bigger, louder, everywhere.

Something You Should See -or- Journalism Lives, on Comedy Central

2009-03-15T21:15:00.000-07:00

Check out this interview. The best journalists in America are on comedians.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o7og_2XjrhI

The Haunting Concept of the Glowing Globe Moments –or- What Would Happen If All 6.76 Billion Of Us Jumped, Laughed, Or Breathed In At The Same Time?

2009-03-10T21:22:00.000-07:00

My sweaty kid-hands, with dry play-do under the fingernails, plug in a globe and turn the switch on the cord two clicks. It lights up! In my mind, I ponder the alliterative, Seuss-like concept of a “glowing globe”, even though I have no idea what pondering or alliterations are. Kids toys, educational or not, should not be difficult to adjust or operate. But this is 1989; Lincoln Logs give splinters and eerie rumors fly around about kids accidently killing themselves with Tinker Toys. This globe is no exception. It has an adjustable eyepiece attached to the globe’s arm, and the eyepiece takes all of the strength that can be mustered from scrawny, kid forearms to move. Carefully, I spin the globe and line the eyepiece up with any number of clear dots sprinkled across the continents and islands of Planet Earth. At every spot, I close my left eye and press the socket of my right eye into the eyepiece with enough force to leave circular indentions around my eye when I finally pulled away. For each spot, I peered through the eyepiece to see pictures of this part and that part of Planet Earth. Some pictures with people, some with animals, some with buildings, some with scenic nature shots, some with everything. Some things I recognized, and some were completely new.
Assumption and imagination are hard to tell apart as a kid, but I always assumed or imagined that the pictures inside the eyepiece of the different places on Planet Earth were all taken at the same time. I have no idea why I thought this, but it made a lot of sense to me at the time. I didn’t have a real adequate knowledge of the kind of coordination that would take among so many individuals, nor did I understand the intricacies of photography enough to determine otherwise. So as far as I was concerned, what I saw was a snapshot of the same moment, around the Planet Earth.
This idea haunts me to this day. Since childhood, I think I have thought in term of moments. I like to imagine those snapshots right now, across the hall, around the corner, on the other side of the world. Moments are different. Moments make histories, timelines, agendas, plans, calendars, and to do lists irrelevant. In fact, in terms of moments, those things almost seem funny, or at least ridiculously insignificant.
The haunting concept of the glowing globe moment has seeped its way into my approaches, philosophies, theologies, and ponderings and made itself at home amongst the clutter and confusion that’s accumulated there over the years.
It has made me a moment person.
A person for whom agendas, plans, and all of linear time take second stage to “the moment.” While it has its drawbacks (can only accurately remember about 10 important dates including holidays and birthdays, general confusion about time zones; specifically the changes between eastern time, pacific time, and central time, an inability to grapple with the concept of “falling back” or “springing forward”, and being perplexed enough about the sun rising in the east and setting in the west that I had to formulate a elaborate mnemonic device to remember it involving western movies and houses of prostitution in New Orleans; seriously), it also has its advantages.
Being a moment-person has made me aware of the potential value of what I do in any moment. I have an amazing choice each moment to establish what kind of moment it will be in the world when the snapshots are taken. I cannot afford to take a moment off. I have to be responsible with my parts of my moments and build my part of that moment with as much of what I think is good, and right, and hopeful.
So to all my moment-people—may we all do our best to treat each moment like it is important and worthy of being filled with the best things we know. Or in the oft-quoted words of a good friend; “Live. And Live Well. BREATHE. Breathe in and Breathe deeply. Be PRESENT. Do not be past. Do not be future. Be now.”

Who I Might Be -or- The sick feeling in your stomach from realizing that you are a part of the problem and the desperate prayer that might follow.

2009-02-16T20:32:00.000-08:00

God help us.
I have not turned the other cheek; forgive me.
I have hated; forgive me.
I have commiserated on the side of injustice; forgive me.
I have innocent blood on my hands; forgive me.
I have chosen comfort and ease along with ignorance and indifference; forgive me.
I have kept food from hungry bellies; forgive me.
I have kept water from thirsty tongues; forgive me.
I have kept clothes off of naked backs; forgive me.
I have neglected and alienated; forgive me.
I have wrongfully accused and I have failed at forgiveness; forgive me.
I have chosen to be a foreigner to grace and an exile from dignity; forgive me.
I have robbed my brothers and sisters of their God-granted humanity; forgive me.
I have exploited the weak and robbed hope from the broken; forgive me.
God! My God! Have mercy on me! Teach me how to be a cheek-turner! Fill my heart with love! Let me stand strong against injustice! Wash the stains from my hands! Give me the strength to run from comfort, ease, ignorance, and indifference! Turn my loaves into bread for empty bellies! Turn my labors into deep wells of clean water! Wrap my closets-full around shivering shoulders! Bring the outsiders in! Forgiveness for all! Let me feel at home with grace and dignity! Lift up the chins of the beaten-down! Help me to find strength in weakness, joy in suffering, and hope in the very midst of our brokenness!
And as I struggle to become what I was created to be,
I hope you are as patient and merciful as they say.

Kingdoms and Allegiances -or- Did I Ever Tell You That I Feel Upside Down When I'm Around You, Especially When You Keep Saying Those Things

2009-01-31T21:22:00.000-08:00

I wonder why Your words seem so foreign and why my versions of you are so irrelevant and out of touch. I don’t understand why you would operate so upside-down. Your metaphors have been lost on me. You do not make sense in my world, and I am shocked to find that you still refuse to change your tactics.

You talk of sacrifice and carrying heavy loads.
We feed off of accumulation and comfort.
You talk of small things, like mustard seeds and pine nuts; as if they are big things, like mountains moving and great trees with eagles in them.
We upgrade often in a world where “the bigger the better.”
You talk of the end of the line, no time to be offended by those who cut.
We wait impatiently and find the fastest ways to the front.
You talk of growing down and being simple again.
We are fueled by upward mobility and clutter.
You talk of the worst seat in the house, and humility.
We like the front row and the praise that is well overdue.
You talk about dinners with the misfits and the sick.
We are concerned with our many appearances.
You talk of wayward sons, and grace too great.
We keep our meticulous records of wrong.
You talk as if five loaves and two fish could feed them all.
We seriously doubt it.
You say to lose everything.
We like to believe that that’s not really what you meant.

There is a yoke upon us, and much to pull.
Teach us to pull our share of the load.
Teach us to move our feet and bare our burden.
You have measured our shoulders and you have noted the curves of our backs.
We observe our custom-made yoke and we’re sure it won’t fit us well, we’re sure it births discomfort and pain.
We think you are mistaken if you think we are the type of people who will wander in the desert, or plant gardens while we live in exile, or beat swords into plowshares, or take joy in our suffering.
We are desperate to be proven wrong.

New words for an old blog –or- Bringing something back to life is a difficult task that one would be better off leaving alone

2009-01-26T20:08:00.000-08:00

Defibrillators are violent machines. They are meant to surprise a human body into being alive again, like a scare cures hiccups or like how being thrown in the deep end of the swimming pool is supposedly better than swimming lessons.
This blog is dead. It is, as they say, “kaput.” The last time I wrote words on this blog I was a student, and these words you are reading now find me in very dire straights as a teacher of students. The turn around from “learner” to “learned” is laughably and awkwardly quick. So quick, in fact, that you should rightly read this as me explaining that I am still very much the person that I was when I wrote last, just with a steady paycheck and health insurance. Which are both sweet.
There are old friends and new friends whose conversation (both spoken and unspoken) I prey on. I eat up text messages and facebook exchanges in a mess of facial hair and juices, looking up from conversations with these people with the protective, slightly insane glare of the lion. I am natural geographic depictions of feeding predators, with a mouthful of printer ink, computer plastic, and bits of paper hanging from my mouth. I feed off of these conversations.
I haven’t eaten in a long time. I am emaciated. And that is clearly a metaphor.
So I’m going to kick up the soil a bit on this blog again, and see if I can’t grow some food for thought. Let’s talk again like we used to.
I’m going to rub the paddles together, ask everyone to clear away, and shock the hell out of this thing to see if it can breathe again. Don’t worry, I’ve seen it done in the movies and on daytime television. I’m an expert, and what I don’t know, Wikipedia can surely teach me.
If what I write seems to reek of crap to you, you are probably right. But just remember, Jesus Christ raised a human being from death, and one imagines that Lazarus was a bit ripe despite the creator of the universe’s best efforts. If Jesus could not fix the stench, you can most assuredly expect my resurrected writing to burn the sensitive nerves of your sinuses.
Read gently… this blog is surprised to be breathing again.

A Consumer Study -or- Forcing You To Allow Me To View You Through the Tainted Lens of My Personal Worldview, In Ways That I Only Partly Understand

2007-05-25T10:03:00.000-07:00

In effort to connect more with anyone who happens upon this blog from time to time, I have created I psychological profiling survey unique to how I understand and interpret the world. You will be asked to respond to each item by “commenting” to this post. The items are a series of metaphor-like statements or ideas for you to construct regarding your life and experiences. These are metaphors that I feel like I can categorize you with and better understand and judge you with. Completing this survey should be a little less than bothersome and a little more interesting than soccer, which probably isn’t saying much. This study is both longitudinal and highly valid. It can be used in court.

Is your life more like…
a) today’s heavyweight boxing bouts
b) mixed martial arts
c) an authentic Native American peace pipe smoking

Which wing sauce do you prefer:
a) mild
b) medium
c) hot
d) honey bar-b-q

If your life had to have a soundtrack, and that soundtrack had to be hip-hop, who would you want to do it:
a) T.I.
b) Mos Def
c) Eminem
d) 50 cent
e) Dead Prez
f) Jay Z
g) Snoop
h) A full orchestra covering 50 cent

Which United States President do you most relate to in your day to day life (personally rather than ideologically):
(choose any U.S. president, I call dibs on the late Gerald R. Ford)

If you had to live one character’s life in one specific t.v. show episode past or present, who would you choose, and what episode would it be?

If you had to live one character’s life in the episode of the Andy Griffith show where Opey kills the mother bird, who would you be:
a) Sheriff Andy Taylor
b) Opey
c) Aunt Bea
d) Barney

What is the last book you read, the last song you listened to, and the last t.v. show you watched?

What do you honestly think Jesus would do?

Thank you for your participation in this survey, hopefully, your responses will help us gear this blog more toward, or extremely against your natural persuasions. Either way, it could make things interesting.

Hands, Faces, Feet, Skin, Asses and Elbows -or- There Are Reasons Why We Have These Things, and We Shouldn't Be Afraid to Use Them

2007-04-26T14:20:00.000-07:00

When I played football in high school (I know what you’re thinking, but stick with me), we used to have to run a 400 meter lap within a certain time at the end of tough workouts with our position groups. Whenever the offensive line ran together, it was less running and more a mess of heavy breathing, jogging, and sweating. Or, as our coach described it, “When you guys run, it’s all asses and elbows flying around trying to make something happen!”

Our Story, the one that ranges from somewhere between before all of this and after all of this, is not a story of ideas and optical illusions. It is not puffs of smoke, well-placed mirrors, and Europe’s “the Final Countdown” blasting at unreasonable levels. We are made to believe, quite by accident, that this Story in invisible. That it’s main conflict, plot, and characters operate in some disconnected spectral and historical realm of which we encounter only as helpless observers or miserable victims. We are easily goaded into a faith of far-away-land and the sweet by-and-by—a faith of theologies and philosophies in important books, within important volumes, on important shelves, which are kept and dusted fairly regularly, but which are far too high for jokers of out stature to reach, and far too indecipherable for us to try to engage with.

This is not the case. Our Story is a story of people with skin on. Our Story is a story of dirt, feet, hands, and faces. Our Story is a story of asses and elbows, my friends. Asses and elbows. Our Story is about sweat and tears. Our story is about deep breaths and bowel movements. It is about blood and dirt and ashes.

Somehow, we turn the asses and elbows into pretty ponies and straight, shiny teeth. It’s not real.

We talk about poverty and the hurting lives of our neighbors and the purpose of the church and we spout sexy ideas, concise action points, and reasonable excuses. But where are our asses and elbows?

Our elbows are far from doing anything about it and our asses are planted squarely in our comfortably padded seats (whether those seats are desk chairs, couches, bicycle seats, leather captains chairs, or bar stools).

“It’s just not practical.” “The problem is bigger than anything I could do.”

The Story that so many of us claim is about dirty hands, sunburnt faces, feet kicking up dust, sweat-soaked skin, elbows flying and asses talking, walking, and carrying heavy loads.

We have disconnected this from ourselves over time, space, and out of ease. We put nothing behind the story in the here and now. No asses up and moving and certainly no real elbow grease.

Elbow grease might be a part of the problem.

What the hell is “elbow grease”? The elbow is far and away one of the creepiest parts of human anatomy. It has no feeling—no soul. You can pinch it until your fingers hurt and turn white, and it still gives no significant nerve firings of electrons to the brain to notify the collective being of Yourself that something bad is happening. Is the elbow that hard-ass, or is it arrogant and gritty to a fault, trying to prove a point to the rest of the body (particularly the sensitive areas like the small of the back and the eyeballs)? I’ve never been aware of any grease emanating from the elbow, and I’ve never even known the elbow to be an area of regular or common sweating. I think it should be mentioned that I’ve found grease ON my elbow, but never FROM my elbow. It should be noted that the grease ON my elbow is not “elbow grease,” but rather various types of chicken grease, car grease, French fry grease, chili grease, and bean-n-cheese taco grease.

For me, this highlights a problem. We talk about this non-existent, false substance “elbow grease” when it comes to putting some work into something. We must apply this false “elbow grease” to get some difficult things done. “Elbow grease” is the metaphor that we choose to apply to putting in serious work.

Maybe the fuzziness of this metaphor is what keeps us from doing anything about the Story now. Maybe we should be more explicit, and use a more direct metaphor. Maybe we should say that we need to apply our hands, feet, and asses to the work of the Kingdom. Maybe we should just say that we need to get up off of our asses and be the Kingdom, without excuse or false reasoning.

Let’s get up off of our asses and follow Christ. Not meet up with Him when it’s time to get into Heaven, but follow him through the slums and the back country. Follow him into the houses and hospitals. It will be messy. It will not always be easy or pretty. But that is our story. In our following, we have and will be “all asses and elbows.”

Let us go into the world. Let us kick up dust as we walk. Let us get dirt on our hands and sweat on our backs. Let us know the taste of dust in our mouths and hands touching hands, faces looking into faces. Let us walk wildly into that world and let people look at us, criticizing the vigor with which we walk. Let them say, “they’re all asses and elbows.”

Our story demands that we do things all wrong, that we walk into the places that need it most, even when it is hard and heavy to do so.

“Kurt’s Up In Heaven Now” -or- “Somebody, sometime to sometime, He tried.”

2007-04-13T08:45:00.000-07:00

No semicolons will be used in the following blog on account of the fact that semicolons stand for absolutely nothing, they are, according to Kurt Vonnegut, transvestite hermaphrodites.

I’ve been waiting for significant enough prompting to kick start this blog again, and hopefully this occasion can begin the slow, dull sputtering of passing thoughts and complete B.S. (which, if you are not familiar, is shorthand for the excrement of a male bovine, and is colloquially used as a term for words of questionable truth, character, and general usefulness).

This, unfortunately, is my event. Kurt Vonnegut is dead. After a only day of mourning, I am ready to share a bit about my good friend and favorite author, Kurt Vonnegut.

First off, we are not really good friends, at least not in any conventional sense. I never met him or spoke to him or even wrote him a letter. But anyone who has read a Vonnegut novel feels as though Kurt is their seedy, back-alley partner in crime.

I don’t believe Kurt is that upset about being dead. He talked about death a lot. In fact, he claimed to have been trying to commit suicide for most of his life by smoking cigarettes, seeing as how they promised to kill him right on the package, but took so long to deliver! Speaking of suicide, Kurt’s mom committed suicide when he was young by swallowing a bottle of Drano (and he shares this information just as casually and seemingly out of place as I do). Kurt also claimed to be a secular humanist. Although he talked much about God, he always professed that he did not believe in God, on account of what a bad place the world is. Engraved on one of the tombstones in many of his books are the words, “Life is no way to treat an animal.” Kurt’s dissent was not without humor, though. In fact, he wrote that at is funeral, he wants someone to start out by saying, “Well, Kurt’s up in heaven now” simply because it is a funny thing to say at the funeral of a secular humanist.

Kurt’s admitted alter-ego in many of his books, the writer Kilgore Trout, is freed by Kurt himself at the end of Breakfast of Champions and as Kurt cries, Kilgore Trout floats away calling out in Kurt’s father’s voice: “Make me young, make me young, make me young.” The next line of that novel is the last line. Instead of the traditional “THE END,” Vonnegut chooses a much more accurate phrase to place at the end of the book: “ETC.” In another book, we are shown what Kilgore Trout wants his tombstone to read:

SOMEBODY
SOMETIME to SOMETIME
HE TRIED

Another tombstone in Vonnegut’s books reads:

EVERYTHING WAS BEAUTIFUL,
AND NOTHING HURT.

As time passes, Kurt will no doubt remain “a master of contemporary American literature. The author of eighteen highly acclaimed books and dozens of short stories and essays.” Kurt the author will be remembered for “his black humor, satiric voice, and incomparable imagination.” Kurt now crosses the divide from being “one of the best living American writers” to being one of the best writers, without qualifiers.

My tribute to Kurt would not be complete without re-referencing the fact that I believe in the use of dual titles because of Vonnegut. Let me end in Vonnegutian style with a drawing and a word.

ETC.

Hope: The Antithesis of Depression, Deaspair, Loneliness, Hate, Oppression, Disease, Hunger, and Death. -or- My Bad, It's Valentine's Day

2007-02-14T08:34:00.000-08:00

The one great word I know, that when it is even said quietly by broken voices makes something deep inside my chest burn, is “hope”.

Our situation on this volatile, shifting, spinning and slightly tilted place is heavy with both the weight of a thing we call gravity, and the futile, short, and (in the words of one of our wisest) “meaningless” lives.

Our time here—those of us living and breathing now , those who have lived and breathed with us and just before us, and likely those that will live and breath in the coming days months and years—is spent walled in and roofed over by a variety of epidemics.

For some, there are the epidemics of disease; cancers, AIDS, and other names of things that basically all mean that our own bodies have let us down.

For others, there are epidemics of oppression and frustration, hunger and hate, ignorance and apathy.

For still others, (even those of us who have full bellies, comfortable residence, leisure, and who often live as ignorant and apathetic oppressors and frustrators of others), we are faced with the epidemics of depression, deep pangs of loneliness, and despair.

For all of us, there is the epidemic of Death. We like to ignore this in our own culture, and we don’t do death well; usually awkwardly and uncomfortably. But for all of us, we have a slot of years that end in lifelessness. That end as decay and death buried under dirt. There has been no escaping this death; this epidemic that while we deny its hold on us, still slides its finger down our backs from the moment our heart first beats.

But there is a story, that seems so hard to find and hear at times today. A story that changes things. A story about a man who came to free us of our epidemics. We are offered hope. We are told that we do not have to be so alone, and that when the epidemics of sadness and despair arise; we are offered comfort, peace, and quiet rest. For the oppressed and frustrated, there is freedom, empowerment, and release, even in the very midst of the struggle. For the hungry; there is the call to fill bellies and dispense love. For the diseased there is hope of healing. And for the Ultimate Epidemic—for the ever-waiting and ever-threatening “End,” for our oldest enemy Death—there is the hope of Life. The Defeat of Death. The promise of all-things-new and an epidemic-free existence. Hope that there is Life the way that it is meant to be.

But don’t believe that that is the whole story…

With our slot of epidemic-ridden life, we are offered to live in the Hope now. We are offered the opportunity to dispense hope in pieces. We are offered minds and skills and gifts to heal the sick, and at the very least comfort them. We are offered the job of being advocates for the oppressed, feeding the hungry, and dispensing love instead of hate. We are offered to share hope in such a way with one another that the pangs of loneliness, the sorrow, depression, and despair, can become fleeting side-stories to our being of Love, and Peace, and Joy. And all of this, in the very face of our epidemics, in the very face of death and dying and hopelessness.

This is what captures me about the Story. I am not ashamed to say that I need this story, and that the world needs this story. We need this story not to come to us in conquest or forcefully, or in argument or in trickery. We need the story to come just as He came; humbly and quietly, with love and patience and care.

Do not let your epidemics own you. Be free. Hope and give hope.

The Dirty Secrets of Doing Nothing -or- We're Trying to Find Softer Ways of Saying Selfishness

2007-01-22T14:24:00.000-08:00

I was Time Magazine's Person of the Year. I cannot tell you how amazing this felt to find out. I have been trying to garner this kind of respect and publicity ever since Naven Johnson first got his name in the phonebook.

But then I was pissed. It wasn't really me... it was all of us. We were all Time Magazine's Person of the Year; which is ridiculous, lacking creativity, and a poor attempt to get me to buy a publication so that advertisers will still pay your salary that, though poor, worked etremely well. You have me pegged. Put a shiny, fake mirror on the cover and tell me how great I am and I'm all in.

We hate to say it. It is an ugly thing. We create lists and justifications to deny it. We are selfish. We are caved in upon our own selves. Others are in the margins, best-supporting roles at best.

We create a faith around whatever looks the most like who we are, where we are from, and what we look like. If we stray from that a bit, we'll eventually come back around to justify our history of self-centeredness.

We deny our own need for redemption. We think we're alright.

We tell ourselves we do what we do to eventually benefit others, but somehow never find the time. And then we die.

Our big breakthrough happens when we decide that God should be everywhere. Even though God is so easy to leave at home.

Where is God in every moment? I have begun to find him. He is there.
The funny thing about these moments is that my finding God is contengent upon my confronting others. Here we all are. Even the ones who don't look like me or think like me.

This does not work with the world I'm in.

It means I have great responsibility outside of myself... my eating and drinking and pursuing happiness.
It means I must consider other things and other world views that are uncomfortable and at the very least difficult.
It means I'm not allowed to do nothing; and nothingness tends to be my prized possession. I live for Saturdays. Try and rob me of them and watch me fight.
It means that laziness really is bad. It means that listening really is important. It means that you have value, and they have value too. No one is value-less and there is no heirarchy.

I thought it was supposed to be easy. That's the story I was sold. What is this, the bait and switch? I've been had.

Good Tidings and Great Joy in the Midst Death, Disease, Decay and Impending Doom -or- The Advent of Wiping Tears From Our Eyes

2006-12-05T20:09:00.000-08:00

The skin between the knuckles stretches tight as it grips to the steering wheel. I’m trying to look somewhere else besides here. But I look up. I look out. And here is the world. Here are images. Here are people. Here is oppression. Here is hate. Here is death. Here is disease. Here is hurt. Here are ugly things. Things that are broken. Burning buildings, battered faces, abandoned babies all here looking back. Floods and hunger; a whole population ignored and left to die. Abuse and pain. War and hot metal piercing soft skin. No more. We don’t want to see it. Our eyes move from the ground shifting and cracking beneath our feet up into the air; looking for hope in stars and longing for the return of the reign of Deep Heaven. Expectation. Anticipation. Water-filled eyes looking for the setting of all things right. We sit in hospital beds, lonely rooms, crack houses, whore houses, prisons, park benches, front steps, projects, pews, and office chairs with hopes and dreams, hurts and needs. A collective humanity longing for the Kingdom Come. We try our best to walk with Him and live the Kingdom here and now. But we still hope, long, and anticipate. We still search the skies for the brightest star, listening in the silence for some noise; some message to proclaim good news again. You have come into this mess. You are here with us now. You are still coming toward us. And our expectations beat within our chests. I wish it was my ears who heard the first proclamations of good news. Let me hear it again and again, how I should not be afraid, things are being made right, there is cause for joy, how God is here.

The Shepherds have long-since breathed their last breath and told their last story around the fire. The wise men have long-since returned home on the back roads and gazed for their last time on the stars. And we are here.

We are here, and you are here with us, somehow. Together we carry the weight of making things right. Tonight, we will wipe tears from eyes. We will fill empty stomachs and warm shivering bodies. We will stand strong at the side of the oppressed. We will dispense enough love that it might blot away the pain and abuse, that it might end addiction. That it might heal and make beautiful. It might make Home, and it might make peace.

May this season be the advent of peace. May it be the advent of love. May it be the advent of joy. May it be the advent of beauty. May it be the advent of good things. May it be the advent of wiping tears away. May it be the advent of justice. May it be the advent of freedom. May it be the advent of making things right.

And may my hands loosen their grip on the wheel. Let me look on the world with hope. Let our fears fade away. Let the good news resound inside of our chests. Let us find more things being made right. Let us all find joy. And let us know that You have come, that you are here, and that you are coming soon. Amen.

Don't Waste Your Time -or- Dr. Huxtable, Pimp Slaps, Cinematic Parables, Lonely Carrott Sticks, and Why I am Not as Sexy as I Seem

2006-11-15T16:14:00.000-08:00

I realize I haven't posted in a while, so in classic, incohesive, just-post-something form, I give you a random smattering of crap just like they do it in the fishwraps...

WEATHER: Waco is Wacko
Dr. Huxtable’s wardrobe would not have made the cut in Texas. For the majority of the year here, we celebrate the season of summer. It’s like the bizarre-o-world version of Narnia down here; always summer but never winter. Every once in a while, the sweltering summer breaks for a bit to allow for some cool winds and cold weather. This is a window of time that I celebrate with the rigorous search for the Cosby Sweater.

Somewhere in my head, I feel like I can pull off the Cosby sweater fashion. I secretly wait for the combination of cold weather and appropriate style opportunity in order to bust it out. The sweaters. Thick ones with stripes. And the Cosby show theme songs repeat in my head. I am happy.

EDUCATION: They Schools
The best part of graduate school is that you have more topical freedom in your studies. Thus far, the bulk of my research the past semester has been on engaging with Hip-Hop and Urban culture in the classroom, and in media literacy curriculum. This means that watching TV and listening to hip-hop counts as research. The best part is that it’s not only enjoyable, but it is interesting and important as well. Why couldn’t all of college be this great?

ENTERTAINMENT: A Series of Images and Sounds With Which to Fill Your Eyes and Ears
Babel: ***
This movie was pretty good, but by no means great. The beginning was a mass of confusion, but it gradually gets cleared up. Some of the storylines don’t seem to have any closure and aren’t resolved or revisited. Brad Pitt does a great job and there are some excellent moments with meaning, like before Pitt boards a hospital helicopter with his critically wounded wife. He offers a Morrocan man who, with the help of his village, has helped him and his wife, a fistful of cash which the Morrocan man declines. Gotta check it out in context.

Stranger Than Fiction: *****
This one was unbelievable and sure to shoot up to one of my favorite flicks of all time. Great acting from Ferrell and Hoffman, and the script is unbelievable. It examines narrative, God, human relationships, and more in a hilarious and deep storyline. The last half of the movie is great. This movie is a parable. And it is funny.

Man of the Year: ****
This one surprised me. Granted, I saw it the night of the elections, but I thought it was hugely relevant. Robin Williams is at his best and much of the script sounds like great Williams’ stand-up with other comedians throwing in some lines in support. Great message about the state of American democracy and politics. I would have voted for Robin Williams in the movie, no doubt. The storyline gets a little wacky, but the commentary on politics and the humor is worth the watch.

The Jerk: *****
Yes, The Jerk. With Steve Martin. An oldy but a goody that should be revisited regularly. I watched it the other night and realized that I still laugh at the same parts like they are new everytime. “This guy hates cans!” And find new things to laugh at; “Random Bastard!”

This is hilarious:
http://thelonelyisland.com/just2guyz.html

HEALTH: Fat-Free Ranch Dressing?
I have lost 11 pounds in the past few months in preparation for Thanksgiving. If I can shed a few more before the big day, I might be able to stay under 190 for the holidays. Thanks to John Mark for making me feel like it’s okay to drink light beer instead of the thick stuff with cream on top and pieces of sausage in it.

NEWS: Snubbed Again
I didn’t make it, AGAIN! http://edition.cnn.com/2006/SHOWBIZ/Movies/11/15/sexiest.man/index.html

SPORTS: Pimp Slaps
Bobby Knight popping a kid in the chin is classic. I don’t know why, but I think this time Knight was right.
There are a lot of tall white kids that I think need to be slapped into reality. When Knight retires from coaching, Baylor should hire him as head of student living and learning department. He can walk around campus slapping anyone who looks like they need it.

If You Feel Like Throwing Your Fist Towards The Sky -or- You Are Being Made Unhappy and Lied To By The Mass Media and Should Read This

2006-10-24T08:10:00.000-07:00

I am a conspiracy theorist. And really, what good, red-blooded American isn’t at least a little bit?

Who shot JFK? Magic bullet? CIA?
Is Elvis still alive? His name is misspelled on his gravestone.
Who killed Biggie Smalls?
Was Tupac assassinated or is he still alive making records?
The National Security Agency is at least twice as large as the CIA and we have no idea what it is they really do.
Hoffa’s body?

Here’s a conspiracy theory for you:

Mass Media Moguls are controlling the world.

At the very least, the state of ethics in journalism and the influence and manipulation dispensed by mass media and advertising outlets for corporate dynamos is so great that it threatens to, if not already has, destroy all honest institutions of democracy, religion, politics, free discourse, healthy living, art, life, love, and the pursuit of happiness.

I’ve been doing some independent research on the matter by way of living in such a world and being a semi-thoughtful person within this world who has some sense of moral fiber (although many might classify it as some sort of moral microfiber, which is still fiber, though weaker, and soft and pleasing to the touch). Here are some scenarios, worth some thought.

The Conspiracy Against the Female:
The powers that be want you depressed, with low self-esteem, hyper-dependent, high-maintenance, shallow, needy, weak, and as unhappy with your life and where you are at at any given moment in life as possible. Turn on the TV. Open up that magazine that is made to define what it means to be a woman, a teen woman, a home woman, a cosmopolitan woman, a beautiful woman, a motherhood woman, etc. Women have a set of ideas about who they are and how they should be dictated to them from Mass Media. Take for instance this scenario—a teenage girl opens a magazine that is geared toward helping guide her through life as a Teen Person. With every page she turns she confronts images of air-brushed beauties, all art and little truth. With every page she turns she is made to feel uglier and fatter and less in-fashion and less acceptable. Once the deconstruction of self-worth is complete, products are offered in order to help you look more like the pictures. You should buy these products and buy into these consumeristic attitudes so you can give yourself a fighting chance at beauty. And you better buy a lot of them, because you have a long way to go. So women frantically buy and frantically try to become an image that is not real or achievable and in pursuit of which serious mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical consequences occur. And somebody gets paid. Somebody gets a bigger yacht. You throw up in the toilet. Somebody buys a tenth sportscar. You can’t let anybody ever get close enough to you to make you happy because you can’t even love yourself. Somebody else joins the mile-high club with a stewardess with low-self esteem on a private jet to the Bahamas.

The Conspiracy Against Free Discourse and Democratic Politics
Andrew Jackson got elected on popularity and so began the slippery slope from free political thought and discourse as the thrust of democratic politics down to the soundbyte, shiny-toothed, flashiest smile, best-photo-op political system now in operation. He who is best looking runs the world. He who has the best ideas gets filtered out of politics early on for not adhering to a two-party system or picking a side on a line. Ideas don’t matter anymore. Just the battle of manipulated soundbytes and misrepresented images. Who knows what are political leaders really think? If you want office, you must play the game and have corporate sponsorship. In order to play the game and have corporate sponsorship, you must compromise your convictions and beliefs and adopt the party-line. It is a known fact that many voters vote o who looks the best. George Washington had wooden teeth and a rat-tail, he wouldn’t have been elected mayor of such-and-such Virginia much less President in today’s political system. Abraham Lincoln was tall and gawky, had jowls, and some sick looking facial hair, he would never have been elected either. Personally, I’m writing in a vote for the local manger of HEB for the next president because I don’t trust any of these movie stars.

The Conspiracy Against African Americans
You are told to look and sound as mainstream as possible, as Eurocentric and white as possible, and you can go far in our world. At the very least, do not be abrasive and be our token black friend that we can refer to in order to convince people that we are not fear-driven, difference-driven, stereotype-adopting, racists. The Mass Media provides young blacks with some other options: entertain the mainstream culture. Play sports, dance, sing, and do the same things to serve the mainstream culture that you’ve been doing since the despicable days of slavery and black-face entertainment. The more we can objectify you as merely entertainment, the less we have to consider you as actual, deep, complex human-beings who happen to have a darker tone of melanin and who don’t necessarily happily adopt the mainstream, oppressive culture. This is a tragedy. It is played out everyday on the TV. Watch MTV. We will define for you who you are and who you should be, and it will make you frustrated and sad, and make us happy and rich.

These scenarios attest to the bent state of our world and culture. I choose to see these things as ugly, unethical, inhumane things going on in our world. They are especially evil because they are so subtle. But they exist. I see all of this, and I see all of the devastating side effects, and I remember why I need Hope and a promise of some future rescue and redemption.

Do not be blind. Do not believe what you are told about yourself. Let’s start a revolution of pursuing truth. Let’s start a revolution of dignity for all human beings. Let’s start a revolution of treating our selves and our fellow humans how God created us; whole and beautiful. Don’t believe the hype. Be who you are, who you know you are deep inside. Be how you know it is right to be, deep inside. Do not buy into every narrative that is given to you. Dig deep for truth and don’t fall easily for the lies. There is a conspiracy against you.

Throw your fist in the air if you feel the same way… do it… it’s liberating. See?

The Staggering Despair and Limitless Hope of the Future –or- A More Accurate Title Might Be "Run!" or "Lost!" or even "Drip!"

2006-10-19T06:52:00.000-07:00

His knees were cold. Yes, this was a new sensation. It wasn’t just the knee as a general area that was cold either, it was the tops of his knees (“tops” of his knees might not be the most accurate description, unless he was reclining, making his kneecaps point skyward). No, it was not the “tops” of his knees feeling this new and extreme sensation of cold, but rather the front-most portion of his knee. The cold felt conical, the wide base of dull cold beginning just behind his kneecap and coming to a sharp point of freezing sensation just to the left of his one out-of-place knee hair.

He shouldn’t have worn shorts. It should have been sweat pants today. He knew that. He had known that when he selected the shorts from the drawer (which might more accurately be called the floor of his closet) and when he had slid the said shorts up his legs and over his buttocks. But shorts are what you wear when you run, right? In all his experience of fitness practices in Texas, shorts seem to have been the one consistent norm. What was done was done at this point, and his knees were freezing, and he had no explanation as to why it was mainly his knees that were so cold.

His knees were cold, his body stung, he was breathing heavily enough to hear puffs of air escape from his ear drums, a clear, liquefied mucus substance was draining from his nose, and he was decidedly lost.

He did not know where he was.

He did not know where he was going.

This is not the predicament that he had set out for. His original plan had something to do with fitness of the body. He had some grand ideas of music playing in his ears and ground springing under his feet and air expelling from his lungs in puffs of condensation in some kind of grand bodily-kinesthetic/spiritual experience.

The reality of the situation was different. He had bodily-kinesthetic/spiritual-experienced himself right out of the places and trails he’d known. And now he was far from where he’d thought he would be and lost.

Being lost makes you feel like a complete dumbass.

He looked around pensively over the treetops for some familiar landmark. His eyes find one in the last 25 degrees of his full turn and he now knows how lost he is. He is far from everything he knows and everything he knows is not where he thought it would be.

This is the part where narrative can get interesting.

This is the part where he starts to run.

Despite the chill in his chest and on his knees. Despite the ache of his body and burn in his lungs. Despite the lazy drain of fluids from his nose. He runs.

He wants to close his eyes. But you cannot run with your eyes closed. He focuses on the ground just before his feet. He does not want to fall.

And now you will play a part. Like the choose-your-own-adventure books of your childhood, you can project your own desires for him. Where is it that he is running? Does he begin his run back towards what he knows, or away from it? Does he stop? What awaits him just beyond where his eyes scan the ground?

We want our own narratives to drip with “purpose” and “meaning” and even some grand “spiritual experience,” yet we are surprised to find that when we look above the tops of the trees, we are decidedly lost. All we have is the ground beneath our feet and at best some vague landmarks of the past to orient us. We often have been running too far for too long. We often have grown tired of the run we set out on, and find we are ill-equipped. We find out that even our knees can feel the sting of cold.

But what we are least prepared for is that we find ourselves still running.

Run.

Despite the situations that surround you. Despite the pain, the cold, the weariness, or the constant drip; run.

(As an alternate to reading this blog, you could just listen to the instrumental soundtrack to the movie Firday Night Lights by Explosions in the Sky. Try the following songs: "Your Hand in Mine," "Our Last Days As Children," "An Ugly Fact of Life," "Home," "To West Texas," "Inside It All Feels The Same," "Lonely Train," "A Slow Dance," and "The Sky Above, The Field Below." Seriously, listen to it.)

Why GOD Can't Get Playing Time in Popular Culture -or- Drawing Conclusions and Making Connections Where There Are Likely No Conclusions or Connections

2006-10-12T07:34:00.000-07:00

The most provocative, contradictory, and fueling statements about what is called postmodernism is that it rejects absolute truth. The recursive argument against this statement on postmodernism is that accepting the posit that “postmodernism rejects absolute truth” is accepting the absolute truth that there is no absolute truth. Headache? Me too. I suggest Tylenol over ibuprofen for your newly incurred headache, but that’s only because I accidentally overdosed on ibuprofen once in high school. It scared the crap out of me. I had hives and was shaking. I felt dumb. I was, in fact, dumb. Also, former San Antonio Spur and All-Star Sean Elliot lost a kidney from taking so many ibuprofens. That scared me too. (My publicist claims that I did not O.D., and that it was, in fact, Terrell Owens who took my pills).

So here we have this idea of “truth” on the popular-thought chopping block. (I would argue that most of this talk of the failure of absolute truth is actually people misconstruing “truth” for “certainty”. At least, this is my take as a good Church kid.) All truth is challenged. All things that were solidly believed are shaken in popular thought. All those who believe so firmly in any “absolute truth” are undoubtedly labeled fundamentalists, and maybe justifiably so (I would still suggest that even these people confuse “certainty” with “truth”).

So then there is this challenge to “truth.” I came across an article from Europe today on CNN.com about the French government passing laws concerning, at their core, truth.

“Ignoring Turkish protests, the French lower house of parliament overwhelmingly approved a bill on Thursday making it a crime to deny Armenians suffered genocide in 1915 at the hands of the Ottoman Turks… The legislation establishes a one-year prison term and 45,000 euro ($56,570) fine for anyone denying the genocide -- exactly the same sanctions as those imposed for denying the Nazi genocide of Jews during World War Two.”

With the recent denials of the Nazi-inflicted genocide on millions of Jews and other groups, these types of stories have been spotlighted. Why? Because these are the growing pains of people trying to construct and define what is true and what is not. In the pop-version of the postmodern worldview, truth—historical, scientific, social, or spiritual—is scrutinized and deconstructed. (Though it sounds bad, I believe that this can be a positive process.)

I bring up this piece of news only to point out the immense struggle going on inside of people in the predominate postmodern worlds of the West. People cheer on some rejections of accepted “truths” in past and recent history, and people cringe at others. The challenge of the existence of the Holocaust is the cringing kind for most. This is because we (most people) believe, we even would say that we “know” the holocaust existed. We have seen images. We may have even met people and heard stories. And some have even lived it who are still here among us. So we say, “Of course it is true! How could you deny it? Look at the numbers on these arms. Listen to these stories. Look at these images (even though we know that now even images can be deceiving… did we really go to the moon?). It happened! It happened to him! It happened to my friend’s grandfather! This is ridiculous!”

And I think “we” are right. I think we shiver at the thought of some truths being denied because we believe them to be such real, living, experienced truths, events, and experiences.

So then we get to God (gulp).

Certainly, in today’s world, God is the most challenged “absolute truth” of our day (at least in the perception of a good church kid). And the Christian argument is, “Yes it is true! I know it is true! I have experienced it. My grandfather has experienced it! I have a whole book full of encounters and experiences that attest to this truth, and it is leather-bound and has gold on the edges of the pages!”

This is the best argument we have going for us, and yet most of us articulate it so weakly that it is laughed off. We use this argument without passion or conviction because many of us have held the reigns back on our “experiences” with God. Many who claim Christianity may not even realize they have any “experiences” of note that didn’t involve some “praise and worship music” and a good prayin’.

This is why experiences with God must be reexamined. If the Christian common definition of God-experiences can transition out of the model of “praise music and prayer” and into the stuff of life, the living and breathing, the going out and coming in, the struggle, the success, and the failure, then we too can claim “truth” more readily in the public arena. Maybe we will not be laughed at as much. Maybe our “truth” will be graced with the honor and thoughtfulness that it no doubt deserves. But as long as we disable our truth with our currently weak and weary models of “church” and “Christianity” and “faith”, we should not expect too much credit our interest from anyone. Until we start recognizing our own God-experiences outside of only the “sacred”, only the “institutional”, and only the “Constantinian” models of “faith”, “Christianity” and “church”, our truth will not cause people to lose sleep at night. Our truth will remain the truth that popular thought says, “is fine for you, just not for me.”

I suggest that we all reexamine truth. Tear “truth” apart, explore “truth” deeply, challenge “truth”, question “truth”, and experience “truth”. If we (Christians) believe what we say we believe to be true, then these things are avenues to knowing the Truth.

The scary part: I think many “Christians” have no idea what this Truth is or how to experience, question, and explore it.

Feel This -or- Nature Itself Attests to The Existence of God, Including the Minutia of Your Day and the Times Early in the Morning When You Are Tired

2006-10-05T07:58:00.000-07:00

“Seize life! Eat bread with gusto, drink wine with a robust heart. Oh yes-God takes pleasure in your pleasure! Dress festively every morning. Dont' skimp on colors and scarves. Relish life with the spouse you love each and every day of your precarious life. Each day is God's gift. It's all you get in exchange for the hard work of staying alive. Make the most of each one! Whatever turns up, grab it and do it. And heartily! This is your last and only chance at it, for there's neither work to do nor thoughts to think in the company of the dead, where you're most certainly headed.” -Ecclesiastes 9: 7-10

“I feel great
Even though we got mad things to deal with
Happiness is all in the mind
Let's unwind, and find a reason to smile
I'm just glad to be livin'
Feelin' fine
Leavin' my bad times behind
Feels great
And no, we can't escape from the realness
Happiness is all in the mind
Let's unwind, and find a reason to smile
I'm just glad to be alive
Feelin' fine
Livin' life one day at a time
Feelin' great”
-“Happiness” by Dead Prez

“I know it aches
How your heart it breaks
And you can only take so much
Walk on, walk on
Leave it behind
You've got to leave it behind
All that you fashion
All that you make
All that you build
All that you break
All that you measure
All that you steal
All this you can leave behind
All that you reason
All that you sense
All that you speak
All you dress up
All that you scheme...”
-“Walk On” by U2

Wake up with tired eyes that burn. Stay in bed longer than you should. Brace yourself, and make your body come out from under your covers. When everything inside you wants to stay asleep, when your body still feels cold and stiff and fights your every move, when the edges of your mind are still blurred by dreams and the steady hum of sleep; be glad and keep moving.

There is a day waiting for you. There is a life waiting outside.

Count each step you take and stretch each muscle. Don’t be ashamed to yawn. Find one thing that makes you happy that you can smile about.

Now go.

Take the day as it comes. Roll with the punches, even if that means you take a few on the chin.

Move lightly through the day if you can; try not to trudge or run through it. Take the deep breaths you need to take and don’t be ashamed to yawn again.

When your flesh inevitably comes into the presence of other flesh, when your eyes meet other eyes, and when your noise mixes with the noise of everyone else’s, try to make it all as honest and as full of love and grace as possible—even to the guy that won’t let you over into his lane.

Eat something good and then try and eat something good for you so you don’t feel as bad about the thing you ate that was REALLY good.

Dispense as many high-fives, hugs, handshakes, fist-bumps, friendly waves, and (if you’re lucky) kisses as possible. And if it is high-fives you choose, use the full variety of high-fives. The side five, the back five, the soft five, the hard five, and the no-look five. And know that if you want to five well, you must focus on the person’s elbow for accuracy. It works every time.

Wear your favorite shirt as many times as you think you can get away with it. Wear your favorite pants even more often.

If you happen to be around a mirror, look into it. But don’t worry about what you see. Don’t be distracted by what is in place and what is not. Look in the mirror in order to look into your own eyes. Try to see what is there and what it means. Don’t fear the questions that this raises.

Look for God wherever you can. Look close and look far. Look in the places you’d expect and look in the places you’ve forgotten God might be found. Try your best to believe, even though it is sometimes hard. Never stop looking.

Don’t stop living. Don’t stop loving. Don’t stop laughing.

When you close your eyes at night, when you slip into sleep, know that it was all good and that it will all be alright.

Why the Thong Song is Wrong -or- Put Some Hip-Hop on Your Playlist and Change the World by Joining in A Dialogue of Social Consciousness

2006-09-26T08:30:00.000-07:00

“Critical and liberating dialogue, which presupposes action, must be carried on with the oppressed at whatever the stage of their struggle for liberation. The content of that dialogue can and should vary in accordance with historical conditions and the level at which the oppressed perceive reality.” –Paulo Freire, from Reading the Word and the World

I am not joking. You might find this hard to believe if you have been around me, because I tend to joke. But there are things that some people might perceive as a joke about which I am serious; extremely serious.

The scenario might seem humorous; “there goes Singleton again with his S. Carter shoes and his ipod full of hip-hop. He likes that music, like the stuff by Kanye West that is humorous and makes us laugh. I like the rap music that is fun and funny or that makes me dance, but I don’t know about some of that other stuff… that stuff that Singleton listens to seems a little inappropriate.”

I admit that the appearance of my inclination to hip-hop music and hip-hop culture can be a humorous one, but I demand to be taken seriously. Hip-hop has become a vital part in my personal education concerning life and the world. It should be heard and listened to. Really listened to. Not awed at or simply seen as shock-value work.

Hip-Hop and rap music, the stuff not about thongs banging on your local AOL/Timewarner/Clear Channel radio station, but the real stuff of Hip-Hop that must be found and dug for, is a conversation that needs to be heard.

Particularly as a young middle-class white male who claims the Christian tradition, I need to hear hip-hop. I need to listen and learn from the voices of those in the “minority.” I need to listen intently to the voices of the oppressed and impoverished.

Stop dancing. Stop “dropping it like it’s hot.” Join a conversation. Join a “liberating dialogue.” Join in a discussion of how to make things right in the world. I don’t care if it’s “not your style.” It is a style and it is a style that needs to be listened to, that needs to be heard and addressed. We must stop ignoring the world around us.

“I don’t want to listen to music with harsh language,” you might say. The language might be harsh, but so are the realities. Our world may be comfortable and nice, but there are other worlds. We cannot ignore them. We cannot think that the welfare of our neighbors (or the people who would be our neighbors if we’d allow it) is not our concern. We must hear truth even when truth is hard. We cannot reject truth because of the package it comes in. (As a Christ-follower, do I not accept an offensively packaged truth already? A baby in a stable? A carpenter and some fishermen in an Arab country? A Jew who ate with Gentiles and walked with prostitutes?)

There is a scene in the movie Magnolia where I young black kid who has witnessed a crime tries to inform the up-tight and deeply Christian Police officer on who is to blame by telling him using rap. The officer keeps interrupting him and criticizing his explicit language and never hears the truth the kid is offering concerning the crime. “Did you just hear me? I just told you who did it?” – “Just watch the language little man.”

Hip-hop is more than a musical genre. It is more than entertainment. It is more than the stuff you hear on the radio. It is a movement and a social dialogue. Take notice and listen. There are issues we haven’t resolved. There are injustices that we turn a blind eye to. There are prejudices that we continue to perpetuate. Our nation is young and made plenty of mistakes in our start. We cannot ignore those implications. We cannot stop trying to make things right. Hear this:

From Mathematics by Mos Def

One for Charlie Hustle, two for Steady Rock
Three for the fourth comin live future shock
It's five dimensions, six senses
Seven firmaments of heaven to hell
8 Million Stories to tell
Nine planets faithfully keep in orbit
with the probable tenth, the universe expands length
The body of my text posess extra strength
Power-liftin powerless up, out of this, towerin inferno
My ink so hot it burn through the journal
I'm blacker than midnight on Broadway and Myrtle
Hip-Hop past all your tall social hurdles
like the nationwide projects, prison-industry complex
Working class poor better keep your alarm set
Streets too loud to ever hear freedom ring
Say evacuate your sleep, it's dangerous to dream
for cha-ching cats get {{they}} CHA-POW, {{you}} dead now
Killin fields need blood to graze the cash cow
{{It's a numbers game}}, but shit don't add up somehow
Like I got, sixteen to thirty-two bars to rock it
but only 15% of profits, ever see my pockets like
sixty-nine billion in the last twenty years
spent on national defense but folks still live in fear like
nearly half of America's largest cities is one-quarter black
That's why they gave Ricky Ross all the crack
Sixteen ounces to a pound, twenty more to a ki
A five minute sentence hearing and you're no longer free
40% of Americans own a cell phone
so they can hear, everything that you say when you ain't home
I guess, Michael Jackson was right, "You Are Not Alone"
Rock your hardhat black cause you in the Terrordome
full of hard niggaz, large niggaz, dice tumblers
Young teens and prison greens facin life numbers
Crack mothers, crack babies and AIDS patients
Young bloods can't spell but they could rock you in PlayStation
This new math is whippin ************* ass
You wanna know how to rhyme you better learn how to add
It's mathematics

Yo, it's one universal law but two sides to every story
Three strikes and you be in for life, manditory
Four MC's murdered in the last four years
I ain't tryin to be the fifth one, the millenium is here
Yo it's 6 Million Ways to Die, from the seven deadly thrills
Eight year olds gettin found with {{.9 mils}}
It's 10 P.M., where your seeds at? What's the deal
He on the hill puffin krill to keep they belly filled
Light in the ass with heavy steel, sights on the pretty shit in life
Young soldiers tryin to earn they next stripe
When the average minimum wage is $5.15
You best believe you gotta find a new grind to get cream
The white unemployment rate, is nearly more than triple for black
so frontliners got they gun in your back
Bubblin crack, jewel theft and robbery to combat poverty
and end up in the global jail economy
Stiffer stipulations attached to each sentence
Budget cutbacks but increased police presence
And even if you get out of prison still livin
join the other five million under state supervision
This is business, no faces -- just lines and statistics
from your phone, your zip code, to S-S-I digits
The system break man, child, and women into figures
Two columns for who is, and who ain't niggaz
Numbers is hardly real and they never have feelings
but you push too hard, even numbers got limits
Why did one straw break the camel's back? Here's the secret:
the million other straws underneath it - it's all mathematics

We Try and We Fail -or- Observations On How We Mostly Mean So Well and Somehow Seem To Still Fall Miserably Short in Helping One Another

2006-09-20T13:50:00.000-07:00

“What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboarded down the street at night you could hear everyone’s heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone’s hearts would start to beat at the same time, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don’t really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn’t have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war.”
-from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer

So badly we want to make things better. We want to tell each other good things and assure each other it will be all right. We want to make each other smile and breathe deep sighs of relief. We want things to be right and good for everyone.

We try. We try. We try.

We fail. We fail. We fail.

We cannot break through our skin. We cannot fix things. Using all of our will, all of our passion, and all of our strength, we still cannot make these things stop.

Instead of helping, sometimes we hurt each other. Our best intentions quickly become our most wounding weapons.

We want to fix things. We are frustrated.

We are filled with love, real, good, whole love, and we have no idea how to use it. Love is too much for us to handle. We cannot find adequate ways to dispense it. So we bang on things like pots and pans, as loudly as we can. We shout loud from the inside out. We clench our jaws shut and tighten our fists. We say as many things as we can and never articulate what it is we mean. We love and are loved, and that is too much for us.

We try so hard to mean something to one another. We say and do as many things as we can to communicate the love that we feel for everything deep inside of us and we try to make it all have meaning.

We are disappointed. We are inefficient and inarticulate.

We want to relate and connect; we want to be one. But we are too different and too scattered. We think and hurt differently. We become too busy trying not to be hurt too badly by each other’s bent and broken methods of flinging around love.

Thank God that there are glimpses. Thank God that there are moments. Thank God that sometimes the clouds part and sometimes things are clear. Thank God for what happens in the simplicity of silence. Thank God for honesty. Thank God that we can admit that we are not well. Thank God for hope that we might be well. Thank God for hope that we might be able to properly receive and dispense this love that we cannot handle.

God, make us silent more. Make us search each other’s eyes more deeply and try to know what we can only mess up when we try to say. When we hurt each other, help us to breathe deep and see through it all to the love. Help us recognize all that is broken and give us hope for all that might be made right. When we try, and when we fail; when we want to fix things and when we are frustrated; when we are disappointed, inefficient, and inarticulate; be all that we are not. Allow our smiles to mean more. Allow our best efforts to break into success more often. Allow us to heal and help one another. Help us build each other up and carry each other along even when we consistently fail each other. May we have more of your silence, more of your love, and more of your meaning where our mess is insufficient. Amen.

A Break from the Weight of Things -or- My Blog Seems Too Sad and Serious Lately and Needed Something to Cheer it Up

2006-09-13T14:28:00.000-07:00

I just finished Dave and Hogan’s book, “Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven but Nobody want to Die or (the eschatology of bluegrass). You must read this. It articulates some deep life things that need conversation and need to be discussed.

I still do no understand this life. How can so much good and so much bad coexist? Crowder and Hogan discuss this as “the weight of things”. Given my predisposition for the extremes of sadness and joy, I could (and have) fill(ed) many pages and pieces of blogging web space with reflections on the sadness and the joy of life. In fact, the last post (prior to starting Dave and Hogan’s book) reeked with the same “weight” of things. I think it is good to think about this and talk about this, but I also believe in taking breaks, and that is what this post is. Inspired by Craig Nash’s blog of songs playing on his ipod, I want to recommend some songs that I am loving right now. This is just fun and a great waste of the platform that internet blogging provides, and I believe in sometimes wasting things, particularly time. So take a moment to let your time be wasted, and mine, and take a gander at this list of songs that I can’t help but turn up loud and enjoy.

The following entries will be in the following formula:

Song – Artist – Album – Commentary

Gone – Kanye West – Late Registration – “We strivin’ home, we ride on chrome…” I dare you to not nod your head.

Drive Slow – Kanye West – Late Registration – “If you ridin’ around the city with nowhere to go, drive slow homey, Live today because tomorrow you never know…” This, plus H-town’s Paul Wall throws in a little Dirty South love. It will literally make you want to drive slow… and turn on hazard lights.

Roses – Kanye West – Late Registration – “I smile, the roses come to see me, and I can’t wait for a sunny day (I’m seeing it through your eyes), can’t wait for the clouds to break. Oh, who brings the sunshine?” This song is about family, community, disease, death, and hope. If you’ve been there, you get it.

Tock Tick – Kurt Vonnegut & Simon Heselev – Tock Tick CD Single – Basically Kurt Vonnegut reading an excerpt from Slaughterhouse Five to some contemplative music. It’s about being unstuck in time and watching World War II bombing raids backwards… it is absolutely beautiful and one of my favorite parts of the book. “German fighter planes flew at them backwards and sucked bullets and shell fragments from some of the planes and crewmen…”

Mathematics – Mos Def – Black on Both Sides – “Push too hard and even numbers got limits. Why did one straw break the camel’s back? Here’s the secret: the million other straws underneath it. It’s all mathematics.” For the “fight the power” in us all.

D.O.W.N. – Dead Prez – RBG: Revolutionary But Gangsta – “We comrades we struggle, through any trouble. Sacrifice my life in combat for ya. So you know I gotta love ya, I’m down for my brothas and sistas.” Some of you will understand this. You know who you are.

Pavement Tune – The Frames – Set List – “So let me take you by the hand, and lead you through this troubled mind…” One of the best live songs I’ve ever heard… recorded.

You Got Me – The Roots – Things Fall Apart – “If you were worried ‘bout where I been or who I saw or what club I went to with my homies, baby don’t worry you know that you got me.” Welcome to the Roots. You are addicted.

How’s It Gonna Be – Third Eye Blind – Blue – Third Eye Blind still kicks ass. Every song. I don’t know why.

Chicago – Sufjan Stevens – Little Miss Sunshine Soundtrack – “You came to take us, all things go, all things go, to recreate us, all things grow, all things grow…” I’m new to Sufjan, and I think his name is ridiculously funny. So far I love every song I’ve heard.

How It Ends – Devotchka – Little Miss Sunshine Soundtrack – I’ve written a whole blog on this song several months ago, complete with lyrics. I just want to reiterate how amazing it is.

Sick and Tired – Nappy Roots – Wooden Leather – “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.” An anthem for all those who have no money or are sick or frustrated or stressed or tired. They say what you want to.

Turn these on and listen to them at ridiculously high volumes. Even if they sound crazy, give them a try, you may find out you like them. Thanks for wasting time with me.

The Battle in Our Bones -or- Please God, Give Us Another Chance and Make Things Like They Were At The Beginning Again, Like It Was For Adam and Eve

2006-09-12T07:17:00.000-07:00

If you watched TV yesterday, you saw images of towers falling, dust clouds, weary people, and warfare. You were bathed in these images, for better or for worse.

One look at these images and we see the amazing tension of being human. In those images, and in the minutia of our days we are confronted with a complexity that we have yet to be able to fully explain, despite our best efforts, and our more entertaining efforts (thanks Freud! You make learning fun!).

Somewhere in this mass of bones and flesh is the capacity to do something heroic. For me, there is no more powerful image from September 11th than the heroism that sent regular people made of flesh and bone into falling buildings made of rock and metal. All of this for strangers; other piles of flesh and bone. These are some of the most powerful images in human history. “No greater love has a man than this; that he would lay down his life for his friends.”

Somewhere inside of us, we resonate with the deepest capacity of love. There is some primordial thing that builds up inside of our chests and stomachs that tells us to love at all costs. Love selflessly and foolishly. Love so much that you would run into falling rocks and metal. Love so much that you cease to exist in flesh and bone. And when those ideas and those words cause us to hold our breath and close our eyes, we feel something. We can reach back through our blood to the first man and first woman, and know that something in that blood was around when all was right in the world. When love was the only law. There is some strand of DNA, some cell structure, some splice of some gene in our bodies that knows that all of this is so close to being right.

We want so badly that real, first Love. Not the shadows of love, but the Love that was our first law. We die for the idea of that love. We die for each other.

But we are sick. Our bones ache. Our bodies fail. Tired limbs longing for rest.

Things are not how they were then, in the beginning. Our own bodies, bones and flesh, betray us. We are a world full of decay and disease. We can never be settled, and we can never breathe easy.

Complications come in waves. How can we love selflessly and freely when our own bodies will not be well? Or when we must dig and sweat and work in order to fill our stomachs? Or when we must pay bills and fulfill obligations? Or when we are faced with the reality that our flesh and bones are fragile, and always threatened by the reality of death?

This is the tension we must live in. A tension between the way things should be still, and the way things are. We try to do our best. There is hope, if we choose to have hope. There is hope that it won’t always be so hard and one day the complications will fade away. There is hope that there is an eternity offered to us that invites us to love selflessly and complication-free always.

For now, all we have are moments. We must do our best with these moments, We must mimic our eternity as best we can. We must try to listen to that thing deep within us that makes us love selflessly, and try to ignore the pain in our bones, and all that isn’t right.

God, we are slaves to bones and flesh. Our bodies are fragile, sick, and weak. Death is always present, threatening and mocking us. Help us to listen to that part of us that is right and good, the part deep within us that tells us to love with all we’ve got. Remind us of our hope, and help us to live in it. Keep our bodies from sickness, and make us well again. And may we all be heroic and selfless with our love no matter how much it may cost us. Amen.

Atomic Bombs, Public Relations, and Academia –or- A Historical Perspective On B.S.

2006-09-07T08:03:00.000-07:00

“…World War II and, particularly, the development of the atom bomb, greatly strengthened both the self-confidence of university-based academic scholars and their political power. The development of the practical application of atomic energy was seen as a triumph of theoretical, intellectual effort. Furthermore it was considered university-based and an achievement of professors.”
(Atkin & House from The federal role in curriculum development)

The atomic bomb is the best proof humanity has that we are completely insane and should not have been left to our own devices. Possibly the most rapid climb in civilization has been rivaled only by the most rapid decline in humanity. By this I mean that as the world has grown more “technological” and “ordered” and therefore somehow more “civilized” it has also become better at blasting humanity off of the face of the earth and robbing human beings of the basic virtues of authenticity and vulnerability.

I’ve been in on this conversation in graduate school about how the current United States curriculum became what it is currently (read: how it became as jacked up and impotent as it, by and large, is today). Blame the atomic bomb. Besides, a mass murder machine makes for an easy enough villain. (If you must, for theatrics, imagine the atomic bomb with a little villainous moustache and a black cape).

Seriously, the development of the atomic bomb created so much commotion (and destruction) that the “Cold War” began. Now, I don’t need to tell you that wars are bad, difficult things in their own right, but a COLD War sounds even more sinister and heartless in its connotation. So the nuclear arms race begins and walls are erected in the middle of Berlin and torn down later and all of that. Somewhere in there, on an October 4th (a great day for me later in 1983), the Russians launch a robot into outer space which scares the good sense out of any hamburger and hotdog American. They even have the nerve to give the thing a real Russian-sounding name; Sputnick. The only thing worse would have been if they named it IVAN or COMMUNISM.

So then some guys latch onto this kind of crazed panic and then use it to manipulate politics and people. They change the way kids are educated just because they have a voice and a fear to speak into… and maybe a legitimate fear to be fair.

The point is this; the quote that I started this blog off with makes a revelatory statement. This fear gave academia its power. And academia had nothing better to do than to use and abuse it as they saw fit. All of the sudden, I realize why culture and the world around me is the way it is. I realize why the most important things are argued instead of talked about and why spin and “P.R.” dominate the “news” climate. (Side note: News, in its truest form, is the exposure of truth, not the creation of it… turn off the radio and TV… no one is in it for the right reasons anymore.)

Academia is full of shit. I’m sorry I have to say that so strongly, but it is the only word that will capture what I am meaning. Spend one day at a university orientation, meeting, or event, and you will be exposed to more posturing, more bullshit, more P.R. and spin and less honesty and honest pursuit of truth and knowledge than you would think possible. Graduate School orientation was a joke. Person after person came up to talk about how good other people were and how the were associated. Who are you selling?

So Academia helped pop culture feel more comfortable about bullshit. When you can hole up in library and spew forth posits about the world that you don’t live in and never interact with, and you have plenty of cool words to do it with… this is the result. Turn on your TV. Watch a “news” channel. Pretty fishy. And if you want a real treat, sit in on a bunch of college students and listen to our conversations. B.S. Lots of B.S.

Too Much Too Late -or- The Conspiracy of All Things at 2:00AM

2006-09-01T23:28:00.000-07:00

Maybe I have read too many books. Maybe I have tried to string together too many things and tried too much to make them mean something. When it is quiet and late, and honesty is all there is, I hear the echo of one question; "Why is there something instead of nothing?"

Beauty, intricacy, and feelings are too complicated subjects to be the design of no one, from nowhere, for no reason. A tree, old rocks turned into buildings, some old and cracking and crumbling... they must mean something instead of nothing.

So I sit as honestly as I can and search everything around me trying to find out why; trying to find the truth.

Blood rushing through my veins sounds so loud that I can hear nothing else.

And I can almost hear it. I am paranoid thåt my own bones and cells and the communities of bacteria that I house and give life to know something that I can only say that I believe.

My own lungs burning with air and my own heart beating with persistance are involved in a conspiracy of not giving up what they know.

The pit of my stomach and the lump in my throat sit silently mocking me and my wonder.

Something beats within my chest crying out to be known. Something fills my lungs and burns for to be considered. Some truth resides in the core of my bones that cannot be ignored.

There is something instead of nothing. This all means something. Enjoy this. You are here and you are created. Be. Exist. Live and live well. Try to watch and listen for the subtle whispers that tell the truth of eternity. Do not ignore or try to explain away the complexities. Embrace them. Invite the mystery in for a long talk. Let it work on you and make you wonder.

Because there is something instead of nothing, I have hope.

God whom I believe because I must, help me to listen. Help me to trust what everything inside me cries out. Help me to see the writing of your hand on the environment that surrounds me. Even when it is late at night, let me not ignore you. Let me be awed not by your existence, but by my own. God, be all that is true and that I have hoped for. May this body and this world rest tonight, knowing You. Amen.

A Summary of Life for a Day -or- An Emergency Manual For What You Should Be Doing and What it Should Look Like, respectively.

2006-08-30T20:57:00.000-07:00

1) Wake up. Open your eyes and let the blood flow back to the arm deprived of flow and stinging from the weight of your own head. Yawn and let the variety of light from the sun in the morning repaint the walls around you. Here you are. You are in the middle of life. You are alive. And you stink. You need a shower. And your breath tastes bad in your own mouth. You need a toothbrush. And you need to pee. You need a toilet or a tree. Quickly. "Was I holding this all night?"

2) Make your first major moves of the day; dictate your own tone and pace. Be pleased or dissapointed with the things that take shape around you. Spend some time thinking about something that might be considered really irelevant in the scheme of things, because that is more satisfying and interesting than worrying about the "important stuff." Find some time to enjoy the fact that what you are participating in is inconsequential and will not save the world, at least not anytime soon.

3) Then do whatever it is you do. Love it or hate it, try to do it well enough to sleep soundly at night.

4) Allow any functions that might happen out of necessity to happen with little dispute. This might include relationships with other people, eating food and drinking drink, and a variety of bodily functions that should not necessarily be shared publicly.

5) Go somewhere that can feel at least something like a home. Step in the door and breathe deep. Sigh deep sighs and if you must click your tongue and shake your head about some bad hand delt to you, do so vigorously and follow it always with a light laugh, feigned or natural.

6) Strip down naked. Slip into something more comfortable, but not the "something more comfortable" that they talk about in some movies that involves intricate systems of leather or metal rings. Try a "something more comfortable" that requires only basketball shorts and old worn t-shirts.

7) Lay down on something that at least looks comfortable even if it is not. Like a Sunset Continental Collection matress.
Turn out all of the lights and be okay with the temporary loss of any shape or form for the things around you.
Lay your head on your pillow and be okay with who you are and what you've done.

8) Listen to songs until you fall asleep.

9) Wake up and realize that your songs ended long ago, and you should take off the headphones and set aside your ipod in order to make sleep the priority.

10) Fall back to sleep. Sleep hard. Sleep with your mouth open and drool sometmes, but not all the time.

11) Repeat.

*If anything should happen to you outside of this scenario, should anything go exceptionally well for you or particularly bad for you, remind yourself to "stay frosty" and to keep it cool, then refer to step number 10 when the opportunity provides itself.

High Fives, Hand Shakes, and Chest Bumps -or- A Severe Case of the Communitas

2006-08-28T09:37:00.000-07:00

"Take our caved-in-on-self energy, and turn it inside out."

This is who I want to be. I am not that yet... but I know that this is the way to be and I have tastes of it here and there. When I am in rhythm with this idea my life is at its best.

How do we turn ourselves inside out? Especially when there is this huge experience within church culture that is about the self? Where songs spew more "me's" and "I's" and "My's" than apple computer products and online friend networks combined. Where the sermons sound more like self-help books and spiritual experiences are most often offered up in single servings.

But then here is Christ-- the supposed center of all of this-- and he says, "Deny yourself."

"Don't worry about your junk so much!" He says. "What good does that do? How much better does that make your life?"

I want my life to be a story about the people around me. Maybe it is my affinity for the concept of "team" or maybe it is my accute awareness that I am not all that I might one day be, that I am broken, and incomplete, and that my story is only half-told. I am tired of me. I'm tired of so much energy pouring into my self. It remains so unsatisfying. If life is somethign that I am committing to doing, I want to do it in community, in relationship, in the context of the give and the take of human connections. I will get hurt. I will give hurt. I will understand and misunderstand. But I will live and laugh and love more than anything, because those things are the "what" that life is all about.

God, turn us inside out. Remind us to gaze outward, away from our own reflection in the mirror. Remind us to share life. May we share all things in community. Help us to carry each other's hurt, and help us to share each other's joys. May we laugh at each other's jokes more, may we listen to each other's stories more, may we look into each other's eyes more, and may we enjoy the rhythms of this life and the lives around us. More late nights of laughter and tables full of food. More glasses raised to toast and more secret hand shakes. More of You wherever You are to be found. Amen.

Two One O -or- Why the NFL Network Makes Me Cry

2006-08-07T08:42:00.000-07:00

It's no secret that I miss the lockeroom days. I have a ridiculous affinity for the number fifty two and for telling stories and even for sharing some lockeroom humor in places that are not lockerooms. Some people label this as "inappropriate" but I think they are just jelous for not having thought of it.

A topic of discussion has been running around certain circles I run in; the question of wether or not "place" matters, and I think it does.

At the very the least, it is a launching point for memory.

A couple of weeks ago I went on a overnight trip with Eric Weiss to San Antonio. I'd been invited to speak at a journalism conference again that was taking place on my old high school campus. After arriving in town, taking in pure culinary ecstasy at one of the thousand culinary giants within the city limits (this time at Henry's Puffy Taco (a name you might recgonize as you associate it with the mascot of the minor league AA baseball team in San Antonio, the Missions, the very same mascot chosen as the best mascot in sports not too long ago!) we drove around and took in some of the sights.

Then it happened. I walked on the old high school campus and magic happened. Goosebumps; and not the popular young adult thriller novels either, I mean real, live, hair-on-end goosebumps... my story happened here. My myth and my epic.

Place has power. I pushed open the only unlocked doors to the gym and mens lockeroom areas and walked through the rough, wood-floored gym that smelled like only gyms can. This was the same gym and the same smell in which myself along with our enitre Freshman football team decided to try out for the basketball team. We were immediately cut and sent out to offseason workouts. They didn't take us seriously, which is good, because we were just trying to get out of offseason workouts. As we left, booing and hurling last minute pleads to the basketball coach, the tryout decreased to about one eigth its original size.

I walked into the training room, now a coaches office, and remebered my pregame ritual. I was a foreigner to the training room except the day of and after a football game. For some, the training room became a haven of retreat from the heat and vigor of our workouts. "Getting treatment" was a cop-out that only the weak, or the superstars, or vain could afford. I have many physical problems as a result. Knees that don't bend well at 22, chronic back spasms, hands that feel, whem folded a certain way, that they will rip, dislocations, tears, pulls, and concussions. But I never escaped to the training room, for that i am obviously proud.

But the gameday ritual, going down to the training room with my mormon friend Matt Montoya to get taped up by my best friend Sal Delgado, who had to sit by and tape us up and help us prepare instead of playing with us, do to a tragic injury endured in practice one day that left him temporarily paralyzed, forever in danger of a worse injury, and always bitching about the pain in his back (sorry Sal).

I moved from the training room to the showers. This shower is the thing of legends. One giant room, six shower stations dropped in from exposed pipes, each with five shower heads in a circle. Who though of this? If you are not friends or comfortable with yourself and the people around you, you must get that way very quickly. Who would have known that the always hilarious and shocking "shower olympics" would one day lead, for some in the room, to the real olympics? Or that Herbert Hardaway, who always took things a step to far and once did the unthinkable in the middle of the shower room (number two) would now be a high-ranking officer in the military? A blog could be written about the tales of the shower room, but it would be very disgusting, slightly questionable, and involve so many nude men that it shouldn't have taken place to begin with. The only thing that seemed more awkward than the shower was the time we had to all go into the equipment cage and wrestle during one rainy day of the off season. Somebody should have called that one in, because it wasn't completely right.

Then, the goosebumps. Taking the slow, steady steps up towards the lockeroom. The two sets of stairs that used to be designated for one for varsity and one for everyone else and was the cause of many near-deaths and many more fights, and the stairs that later became free to any and all in the true democratric fashion under the new coaching era. Tradition floods my memory. Sayings on the wall, inspiration and ritual... sacred in their own way. "GOD... FAMILY... TEAM." No seperation of church and state in here. We said the Lord's Prayer more than Benedictine Monks, strangely always followed by a slew of explitives. "THE STRENGTH OF THE PACK IS THE DOG... THE STRENGTH OF THE DOG IS THE PACK." "PRACTICE LIKE YOU PLAY." Ideas to live by.

And once you reach the peak of the stairs, you look into the faces of those who had gone before. Team photos from 1964 on. NFL stars, College standouts, State Representatives, businessmen, jailbirds, Olympians, family men, failures, heroes, and dead men. Just kids then. Flashes of Dead Poet's and the whispers of "Carpe Diem" are easy to imagine. My face is up there now too. Staring back at high school kids who, as of this year, do not know my name. Faces mixed in with plaques and trophies and victories and losses. I intentionally walk up to the captains plaque to ensure that my name is still carved into the metal for eternity. My name sits mockingly near Robert Quiroga's, Cedric Griffin's, and Darold Williamson's.

Then the doors of the lockeroom. I open them and breathe deep. So much life and story happened in this room. A big, messed up, dysfunctional community lived in here. Fights, tears, sweat, and laughter. Honesty, pain, encouragement, and prayer. We shared life. Guys without homes found them, Guys with no brothers found sixty of them, Guys with no confidence became infused with it, Guys with no hope became champions. We laughed and sang "Don't Take the Girl" after wins (no idea why, it just became tradition... maybe the only country song ever played in that lockeroom and every sang anywhere by that many people of color). You could hear a pin drop after losses. Broken choruses of DMX, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Rage Against the Machine, Eminem, Jay Z, Snoop Dog, and the rest would rise and fall in an instant. And everybody sang the chorus to "Under the Bridge." It was hilarious.

That room houses sacred and serious moments. The audio from the speech from Patton still rings off of the walls. And the interview with John Austin Emmonds, a rival runningback, who made promises he couldn't keep (especially from the sideline nursing injuries), Tombstone clips, and NFL films. Coaches yelling, coaches crying, coaches turning every shade of color a face can turn. Quiet prayer and loud yells. Haircuts, meals, and bodily functions. I miss that place. Brothers.

I have every right to be so sentimental. My life happened so much in those walls, with those people. The people who made me who I am, and pushed me to be who I could be, and allowed me to not have to be what I wasn't. This will forever be a highlight of my story. Forever, a place where I found God already to somehow be. Forever a place that can make me laugh and cry all at once. Those are the beautiful places in life.

"Gentlemen," Coach Randall said, "WE KICKED THEIR ASS!" And a chorus of voices boom back and echo "NO ****!"

What To Do After Being Frisked and While Waiting For A Flight -or- A Social Hiearchy of the Airport

2006-08-01T10:50:00.000-07:00

There are no poor people at the airport.

There are different people, a smattering of different cultures, styles, ages, races, and nationalities (nationalities because this is an INTERNATIONAL airport, and a big-ass one at that).

But everyone here has nice things. The lowest folks on the totem pole of airport society are the small business guys. You can recognize them by their polo shirts with logos, their heavily weathered brief cases circa ’85, their bad, wispy haircuts, and their well-worn dress shoes that do not, under any circumstances match their socks. They bring their own stuff to the airport. Their own reading material, their own bag of Big League chew, their own refreshments, and their own particular musty scents. Look out for these guys, they will talk to you for longer amounts of time about more meaningless b.s. than any people in the world. Avoid eye contact, or you might end up with a new cell phone service provider called McCell Phones. Talk about bad service.

Then there are the “real” businessmen. They walk fast, they wear nice suits, and the buy all kinds of crap they don’t need at the airport, like 500 dollars headphones. Do not stand in front of them and try not to listen to their conversations… you might end up in the pen like Martha Stewart because you unwittingly picked up some insider trading tips.

Then there are these people who I call “the travelers.” They may be on a flight to Fresno from Dallas, but they are decked out like they are either going on a Safari or to the tropics. I have no idea who these people are, or how they can afford to travel so much, but they do. They cram so much more crap into a fanny pack that it makes you fell like an inferior human being for your checked bag AND your carry on. Also, if the plane happens to go down stranding you in the ocean or on a deserted island, these people are going to be valuable, They are the “professors” of the island. Okay, wait, I’m wrong… I just saw one sniffing a bag with his wife and talking about how badly it smelled… they are the gilligans. They bought shitty headphones to. No more than a dollar forty-nine.

Then there are the normal people. People like me. We’re hear for short trips and aren’t all that interested in making purchases at the airport outside of water and gum.

There is also a TGI Fridays in this airport, which means I have to go.

I've Got Soul but I'm Not a Soldier -or- Pull Up a Chair, Close Your Eyes, and Sing as Loud as You Can

2006-07-19T09:13:00.000-07:00

"Oh Pirates, yes they rob I, stole I from the merchant ship..."

It all started with Bob Marley and a guitar covered in signatures and shout-outs. "Redemption Song" set off a chain of events that no one could have predicted. Live covers from every genre. Every hand on the guitar, or bongos, or spoons, or bottles, or the dreaded remote control/bottle combo. Loud singing and louder laughing. Closed eyes and creatively scandelous hand motions to creatively hilarious songs.

The playlist was incredible:
The Killers
Bob Marley
Larry Norman
Great Hymns of Faith
Damien Rice
Robert Dugan Originals
Protest Songs

All hilarious, sad, true, joyous, and beautiful in their own place.

I love it. Pick any UBCers... any of us at random and throw us in a room of somewhat comfortable surroundings. What takes place is beauty. What takes place are God-moments. You may not recognize them right off. But sit and listen and watch and learn about love. Learn about a common heartbeat. Learn about differences... and how they bring us all together. Pull up a chair and sing loud with us. Close your eyes and throw your head back and sing. Double over, lose your breath and laugh. Tell your story. See how often and surprisingly God and life intersect naturally, and unforced. Watch things change from deconstruction to redemption in each moment.

So we all sit in the living room. All hoping for the same thing to be true. We sit pining for the same truth. Sure, we have doubts, and questions, and frustrations, and setbacks. Be we also have hope, and love, and peace.

God, thank you for church that feels less like something we do and more like family. Thank you for knowing looks and the kind of laughter that makes you sigh afterword. Thank you for good songs, loud singing, and the ability to allow each other to be comfortable in our own skin. Thank you for church, thank you for your big, inviting, welcoming Kingdom. Amen.

Thought Vomit -or- What Happens When You Wait Too Long to Blog

2006-07-17T12:52:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading a blog by a guy who is a very well-advertised Atheist and who was running some assumption-driven, horribly off smack about UBC and Kyle's death. His facts were all wrong and it was validating in a strange way. All the things he was saying about why "Christians" deserve such things happening to them were things that I can sigh and recognize as things that most UBCers are not. Still though, how does one event fuel so much commentary from people (some claiming Christianity and others claiming other things) who have no concept of who or what they are talking about? Is our world that assumption-driven? I'm tired of people acting like they know so much. I want to spend time with people who know very little. People who aren't so certain about anything and everything. People who are thoughtful and humble. Not jackasses who throw around statements and points and uneccessarily intellectual jargon to create for themselves some sort of comfort within their lack of identity. Why can't people allow people to be people? This world is full of some complicated stuff. Most of this stuff is people. I want to try to treat every human as a complicated, intricate, glorious, messed-up, person capable of love and capable of hate. Even though I have no idea what that looks like necessarily.

That's done. Emotion and frustration successfully released and published to THE WORLD!

This past Sunday was our first Sunday back in our building at 1707 Dutton Ave. It was everything it needed to be. The one adjective that I'd use to describe it is healthy; for me at least. Dave did great with the music, starting with "you make everything glorious" and then "Here is Our King"... Adam read the reading he wrote for CLP (beautiful! and this CLP group is more like therapy or something than a writing group... I love it)... then Dave played "Rescue is Coming". My own memories from this building started flashing... but finally they were good ones. The first time we heard "Rescue Is Coming"... The small fires started by candles... Kyle dropping "papa's" urn... When I saw him raise his hands and felt my whole charismatic past start to be validated finally... good stuff.

I watched the new candles melt on the new stage and I smiled. We will have new memories. We will have new history. New wax melting in new patterns on new floors. The same smell of vanilla candles. It was beautiful. Never have I been happier to see wax melt and drip.

Let the blogging begin again.

A Prayer for Right-Things -or- Sore Knees and Burnt Necks

2006-06-17T21:23:00.000-07:00

From "Little Gidding" by T.S. Eliot
"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one."

Look around us at this mess. A mess of time and history and humaness. A mess of wars and defeats and victories. A mess of only dead and dying. We work so hard over so much mess. We weep and scream and argue and struggle over it.

I've heard myself say in my own voice; "Don't let life happen to you, you happen to life." and I have no idea what that means. I guess I think that is so many parts truth and so many parts funny. This is the equation that I release so many breaths over?

We reason and we calculate and we colate. We can compile and measure and plot. But our business is still the same old broken business of living and dying. Somehow we've managed to use the calculations to speed up the living and the dying and our humaness; but when the smoke clears, when the silence pours over, we can't do anything but wait and watch and listen and hope.

There is so much weight to life, and we carry it; alone and in little groups. It's heavy and it makes our knees sore and our necks burn. We amass lives full of stories and scars. We fluctuate between good news and bad news. We generate noise and kick up dust. We try so hard to be something--to mean something; our best efforts lift off the ground for a moment in ecstasy just before things fall apart.

And inside, all we want is peace. Everything in us longs for a quiet space where we cannot hurt or be hurt. We want to rest sore knees and rub burnt necks. The chaotic mess of humanity banging out our existence as loudly as we can; angry with ourselves that we can't make it all mean anything more than broken pieces.

"O God, make us children of quietness, and heirs of peace." our insides all pray like St. Clement. But we do not know how. So we bang and stumble and cry out loudly and weep softly every moment as we rotate on our axis and believe we can measure our existence.

And all we are is tired and lost. There are no more games to play or battles to fight. Only aching for peace and rescue.

God, give us rest when we are weary. Give us peace when we are troubled. Sit us down comfortably in your presence and teach us how to breathe your divine God-breath again. Be comfort and strength to those who are neglected and weak. Be hope and courage to those that are sick. Be home and rest for those who wander. Be the stable for the unstable. Be the victory chant of the oppressed and the strong embrace for the lonely. Thank you that you are good. Let us all know your love and your peace even when we can't comprehend your complexity. Finally, bring us home, to that right place that we will know again for the first time. Amen.

The Triumph of the Question Mark -or- An Ugly Smattering of Grammar, Philosophy, Digestive Workings, and Theology by a Certified Punctuologist

2006-06-14T21:41:00.000-07:00

I think of all punctuation marks, I like the semicolon the best. I wish I could say this is because of its usage, or the rythm that it creates within the syntax; however, when the truth is finally told, I like the semicolon because it makes me think of little "semi" intestines puttering out little "semi" farts pugent with "semi" noxious fumes and clouds of questionable, undigestable matter. This kind of reasoning, reminiscent of an adolescent reasoning (pre-puberty and post-comsumption of large amounts of sugar), is no way to go about ranking punctuation.

So, my more mature self (alive and well somewhere within me sometimes) has demanded that I produce I better form of reasoning and choice when it comes to punctuation; and maybe when it comes to other things as well, maybe.

I choose the question mark?

Let me rephrase that. I choose the question mark. It is no longer in limbo. It is decided. The question mark.

"Why?", you question-mark?

Because. (My all-time favorite response to questions.)

Well, my old style of thinking would have me say that I like question marks because of "The Riddler" on Batman, or I like questions because the best slapstick jokes start with questions and end with gut-busting laughs.

My more mature self selects a different line of reasoning.

I think that if we spoke honestly the things that were really deep within us, most of us would not spout profound theological creeds or mathematical proofs. I think if our deepest depths were articulated and turned into words and sentences, we would look not at statements, but at lines and lines of questions. If you are not one of the "most of us," and your persuasion pushes toward lines and lines of sentences with big emphatic periods, I would challenge you to see if your punctuation choice isn't more about feeling nice and tidy and certain. I ask you to at least admit your addiction to the concept of "certainty" whether you're certain its a problem or not.

I chose to study education because of question marks. My educational philosophy states that I wish to create a classroom of self-motivated question-askers. My missional bias for creating questioners is that I think that just beyond those question marks, just pass the blank, answerless void, there is God.

I think God is the "answer". Not in the Sunday school way. Not in the tidy, neat way. But in the big, all-encompassing, other-than way. In a way where using a linear, equation, question-equals-answer does not work. In a way where saying God is the "answer" becomes extremely and immediately impotent. "Answer" is too small. It is not dynamic enough.

Maybe a better idea is saying that God is the source of the question. The one who calls us to search and question. The one who is too big to be only the end of the equation.

So there's that; God being on the otherside of all questions. Big and loud and overwhelmingly being The Completion, the Wholeness that responds to the question.

Another reason for liking questions, and the subsequent "question mark":

Christ asked a lot of questions. Strike that. Christ asked an uncomfortable amount of questions. Christ asked questions as a response to--get this-- questions! A brief smattering of some Christ-questions just off the top of my head include; "who do you say that I am?", "Whose image is on this coin?", "Where is your husband?", "Do you love me?", "Where are your accussers?", "Why have you forsaken me?".

See? Jesus used questions as a means to articulate who he was and what he was about.

I like the question mark. There is so much more truth in questions then in statements. Statements end things. Statements are final. Questions begin things. Questions begin journeys and thinking and searching. Questions start things and create things. Questions inject with energy, motion, thoughtfulness.

Snapshots in Social Issues -or- "It's bigger than hip-hop"

2006-06-12T12:13:00.000-07:00

Dead Prez's "Hip-Hop" from the album "Let's Get Free" says:
"The real world is bigger than all these fake ass records, where poor folks got the millions and my woman's disrespected... I'm sick of that fake thug, R&B, rap scenario all day on the radio same scenes in the video, monotonous material, ya'll don't hear me though... Would you rather have a Lexus, or justice? A dream or some substance? A Beamer, a necklace, or freedom?"

Scene: Stubbs in Austin... The Roots on stage. Mostly Caucasians in the audience. Do they hear the message? I know some do, but there are others who are just drunk, jumping, and throwing the "west side"... regardless of the fact that The Roots are from Philadelphia, and the music being played is from the opposite end of hip-hop from West Coast rap. What happens when message is compromised for money? Or even worse, what happens when message is mistaken for entertainment? On every front, the line between entertainment and message has become blurred.

Dave Chappelle on listening to a police scanner: "Calling all cars, calling all cars... be on the lookout for a black male between 5'4'' and 6'7''." Why does the color of your skin make you "a suspicious person"? For a true story about this, ask Harris Bechtol.

Waco, TX... drive down Austin Ave and look in awe at the architecture... two blocks in either direction the scene is different. Take a survey of the racial breakdown of these streets and try to argue that there is racial equality. Better yet, take a trip to the suburbs and then a trip to the housing projects. Is it only coincidence that these lines are still drawn in skin color?

Look at the schools, in the classes. Advanced Placement classes with all the white students... academic classes full of minorities. Martin Luther King Jr dreamed of white students and black students sitting side by side in classrooms... not just sharing hallways or making one or two exceptions.

Before I moved to Waco, I was under the impression that racism and racial tension was a thing of the past. Credit San Antonio and the way I was raised for this misunderstanding. Waco was a wake up call. What is my responsibility? As a white male of the middle class, the world is open to me. But I look around me and see closed doors and jail cells waiting for people not like me.

On top of this, what is my responsibility as a Christ-follower to see justice brought to the oppressed?

If you want to continue your own social education, come on over to the new house tonight and take part in the Chappelle's Block Party viewing. Good music, good truth, and interesting social study all in one flick... Oh yah, and Chappelle is funny (see, the dynamic between entertainment and message collides again).

Reflections from the Front Porch -or- The World on My Side of the TV Screen If Only I Would Turn it Off

2006-05-30T20:49:00.000-07:00

Let me post up on the porch with some good people; any time, any day. I love the clicks of dominoes being shaken for a game of bones or some forty-two. I want the air thick with tobacco smoke and laughter. The flip and slap of a deck of cards and some cold beer and some dirty jokes. I like when it's too late and you have to get up too early, and you still don't leave. Give me the times when the only time is right now and when the whole world are only the faces at the table with you. More laughs, more sighs, more conversations that don't go anywhere. Let the world look on and click their tongues and tell us to quiet down. This is the stuff of life.

I like feeling 38 and acting 16 when we're 22. I like arguing about where to eat. It's comforting to know that the night will end up at Taco Cabana anyway. I like conversations so good that you realize you've fallen behind in the meal, and know that everyone will still wait until you're finished.

Give me dry sweat, sore hands, and jobs done with tired sighs, low whistles, and hearty pats on the back exchanged in admiration of hard work. The best jobs are when people are working together on something for someone else, just because we love the same people and the same place.

I like neighborhoods with stoops and friendly waves and forbidden ditches full of adventure. It's good when people love fiercely, making family out of friends. It's perfect when love extends past date, time, and distance. Give me more reunions and surprise visits.

I like working hard enough to sleep soundly as soon as the head hits the pillow, with just enough time to be thankful for all that's good and right around you. I like things simple; hard work, hard love, and hard laughter. I'm surprised by what I'm thankful for. All things you can't buy and all things you can't live without.

I don't mind having scars and stories to tell. The world will always come up with ways to cut you, and that's how you know you're moving through it.

I love being from somewhere; and finding somewhere to come back to. I like area codes, and shouting them out with only slight provocation. I like the back way and the side road; the long walk and the early morning.

If I can have these things for the rest of my life, I can find a way to be okay with this place and be happy.

Life as Spiritual History -or- A Tip of the Hat to Vonnegut, Foer, and Jason Powers

2006-05-26T09:50:00.000-07:00

Kyle articulated this idea for me in his Revangelism series, the idea that everyone has some type of "spiritual history," whether they are over-churched refugees or uber-intellectual atheists. I knew this to be true through my experiences in high school with my buddies who would not have been categorized as "God-people" or striving for the "sacred" by my previous CD burning measuring stick... but they still were the individuals rich with faith and struggle and whether they knew it or not, relationship with God. Kyle's words articulated and validated this for me.
My favorite part of viewing life as spiritual history is that it allows even the negative to be redeemed. When you decide to have a little road rage and almost get in a fight with a man who turns out to be an off-duty police officer and spend the night in jail, you need to be able to redeem that (yes, it's true, summer after my freshman year). When you decide to start following the Phish, partake in substances, and start practicing Buddhism (not me, not me, not me)(sorry Jason...) you need to be able to redeem that. When you sit in a hospital bathroom and try to cut a deal with God to keep someone you love alive a little longer, you need to be able to redeem that. When someone you love dies, when you experience the side effects of Death in all its forms, you need to be able to redeem that.
You don't have to love or be happy about all things in your past (particularly jail time, the death of loved ones, or any other number of horrible, Vonnegutian life-things), but you should be able to respect your past in some sort of way as a Christian. It is The Path. It is your story. And it can be amazing to recognize the presence of God, albeit difficult some places, in every moment and space of history. It certainly makes God a lot bigger and complicated than what the static-cling, felt board Jesus offers.
What if God didn't necessarily cause all moments to happen, but was fully present in all moments... "in the very air around us." What if our sordid pasts are Holy Ground? What if these pasts have something to offer, or have "illumintaion to spread on the 'now'". Maybe we can look at our pasts and do a little dumpster-diving... Some of the things we threw out deserve to stay there, but what if there are other moments that are redeemable, that God is saying... "that was me! you were seeing me! you were hearing me! see, I have been here always waiting for you to recognize me!"
That is a theology that I can accept. A theology that doesn't haphazardly put stamps of approval on all events in all times; but instead, a theology that invites us to recognize the big and complicated God that humbly wore skin and humbly awaits our recognition.
At the very least, this makes me sleep easier. It doesn't try to infuse a false "purpose" for things, but points to an undeniable presence and an other-than-ness bigger than all of our junk.

Is it in you? -or- It is not possible to pee and think at the same time.

2006-05-22T15:46:00.000-07:00

64 fl. oz.'s or 1.892 liters of Gatorade's newest concoction has me replacing electrolytes I never even lost and begging for more. Gatorade X-Factor, lemon-lime + strawberry is changing my life, one sip at a time. I don't know how the good people at Gatorade Thirst Qunecher do it, and frankly, I don't care. Go out and get yourself 64 or more o-z's of this miracle of flavor and rehydration; it might just change your life.
So, high on 14 grams of sugar per serving and refreshed from ample amounts of replenishing electrolytes, I'm going to attempt another high-energy, low-content blogging:

1)Tattoos are neat things, and I now have one. They hurt, but they look sweet. Here is a brief list of what I did not get tattooed on my body:
-butterfly on my ankle
-tribal/barbwire design on any limb
-a flour design on my lower back (tempting!)
-a Jesus fish eating an overturned fish with feet that reads "Darwin"
-an overweight devil woman, naked and exposed on my rear (although this option was available to me)

2) Some of you may be aware of the increasing popularity of "Chuck Norriss" jokes. I have decided that I can be at least as funny as some computer science kid who is posting them on the web and write my own. Here it is:
-When President Bush sent troops to Iraq to try and find any of Sadaam's Weapons of Mass Destruction, Sadaam sent people to America to try find and Chuck Norriss.

3) Do not, under any circumstances, be friendly or even slightly congenial with "the guy at the video store." He WILL try and cross the line and become your "bff". The slippery slope of customer/video store guy conversation starts out with upcoming release dates and ends up with him trying to convince you to get his "band" a gig at your church and asking if you have any space for him to live over the summer. As a result of this encounter, I've developed a plan for avoiding these boundary-crossing situations. If a conversation with said video store guy starts turning personal, ask about "World of Warcraft" game and what level he is. Good luck finding a way out of that one though.

4) I bought tickets to see The Roots and Blacklicious on June 2nd at Stubbs in Austin. I am eating turkey sandwhiches and pringles for every meal as a result of this purchase. Questlove better bring it...

5) The Spurs take on the Mavs in game 7 tonight... Go Spurs, rep the 2-1-0 and keep the playoff run going. Also, cover your man-parts because Jason Terry is back...

6) Never, EVER, drink all 64 fl. oz.'s in one sitting and try to blog. It will create a sickeningly sordid entry that attests to the frequent urination breaks and subsequent thwarting of any legitimate trains of thought.

7) I'm moving into the new house this week with Matt Bates (and Harry for the summer, when he gets back from Africa). I do accept any house-warming gifts and/or warm cookies/desserts/entrees from friends/neighbors/mild acquuaintances.

8) I need some good reading list add-ons because I have already destroyed my summer reading list. Holla at me if ya know something.

On the Completion of the Final Assignment -or- A Spontaneous Ode to College

2006-05-08T21:21:00.000-07:00

I just completed my last undergrad assignment of all time-- a final notebook for the ages. A spontaneous ode to the moment, and to college: (WARNING: THE FOLLOWING MATERIAL MAY INCLUDE LANGUAGE NOT SUITABLE FOR CHILDREN OR PEOPLE WHO DON'T APPRECIATE THE FLEXIBILITY OF THE AMERICAN, BLUE COLLAR VOCABULARY. SORRY)

College, from the start, you almost broke my toe.
I dropped that heavy book shelf and blood began to flow.
I limped the first two weeks at Baylor,
I walked around cursing like a sailor.

College, for one year, you made me stay in a dorm,
where I had to listen to the neighbor's 5,000 decibles of porn.
The second floor of Penland is no way to treat a human being,
mostly because of the ridiculous amounts of misplaced peeing.

College, you gave me lots of work and papers,
while I drank Waco water that was full of toxic vapors.
I wrote epic essays that always hit; never missed.
Unfrotunately, they were largely full of shit.

College, you even let me date some fine-lookin' ladies,
despite the fact that I am fat and lazy.
I had some fun and played the game,
but mostly spent my time blogging, being lame.

College, you did so much for me it makes me cry,
and then I remember your reason, and your why:
I went in debt and gave you big-ass money!
And that's why I'm suddenly pissed off right now, not thinking this is quite so funny.

Using Everything to Figure Out Nothing -or- "We Do! We Do! We Do!"

2006-05-04T21:36:00.000-07:00

I try to make sense of it all using the evidence I have-- the dreams, the experiences, this thing that happened over here, and that thing that happened over there, and so on and so forth. My conclusion is that either I am incredibly inept at solving puzzles and conundrums, or things are so massively complicated and confused that "it" is not to be made much sense of at all. The this and that are so confusing that it is pretty well established that they don't help make any particular meaning, so I look to the mystery of dreams and try to find "it"...

I've had nightmares before. Simple nightmares that have to do with too much dinner too late at night and the TV shows that rattle in the minds of two-year-olds. The first nightmare I remember having is still vivid. A blue background with a yellow circle in the middle. There are train tracks coming out of the circle and a train bearing down on me. Cookie Monster is driving it and yelling and eating cookies as he always does, despite my cries for help. I awake.

Then there are the more complicated ones, walls of sand in our living room, if touched or disturbed, even a grain, would cause snakes to appear. I am surrounded by the sand walls and no one in my family can move to get me out-- not mom, not dad, not anne-- because moving would just spill sand and make more snakes. I awake caked in little kid sweat and tears.

And there are the reaccuring nightmares. The ones about real life that I've seen and that happen again in the theater in my mind. Surround sound. 3-D. It looks so real, just like it did. I do the same things. Over and over again I do the same things I did and the same things that happened happen again. I can't make them stop. I can't make those things unhappen, even in my dreams.

...and then I have "good dreams" too. Which are sometimes sad also because they aren't real. I dream about wonderful things happening, happy things, corny things, funny things all happening and I wake up only to decipher them using logic and find out that no, they aren't real and didn't happen-- and I am in bed, and it's too late or too early to be thinking of such good things happening when there is work to be done so soon. Such un-dreamlike business to attend to.

I stand above things and try to make them mean something. Mean something more than this! Be more than a pile of dirt and sticks between trees! Please! Because if dirt and sticks is all there is then this "life is no way to treat an animal" and Kurt was right.

Chemical and biological reactions occur-- coming from someplace-- and water wells inbetween eyelids and overflows without any accompanying sounds, not even breath.

Be more. Be more. Be more.

Don't stay small and silent. Don't stay down there in piles of dirt, sticks, and leaves. If the dirt wins, if that's the way it happens, then the nightmares are telling the truth about no control and sad things. In the meantime I will continue my mantra with a furrowed brow: "mean something... mean something... mean something..." and try to listen to the atoms and rocks and leaves crying back... trying to hear them say: "we do! we do! we do!" I will say that the black space between the burning stars means something is deeper. I hope the "it" of life means someting infinitely more complicated than I could imagine.

Be bigger. Be louder. Be everywhere.

Ten Meals Not to Miss -or- "Be Real, Son!"

2006-05-01T23:46:00.000-07:00

I concede my fat-kiddedness once again and dive right into what's on my mind. I'm not taking any shortcuts, cleaning up any thoughts, or putting on a show of deep-thoughtitude for you. This is raw. This is the rough cut. This is hot off of the presses (where my thoughts and brain act in the context of a metaphor to the printing industry).

Black Bush: Can I be real?
Black Cabinet Member: Be real, son!
Black Bush: He tried to kill my faaaatha'!

I'm being real. And I'm keeping it real. My deep thoughts at this late hour where I can't sleep slipped into the culinary world, quickly, and quietly. It has prompted me to get a snack, and there is apple sauce nearby (give me leave). I am satisfied. Let the late-night, culinary post begins:

Ten Meals You Should Eat and/or Experience (in no particular order)

1) The "Hot" Buffalo Wings from George's Restaraunt with a side bowl of ranch dressing.
-simply the best wings on the planet. they are what brought me to Baylor University when I am honest. Add ranch dressing for dipping, the Singleton culinary staple also known as "fat kid soup."

2) The Jack Daniels Burger, no onions, add avacado, from TGI Friday's
-this is not the first time this has been mentioned... it won't be the last. The sauce is succulent.

3) The Fajitas & Flauta plate from Ninfa's, add extra guacamole, and with plenty of chips and green sauce to start out
-If you have $8.99 to spend on dinner, this is the plate. Don't get so caught up in the flauta that you neglect the refried beans. They are good. If you do not like refried beans, please offer them to me if we sup together. I will smile.

4) The Sausage Calzone from Baris
-stuffed with cheeses, great with maranara or ranch dressing. Baris is the real deal. Some of us have a section there. That is commendable.

5) SAN ANTONIO PICK: The Guacamole chalupas from Mexican Manhattan
-beans, guacamole, and the best cheese in the world. It's just plain, grated cheese... but for some reason, Mexican Manhattan has the best cheese I have ever tasted. I tell people this and they gawk in disbelief... until they taste the cheese!

6) SAN ANTONIO PICK: The 2 Meat, 3 Sides plate from Mr. and Mrs. G's
-get the Fried Chicken, Smothered Steak, sweet potato , collard greens, and macaroni and cheese, add fruit punch. The best soul food in the world. It's too good. Be sure not to have anything scheduled the rest of the day as lethargy will ensue.

7) The Breakfast Taco Combo from Taco Cabana
-Two Potato and Egg, add one bean & cheese, add one bacon & egg. Add ample amounts of the dark, roasted salsa. This is good late at night. This is good early in the morning. Be warned, however; these tacos will produce gas.

8) HEALTH PICK: Soup and Salad from Jason's Deli
-Get the Tomato Basil Soup and a hearty salad. Close things out with a cone of soft serve. Possibly the best perk to this meal is that there is a fast track line at the deli for those ordering soup and salad... you don't have to wait behind the sluggish, indecisive commoners.

9) ASIAN CUISINE PICK: Orange Chicken from Panda Express... it may sound lame, but it's the best there is. I recommend getting a double serving on steamed rice. Add crab rangoons if you're feeling adventurous.

10) Singleton "Shiner Bach" Chili
-It may sound self-worshiping, but I just dig my chili. The meat is sweet and the spice will bring sweat to your brow. On top of Fritos, add cheese and sliced avacado. Harris Bechtol and others would claim to stop at one and a half bowls, because two bowls will ruin your evening. (Yet, somehow, they always eat two bowls).

WARNING: THIS LIST IS NOT COMPREHENSIVE! These are SOME great meals that you SHOULD try. These are not necessarily the "ten best" or the addendum to Commandments A... they are just a list of some meals that you should eat if you want to know what life is all about and explore a closer relationship with God. Seriously.

GUEST BLOG: Dr. Valerie Targhetta Expands Your Worldview As You Read!

2006-04-25T09:43:00.000-07:00

(I've done it. I've become a blog revolutionary. I feel like I've won the top pick in the draft. I've got one of the smartest human beings that I know, Valerie Targhetta, to guest-post on my blog. I win. Those of you who know Valerie are wetting your pants with excitement right now, those of you who don’t know her will soon be wetting your pants for some reason or another. Not only is Valerie an insanely thoughtful and intelligent bad-ass, but she is earning a badonkadonk-load of degrees right now in Long Island. I am an equal opportunity blogger, and I am proud to have Val drop some knowledge on us from the feminine, comical, and scholarly perspective. –Matt)

Valerie Targhetta on the Y chromosome:

I have been frustrated with you men lately. There are a few reasons for this.

1) I am writing a couple of papers on the topic of mental health, specifically the association between depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, and alcohol use in women. While the focus is women, a reoccurring theme of men screwing women over seems to be a primary cause of women’s mental health. I can give you lots of very scientific evidence for this. Or, I can refer you to the Women’s Entertainment channel.
2) I have had some entertaining interactions with men lately that have made my life somewhat like a movie, or a reality television show. One of these incidents I brought upon myself, the other one was sooooo not my fault. It has led me to believe that some men are assholes or just really stupid, or both.
3) I have spoken to some friends recently, who have had some bad experiences with men, their fathers in particular. This has been the most upsetting.

So here I am, man-hating for a little while. Maybe it’s my attempt to be more like Anne Lamont. I should first say that I know not all men are responsible for my frustration; there are a number of “good ones” out there. I could fill pages and pages with the good things about you good men, and how you have shaped my life. Thank you. Also, I know that women can also be a source of great frustration for men, and for my part in that I apologize to you men, and can honestly say that I consciously try to not be “that girl”.

That being said, I am pissed off at the Y chromosome.

I like to think of myself as a compassionate, sympathetic and open-minded person. Those are qualities I value very highly, and admire in other people. And then, a friend says a few words that reveal what has been going on inside their head, and I had no idea. Have you had this experience? Where one line gives such clarity to the thoughts, feelings, and interpretations that you were previously oblivious, or ignorant to. And I feel stupid, and blind, and selfish for not seeing it. For not realizing what was going on, or for ignoring it, or for being unable to change it.

It’s so unfair; the patterns of thoughts and behavior we get caught in. The way our experiences shape our interpretation of our experiences, which shapes our behavior, and therefore….shapes our future experiences. And we are trapped in the cycles, and we rarely see them in ourselves, just in the lives of those around us. Pointing out the pattern, or the lies that they are built upon rarely helps, because we take experiences and shape them to confirm our bias, to confirm what previous experience has taught us to be true. Trying to fight with someone’s pattern does little, and leaves me feeling helpless. I truly despise feeling helpless. Helplessness often causes me to fall back on one of those cheesy church lines, but reminds me of the truth and beauty behind cheesy church lines, like I’ll be praying for you.

I know this has all been vague, but that is how it must be. The best I can do is to offer one far too common experience that often leads to a particular pattern in women. I don’t know the actual prevalence of this experience, but I know that I can make a list of my close friends who have shared this experience.

I am convinced that this experience shapes almost every decision that these young women make. That it is one of the most influential experiences in how they see the world, and how they think the world interacts with them.

The experience is this: A man cheats on his wife, he lies, he is distant, he plays at being closer to his daughter than his wife, the daughter is privilege to information that she then hides from her mother, and then he leaves.

Affaire
Lies
Abandonment

You can imagine the impact this has on young women. Sadly, I imagine you all know a woman who has experienced this. I can assure you, you have seen the ensuing pattern in these women’s lives. This is the cause of my man-hating rant. These men make me so….mad. Mad at how they treat the people they claim to love. Mad at how stupid they are. Mad at how selfish they are. Mad at how they have caused their daughters to be so distrusting, doubting, skeptical, and self-conscious.

People typically remember the beginnings and ends of things the most. So in an attempt at lightening the mood of this entry, I would like to say that my dad is one of the greatest men in the entire world. I love him very much, and I have never had to doubt that he loves me very much. For this, I am very thankful.

PART 5: Clumsily Destructive Mud-People with Hearts of Gold

2006-04-20T22:13:00.000-07:00

HOW IT ENDS

While regaling you with horrific tales of strange weather patterns, military coups, a likable and sinister world leader, and any other number of signs-of-the-times, I could lay out an apocolyptic grand finale that even the Great Volumes of Tim Lahaye and Jerry Jenkins couldn't dream up (I could also, like Tim-n-Jerry, make a version for kids!). I will spare you the comets, meteorites, bar code tatoos, raising of armies, selecting of Anti-Christs and all of that. It is all very confusing and fear-infusing anyway, and I think that sometimes we blame "the end times" instead of taking responsibility and trying to make things better now (like the environment, and world peace, which I think are good things).

Any conjecture as to how all this living here on earth will finish, is mostly guesswork as far as I can tell. I've read Revelation and can't seem to make too much of it. But maybe I watch too much TV too, so, who knows.

I'm going to use my Brief History of Humanity and the Clumsily Destructive Mud-People with Hearts of Gold narrative to try and sum up my own eschatology. So this is not a pure statement of facts-- like the stuff I wrote before undoubtedly was-- it is a lot of guess work, like Ms. Cleo without the fake accent and jail time.

So here we are; clumsily destructive mud-people with hearts of gold who have learned how to be both extremely loving and extremely suicidal and bent on turning ourselves and each other into plain-old-mud. We've become so apt at using our fleshy mud-lump brains that we have hundreds of creative tools for turning any and every living thing into mud, and could do so with the push of a button (granted, we've been a lot more responsible with the button pushing procedures... there are codes, there are codes). Some of us have swayed more to trying to love and laugh in the way that God told us when he had the heart-to-heart with us. Others of us have become argumentative and destructive mostly. We used Choice as our means to become either way.

Ed. Note: I have conveniently cut out any further explanation of who is in and who is out, and who might-be-in and who might-be-out, and the grey areas and complications that we chose to bring down upon ourselves way back when, while we were dumb and ignorant and fresh from the mud, coughing up the Breath of the Cosmos. Sorry, if you want to know what I really think about all of that and salvation and everything I'll try to sum it up by drawing you a diagram of an invisible castle. Exactly.

Ever since our heart-to-heart with God-as-human, Jesus; God's been working on trying to fix everything from his end of the deal, without messing up the whole "Choice" thing for us and our tiny mud-brains. If he actually just fixed it right away, and made everything okay again, I think our tiny, three pound mud brains would explode... but that's only a scientific explanation and conjecture. Instead, God has let us sit with his heart-to-heart for a while, and think about what we've done... and will do instead.

And then one day... Rescue. I wonder if it will be cataclysmic or beautiful. I wonder if it will unfold like a sunrise, explode like a firecracker, or happen as simply as closing our eyes one second, and opening them in eternity... whatever that means. If there are literal "streets of gold" and "mansions," I don't think we will notice them. We will be free of our ill-infected 3-pound mud-brains and will be able to operate on something that can see God, hear our story clearly, hear the Truth about everything, and experience something beyond the shadows we've known, without anything exploding or turning back into plain-old-mud again. Then we'll all have a good cry before getting about the real business of loving and laughing and living. Those shadow versions of life, laughter, and love that we knew when we were the Clumsily Destructive Mud-People with Hearts of Gold, will be real, solid things now. We won't have to come up with witty things to call ourselves like Matt, or Chet, or Jane, or American, or black, or white, or humans, or Clumsily Destructive Mud-People with Hearts of Gold. God will tell us our real names in the language of Deep Heaven. A language without the limitations of words, and a language which spoke out of nothingness and made humans out of mud and mud out of nothing. We will know the real word for "love" and we will laugh at how wrong we were. We will laugh at our questions and conundrums. We will laugh, and laugh, and sigh and "love".

And then, at the climax of How It Ends, after we've been given our right names, God will tell us his real name... not Yahweh, Jah, God, or any of those mud-people guesses. He will say a wordless word that will mean "I AM" somehow. I think he will say his name is "Ian." We were so stinking close down here!

And we will laugh and laugh and love and live.

PART 4: Clumsily Destructive Mud-People with Hearts of Gold

2006-04-20T06:58:00.000-07:00

AN ANALYSIS OF OUR CURRENT STATE OF AFFAIRS AS MUD-PEOPLE

So that brings us, more or less, to today. As best as I can tell, the most accurate way in which to describe the state of humanity, given our history and our present conditions is the title to this little History of Humanity as laid out in this blog. I say that we are clumsily destructive mud-people with hearts of gold.

Here's why:

Clumsily, because we sort of do most things by accident. Some of our best good things were accidents: like penicillin. Also, some of our things that ended up being bad things were accidents, like the atomic bomb and AIDS.

Destructive, because we are in the incredible habit of destroying everything around us, including ourselves and each other (either turning each other back into plain-old-mud, or making each other feel like plain-old-mud which is just as bad sometimes). Open a history book for examples of the turning into plain-old-mud, and take a long look at poverty for examples of the making people feel like plain-old-mud.

Mud-People, because as I have stated earlier, we are animated mud according to our narrative of our own creation. Also, because my friend and roomate, Paul Sileo, uses this phrase to describe people he thinks are of lower moral and social understanding, who shop at Wal-Mart and seem to procreate with branches of their family tree. Sileo also uses an adjective form of the same idea, describing things as decidedly "mudly".

with Hearts of Gold, because in all of this mess, we do some really great things too. Overall, I think most of us mean really well at some point or another. We all want to be loved, and most of us try to do good things at least once in a while. Most people are not murderers, at least not directly or itentionally. We all mean so well, I think. This is the part of us that loves and laughs just enough.

As my primary evidence, and in order to support my claims I will now list some things that prove my point:
Mother Theresa, Hiroshima, a good joke, genocide, adoption, eating disorders, the wheel, global warming, holding hands, racism, happy families, hungry babies, etc. et. all. cont...

To be continued... (yes, yes... once more... sorry).

PART 3: Clumsily Destructive Mud-People with Hearts of Gold

2006-04-19T07:14:00.000-07:00

HUMANS STILL DON'T GET IT and GOD ATTEMPTS A HEART-to-HEART

Using our fleshy, three pound mud-lumps a few feet above our asses, we started getting really good at being humans. We celebrated this by creating better places to live life and trying to seperate ourselves more and more from our plain-old-muddy surroundings. The Greek Mud-People and the Roman Mud-People were especially good at this, and very good at using their lumps and thinking up a lot of ways to keep Mud-People going, and a lot of really creative ways of turning Mud-People back into plain-old-mud. The better they get at loving and laughing, the better they get at arguing and turning each other into plain-old-mud.

At this point, God could see that the Mud-People were becoming too schizophrenic and were making everything meaningless by going all crazy-go-nuts with trying to make cool new ways to "love", "laugh", "argue", and "turn-each-other-into-plain-old-mud." At some point creativity stops being creative and beautiful and starts being insanity, with a death wish (i.e. for more on this, Google "famous artist suicides").

God is frustrated with humans again and decides to try something besides the flood thing he did last time with Mud-Noah, the naked drunk guy. God decides he better get muddy and try to tell us what it's all about, face-to-face. He chose Roman-Occupied, overcrowded Bethlehem to stage his entrance into the mud. Let me tell you, the stuff in that stable didn't smell like mud...

Ed. Note: Things can get confusing and complicated here, trying to figure out how God became human and stayed God and all of that. The best thing our fleshy, three pound mud-brains have figured is something where we claim that God is actually three things, but not three seperate things... just one thing. Hm. We call it Trinity, because that is more managable than saying the whole thing and trying to explain it every time. Plus it's a great name for a church.

God-as-human, named Jesus, tried to have a heart to heart with us. He talked plainly about why love was best, and how to love in a non-crazy-go-nuts-homicidal kind of way. He said stuff about not trying to turn people into plain-old-mud over stupid arguments, and to try to help each other deal with our humanity better. He even used mud to fix us some. And to make some Mud-People better.

The long and short of it is that his ideas were not very comfortable and we murdered him. We used a particularly creative device to try to turn him back into plain-old-mud.

So it goes. He didn't play by our rules and wouldn't stay plain-old-mud. We started trying to do what he said. We got better at loving and laughing, and continued to get better at arguing and turning each other back into plain-old-mud.

To be continued...

PART 2: Clumsily Destructive Mud-People with Hearts of Gold

2006-04-18T06:18:00.000-07:00

HUMANNESS

So it goes, things became overly-complicated and fractured. Choice and Complication went straight to our heads (that bump a few feet above our asses), also originally made from mud, and containing the fleshy, 3 pound ball of meat we call our brains. We Mud-People really like these brains and are fairly proud to have them. The brains control all of our other mud-parts (maybe with the exception of our secret, no-no mud-parts) , and the brain also thinks up a whole bunch of questions and conundrums to keep us thoroughly confused and argumentative.

Starting with the second generation of Mud-People, our primary business became arguing and trying turn each other back into plain-old-mud instead of Mud-People. We didn't completely give up on some of the "good" things, and we tried to love and laugh some as best as we could.

Ed. Note: The Mud-Sumarians, conspiring with the Mud-Egyptians and possibly Mud-Norsemen, used regular earth-stuff to create beer. This helped with the loving and laughing some.

As generations progressed, we got better at laughing and loving, as well as arguing and turning each other back into plain-old-mud. God got frustrated with us and decided to give us a second chance and start from scratch. He picked a particularly love and laughter prone Mud Man named Noah as the clean slate (apparently, Noah was love and laughter prone due at least partially to his consumption of the "fermentation" as previously noted). Shortly after the flooding of the Earth and the survival of Noah and his peeps, Noah flubbed up and over-did the fermentation thing... he was laughing far too much and as his first act as a part of the clean-slate regime he ran around naked, celebrating his no-no mud-parts in front of his friends and family. Great start, great start.

So it goes, we got a little better at loving and laughing and a little better at turning each other back into plain-old-mud (the ongoing discovery of new metals was extremely helpful in the latter process). God picked out some special mud-people as his special, focused project and tried to get them to understand "what it was all about." They got it sometimes and didn't others. They really didn't get the part with slavery and the desert, but they eventually came around when that was all over.

To be continued...

Clumsily Destructive Mud-People with Hearts of Gold -or- The 1st Unmanned Attempt to Explain Humanity

2006-04-17T05:31:00.000-07:00

All the audicity and rake-hellishness in the world could not have dreamed this post up. Somewhere in my faulty reasoning I allowed myself to write this blog by believing that if Stephen Hawking could write "A Brief History of Time," then I should be allowed to write a blogged understanding of humanity. I'm a natural competetor, and I'm no stranger to losing, so this wasn't that unreasonable of a jump to make in the world inside my head (or the small native village inside my head, which is probably a more accurate metaphor fo my inner-thoughts).

THE OVERTURE to HUMANNESS

In the beginning (as these type of narratives go), God created all this stuff. Somewhere in these days before days, God created the good-ol folks of planet Earth. Humans, we're called. Apparently, he made humans in his image, except out of dirt. (Our narrative tells us that God used dirt as a creative staple other instances, namely, mixed with spittle in order to make a blind man see... really, ask Harris Bechtol.) So, he made humans, who might be more accuratley called People of the Mud, or Mud-People for short.

Here's the kicker:

Mud-People were just interesting stacks of mud until God breathed some type of "breath of the cosmos" or something into the mud caverns inside our mud chests, called the Lungs. I believe that at this point, we humans had quite a coughing fit as our first act of humanity. We were trying to expel all of the loose dirt from our now-living mud-lungs. (And later, we'd invent cough syrup, quite by accident from stuff that we usually used to "get liquored up").

On top of the Breath of the Cosmos, God cooked up something real interesting in order to "keep things real" with humanity. He gave us choice. Not a choice, or the choice, but Choice.

Ed. Note: Predestination can go take a flying leap off of the edge of the Grand Canyon, and do us all a favor.

This "choice" thing was a lot of responsibility for people only newly made from mud, and we didn't handle it very well. Curiosity killed the cat, and it sure as hell didn't do too much for the rest of us. By and by, the snake started making a lot of sense and we decided we'd like a straight answer on what this is all REALLY about. Fruit came from the mud, we came from the mud; the obvious kinship made it easy on our stomachs. The fruit was overly-sweet and we became aparty to this mess that is good and evil and right and wrong and whose-version-of-right and whose-version-of-wrong, and other basic, frustrating complications of living and living well.

End Part 1. To be continued... (this blog will be wisely posted in managable chunks in order to maintain readership... a readership, I might add, who are complete slaves to time... thanks for fracturing my train of thought for YOU.)

On the Accumulation of Spittle -or- Why I Finally Understand Roger Anderson's Most Famous Question (ask me later)

2006-04-10T13:52:00.000-07:00

My buffoonery amazes me. I am never more surprised than when I’ve caught myself doing something remarkably stupid. Here’s a common scenario:
After completing my morning routine on autopilot, I look up only to realize that I am on the road to someplace other than where I am trying to go. First; “What the hell? Where am I?” Second (and usually along similar lines of self-depreciation), “Dumbass.” (As a matter of honesty, the language in my mind is usually colored in such a way as illustrated above, sprinkled with slight profanity and confusion. At some point, I wish to address my laundry list of excuses and unfair reasons as to why this is. Not now, but someday real soon when I’m feelin’ gutsy.)

I’m at a loss to explain these instances of confusion. Sure, there are psychological explanations out there, but who the hell wants to read psychological explanations as to why they are huge dumbasses at a time like that?

The really scary thing about it is this: I’m pretty sure that my life right now is in a prolonged version of this same state. As things are slowing down and coming to a close in my internship, I’ve finally had an opportunity to take a look around at where I am. I sat last night contemplating this. Against my will, my brow furrowed and my jaw dropped (so quickly that an accumulation of spittle, if not purposefully rescued from the corner of my mouth, could have become straight-up drool; which would be more problematic seeing as confused, awe-infused drool is the worst kind of drool. As soon as I could regain control of my facial features (an obvious act of free will) the familiar internal dialogue popped off; “What the hell? Where am I?”

Not too long ago I was a proud high school graduate (non-GED track) making moves to ensure my higher education. I look up and I’ve got another one of these goofy-ass, cardboard-topped hats to wear in a few weeks. “What? When the…?” I look around and see that I’m going to something called “graduate school” (which is a little bit oxymoronic), in order to obtain a hood to go with my goofy-ass cardboard hat. How did this happen? What autopilot was in operation to get me into this mess? Now I have to find a job, and start being a single, twenty-something rather than a carefree, college-sort (of the non-fraternal variety).

What do you do in these places? These, “what the hell/where am I/how did I get here” places? I'm trying to be fully here, but it is complicated when I'm not really sure where "here" is. I guess I'll just just move around with a head full of question marks and curse words, with a furrowed brow and a mouth open, dangerously accumulating spittle. Please let me know if you know where I'm at or if my spittle over-accumulates and turns into awe-infused drool. I am a dignified, soon-to-be college graduate who wears cardboard hats and black moomoos, I don't like being made a fool of by a little drool.

60,000 Pounds of Fake Snow -or- 28,000 Dollars A Year for No-Holes-Barred Fun!

2006-04-06T10:56:00.000-07:00

At Baylor University, in the center of campus, in the middle of Springtime, there are 60,000 pounds of artificial snow. This snow is here to help elite Univeristy students let their hair down and enjoy college with like-minded peers. It's also here to help show the world and the community around us that we care.

We love you, world! And you too, Waco! And that's why we've decided to spend some dolla-dolla-bills-ya'll! We got you some snow! Yah! Snow! We got you, the world and Waco, gobs and gobs of snow for our own student body to enjoy!

60-freaking-thousand pounds of it! And I say, that that is money well spent! There is no way we could have provided near enough fun for ourselves during our self-made holiday without 60,000 pounds of snow. In general, there is just never really enough really leisurely, fun, tom-foolery going on around the Baylor campus. We work so hard and have lives filled with so much sweat and rigor that I don't know how we make it.

Sure, tuition is skyrocketing to around 30,000 dollars, effectively keeping out those dirty-handed peasants and middle-class muddlies; but damnit, it's snow! What are a couple of g's dropped to enhance that good ol' Baylor experience? I mean, there is no way we could walk away from Baylor University having had a good time if that good time didn't involve some gross displays of ridiculousness for the impoverished community around us to gawk at. In fact, we probably shouldn't even give it a second thought. Besides, that's them, and this is us. We're Baylor, they are the surrounding community. Seperate, but equal, right!

I know some of you might be thinking: now, is this the best use of our funds? Well, don't worry about it. Besides, if you are worried about financing your education you're probably missing out on all of the cool fun stuff going on. And aren't there like, student loans, or grants and stuff that you can just take out? What's the problem?

Look, maybe you don't see eye-to-eye with me on this, but you can at least admit that things are pretty boring around campus. I know they have all of the sporting events and stuff (yawn), but noboy whose anybody goes to those, certainly not on time! Trust me, this whole over-the-top effort to have fun will pay off when you forget about real life and the world around you for a day of snow-balling and fun with the young and mobile movers-and-shakers of tomorrow's North Dallas elite!

So get all of your snow gear together (and I KNOW you own snow gear) and come join in the SNOWTABULOUS fun! It's only costing a few hundred dollars here and there from money that could otherwise go to scholarship funds, to decrease tuition, or (ugh) to invest back into the community. We don't really need toput any extra funds into those areas. Besides, that would only encourage "other" people to come to Baylor, and I think we've seen that that only causes problems and negative attention being brought to our university. Yuck.

Theology for Dummies -or- Why I Will Never Be A Legitimate Academic Source

2006-04-04T10:36:00.000-07:00

If you ask me about theology, I will rattle off movie quotes. Ask me about philosophy, and I'll tell you about the best fiction.

I've always been a fan of annotated texts. The concept of the "lowest common denominator" was not lost on me (as opposed to most of the other ideas in mathematics), although it is widely innapropriately applied to things other than math by way of faulty reasoning and my ability to apply such reasoning thereafter. In order to survive in the academic world, my cognitive activity is relegated to trying to reduce terms into something manageable; to a lowest common denominator.

I try and read philosophers and theologians and can carry my weight in the conversations that ensue. But that is only because I watch a lot of movies and read a lot of fictional (and largely hilarious) books. I have drawn 90 percent of my theology and philosophy from movies and fiction (only to go back and find out about the people's whose ideas they were originally).

All this to say that I watched Bruce Almighty again with Angeleri last night. If someone asks me about what I think and believe, I think the most direct way in which I could initiate this conversation would be to say, "see this first." Besides that, Morgan Freeman has easily usurped my previous model for God which was based on bad cartoons and the cieling of the Sistine Chapel.

I can say, without a doubt, that most of my thoughts on things are based out of fiction and movies first, only to be lent credibility from the real academic stuff. I watch Bruce Almighty and the Matrix trilogy for theology, I read Kurt Vonnegut for philosophy. I crack open CS Lewis' fiction and get more theology (his other stuff is good, but I honestly yawn through it). Give me more of the Chronic(what)cles of Narnia, Till We Have Faces, the Space Trilogy, and the Great Divorce (you can fight through Mere Christianity if you'd like). I watch Big Fish (and read it, by Daniel Wallace), and I Heart Hucabees, and Life Aquatic and I think, "Yes! This is my experience! This it truth!"

I don't think badly of myself for doing this. I just prefer art as a means to truth over "reason" as a means to truth. (An idea that is well-articulated in Big Fish).

So what does this mean? It means that I am always dangerously close to qouting movie lines. I only tell you this to expose my own fraud (not Freud). I just want you to know that if we're talking and it happens that we talk about something deep, I've got movie scenes going through my head.

My sociological views are based on stand-up comedy and music... it's complicated. So if ever you question the soundness of my thoughts and beliefs, read the subtitle "an irresponisble blog at best" and know that it is true.

The illumination of these facts will either lead you to believe that I am a farce (also an arse), or that I am really onto something (still, an arse).

Where My Eyes Look After They've Seen Enough -or- A Conspiracy of Hope

2006-04-01T21:08:00.000-08:00

I used to be offended by the statement, "belief in God is a crutch." I used to think this was a horribly insulting thing said by horrifyingly bold people. The idea of my faith as a crutch was hateful to me until I realized that my legs were badly broken.

Q: When, exactly, did humanity start standing up on its own legs to begin with?
A: Just as soon as we can remove our rear parts from the mud!

I'm not sure, but by the smell of things this may not just be mud we're lounging in...

I used to operate on the assumption that one could have what it takes to stand on their own if they had it together. I used to think that things could be managed, calculated, and controled. This didn't last long.

The past five months have been an unwanted crash-course in the crap that this life serves up as well as the good. I don't think I need to convince anyone but here is a short list of things that prove that this world and the inhabitants of it are pretty badly messed up and broken: death, hate, heartbreak, lonliness, genocide, pain, and our general ability to hurt each other in a slew of creative ways both physically and emotionally. (And maybe even in other ways that we haven't come up with yet!)

In the illumination of these things, I can fully admit that I need a crutch. Stand under the weight of these things and tell me how long it is before it hurts. Tell me how long it is before you have to admit that you cannot stand.

So I'll take a crutch. The difference is when faith becomes more than something to lean on, but something to live for. When the crutch becomes your reason for hope.

I cannot put into words the litany of feelings that hang and drip from that one word for me; hope. I think I adhere to a conspiracy of hope. If I can inject the world with one thing, it would be hope. More hope for everyone. Everyday I walk into a classroom and see a room full of faces who I strive to communicate one thing to: hope. I wonder if they hear me say it? I wonder if they see it and feel it? I turn everything inside of me out to send that one message of hope, and I see eyes well up with tears or faces too tired for their age turn into smiles.

Every word, every look, every thought and every moment turned inside out for us to give just one thing to the lives, breaths, and moments around us: Hope.

"Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give thine angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for thy love's sake. Amen."

2006-03-30T06:05:00.000-08:00

To Whom It May Concern:

On my recent visit to your Taco Cabana eatery located in Waco, TX, I noted several discrepencies that initially concerened me and caused me mild panic, which was subsequently driven away by the calming effects of your bean and cheese tacos on my system. I would, however, like to point out some of these discrepencies so that you might know what it is, exactly, that is going on at your Waco location which is outside of my experience with Taco Cabanas in my home city (and your great eatery's home city), San Antonio.
Firstly, they are now offering dishes with seafood in them. Something about "Shrimp-sation" or very nearly that was posted on a wall and included all of your classic dishes with shrimp in them. I do not think there should be shrimp in Waco. Waco is very far inland, and shrimp come from the sea. Besides, I've had a personal beef with shrimp ever since my pronunciation was skewed by some of my friends, and I now sometimes make the mistake of calling them "Skrimps."
Secondly, your Waco location does not offer the breakfast taco combo 24 hours a day. How am I to dine on my papas con juevos? You force me to eat only bean and cheese, which has not done well for my digestive process! Think of the people you're hurting here!
Thirdly, you have developed a new "salsa"... something called "Pineapple Puree Salsa" or something to this idea. It should not be considered a salsa, and it should not be considered a good idea. It tasted like apple sauce. Seeing as how the main ingrediant is pineapple, this is confusing.
Lastly, I didn't have to throw away my own tray. A man named Ellison did this for me. He brought my order to me and cleaned up after me. While Ellison was great, I was a bit miffed. Are you trying to class up the joint? I don't like that idea. Keep it a little dirty please. I don't want the masses to feel too comfortable going there. I like that (as was a surprise to me when I moved to Waco) that T.C.'s (that's you) has a reputation of being "ghetto" in some circles. At first it hurt and confused me when I heard this. But then my first car was called ghetto by Baylorites, and I loved it. My first roomate was called ghetto, I loved him. I was called ghetto, my jeans were once called ghetto as were my shoes, hats, eating habits, and ass at one point or another. So don't change that. Leave the little bits of cheese from previous diners on the table, or the empty salsa cups. That's you, Taco Cabana... don't let them change you.

Sincerely,
Matt Singleton
Long Time Taco Cabana Goer
Original Taco Cabana Eater
San Antonio Native
Member of the Taco Cabana Sean Elliot Kids Club
Faithful Customer

Jack Daniels Burger, no onions, add avacado -or- The Things I Think about When I am Thinking

2006-03-26T19:01:00.000-08:00

I am one of the most misunderstood people that I know.

Let me explain:
It is widely known that I love food. This is true. I love to eat food. I love to cook food. I love to talk about food. I love to think about what food I might make or eat. I like having enough time in HEB to get a little wacky and start buying things and scheming meals. The masses can keep laughing at my irrational and focused love for food, I don't care.

But let me let you in on a little secret about all of this... I may actually love food for a different reason as well.

I love food because I love people. This sounds outrageous and a bit Dalmerish, but stick with me.

A Jack Daniels Burger (medium, no onions, add avacado) is not satisfying without a good friend and good conversation across the table from you. If there is no one there to watch the sauce drip from your lips and into your facial hair with disgust (but continue to faithfully eat with you), then the Jack Daniels Burger is just another short stop on the way to high cholesterol. And where's the fun in asking for a huge wetnap when you're by yourself, with no one to appreciate your knowledge of quality wetnap availability at your dining center of choice?

I like going to all-you-can-eat Sirloin with a bunch a bunch of my boys, only to have to stop and take a community relief effort at a local, sanitary book seller.

I like sitting around an overcrowded table with family and friends, or friends that might as well be family and family that might as well be friends. I like it when there is a bowl for people who like it spicey, and a bowl for those of weaker bowels. I like it when something runs out, or someone spills something because that means that someone will apologize and we'll all get to reassure them and tell them, "it's not a big deal!" I like it when everyone has eaten their fill and we're all just a slow song away from a nap.

I like becoming a culinary mastermind in the kitchen with a good friend. I like getting in each others way and having to help each other and everything coming out perfect at just the right time. I like that I had no idea some people put oranges in guacamole, or that you can make a gourmet meal for two out of crap in your freezer, or that you can totally rip off Jason's Deli's Tomato Basil Soup if you know the right people and access to an HEB. I like it that when you make a meal with someone you both create something together and then have to clean up after your creation together.

I like Chinese Buffets in other parts of the country that are deceptive, but good. (C.O.D. fish is not "cod fish" but "catch of the day.") I like that a bag of Fritos can be the perfect opportunity for widening your social circles.

I like that when God became a man, and put on our skin and walked in our dirt, He also ate food, a lot. He kept the casks of wine full. He turned a couple of Filet-O-Fish sandwhiches into a miracle feast, he grilled on the beach, he ate his friends' food, and He sat around the table with people that he loved.

When I start contemplating my love for food, I don't think of plates without faces. Let it be known that you're all being fooled when I eat with you. If I look happy when I'm eating, it might be because of you.

One More Song You Have to Hear: "How it Ends" by DeVotchka

2006-03-22T19:50:00.000-08:00

I am not in the habit of recommending so many things within such a short period of time, but when you strike gold, you gotta get yoself a grill made and smile so it can shine (shout out to Paul Wall, Lil Wayne, and kids in my class who smile and light up the room like a disco with the proppa amounts of bling on their teeth)!

Whatever you do with your gold and your teeth, you need to hear this song. I have a soundtrack that I've been compiling my whole life which, in the depths and dark corners of my metacognition, I have called "The Soundtrack of My Life -or- Who The Hell is Running The Jukebox?!?!" This song just made the playlist: "How It Ends" by DeVotchka (I think it falls somewhere in between "Rescue Is Coming" by DC*B and "Mathematics" by Mos Def on my soundtrack playlist).

The words to this song articulate things I believe and the score behind them makes me weep about these same things I believe. This is what art-- a good book, a powerful image, a gut-wrenching movie, or a song-- can do: it can turn us inside out. A lot of what I love about this song is probably associated to the other things which I have passion for that introduced me to this song. It was on the trailer for the film version of "Everything Is Illuminated" (a book, as I have mentioned, that I love) and the band sounds like a combination of U2 and an Eastern European band from the 20's (I love U2... and the Eastern European thing is just a bonus).

Go to your downloading medium of choice (they have it in the Apple iTunes store) and get "How It Ends" by DeVotchka.

Here are the words:

Hold your grandmother’s bible to your breast
Gonna put it to the test
You wanted it to be blessed
And in your heart
You know it to be true
You know what you gotta do
They all depend on you

And you already know
Yet you already know
How this will end

There is no escape
From the slave catcher’s songs
For all of the loved ones gone
Forever’s not so long
And in your soul
They poked a million holes
But you never let them show
Come on its time to go

And you already know
Yet you already know
How this will end

Now you’ve seen his face
And you know that there’s a place in the sun
For all that you’ve done
For you and your children
No longer shall you need
You always wanted to believe
Just ask and you’ll receive
Beyond your wildest dreams

And you already know
Yet you already know
How this will end

You already know (You already know)
You already know (You already know)
You already know
How this will end.

No Alanis, it isn't ironic.

2006-03-20T12:17:00.000-08:00

I thought a lot of you might enjoy this article by a new favorite writer of mine (Zoe Williams), a columnist from an English news outlet called The Guardian. I was putting together a lesson on irony and stumbled upon an article by her which was so entertaining and informative that made me read more of her work (all very good).

Irony is one of the most misunderstood elements in English thanks in large part to people like Alanis Morrisette.

Here is the link to the article:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/weekend/story/0,3605,985375,00.html

Here is the link to a compilation of her other articles:
http://www.byliner.com/writer/?id=6171

I will try not to let you down too badly when I post stuff like this. I'm trying to make you happy. That's all I want.

The Right Books -or- Things Oprah May Be Keeping From You

2006-03-19T19:53:00.000-08:00

(from Good WIll Hunting)

Will: (to his psychiatrist) "You ****** people baffle me. You spend all your money on these ****** fancy books, you surround yourself with them, they're the wrong ****** books."

Sean: "What are the right '******' books, Will?"

Will: "Hey, Whateva blows ya hair back."

I'm not here to pull the English teacher/literature snob card on you. Don't worry. But if Oprah can have a book club and tell everyone the books she likes and reads, then why would it be strange for me to recommend books? Am I less human than Oprah? Do we not both bleed blood? Aren't all of our literary tastes equally important? To answer these questions: Yes. No, hers is money, and no. But that won't stop me. So let me share some reads that "blow my hair back." If you are looking for some pages to read, I know some which I have loved over the past year or two.

Everything Is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer (the movie version of this with Elijah Wood comes out Tuesday on DVD)
-Someone leaked to me that David Crowder read books, and that this is one of the ones he has read. Distrubingly, I bought it for that reason alone. (Please do not submit DcTalk's reading lists to me as a result of the comment). It was an unbelievable book. It made me laugh and weep, which are my main criteria for most life-things being validated as life-things... they must at times make you laugh, and at others weep (relationships, books, foods, etc).

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer
-When I found out this man wrote another book... I bought it. It made me weep even more. The things this guy does with pages and ink and a book are unbelievable.

Beakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut
-I'm a Vonnegut guy, everyone knows it. This is the second Vonnegut book I read, upon reccomendation from my mom. It has been my favorite. It is hilarious and deep.

Big Fish by Daniel Wallace
-The book that inspired one of my favorite films... I back-tracked on this one, and it was worth it. The book and the film are different, but both very good in their own right.

Savage Innequalities by Jonathan Kozol
-This is s non-fiction piece about the state of public education in America and how it is usually split right down racial and economic lines. Once you read about East St. Louis, you will no longer think the issues originating in slavery, racism, and the battle for civil rights are over.

Amusing Ourselves to Death by Neil Postman
-Picked up this title after reading his "The End of Education," it is an analysis of our media-driven, entertainment-addicted culture, and the subsequent problems. This guy is one of the best writers-who-writes-philosophical-texts-rather-than-articulating-his-ideas-in-fiction out there.

Stephen King's On Writing by Stephen King
-I wish I could use this book to teach English and writing, but the FCC won't let me be. Everyone I know that's read it has had nothing but good things to say for what it did for them. Think William B. Strunk on LSD.

Losing Battles by Eudora Welty
-Literature of the South introduced this one to me, and it is as entertaining and insightful as it gets. Put a big fat LITERATURE label on this one, because it is will make you feel like you're reading something important, like Moby Dick (maybe a bad reference because I realize most people hate Moby Dick).

Things Fall Apart by Chineua Achebe
-Also the name of an abum by "The Roots" that I love. Love this one so much I will teach it, and find a way to re and re and re read it.

A Gathering of Old Men by Ernest Gaines
-A history of racial tension in one entertaining, insightful, courageous, intense, and humorous story. If you don't like Gaines, well then I don't think you can like books, friend.

I'm sorry I did that to you, my loyal readership of about 5 people. You should have seen the book list coming. I'm not making you write book reports... but I am ASKING you to...

I don't think these books are somehow better than all other books, nor will I hate you if you didn't like them (I might lose all respect for you, but I will not hate you).

If you or anyone you know can support my claims to any of these books' greatness, please share. If you or anyone you know want to drop some general amounts of knowledge about books that you've read that you can give me for my summer list, please share. Until then, let me remind you of my favorite poster featuring Dan Marino, MC Hammer, Bea Arther, Tim Allen, and Nancy Kerrigan; "Reading is FUNdamental!"

The Evolution of Loyalty -or- My Tribe**

2006-03-13T22:49:00.000-08:00

I have friends I never have to think twice about. I have friends that have, at some point in my life, crossed over the threshold from being my friends to being something more like family. I can't rightly call it family, in the most technical sense because we do not share the same blood lines or have legal documentation to prove our relationship. So instead of family, I think I can call it a tribe (if for no other reason than it is the coolest sounding alternative).

The one force that makes this sense of tribe so real, necessary, and comforting is loyalty.

Being back in San Antonio always affords me the chance to be with a group of guys that are amazing. We are different. Different ambitions, different races, different beliefs, and different personalities. But the one thing we all share is our unspoken committment to one another. I can't tell you how confidence-infusing it is to know that you have people that are willing to fight for you. These guys would do anything for me. It doesn't matter how much time or distance gets between us, the loyalty does not diminish (even when it is freezing its ass off in Iowa). Likewise, there are things I would do for these guys that I wouldn't do for any other reason.

Sometimes I wonder when this threshold was crossed, and at what point this immutable depth and loyalty formed; I can't put my finger on the day. I watch a movie like Good Will Hunting and I get eyes full of water thinking about my "tribe" and the guys who would (and this sordid bunch might quite literally) "take a bat to someone for me." To know I am so fiercely loved is the greatest euphoria I have ever felt.

I was always afraid that my tribe would become static... that the hometown guys might always be the only members (which wouldn't be a bad thing!). But people continue to cross the threshold in ones and twos into this world of mutual committment and loyalty. There are people who I've found becomming a part of my tribe over these last four years in college, people who have become just as loyal and intimate.

I love these people. It is through these relationships that almost the complete entirity of the experience of my faith is formed. These relationships are where I see and experience God. Because I know that a depth of loyalty and love even into complete abandonment of concern with self is possible and happens, I can believe God's story. I can believe that a God would abandon concern for its self and love humans, just to share a returned abandon and love.

You people are the reason I believe. You know who you are.

**This post could have easily carried a much different tone, a tone that some people might describe as "ghetto" which I choose to call "socially and culturaly liberated" instead. The following phrases were paintstakingly removed from the original post: "representin' the set" "real recognize real" "holdin' it down for my people" "soldjuh's" "lookin' out for the squaw" "they don't know who we be" and "From the East Coast, West Coast, and in the Dirty Souf"

A Second Clarification: Why I'm Hating on the Lariat

2006-03-09T14:15:00.000-08:00

This post is in reference to my previous post entitled, "Stay Classy, Waco! -or- A Freaking Elephant, Man!" as well as the comments and general amounts of knowledge dropped afterwards. I appreciate the enthusiasm with which all of you wonderful peeps have responded to my various ramblings, and wanted to stop, collaborate and listen... or just clarify why it seems I have taken long slow drinks of Haterade™ toward the Baylor Lariat. Before I go on, I would like to point out that this should be expected of me, and I have placed a barely-visible disclaimer to this blog in the subtitle under the "Bigger, Louder, Everywhere" title that reads "an irresponsible blog at best." I will say this-- I would have never picked this topic for blogging if I would have known that my readership included the rare zoologist/journalist hybrid! Rule number one of good writing is knowing your audience (well it's one of the rules at least) and I failed miserably at that! Sorry if I ruffled some feathers! Let me explain:

Just to clear things up, I want to point out that my main motivation in that post was to be humorous. If you know me well, you know my brand of humor is scathing, sarcastic, and sometimes downright mad-hater-ish (not Mad Hatterish). I also was trying more to point out a subtle perpetuation of "the Baylor Bubble" at work by the Lariat rather than simply scolding their journalistic integrity. Aside from the comical purpose of that post, I stand beside my comments and critique of the Baylor Lariat.

I appreciate that some of you guys, in defense of the Lariat, were willing to question my knowledgability of the field of Journalism and of the process of creating a "non-professional" student publication. But I also wanted to give myself some ground to stand on by pointing out that I am not speaking on these things out of ignorance.

I have a very colored and sordid past, as some of you know, which has afforded me to have some excuse to speak about everything from food to football and jail to journalism. The reasons I feel totally justified in being critical of the Baylor Lariat are many. The most efficient way to prove this is for me just to list them... so here it goes:

1) My own flesh-n-blood, the Matriarch, my mother was a member of the Baylor Lariat staff back in the day.
2) This same woman teaches high school journalism and sponsors yearbook, newpaper, and other publications, which I grew up around my whole life.
3) I was an editor of such publications in high school and have written news articles and features and editorials.
4) I have researched and conducted interviews for such things.
5) I have been invited to and attended journalism confrences at the University of Texas and Columbia University where I even (get this!) received awards for my journalistic abilities!
6) I have worked as an intern for WOAI news radio in San Antonio for two and a half years where I specifically worked in coverage of the Spurs (I was there during the short-season first championship answering phones and getting highlights! It was pandemonium!)
7) The staff and publications I worked on were no dumb-bum crack-pot pieces! They were award-winning on the national level, and have been written about in education and journalism journals (which I think is a little redundant).
8) As I head toward graduate school next semester, my cognate area within the School of Education will be Journalism/Mass Communications.
9) I have been under and met tight deadlines for such publications and still never reported on irrelevant, goofy crap as serious news.
10) I have been a part of events that have happened in which the Baylor Lariat has misquoted, misinformed, and downright mis-sed-up articles about. (See the most recent issue of March 9th, front page, "Violence stalls WISD, Baylor collaboration... the first sentence is just false. Not true. The program was never "temporarily ended.")

So I feel like I have some space to talk (though maybe not as much space as I've taken, I'll give you that). I know the Lariat is a student publication, and not professional (although I think they do get some cash-money in work study), but I don't think that is a valid excuse for creating such a mediocre publication! The Lariat could be MUCH better. For that matter, MOST media outlets could be MUCH better. I refuse to give praise to a publication that rips most of its best articles straight off of the AP, and whose other articles are littered with inaccuracies, hearsay, and articles about elephant encoutners at the zoo instead of newsworthy items both within the local and global settings which pull students out of the bubble they live in rather than perpetuating it.

I am not impressed with the Lariat. There are some great journalists and articles that make up the Lariat, but they are far outshadowed by bad journalists and bad articles. Most of the time, I am embarassed by the Lariat as a Baylor student. I also don't think that every person who wears Birkenstocks or pops their collar is a bad person, I only think most of them are! See! Not so bad! (obviously I am being sarcastic here).

I'm not just being negative for negativity's sake. I promise. I am being honest, and my honest analysis of the Baylor Lariat is that most of the time it isn't a good newspaper. Not a good student newspaper. Not a good lab newspaper. I'm making this statement as a student and as someone who has been involved in publications and journalism. Besides, I don't think I'm the only guy out there saying that the Lariat isn't good (i.e. my roomate Paul just said it was bad...see!). Maybe it's not that everyone dogs on the Lariat for no reason, maybe it really isn't very good and these claims are legit.

My name is Matt Singleton, and I approve this message. (Translate: I can be an unapologetic a-hole sometimes... give me time... I come around).

Busting the Baylor Bubble -or- An Independant Study in Ignorance

2006-03-09T11:33:00.000-08:00

I am now fully convinced that Baylor University has a problem. When I moved to Waco and Baylor U from San Antonio the one aspect that shocked me most (and I've been saying this since my freshman year) was the mass amounts of racial tension. I'm from the city of fiestas, margaritas, and good food... I never experienced this type of tension! Maybe we were always too tired, had too many margaritas, or too busy eating at places like Henry's, Jacala's, and Mexican Manhattan.

Baylor's problem, in my opinion, is this: Ignorant individuals in an environment that unintentionally breeds ingnorance.

As you might have seen in the news, a Baylor student went to a "thug" themed party hosted by one of our campuses greek orginizations, and used bronzer to darken her skin to appear black... because, apparently, her idea of "thug" meant "black." This is horrible. This is the perfect example of the ignorant perpetuation of stereotypes that occur everyday around Baylor. This happens, unfortunately, when your target student body is financially elite caucasians who have managed to stay relatively seperate from other cultures and lifestyles.

I think if you target this audience, part of the responsible education you should give them would address the stereotypes and presuppositions they are bringing with them, that do not work in "the real world."

Baylor has only been a racially integrated institution since 1964... that's only a little over 40 years ago. We can't assume that all of the issues that go along with stereotypes and cultural differences are solved in so short a time. So something needs to happen. At a campus wide forum for discussion over this issue yesterday that I attended (there was an impressive 400 people there, which is a good thing), conversation took place among students and while many good, right things were said, there were some things said by people that convince me further that this student body is largely ignorant of such issues.

What is Baylor doing to ammend this ongoing problem? Well, they're creating forums like the one yesterday, which is a good start... they offer a course on multicultural studies... okay. The problem is this: the majority of Baylor students can go through their academic experience here without ever having their cultural beliefs and stereotypes addressed and corrected. This is not a good "Christian" education.

At the meeting yesterday, I suggested that if Baylor can justify requiring chapels and Christian Scriptures and Heritage courses as a part of accomplishing our uniquely Christian mission, why can't it require a course on Social and Cultural Issues? I think this needs to happen. I think this would be effective. I think you have to force people to take part in these conversations or they will go on in ignorance.

If Baylor can make "Campus Diversity" and initiative of the 2012 Vision, we can certainly make more intentional strides to create dialouge and education concerning issues of cultural ignorance.

The nature of the majority of the student body at Baylor University is such that most of them have not had an opportunity to go outside of their culture and form relationships where myths can be busted. Baylor University needs to take on more responsibility in this aspect of educating its students... and it needs to happen NOW and drastically.

Language Fails -or- Thanks, College!

2006-03-06T10:18:00.000-08:00

Q: Why do we pay so money much to attend institutions that only reccomend good books to read?
A: So we can come to the end of that education and realize that the books didn't really say thåt much.

This is coming from someone who is passionate about literature, who even teaches it. But let me let you in on a secret: language, all this writing and reading and stuff we do... it only takes you so far, and usually by way of a circle. The point may be walking the circle (that's my point at least) but it is fair to note that you end up in the same place you started, just with different words and worldviews.

I will not disagree that language is powerful. It is! I think it's the most powerful thing we have as humans. But that doesn't mean that language is successful. I think language fails utterly. The deepest ideas we can ponder, we assign goofy, short, awkward names for; infinity, God, space...

I would argue that in all of these cases, language doesn't do the concepts justice. It can't.

So now that my personal beef with language being outed for what it really is can finally be put aside, let me move on. I was prompted to write about this after an e-mail exchange with my good friend Jason, who lives in the best city on God's green earth, San Antonio.

For me, at least 80 % of the problems I have with Church today could be solved with language. I know this sounds messed up. But the people I know who mean really well, and aren't meaning to say over-simplifyed, cliche, or misleading things... do just that.

Can we be more thoughtful about what we say and how we say it? People are listening. And we're supposedly talking about the most important thing in life! Listen to a conversation between your average parishoners about matters of faith, and try to wade throught he cliche and metaphor and find out what is really being said... it's near impossible. I do this with my own language... I'll say something or (as Kyle pointed out) pray something, only to realize that i have no idea what I mean by that!

We can't use the same metaphors to describe God. We can't apply the same cliche sayings when describing how our faith is working out. When we do, we slowly chisel authenticity away from our faith, our message, and our God. Most of my energy now is placed on figuring out new ways to say things-- real ways. Most of my thoughts are about how can I, Matt Singleton, articulate my experience with God? For instance, I'm really big on describing myself and most UBCers as "over-churched refugees" as opposed to "burnt out" or "rebelious". Some more examples of changes I've made in my language (and subsequently my thinking) to be more authentic to what I believe are as follows:(notice that the new words have ENTIRELY different meanings as opposed to definitions... think about the connotations with the first words in our culture too)

"doubts" have become "mysteries"
"saved" has become "rescued"
"church" has become "community"
"non-christian" has become "someone outside of church"
and I feel like even "Christian" has become "Christ-follower"

I feel like these transitions in thought, understanding, and language help me be more authentic in my faith. I'd love to hear some, if any, of the changes any of ya'll have made on the language level.

Hip-Hop Apologetic: You Don't Know What You're Missing

2006-03-04T14:25:00.000-08:00

Last night was the opening night of Dave Chappelle's Block Party in theatres... it documents the coming together of some of the most talented acts in hip-hop (most of whom you would never hear on the radio) as they perform in the middle of Brooklyn, NY near the Bed-Stuy. The Roots, Mos Def, Talib Kweli, Dead Prez, The Fugees (back together for the concert), Kanye West, Eryka Badu, Jill Scott, John Legend and Big Daddy Kane all perform and pour heart and soul into every word the sing and note they play. My eyes watered. I was moved.

You're not surprised reading this, because you know that I am a hip-hop enthusiast. Some of you probably have your standard line about this genre and it might be any of the following:

"I like the beats, but I can't understand what they're saying."
"Rap music is all about objectifying women."
"Rap music is all about violence."
"Rap music is not music at all."

Granted, the 50-cents, Eminems, Jay-Z's, Young Jeezys and the rest have their own things to say about life (and Iwould still suggest that there are some redemptive things to take form these guys, but that explanation would not fit here). But I would encourage some of you who might find yourself generally opposed to the genre to give it a try, a real and thoughtful try. There are those out there in the hip hop world whose songs drip with authenticity and honesty. These songs feel life. They explore the tensions. They speak truth into a culture of consumption and self-gratification.

Here's one example from "Get By" by Talib Kweli that I think is the type of truth in hip-hop worth hearing. This is not stuff that is just fun to dance to or to pop our collars to. Hip-hop is not about something cute or funny because it is different. People live this. This is life.

[Talib]
Yeah.. my Lord.. yeah
[Verse 1: Talib]
We sell, crack to our own out the back of our homes
We smell the musk at the dusk in the crack of the dawn
We go through "Epidodes II," like "Attack of the Clones"
Work 'til we break our back and you hear the crack of the bone
To get by.. just to get by
Just to get by, just to get by
We commute to computers
Spirits stay mute while you eagles spread rumors
We survivalists, turned to consumers
To get by.. just to get by
Just to get by, just to get by
Ask Him why some people got to live in a trailer, cuss like a sailor
I paint a picture with the pen like Norman Mailer
Me and Willa raised three daughters all by herself, with no help
I think about a struggle and I find the strength in myself
These words, melt in my mouth
They hot, like the jail cell in the South
Before my nigga Core bailed me out
To get by.. just to get by
Just to get by, just to get by
We do or die like Bed-Stuy through the red sky
with the window of the red eye
Let the lead fly, some G. Rap sh*t, "Livin' to Let Die"
[Chorus: Background singers]
This morning, I woke up
Feeling brand new and I jumped up
Feeling my highs, and my lows
In my soul, and my goals
Just to stop smokin, and stop drinkin
And I've been thinkin - I've got my reasons
Just to get (by), just to get (by)
Just to get (by), just to get (by)
[Talib and background singers]
(ba ba ba, ba da bada, ba da bada, ba da bada, ba da badahh
Just to get (by), just to get (by)
Just to get (by by by by by by)
(ba ba ba, ba da bada, ba da bada, ba da bada, ba da badahh
Just to get (by), just to get (by)
Just to get (by by by by by by)
[Verse 2: Talib]
We keeping it gangster say "fo shizzle", "fo sheezy" and "stayin crunk"
Its easy to pull a breezy, smoke trees, and we stay drunk
Yo, I activism - attackin the system, the blacks and latins in prison
Numbers of prison they victim black in the vision
sh*t and all they got is rappin to listen to
I let them know we missin you, the love is unconditional
Even when the condition is critical, when the livin is miserable
Your position is pivotal, I ain't bullsh*ttin you
Now, why would I lie? Just to get by?
Just to get by, we get fly
The TV got us reachin for stars
Not the ones between Venus and Mars, the ones that be readin for parts
Some people get breast enhancements and penis enlargers
Saturday sinners Sunday morning at the feet of the Father
They need somethin to rely on, we get high on all types of drug
When, all you really need is love
To get by.. just to get by
Just to get by, just to get by
Our parents sing like John Lennon, "Imagine all the people watch"
We rock like Paul McCartney from now until the last Beatle drop
[Chorus: Background singers]
This morning, I woke up
Feeling brand new and I jumped up
Feeling my high's, and my low's
In my soul, and my goals
Just to stop smoking, and stop drinking
And I've been thinking - I've got my reasons
Just to get (by), just to get (by)
Just to get (by), just to get (by)
[Talib: repeat 2X - with background singers]
Yoyoyo, yo
Some people cry, and some people try
Just to get by, for a piece of the pie
You love to eat and get high
We decieve when we lie, and we keepin it fly
Yoyoyo, yo
When, the people decide, to keep a disguise
Can't see they eyes, see the evil inside
But there's people you find
Strong or feeble in mind, I stay readin the signs

This is definitely going to be a recurring theme on my blog, as I am trying to redeem hip-hop and unload it from the boxes that we put it into.

Stay classy, Waco! -or- A Freaking Elephant, Man!

2006-03-03T14:57:00.000-08:00

The preliminary requirements for reading this post are that you must read this short article first:

http://www.baylor.edu/lariat/news.php?action=story&story=39352

Now that you have read, you may continue on...
As you might imagine, I have many issues with this article.

1) The journalistic integrity of the Baylor Lariat. This is the most news worthy thing we can print in order to educate the Baylor student populace? There is a bubble, my friends, and The Lariat is doing its best to keep it filled with almost error-free (usually error-prone), trivial crap. I can't wait to read the article about how awesome SING! is, or the masterful editorials detailing the grueling life of a student attending Baylor on only the sums of their parents ample pocketbooks, with no minimum GPA to set their sights on!

2) Who's attacking who here? I really don't feel like we can fault thesee elephants at all. Have you been to the Cameron Park Zoo? Do you know how hard it would be to get close enough to the elephants to touch them? I think according to our judicial system, this elephant had every right to kick this person's ass upon entrence into the elephant's home. And wait. This isn't even really the elephant's chosen home is it? It's like rolling up and slapping a foreign exchange student at their exchange-parents home! Messed up!

3) Some excerpts worth citing:

On what to expect in a quote from a typical Baylor girl- "My boyfriend (Dallas senior Brian Williams) ran to get help," Lilley said.
Read "Dallas senior" as "KOT/Highland Park Grad/Business Major/Collar Popped/Front Tucked/Birkenstocks" (actually, this is just a guess, I do not know the guy at all).

On the syntactical prowess of the Lariat- "Fleshman said they would be back."
That just sounds creepy.

On the commonly misheld belief that you are communicating with your pet, your pet can communicate with you, animals talk, or we know what animals think and feel.- Fleshman said the elephants were "shaken up" and that they were taken off display "of their own accord."
C'mon Mr. Fleshman... give it up... you know the elephants don't talk to you... and neither did any of those girls when they found out you wanted to direct a zoo. That's like telling a girl you want to be a clown for a career or sell cotton candy. Nice move, Fleshman.

Give me a cloth for my loins! -or- If Society Would Allow It

2006-03-01T22:03:00.000-08:00

I want to wear a loin cloth. I'm not kidding. I have this quickly-becoming-public desire to go tribal, if only for a moment. I have no idea why or how it developed, but my blood starts rushing when I think about wearing a loin cloth, drums beating, digery-doos blowing (courtesy Carney and Stevezy) and feet pounding around a fire, kicking up wet clouds of dirt and dust I would tell stories and wear masks. I don't know if this will ever be an attainable event that will take place in my life, and that saddens me deeply.

I also have a suppressed longing to live the life of a pirate. I want a long beard and no shoes and songs about rum. I want to swab the deck and take in the jib. I want to be like Ahab from Moby Dick-- by far my favorite literary character. I want to say wild things about monsters and myths. I want to tell sea-tales. I would say things like, "Spirits come in the heavy mists, beware!" I want to revel in a pirate pub on shore leave (I'd prefer not to recieve any communacable diseases) and eat limes to ward off scurvy. (Here I point out that only pirates and doctors are afforded the regular use of the word "scurvy" in their vocabulary, and I don't have the means to be a doctor, but I love that word, probably because I have never had scurvy).

I wouldn't mind the life of a mountain-dweller in Arkansas. Once again, I would grow my beard long. I would dance a jig to fiddle music on my wooden porch. I would once again tell wild tales and believe my own legends about wrestling bears. I would shoot things and eat them with only minor preparation. I would yell hog calls. I would have many things made out of animal skins and furs. I would bang on pots and pans. This will probably never come to fruition either, as I have seen the movie "Deliverence" and know what all a life in the mountains entails, and what all I am not prepared to do at this point.

I was trying to see what common threads ran through some or all of these scenarios... bare feet, culture-specific music, long beards, and telling stories. The only thing that I think runs through all of them is telling stories. Here is what I've determined this means:

I am desperate for a wild story and a captive audience. Give me those two things, and I am a euphoric man. That's why I love telling stories to people.

Maybe the single most faith-progressing aspect of my life thus far was realizing that in the history of God and his people, I have a wild story, and in this world and the people around me, I have a captive audience.

Clarification on what I'm saying...

2006-02-28T22:33:00.000-08:00

Seeing some of the comments on the last entry, and hearing from others some of their thoughts, I want to elaborate on my thoughts a little more...

Complexity. We live in a world of complexity. We cannot make things simple. I don't think the solution falls on a single individual's shoulders (like Bush for Darfur or Iraq, or Clinton for Rwanda, or Kofi Annan or any one person).

I think I'm tired of demonizing politicians as the cause of all evil and indifference in the world. Politicians are about the business of politics... getting elected... keeping approval ratings... being careful technical ambassadors...etc.

Humans are responsible for humanity. I belive in the American system of government-- the way we have it set up. I believe if Americans, as a people, wanted something stopped or something done, thy could influence politicians to do so.

Here's the problem as I see it: we're lazy and indifferent... and comfortable and selfish. We are too lazy to get up off of our lay-z-boys, pause the Tivo, and push aside our spread from Wendy's to write an e-mail to our representatives about what we think and believe. We're too busy to go to a rally or interest meeting (or God forbid produce an interest meeting).

I refer back to the quote I began the last post with ( a part of it): "I was angry with people who could do something, even the simplest things, and they didn't."

Indifference and apathy don't start from the government and work their way down to the people in a democratic society... no, it happens the other way... from the people to the government.

So the problem is me. The problem is my friends. The problem is that a comfortable life easily breeds passivity.

A friend of mine (and future social studies teacher) who stays very up-to-date on global social issues such as the current genocides pointed out that at the root of almost every modern day genocide, civil war, and armed conflict in places like Africa is, simply, a shortage of the basic needs-- food, water, and medicine. There are things we can do about this. There are things we must do about this.

So what do we do? Do we sit around and shake our heads at "governments" or "politicians"... sure, some...

More importantly, we act. Write e-mails, stay informed, donate resources.

Now here's the hardest part for me... in our "getting involved" how much of what we do is for us to feel good about ourselves and how much is about actually helping.

I'm going to get kind of critical directly here, but I feel strongly that this is a real, tangible example for most of us here in Waco and at Baylor. If we go paint a house for "stepping out" once a year does that make us compassionate to the plight of our empoverished neighbors? If we make the houses near our University look better by slapping a few coats of paint over rotting wood and unhealthy living environment, and then put a sign out front that says "THIS ORGANIZATION DID THIS!", who is that for?

Same thing on a global level. We need to find ways to be authentic in our activism. Blaming politicians or mild involvement don't cut it. What I'm doing right now doesn't cut it. How do I do more? I think that's a good question for us to ask.

Indifference = Genocide

2006-02-27T20:19:00.000-08:00

"By the time the genocide was over, I was so angry at America, America the beautiful, America the brave. I was angry with our government, I was angry with people who could do something, even the simplest things, and they didn't." -Carl Wilkens, Adventist Missionary, only American remaining in Rwanda during the Genocide depicted in "Hotel Rwanda."

Today I've been putting together some stuff for my Young Adult Literature class on how I would teach Elie Wiesel's first-person account of the Holocaust, and I've been reminded of some horrible modern-day atrocities.

I'm going to present Night in a current issues type of lesson concerning current genocides and injustices. I was reminded of the movie Hotel Rwanda, and I did a little research...

During the Rwandan genocide, well over 800,000 human beings were slaughtered because of their geneology.

After the Holocaust, the UN passed a rule that in cases of genocide the UN and the nations involved in it MUST intervene. The UN and America did not act. They avoided using the word "genocide" as a legal technicality to avoid acting. I am dissapointed in the human race.

find time and watch these videos... they are paradigm-shifting:
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/ghosts/video/

During the first few days of the genocide, a Tutsi woman was smuggled out of Rwanda to Washington DC in order to report a first hand account and influence the US government to action... she was told by a sympathetic official that the UN and US did not have "friends" that it helped... it had "interests." Rwanda would not be helped because it the UN and US had no interest in Rwanda.

I cannot afford to no longer have "interest" in what is happening outside of my own world. Indifference and apathy is genocide. As a nation, Americans are indifferent and apathetic.

As a body, the Christian church is indifferent and apathetic (much more indifferent than we give ourselves credit for).

Want to know why the Church and the United States of America have little credibility in the world? Here's a start.

Please watch these videos and get educated about this.

Why "now" is so hard to do.

2006-02-26T20:50:00.000-08:00

For my second trick... I mean my second post... I thought I might as well go ahead and contradict a statement that I made in my first post (I have come to embrace the fact that much of life, at least my life, seems to be about contradiction... things that refuse to resolve). I said in my last post that I thought "time" was a "load of crap". Let me revise that statement: I like the idea that Time is a human invention to explain our existence, and not something that God is bound to or is even generally concerned with. I think that this would help me deal with the fact that at least 50 percent of life is very unsatisfying and frustrating. Despite my time conspiracy, I realize that no matter what I think sounds good or makes sense, time is here to stay! I think I can learn to deal.

Here's the thing that time does that I think is the hardest part for me... it makes things "past," "present," and "future." For instance, right now, as I write, this is "present" -- or "now." But right now, as you're reading this, this act of writing is now "past." But get this; my supposing you're reading this... that's "future!" Stop and get a glass of water if you need to! Now if we throw in a flux capacitor, a jacket/vest, a Delorian, and a wild-eyed Doc Brown, well now we're going Back to the Future... don't even try to sort out the pasts and presents and all that on that movie series. You'll end up with a pretty complex set of feelings for Michael J Fox that might not ever heal.

I think most people like the idea of FUTURE best-- the time that comes after now. They like the future because anything could be there. Even the Magic 8-Ball can't see it clearly all the time (Ask Again Later), and it's pretty certain that Miss Cleo has got about as good a grip on what's going on in the future as she does on her Jamacain-esque accent. So we like the future, especially when we're young, because it can be whatever we dream it to be. We also like it because it's a great way to convince ourselves to do or not do things in the present. The future is by far the greatest scapegoat/cop-out operating today.

"Hey you guys want to watch a movie tonight?"
"No man, I got stuff to do tommorow."

See! Do you recognize this? That's future-as-cop-out!

So then there is the past... and some people get there kicks off of the past. I tend to be one of these people. My whole past is mythologized. People like me tend to take the past and whistle a low whistle and say things like, "Things aren't like they used to be!" I think I tend to romanticize my past; making sentimentality at every opportunity. I love my past and look at each part of it and try to tell it like a good story... because that's the least I can do. My entire "now" is spent thinking about "then" and what I miss, what I regret, and what I wish I could get to do again. Some of us like to use past to try and make the present feel bad, like the present just can't measure up.

And then there's the now. This one is hard. We don't like this one.

Be present. Do not be past, do not be future, Be NOW.

I secretly and desperately want to be now. But now means responsibility. Now means that I have to move... I have to act. Now means that I have to concentrate and be fully in EVERY now! The good ones and the bad ones. That means I'm not allowed to take vacations to the future, or sentimental siestas in the past... I'm to be in every second of NOW. That means hurting sometimes. There's the good stuff too. But I think what I'm most afraid of about trying to be in every now is the suffering. Now is hard to do because now means finding "joy" and "peace" in suffering. It means finding beauty in difficult things and redeeming the tough moments. Now is hard to do.

We've all made a huge mistake...

2006-02-25T16:47:00.000-08:00

This is not a good idea. This will eat up hours of my time... but wait a second... I think "time" is a load of crap! That's right! Vonnegut won me over in Slaughterhouse 5 and Timequake... I don't take "time" seriously. Regardless of my philosophical game of tiddly winks with a personified "time," I think this blog business intimidates me; especially with the recent outpouring of amazingly articulate blogs and posts by so many of my favorite people: Craig Nash (the Father of Blogs from Which All Posts and Original Ideas Eminate and To Whom All Ideas Will One Day Return Too), Harris-freaking-short-story-writing-Bechtol, CarnDawg (whose Blog requires an open window of Dictionary.Com and a handful of Ginko Biloba pills just to contain the knowledge he will no doubt drop), Air-Jordan Browning, SheaButta, Dudley, and so many others! How am I going to compete in the world of blogs? I can't. I will constantly leave the computer now with a deflated sense of self from looking at how puny my blogs look compared to the gathered works of the afformentioned.

Q: Why have I resisted so long?

A: I didn't want to deal with the fact that I cannot win in a head-to-head blogoff with any of these people.

Maybe this more accurately captures my hesitation in entering the world of Blog:

"If you go to the big city, and the university is a big city, then you're bound to meet Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Stay home, stay home."
-Kurt V.