Tidings

Some activity recently got me upset but also thinking about racism and what we refer to as 'reverse racism' as well as hate crimes. (My thoughts are that there is no such thing as RR. Any use of power over another person on the pretext or assumption of race or ethnicity is racism, which is - as Dr. King pointed out - a moral evil and sin. Anyway, this post was supposed to be short...) But just as my collar was getting a bit hot and heavy, I caught the usually observant Mary Mitchell making what I would classify as a great column in the Chicago Sun-Times. If the title "Is 'white boy' a slur? It sure isn't a compliment" doesn't get your attention, I don't know what else could.

Speaking of the Sun-Times, although Roger Ebert is still out of commission, they're still doing good things there. Check out the series on an experimental public school chartered by the U of C with the premise of mixing high-middle class and well-below-poverty-level elementary school kids through a three part series. The reporting, by education reporter Kate N. Grossman, for these perspective pieces was done during the ever-important and formative first academic year in one third-grade classroom. Part 1: One Classroom, Many Classes; Part 2: Doubts Emerge in School Experiment; Part 3: Grading the School Year. Personally, I still have to read parts II & III. Bon apettit.
Josh Hurst of the Reveal Listening Lounge has a review of Gnarls Barkley (as he says) finally posted. I merely disagree in that the mode of using, mixing and mashing pop-culture references was a mode of using, mixing, and mashing so much divergent styles of pop-music, including but not limited to, as he notes, zydeco, gospel raves, hip-hop, Frank Sinatra torches and post-modern disco.

What is it with falling-apart American cyclists and the Tour de France? I mean, it'd be one thing if their wrists were giving them pause or they got a torn rotator cuff. But an arthritic hip that's falling apart and a cancer-ridden scrotum? For a bicyclist, those areas are too close and too chafen to mess with for my money. Seriously, I'm just happy to shove it in the face of those (Micah's term) surrender monkeys. Audio from the victory lap.

Speaking of American athletes not considered athletes by a slim majority of Americans, after Tiger's triumphant 18-under-par at the Open yesterday morning, I felt newly inspired to triumph in my own version of the Masters - playing with (but yet against) the future in-laws that afternoon. In an indoor course that I could only define as about as treacherous (and untampered) as the Liverpool course, I managed to double-bogie as often as I birdied. I also got a couple hole-in-ones, but I doubt my fiancee added that correctly, as I finished 7-over. Which fulfills neither of my wishes: 1) win, or, if impossible, 2) get the highest score.

Yes, that was how I reacted yesterday afternoon. But then we went to the Cheesecake Factory. So, everything's ok now.

You Are My Sunshine

I've just started reading The Beginning of Wisdom: Reading Genesis by University of Chicago Professor Leon R. Kass. Kass is a professor largely of ethics and especially how it pertains to biology (two previous books - that I'll probably never be the least interested in - are Life, Liberty and the Defense of Dignity: The Challenge for Bioethics and (with James Q. Wilson) The Ethics of Human Cloning. But, being a well-rounded learner/educator - he regularly teaches classes on Plato and other foundational Western philosophy classes - he decided to tackle the biblical beginnings of Genesis to uncover the truths therein.

Now, despite the obvious flaws with which he would undertake such a task (most noticeably, once again using a Western [or, Euro-Centric] way-of-thinking to frame a religion that is largely dressed in Eastern - certainly Middle Eastern - garb), his - largely unskeptical and wondrous - approach and frame of reference gives casual and pious readers of the Bible (specifically, the Mosaic Law) reason to deliberately pause. Not out of doubt or cynicism, but as a way of re-approaching Genesis with a fresh perspective.

One such perspective came while Kass is setting up the creation story not as a chronological set but as a hierarchical setting. Kass argues that the further in the story gets, the more loco-motive the creations are (from light itself [which merely occupies space], to plants [which apparently don't move but only grow], to the sun [which moves among a track], to birds and fish [which largely move in rhythms of back & forth - i.e., migrations], to land animals [which move back & forth, left and right, etc. but are largely leashed to their natural ways of moving], to human beings [who can set and re-order their own paths and, largely, limits]), the higher-up they are in the natural order of superiority. In so arguing, he notes that most myths/religions place the superiority on the sun, which most clearly gives light and heat and life and so is first in priority of that which we can see (for without it, we could not see, right?). As a result, they worship the sun as the or a major god. Many cosmological explanations, Kass points out, involve sexual relations between celestial beings, usually including the sun.

What I get out of this is not the mere fact of the supremacy of man (although among all creation we are, based on any reading of Genesis because we alone are created in the image of God), but the supremacy of God's creative powers. God - in his authoritative take on the creation of the cosmos - does not need the sun - or any heavenly powers - to create light or warmth or life. My understanding is that, 1) he devalues the importance of the sun or any seeming other 'god' - which the Hebrews would come into contact with both in Egypt, in the wilderness and in the Promised Land - in order to emphasize his own abilities, his own God-ness; 2) he can actually do such amazing things, creating a temporary light ex nihilo (out of nothing) and then setting up a more substantial light source later, if for no other reason than to prove point 1.

Praise God, our ultimate source for everything that is good and life-giving. Praise God, who is so much more than the Other. Praise God, for he is mysterious and above us, but he allows us to see him and his ways.

Best Songs Ever, Anyone?

I'm thinking (to let you in on how deep we teachers think and meditate during our summer breaks) that there are two classes of greatest songs. First, there's the type of song where it doesn't matter who covers it, who sings / belts / screeches it out, it still grabs you by the collar and makes you hum / sing /belt / screech it out alongside - as best you can. Heck, even after Michael Bolton tries to steal it, you move along and that song still screams to you, "Sing me. You know you want to." Second, there is the type of song that was produced and performed in such an incredible way that it left an indelible imprint in your mind that the performance cannot be duplicated or excavated. No one, not even Frankie himself coming out of the grave with coolness (and flesh) intact could trump it.

Now here's my challenge. What are some of those commonly agreed upon songs. Following is a short list of my own; tell me what you think (add, subtract, come up with your own, etc.).

Of the first order:

1) Be My Baby (originally by the Ronettes) Check it out on iTunes; There's tons of less-talented singers, arrangers and all sorts that covered this classic. But the foundation was already laid in those larger-than-life drums that laid down the foundation for the Wall-of-Sound, that it's hard for someone to mess up in re-recording the song. Of course, no one else could sound like Veronica Spector (not Brian Wilson nor Joey Ramone even), but you can't blame 'em for trying.

2) In Your Eyes (Peter Gabriel) I've heard this in coffee shops sung and strummed by fairly competent players and just dropped my breath. Obviously, it gets me every-stinkin'-time. And since my fiancee has the largest, most beautiful eyes this side of anime cartoons, this is one even Bolton can try and fail to mess up. I could go on in my life without ever hearing his version, but still...

3) Time After Time (Cyndi Lauper) In a fruteria I heard this performed on the spanish radio. Sang right along, well, with the chorus - when I could figure it out. Sang along to this chorus with many people of many cultures and colors many times. Heck, sing along. I dare you not to. "If you're lost, you can look and you will find me / Time after time / If you fall, I will catch you, I will be waiting / Time after time." What is it about this ditty that keeps tugging at the heart?

Of the second order:

1) Good Vibrations (the single done by the Brian Wilson-led Beach Boys) I know Wilson tried to redo it on his SMiLES album. No. No good. I just don't think anybody this side of God himself could top this version of this song.
2) A Natural Woman (You Make Me Feel Like) (The inimitable but never duplicable Aretha Franklin) Actually, probably just about anything put out by this woman in the mid-60s through the 70s (including covers of well-known hits, like "Bridge Over Troubled Waters" and some Beatles songs) is probably a gimme on this list. But this song sticks out to me, for whatever reason. Heck, I think it makes me feel like a natural woman.3) You Are My Sunshine (No version even comes close to Ray Charles'.) "Ray
Charles does country?" People were also upset about Dylan doing country, but much like him, Charles never belonged to a subset, genre or particular pocket. However, Bob's the songwriter everybody else made famous, Ray's the dam*ed genius, unfolding for the world what Cash, Haggard, Nelson and Williams (the eldest) had been resigned to the underground for - the soulfulness of country music. God rest 'em all.

Emerging and Movement of Families

Generally speaking, I hate sharing news on the internet before I tell at least a few physically-proximate friends, relatives, etc. So, I really don't have any news on the whole marriage front. I still want it sooner than later.

School doesn't begin until the first Tuesday in September, and then it'll be nearly impossible for at least a month and a half to get anything else off the ground. (Such as that sweet tea shack I wanna open next summer. That'll be sweet. We don't have any sweet tea - to the best of my knowledge - on the Near North Side of Chicago.) Although, truthfully, I do have a lot of sick days (three weeks worth, honestly!) and all three personal days left.

Maybe after this weekend, we'll have more of an idea. Spending some time with her family. Speaking of la familia, mi abuelos are selling all their property (from the OKie state) and moving all their worldly possessions to the Philippines, where gramps is from.

So, another reason to make this fairly soon. And another possible vacation spot.

You're wondering who I am, machine or mannequin...*

This is for Christine Emilia Barnes & Noble, aka Kurisuteen Nakata, Jamaican cum Canadian cum Jewish-Christian observant cum black Japanese extraordinaire. Inspired by Bill Murray, our Li'l Miss Linguist is going to Japan to teach English to the masses.

Yes, of course it's obvious. Doesn't make it any less funny.

And remeber, if you see Godzilla, don't turn around until you're miles away. Then you can gawk.

*Yes, that's right. "Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto."

Speaking of which, I found this great short-form video of the Styx ummm, masterpiece. The other one I spotted was for the whole song and done by one singular, stay-in-the-basement-of-his-parent's-home kid. He really needs Mr. Roboto to help him escape. Secret, secret, he's got a secret.

I'm really liking this youtube thingamabob

Here's a Mars Ill video featuring Ahmad Jones of 4th Ave. Jones:

"More"

I checked out their myspace page today. They included mashups of a Jurassic 5 and an Outkast song. That took me by surprise. I just didn't figure that to be their style - like reverse mix-tapes.

"Sound Off"

In other news, I fried me up and fed me up a cheeseburger. It felt awkward, but as Micah points out, at least I didn't have to swallow it through a blender and a straw.

And may their first child be a masculine child.

My jaw's so big, I feel like Popeye. I'm talking a bit like him, too.

Just looking in the mirror, I look like Marlon Brando as The Godfather.

I have big, deep, gaping holes in the back of my mouth.

The gauze pads that I kept placing back there were turning a nasty dark red.

I haven't had anything to chew in a day and a half. I've only had half a cup of ice coffee and a little bottle of Starburst Smoothie. It tastes like you'd expect a Starbust Smoothie to taste like. Dang the options at Walgreens.

I'm not hungry, though. Haven't been. And I'm... how should I say this?... a good eater.

I just gurgled some warm salt water. Not as weird as I had expected.

I walked home from the dentist office yesterday alone. They put me under while they removed my wisdom teeth. I was understandably confused when they woke me up and dizzy for a while after. I walked to the pharmacy across the street, but they don't take credit cards. I walked to the bus stop, one came quickly enough. Which was good. I hobbled like a drunkard. But the bus, with its constant starting and stopping, made me nauseus. It's a good thing I only live a third of a mile from the dentist.

If they're called wisdom teeth, shouldn't we keep them in our old age? Wisdom teeth are wasted on the young.

I'm gonna eat a big juicy cheeseburger tonight, or I'll be upset.

She doesn't want that record. No, wait, I'm sorry, is she in a coma?

It's hotter than Gehenna out here. And I wanna send a shout-out to the fine folks from Gehanna, Ohio who came down for a week of working at our church this week. I got a lot of sun. Which is why I'm indoors right now while Jennie's walking in the park by herself.

I need some more ice coffee.

Continuing my earlier thread:

Best records so far of 2006 (I'll again try to limit this to records that were either released this year or that I just found out about this year. This would preclude either Sufjan album I bought this year, as well as that-little-album-that-could, The Beatles' 1.):

1) Danielson, Ships. I've already done a slight review / meditation a few posts down on this overlooked gem. (Why do I say it's overlooked? Well at least Gnarls Barkley and Sufjan Stevens get some radio play, as well as spots on the iTunes lists. [Full disclosure, I iTune a lot of stuff now, even though I don't own an iPod yet. However, I'm getting married soon. And if you're not very creative with gifts but have some extra cash on hand...]) I'll only add this extra bit, this album's got me wrapped around itself with its childlike melodies and complex, percussive, and often surprising orchestrations. Note, Danielson and related projects are available through Sounds Familyre Records as well as Secretly Canadian, so it should be available at your local li'l record shop. "Did I Step on Your Trumpet" and "Cast It at the Setting Sail" are available on their myspace page.

2) Ladysmith Black Mambazo, Long Walk to Freedom. Also wrapping around my head like a wet towel. I've also written about them and this album within the last few months. Many of the songs recorded here - if most or even all of them - were originally written and performed during the Apartheid era. In fact, one was written by a former - if not fully repentant at the moment - slave trader. That's just a slight observation I just made. Beyond that, I don't know Afrikaan nor any tribal language, much less South African tribal languages. I only say this because I don't do much world music. Unlike foreign-language films, there are no subtitles. But Ladysmith Black Mambazo has been in the back of my consciousness for awhile. In the mid-80's, they played a prominent role in Paul Simon's Graceland, which was all over the radio at the time. In the early nineties, Adam Again's song "Walk Between the Raindrops" addressed the murder of Headman Shabalala, one of the original members of the group. And in the late-90's, they joined with Charlie Peacock (a favorite of my formative Christian artistry years) to sing on a record produced by Steve Taylor (another favorite). And then I saw them perform Simon's "Homeless" on Leno or Letterman or whoever with Sarah McLaughlin. I iTuned the album the following day.

I have friends from Kenya that would blow me away every time they sang in Swahili. It's a certain polyrhythm that seems to rise just below the surface. I'm not sure it's a pan-African thing (I've felt that same experience with other West Africans), but LBM has the same effect, only with a more diverse and dynamic vocal arrangement. And with this album at least, they have great pop songs to go along with the arrangement.

3 & 4) Mars Ill, Pro*Pain & Pirate Radio. These albums are just now starting to grow on me. The funkier sounds off of their remix BackWaterProphets made that an instant hit with me. But, as mentioned, BWP is a remix of an already superior album. As begets the independently produced and released Pirate Radio and the finally released, and aptly-titled, Pro*Pain, both albums belie a decidedly hard-rock edge that Dust had been rocking (and I remember my misgivings on it on the last DeepSpace 5 record that he had a large hand in), with a bent toward B. B. King-styled blues on Radio. But the sound is starting to grow on me. They never give into cheesy Rick Rubin-stuff nor give in completely to just Anthrax-Public Enemy-rock-out, leaving plenty of room for their filled-in but definitely independent and non-mainstream hip hop sound. Although, as they say on "Pirate Radio", "They'll never shut us down / Revolution's public now / the signal's too strong / to keep us in the underground." If you haven't checked out Mars Ill yet, I'm ashamed. I have links all over the place, because I write about these underappreciated cats all the time.

5) Gnarls Barkley, St. Elsewhere. "Go-Go Gadget Gospel" sums it up pretty well. Cee-Lo has been known as a gospel-inflected proto-singer for the longest (why some critics seemed surprised by his pipes is beyond me. He came up with Outkast after all). Danger Mouse, the other collaborator in Gnarls, is the go-to guy in producing goofy, pop culture as attested to by his popular mash-up of the White Album with the Black Album and his previous collabo with a semi-famous rapper, Doctor Doom-obsessed MF Doom on The Mouse and the Mask - basically a commercial for Cartoon Network's Adult Swim. Their love for pop culture is referenced throughout, including "Transformer", which sounds like a Saturday morning in the eighties complete with 'toons and the ads for those 'toons and a lot of sugar, the title of the album and the duo, and well, you spot some of the others.

But this about the music. And as much as creepy songs like "Necromancer" and "The Boogie Monster" set my stomach churling, there aren't too many powerful pop gems like "Crazy", "Smiley Faces", or the honest and vulnerable storm that is "Just a Thought." Nontheless, the instrumentals at the end of the disk show just how necessary Cee-Lo's vox are to this mix.

It's the half-way point, people

Micah of Micah's World has reminded me that, this being just past the half-way point of the year, Bests of the Year So Far lists are due. And while going over his lists on books, movies and video games, I was struck with a few observations:

1) Until recently, I've bought a lot of books this year, but have not had much of a chance to read them. Actually, I'm loving my morning reading time (all of it non-fiction) and I should have a temporary list up soon.

2) Akelah and the Bee was cute, X-Men III was fairly thrilling (and chilling), Pirates: Dead Man's Chest was a joyride - as I mentioned earlier - that I can compare somewhat palely with Star Wars: Empire Strikes Back, and The Second Chance had snappy dialogue and a great theme to complement the fact that it was directed and co-written by a personal adolescent hero of mine. Yet none of the movies released this year have excited me, surprised me, challenged me, gutted me or imbued me with joy the way that Stevie, Kung Fu Hustle, Shaolin Soccer, Hotel Rwanda, or Napoleon Dynamite or even Luther has. In other words, there's nothing that I'm truly excited about at this moment.

3) I don't play no video games.

Wait, does Spider Solitaire count?

Yarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!

Superman Returns was - surprise, surprise - disappointing.

I am guessing though, that despite director Bryan Singer's claims to the contrary, he was merely settling in to do the sequel. Kind of like X-Men was little more than a long set-up for X-Men 2 - one of the better action movies of the last two decades.

And maybe like how Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl was a set-up for Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest. I'm with Jeffrey Overstreet on this one, DMC was a dark but thrilling second act. Although my butt didn't too much care for this other 2 1/2 hour slug-fest, it was an action piece that's got me wanting more moody, Empire Strikes Back-esque/carnival ride movies for the new millennium.

I'm a pirate, that I be.

Here's to hoping the next Superman is sublime and the third Pirates actually fulfills the ideal of the trilogy, unlike say X-Men III, The Godfather III or Return of the Jedi. (Damn you, Ewoks!)

You got a real purty mouf dere.

She said yes.

I'm engaged.

And we're gonna marry soon (though the date isn't set yet - and it'll probably be small).

ain't we just the cutest?
ain't i just the lamest?

And I didn't even have to jump out of the woods and snag her, a la "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." That's good, 'cuz it was looking pretty bad last year.

Drive (Still Unfinished)

sometime 'tween the beginning and the driving
we were trying for the very first again
a shoving, easy pulley out and in
like a baby had lost her legs
i don't know which way
i should turn this grin

somewhere 'tween the end and the bends
between the engine 'n' the lead
found myself pulling for breakfast
made room at the top of the drag
ice don't bear enough friction
spun camaro pulled
close into the snow

how often i travel faster than friction
would allow, being
found in the relationship of the grooves
and the gravel, pavement. it is loose.
before fact pulls its queen of fiction
before traction pulls its king of moves
and anticipation its ace of blindside
before the devil's secretary takes diction
i'm trapped between the curb and the side
no race, no movement

Click it or ticket, baby!

I hadn't been playing necessarily a conservative driver, but a generally cautious driver. And over the course of so many hours driving so high over the speed limit, I was doing pretty well during car rental week. Jen and I were traveling back from Northeastern Oklahoma. We left early in the morning, but because I goofed on the alarm, not as early as I wanted. And then we had to stop for gas. And then we had to stop because the sun was beginning to rise but I had neglected to wipe the windshield from its plaque of once-flying bugs. And then there was breakfast.

So, I wanted to get the mess out of MO. I had forgotten, though, that the mini-town we were doing business in is considered a speed zone (one of the few on I-44, fortunately) and that I need to be even more careful. Further, the sun was directly in front, obscuring my front view to the left. I didn't see patrol man until we were about a hundred and fifty feet from him.

Nuts!

I did what we all do in that situation. Hit the brakes and pray that the Man in blue is slow. I remembered that the town is a speed zone and so I maintain at 60 in the right lane. I look as much through my rear-view as I do straight ahead. I nudge Jennie and try to reawaken her.

"Honey, I think you need to get up."

"Huh? What? Already?"

"Yeah," I say slowly, as if I was practicing being careful with my words. In Chicago, you learn one thing. Be very careful with your words and tone talking to cops. It's something that I try to teach my suburban friends. But they don't listen.

He's pulling out of the median. He jaunts down the road, then speeds up a bit behind me. Then flashes.

"Honey, it's time to get up."

She hesitates.

"No, seriously. I'm getting pulled over."

A slow, careful turn over. Stop the engine. Keys out. Reach for my wallet and ID. It's a rental, but I'm wary of reaching over at the glove compartment around police.

"Good morning sir."

"Good morning officer."

"I suppose you know why I pulled you over."

"Yes, sir. For speeding."

"Do you know how fast you were driving?"

"No sir."

"Take a guess."

"Umm... [Pause] Five over?"

"Hmm... Five over 83, probably."

This is one of those rare encounters where what the officer relates to me is - while hardly an earth-shattering one - is a little revelation. I really didn't know how fast I was driving. And since he most likely clocked me before I even saw him, I doubt I was traveling faster - well, during this min-leg of the trip. The Will Rogers Turnpike is a different story.

"Sir, I'll ask you to leave your car and come back to the patrol car. And be careful on your way out, so that you're not hit by any cars."

Right.

He asks me to enter in through the passenger front seat. That - as far as I could tell - is a good sign. The lieutenant checks over my information on his network.

"Your car is an '07 model. I didn't even think they came out with those yet. Must be really nice, huh?"

"Mmmm... [How do I answer this tactfully?] I don't really care too much for it." That wasn't the most tactful answer.

Behind me is a grate with a little opening in the middle. I'm careful not to be too curious, but the stench and low grunts coming from the back aren't in the least reassuring. I'm hoping it's a dog.

"Oh, by the way, this is a K-9 unit."

"Yeah, I was hoping you'd say that."

"You seem kind of nervous."

"Yeah."

"You don't get pulled over much, do you?"

"No. It's been a while," and, I add, "I'm from Chicago." I pause. Should I have said that? I started wondering how far south the loyalty lines are drawn for cops. I would've turned up clean had he sic'ed the dog on my car of course. But it doesn't always work that way.

"Well, here's the deal. A ticket for speeding at your speed would amount to $250 [Crap!]. But, you know what, when you were coming down that hill, you were moving so fast and in that sunlight with the glare and all, I couldn't tell if you had your seat belt on."

Well, that's one thing I know I had. "No, I did." For once, I was sure of something. I didn't want to over-step my bounds in saying it, but I didn't need to get charged with something I didn't do. After all, although I do speed, I'm not reckless about it.

"No, wait, hear me out here. A seat belt ticket is ten dollars in the state of Missouri. Now, you can either accept the speeding ticket, or you can get the seat-belt infraction."

My conscience was chewing me up at this point. And if I took the bait, who knows what else would be sprung on me? Did he forget to mention the 'night-in-jail' clause?

"I can't lie..."

"Listen, let me make this perfectly clear here," he seems exasperated at my slow mental state. "It's either pay ten dollars for not wearing your seat belt or pay $250 for going over the speed limit. Now, I'm going to ask you one more time, were you wearing your seat belt, sir?"

I swallowed hard. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

"No sir. I'm afraid I was not wearing a seat belt," I phrased low and monotonously, old dog smell seemingly carrying my words to the lieutenant.

He made out the ticket, said the usual small-town cop-friendly stuff ("You're on your way home? Who were you visiting? It's not worth dying over..." something along those lines) and let me go, with another injunction to be careful entering my car. I legitimately thanked him - hey, it's a reduction of 240 dollars and keeps my driver's license fairly clear - and headed out.

Jen was all smiles when I returned.

"I saw you through the rear-view."

"Yeah, thank you. That's a comfort."

"You're so cute when you're in trouble, you know that? 'Ummm... Five over?'"

"Ha. Ha. Ha. You were just waking up!"

I re-organize the papers, ID, etc. As genuinely nice as he is, I'm in no hurry to be escorted down the interstate with the lieutenant behind me. Fortunately, a Mack hurries just to our left. The K-9 unit tracks him down. We carefully pull into the road and head out.

"'Ummm... Five over?'"

"Thanks, Jennie. Thanks."

Maybe Al Gore's starting to have an effect after all.

Interesting. I guess we (meaning American evangelicals) are not quite as backwards as everyone (and myself included there) assumes. Still, I'd feel better if our president (and leading denominations - I'm looking at you, SBC) would feel the pressure to actually do something about our melting, hurricane-prone planet.

Christianity Today Poll

Should evangelicals lobby on global warming? No, there is no such thing. 10% No, our priority should be evangelism. 13% No, the science is still unclear. 16% Yes, it is our job to care for creation. 34% Yes, concern for the climate is neighbor love. 8% Yes, we need to address all social issues. 14% I don't know. 4% Total Votes: 8288

Poll can be taken or viewed here.

I had considered being a little more in line with traditionalism...

So I was considering, among other options, the possibility of joining the Anglican church in the distant future.

But then there's those pesky Episcopalians. What's next for them? The first Christian denomination to allow a practicing Wiccan to become a licensed priest?

The Lord's Supper a la Peanut Butter Sandwiches?

Ships passing in the night...

Daniel Smith (the fearless leader of the decade + old Danielson Famile, Danielson Family, Bro. Danielson, Danielson Starship, etc.) and Sufjan Stevens are related. They play and sing on each others records. They record each other. Steven's records were released on Smith's label, Sounds Familyre. And Sufjan's relative breakthrough Seven Swans was produced by Smith, with his band (that is, the band that makes up the Famile wherein the members - much like the Ramones - have the last name. Unlike the Ramones, these guys are actually blood relatives) backing Steven and solely released on the SF label (I couldn't even find it on Sufjan's Asthmatic Kitty Records). And they make beautiful music together, relatively speaking of course.

It makes sense though. The reigning king of indie orch-pop would hook up and perform (live as well as in the studio) with a fellow believer and boundary-pushing indie artist who's also interested in atypical arrangements for pop music.


The difference is, Danielson seems more interested in a swirling asthetic of percussive instruments. But it doesn't seem much less arranged. Whereas Steven is a bit more laid-back and meditative (and neither would be confused for a folk-singer from the 60's - not this side of Bob Dylan), everything around Danielson- at least in his solo debut, Ships - seems to urge on and further. Xylophones, piano keys, drum kits, snares, triangles, even the strumming of guitars and banjos, the whole surrounding is every bit propulsive and percussive, as if life itself is a seemingly random series of poundings that, sounded together, is positive, life-affirming and quite harmonic. Multi-layered virtual choirs don't drown out, but rather emphasize his weird screeching falsetto (for some reason, it works for me, where Brian Wilson's recent attempts don't). And as Pitchfork noted in their review (9.1 out of 10), it is probably the most rocking independent record released all year.

There's also a doc on the Danielson collective searching for distribution, called, appropriately enough, Danielson: A Family Movie. Check snippets and news here.

BTW, if you wanna listen to some of Sufjan's soon-to-be-released Avalanche album, click here.

"A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" was sung where first?

Growing up, I was acutely aware of the dangers and evils of alcohol. My father, on top of being heavily epileptic, downsized and virtually unemployable as a result of the new economies of the late '80s and early'90s (that is, with nothing more than a GED) drove himself further and further away from reality under the influence. Without the histrionics and drama so prevalent in blogger-world (and sometimes within myself), his abuse of the spirits nearly destroyed our family and left scars on each of his five children. Although my father would quit drinking heavy alcohol before I finished high school and would move south with the rest of my family and eventually - with the help of 12-step programs and a believing and supporting community - be clean and sober, I swore off all alcohol.

I partly resisted out of fear, and partly out of common sense, and partly out of those emotional and visceral responses the very smell of alcohol imparted on me. The fear is that I tend to have what some might call an addictive personality, as well as a bit of a bull-headed way about me - much like my father, but without the intensity and the booze to bring it to fruition. The common sense is that alcohol just costs a lot. A lot of family needs were spent on my father's habits (of Old Style as well as comic books, btw). In addition, instead of seeking resolutions, many people I've noticed drink to escape their problems, not a healthy thing to do in the least. And then there was this annoying habit with a few of my better friends of talking about alcohol every time they consummed it. Probably the most boring thing I could ever imagine. I'd rather have my teeth filed down (which they need to be, by the by, since I wrestled with a preteen this afternoon and severely chipped my top and front two biters. Looks worse than it feels, but it sure is embarrassing). I stopped hanging out with them at bars, or really anytime they drank.

But all of that said, I am getting along in age. And I don't have a theological conflict with drinking itself (and neither did Jesus, St. Paul, David, or Martin Luther from what I can gather) but rather with the abuse of it. So, I've had some sips these last few months - with friends. Still most of the time I go to the bars I ask for orange juice. But I wonder if my first-ever bottle of la cerveza on Friday would get me expelled from the Southern Baptist Convention. That is, if I would ever became a member. Wasp Jerky has news that the SBC (the largest Protestant denomination in the US, with a stranglehold in my parents' current town and really, most of the rest of the South) has made a resolution condemning not just alcoholic abuse, but any and all use of alcohol.

It's nice to know that such movements are cyclical. Another ten years or so and they may be able to illegalize the selling, buying and consumption of alcoholic beverages - again.

All that's left to say is: Cheers to them.

What's going on in that pretty little head of mine?

Tomorrow's officially the last day of my first year of teaching, although I haven't taught a lick since last Thursday (gave out a short final on Romeo & Juliet Friday and showed the students movies while nerve-wrackingly trying to complete a year's worth of messy paper-work the rest of the time). Next week I'll be in the school for a credited and paying course in developing small school curriculum and what-not and trying to figure some organizational scheme for my class. So I won't be practicing the stereotypical teacher model of sitting in a beach in Brazil reading books for two months, certainly not yet. My roommate doesn't mind being a stereotype, though.

I wanna marry Jennie. Like, in a week. Seriously.

Last night: BBQ for co-teachers at one of the teachers' house. Nice. I got to introduce Jennie (who I had longingly bragged and bragged about for over half a year) a couple weeks ago at a dinner party we were more-than-fashionably-late to. This time, I got to introduce her to the rest of the skeptics. I don't think either of us are serious party-social people; we're both uncannily shy. But it's good to get out together. Yeah. I love her.

Books I am/will be reading:


Don Miller, To Own a Dragon: Reflections on Growing Up Without a Father. The title says it all, especially if you're already familiar with Miller's honest and witty self-reflections of being a Christian within a post-modern culture/society. I think it also says something that his name is just below center in the title, with about three times the font size as the title. The image is of a man's lips and soul patch in a sun-burnt pastiche. I anticipate reading some more of it tonight, because, as you can tell, I've only read four pages a couple weeks ago.

Actually, I've been pretty busy and fascinated reading Lauren Winner's Real Sex: The Naked Truth about Chastity. Needless to say (unfortunately) I'm also very challenged by this book and its claims. How chastity - the most Victorian-era sounding term applied to sexuality - is largely a spiritual discipline that needs to be practiced by professing, non-married (and, honestly, married) Christians everywhere. I would love to do a deeper meditation on this book and Winner's meditations soon, and may have that chance to. But the survey form here forbids that now. That sounded rather author-esque of me, no?

John Calvin's The Institutes of Christian Religion, edited by Tony Lane and Hilary Osborne. It would be an understatement to say that this is an abridged edition. The fact that it can fit in my already-stuffed apartment - much less my back pocket - would belie that. But since I don't have the time or patience to actually scrutinize my favorite theologian (at least I think he's my favorite theologian - in the same way Jesus is President Bush's favorite philosopher, I suppose), this is a good starting point. I don't care much for heavy editing of someone else's work, but if I'm gonna trust translators (and what choice have I there?), might as well trust the abridgers. (Besides, y'all know what happened when I publicly doubted the world-is-round camp, right? Judge and various pundits said I need to trust somebody. Might as well start here.)

Eugene Peterson's Eat This Book. It's another meditation (yeah, honestly, I've just been reading novel-length essays. Who wants to read a boring ol' plain novel anymore? Not me, I say.) on Christian spirituality done by the master himself. This whole idea of Christian spirituality has been on the rise within the last 15 years or so, especially in the posher suburban churches. But since it's a movement brought about in the good ol' commercializing U.S. of A., it's brought a lot of commercializing factors along with it (I think my favorite ploy is the Meditating Maze - or Labyrinth - used for a multitude of youth group functions). If there is a heart to this movement (and I believe Miller's been apt to shine a light in the general vincinity, if not fully selling me on it) - or better yet - if it's not so much a movement but a way of life and a way to live out life, Peterson's the one to be trusted to get to its underbelly. So, haven't started reading it yet, but looking forward to it.

There's other books, and one of my favorite reads as of late is the latest edition of Paste magazine, with its take on the 100 Most Important Living Songwriters (Dylan, of course, taking front row honors). I don't have that issue with me, but Wasp Jerky does a little take on it, complete with links and the list to satisfy you for the time being (assuming, of course, anyone's actually reading this, read this far, and actually cares). Love ya.