’re really asking isn’t, “How can God love me?” but “How can I make him stop?” Because we just get tired of feeling like losers all the time, and if we can get him to turn his back on us, we won’t be reminded constantly of how far short we fall. Fortunately, it’s not up to us. He loves us whether we want him to or not, whether we deserve it or not.

A common (I think) way of referring to God as “our rock”, and he is. He is always there, and always Himself. But there’s a big old ocean of crap out there too, and we’re us. We’re prone to want to slip down the Rock, just to soak our feet, and end up getting washed off. But when you get washed off, you don’t say, “Well, that’s it for me, I don’t deserve to be on the Rock. I’ll just drown in this ocean of crap. In fact, I think I LIKE this crap. This is great crap! I can’t believe I was missing out on all this crap!” Well, you shouldn’t anyway, but that’s exactly what a lot of us seem to do, and so, down we sink, sucking in as much crap as we can, all the while congratulating ourselves on how much smarter and more sophisticated we are than all those poor saps sitting up there on the Rock. In fact, we’ll just be our own rock, or make our own rock, out of sex or drugs or booze or money or power or whatever trips our own particular trigger. Some of us even manage to be quite happy in our ocean of crap, sitting on our own personal rocks. But it is all a lie. There is only one Rock. Accept no substitute.

All of which brings me back to Dad. Dad didn’t bust our asses because he was mad at us. If he was mad at anyone, it was himself (most of the time anyway). He was hard on us because he loved us, and he knew the world wasn’t about to give us a break. If he hadn’t taught Wayne the value of hard work, Wayne wouldn’t have worked so hard at writing and performing. If he hadn’t taught Wayne to be tough, the music business would have chewed him up and spit him out like it has so many others. If he hadn’t taught Wayne that there are more important things than success and money, Wayne wouldn’t have been able to walk away and stay himself, the Wayne that God made and Dad trained.

And that brings me back to Whitewater Christian Church. I let myself get washed off the Rock as a young man, and I sucked down as much of that ocean of crap as I could. It took me quite a while to recognize my mistake, and as a result, I did a lot of damage, both to myself, and to those I love. Eventually though, I found a tractor big enough and powerful enough to pull my head out of my ass, and I started swimming back to the Rock. Our church has helped guide me back. Thinking about the example that those wonderful, loving, flawed people had set for me when I was a kid gives me hope for myself, and I think about them every time I set foot in that church. I know that they weren’t perfect (and to be honest, most of them would probably horrified at the pedestal that my generation has put them on), but they had the courage to try, and the patience and love to keep trying. I’m also comforted when I look around and see so many willing to take their place and continue the tradition established by our forebears. I don’t know that any of us will ever have the positive impact on the kids that those older had on us, but it’s encouraging to see so many willing to try. I feel lucky to be a part of it.

Does This Blog Make Me Look Fat?

All About Me, Culture, Home Life, Politics & Culture, Wives

Well, ‘lil buckaroos, there’s good news and there’s bad news. Not for you, of course, this has nothing to do with you. This is all about me (sorry, my narcissism is showing). The good news is, I’m not losing my mind. I’ve discovered that I am NOT the victim of a vast and nameless conspiracy to make me think I’m fat (for more information on all the vast and nameless conspiracies that I AM a victim of, stay tuned for future posts!). For the longest time, I have suspected that someone (or something, DUH DUH DUHN) has been changing all the mirrors in my house, at church, and at school with fun-house mirrors, and warping all the windows on the front of my house.  To make things even worse, it looked like it wasn’t a one-time change, but an on-going process, increasing the illusion of fatness in tiny increments. I had also noticed that everytime anyone took a picture of me, they used a wide-angle lens, even for close-ups. It was annoying and, frankly, kind of hurtful. It was really starting to freak me out. Jess was no help. When I mentioned it to her, she gave me that look, you fellas know the one, the one that says, “I’ve married an idiot”. They give you that look so that they don’t have to say it. What she said was, “You’re an idiot.” Obviously, experience has taught her that I’m not all that good at picking up on non-verbal communications. As it turns out, she was right (of course), it was all a false alarm.

The bad news is, I’m fat. I’m just going to have to face it. It’s really aggravating. In some ways, I almost wish that someone was messing with me. For one thing, I’d have to be way more important than even I think I am to rate that kind of large-scale torment, not to mention effort and expense. But no, I’m just fat. A year and a half ago, I realized I was kind of reaching maximum density, so I went on a diet, and lost 40 pounds. I was looking good (well, better anyway), and really kind of proud of myself. People (doctors are people, right?) had been telling me for years that I needed to cut back on my food, exercise, lose weight, etc., you know, all the things they tell you, that they know good and well you’re not going to do, just so they can say, “I told you so.” Let’s face it, if I was capable of moderate behavior, I wouldn’t be in this shape to begin with. I finally took it to heart though, and got serious about taking care of myself. Guess what the reward for all that weight loss and effort was. That’s right, I HAD A FREAKIN’ HEART ATTACK! It wasn’t even the fat-and-out-of-shape kind of heart attack! The cardiologist told me I had the kind that even skinny, in-shape people have. It was the too-stressed-out-with-blood-pressure-that-could-inflate-a-tractor-trailer-tire kind of heart attack. Now I ask you, how’s that supposed to make me feel. I could have died, and after months of depriving myself of bread, grease, potatoes, pasta, snacks, cake, salt, and some of the other food groups, as well. To be perfectly honest, it kind of killed my motivation. I mean, what’s the point in stopping doing so many of the things you love, when you’re just going to die anyway, apparently just so that fate can thumb its nose at the medical community at your expense. So I backslid a little. I’m happy to say that I didn’t regain all the weight I’d lost, but I did gain some. It turned out that it wasn’t my mirrors that need recalibrated, it’s me.

I began to suspect the horrible truth as I was walking in to school one day. You know how, when you look at your feet when you’re walking, they disappear underneath you, and then come back when you take another step forward? It’s kind of a steady foot-no foot, foot, no-foot rhythm. This one day, I noticed that my rhythm was off. My foot was spending a lot more time invisible than visible, like foot, no-foot, no-foot, foot, no-foot, no-foot. I wasn’t immediately alarmed, since I’m a middle-aged white guy, I just take it for granted that I’m extremely rhythm impaired. The more I thought about it though, the more I realized something was wrong. I know I can’t dance, but I’m kind of an old hand at walking. So I tried an experiment. I stood still and looked down. You guessed it, no feet.

The next sign I noticed was that when I was in the shower, I was having to lean forward a lot more than I used to in order to see “the boys”. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m just standing there staring. It’s sort of like running into an old friend on the street. You know, You smile, say “Hi, how are you,” maybe a quick handshake, and then it’s, “Have a good day, good to see you,” and you get on with your day. It would be rude to just ignore him. You fellas know what I’m talking about (it’s ok, you can deny it. We both know the truth).

The clincher came at school the other day. I’d had to get a little dressed up for a thing after school. Nothing formal, just a nice shirt, dress pants, and good shoes instead of my standard t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Still, I thought I was looking pretty good. As I walked down the hall, a kid I was in a class with last semester came out of a classroom, so we went through the “how are ya” routine I already described. As we were about to go our separate ways, he asked why I was dressed like that. I told him, and he laughed and said he thought I was going to a costume party. “You look just like Peter Griffin,” he said, “You know, the hair, the white shirt, green pants.” Even worse, the whole time he’s telling me this, he’s making rolling gestures in front of his stomach. I was back in class before I realized who Peter Griffin is (for those as culturally unaware as me, he’s the main character on “Family Guy”). It was doubly painful to me because, not only is Peter Griffin fat, but I hate that show! It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d compared me to Homer Simpson, at least I like the show, but I’ve got too much hair. Damn these luxurious, flowing locks of mine! On the other hand, of course, there are fewer and fewer guys my age who still have this much hair, so I guess it could be worse.

Anyway, the upshot of all this is that I’m afraid I’m going to have to get serious about losing some more weight. It’s for purely aesthetic reasons of course, although it will be nice to be able to tie my shoes again without having to stop to breathe.