Under normal circumstances, I have a moral objection to karaoke. I'm convinced that karaoke might be a Japanese word meaning 'people who think they can sing like angels, but sound like circus seals.' However, with extended family visiting from out of town (cousins that Bekah hasn't seen in years) my wife hoodwinked me into going out with the family.
Did I sing? No. At least not with a microphone in my hand. While my moral objections would preclude me from stepping up to the mic, it does not excuse my ability to sing along as a member of the audience.
This is the first time I've "gone" to karaoke. There was one time that Jeff and I were eating in a Denny's and over heard some Japanese business men singing from an adjoining bar (one who was singing I'm too Sexy... filarious!). But that was more of witness by proxy, not actual attendance. So for my first true karaoke experience, I made a few observations. I've compiled those observations into a list of rules. These are rules that I think should be applied to anyone singing karaoke.
1. For all intents and purposes, Stairway to Heaven is the song that never ends. 2. So is Hey Jude. 3. Rockin’ Robin is a bad song choice when you are intoxicated. 4. If you unintentionally change the lyrics of Don’t Take the Girl to Don’t Take the Squirrel, you had too much to drink. Please take a cab home. 5. If your voice sounds like a tranquilized Fozzie Bear, you should not be singing karaoke. However, people will still cheer you on. 6. Don’t sing serious songs. 7. Singing as a duet or group is a great idea. The other voices mask any flaws in your own voice. 8. When the majority of song choices have been in the country and classic rock genres, Filter’s Hey Man Nice Shot and anything by Rob Zombie would be considered odd picks. You might think it’s a good idea, but it’s not. Trust me… it’s not. 9. Do not ever shout the words “I rock” during the instrumental break. Especially when singing a country song. Especially when the words “I rock” are the only two words that you didn’t slur. 10. If you sing a song by Hank Williams Jr, don’t be surprised if someone in the crowd mocks you. 11. Falsetto is not recommended. 12. Please, no Janis Joplin imitations… if you’re a guy. 13. If your singing voice isn’t that great, it is always better to follow the “holy poo that was atrocious” guy than it is to sing after the “hey she’s kinda good” girl.
There have been occasional debates about whether or not real men change diapers. I don’t know if there is a correct answer for that debate – no absolute axiom dictating the relationship between real men and really loaded diapers. I know men are (and should be) disgusted at the concept of manhandling a poo-filled Pamper. But I believe that most men are capable of setting aside their distaste for BM long enough to provide relief (and freshness) to their non-potty trained offspring. When dairy air begins to waft from the derriere of their bumbling baby, I’d assume that most men do not do what my father did: strap their child (and their putrid britches) into a car seat and drive across town to a friend's house to have the friend change the diaper. (ps, thanks Dad!)
For now I am working with the hypothesis that real men do change diapers. I am a real man and I change diapers. Now, my reasoning may be some sort of logical fallacy – perhaps a false attribution – but for now it is all I have. I am a real man who changes diapers. And I know I’m not alone.
When my brother and I were little, my parents made a deal: Mom handled the dirty diapers, and Dad handled the vomit. Not a bad deal. My wife and I also struck a deal when Christian was born but Bekah did not want sole responsibility for 100% of the diapers in our household... and I have a weak stomach for things that were once in a stomach. So we made a slightly altered agreement: he or she who smells it first changes it. That adjudication didn’t last and soon turned ugly. Before long, Bekah would ask me if our kid was poopy. “I don’t know, I don’t smell anything,” I’d reply. Then she’d shove baby booty in my face and say “SMELL IT!” Not fair. (But on a positive note, I got really good at holding my breath.)
We’re now working with a surrogate protocol. I change diapers when ever it is convenient for me to do the duty. The problem with this arrangement is that my definition of “convenient” is radically divergent from Bekah’s. I consider it conducive for me to be the changer of diapers if I am in the same room. Bekah thinks it more befitting for me to handle the soggy bottoms if I am within a five mile radius. I hope you see the same disparity that I have suffered.
Alas, I frequently have a soiled tush in front of me that is in need of changing. And, our tenure as foster parents have awarded us with a greater opportunity to experience the woe of excrement. (For six months this past spring/summer we had four be-diapered butts in our house. Graciously, we’re now down to two.)
I cope. In fact, in order to contend with this great effluent challenge I’ve dubbed the diapers after great horror movies. I’m not sure why I do this. It may have something to do with human nature's compulsion to name things. It might be my deranged sense of humor. Whatever the reason, diapers of my changing are often designated a title worthy of Hollywood’s Halloween horrors. (Oooh, alliteration!)
Here are some of the monikers I’ve given to my kids’ passings.
Something Wicked this Way Comes It Came From Outer Space The Omen Night of the Living Dead Ghost Ship Children of the Corn Nosferatu Army of Darkness Salem’s Lot The Sound of Music
OK, so that last one isn’t technically a horror movie. But if you ever walk through my front door and hear me singing “these are a few of my favorite things” you’ll know why.
I wish sweat would come in scents other than B.O. Like vanilla, freshly baked bread, or cedar. Then it wouldn't matter how hard you’re working. You might feel (and/or look) like poo, but at least you smell clean.
You’ve probably heard of them: animal whisperers. There’s a Dog Whisperer TV show. And the movie about horses. People who seem to be able to communicate with a certain species of animals. I’m pretty sure it’s a bunch of bunk from people pretending to communicate with our furry friends because they don’t know how to communicate with real people.
But if it were real, I’d like to be a hamster whisperer. I’d tell my son’s hamster to quit chewing on her cage.
I would like to be able to stand on one leg for a record breaking length of time. I don’t think my multi-tasking skills are polished enough to accomplish anything while standing on one leg. But at least I could say "Yeah?! Well... I can stand on one leg longer than you." I’m sure that would end any argument.
Step 1: You watch as home invaders rape and kill your wife and daughter. Step 2: The guy who killed your family goes free due to a flaw in the justice system. Step 3: You seek revenge. On everyone.
Sounds like a run-of-the-mill "vengeance is mine" movie plot. After seeing the 20% fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes, that is what I was expecting. I was anticipating a plot I’ve seen a million times: the everyman seeks vigilante justice when the legal system fails. Even the plot summary on IMDB states "An everyday guy decides to take justice into his own hands."
(WARNING: the following may contain some unintentional plot spoilers)
I was pleasantly surprised by the film, despite the grammatical error in the title. (It should be Law hyphen Abiding, not Law space Abiding. Sheesh.) Citizen starts off with a bang, like a baseball bat to the face. Actually it was literally a baseball bat to the face, but all things considered, I like the simile. The story begins through the eyes of the protagonist Clyde Shelton (Gerard Butler of 300) as he watches his wife die and daughter taken away. When the worst of the two criminals flops on the not-as-bad guy, we follow the case into court to watch the plea bargain play out, only to see Shelton in the background watching the evil dude shake hands with the prosecutor Nick Rice (Jamie Foxx from Ray, Collateral, The Soloist, etc). 10 years later, one of the two home invaders is at the end of his death-row sentence. The execution doesn’t go according to plan, and the murders (paybacks) begin. Shelton is arrested, thrown in jail, and continues to kill people from behind bars. Each escalating killing portrays a staggering work of genius and Rice (with police in tow) race to end the massacre and keep Shelton in prison.
Yet, to describe Law Abiding Citizen as the typical revenge flick overlooks some key elements.
1. The movie’s hero (anti-hero?) is not a normal guy. He’s a tinkerer (as one character in the movie states). With a little foreshadowing, the opening sequence shows him to be adept with electronics and robotics. As the story unfolds, we discover the guy is extraordinary, intelligent, and diabolical. While there is an element of righteous anger that motivates his revenge, there is also a mastermind design behind the brutality that could not be carried out by an "everyday guy."
2. Most revenge plots have one bad guy: the person who escaped justice. Once that person has been killed, the hero can carry on with their life in peace. Not this movie. The brutal killings of the two home invaders (the first one startling, the the second graphic – both disturbing) are just the start for this Citizen. The bad guys in this movie are not the people who first committed the crime, but the entire justice system. The courts are corrupt and Shelton wants to "bring the whole system down." So the scope of retribution span beyond the two thugs. It includes their defense attorney, the judge that threw out key evidence, the prosecutor that made a deal with the guilty defendant, the district attorney, the DA office’s staff, and the mayor. Whew. Talk about a hit list.
3. You’re never sure who to root for. At first we like Clyde Shelton. There is an understandable empathy toward his actions. We cheer him on as he tells off the judge during his bail hearing (people in my theater were clapping). We nervously laugh at his steak dinner and later at an exploding cell phone. But at some point, we no longer see Shelton as a grieving father, but a maniacal lunatic. Nick Rice is a workaholic who seems willing to sacrifice his family’s happiness for his own political ambitions. Throughout the movie he stands by his choices maintaining an "I did the right thing" defense when we all know he made the wrong decision. We want him to man up. Eventually we begin to see him as the hero. (I consider this to be great story telling as characters that are too perfect or too flawed are not believable.)
4. It bucks the traditional ending. The moment we expect (Shelton gets the same deal that Rice struck with the bad man at the beginning of the movie) never happens. We want Shelton to earn his freedom for a while, but then we begin to think he belongs in jail.
5. This is not a feel good movie. The first death looks like a clip from a horror movie. The second fatality is a sociopath’s dream. (We’re spared the viewing of the dissection, but we see the results and the gory details are described within the prison interview room.) The third killing is clinical. The fourth is excessively bloody and the next catches you off guard. The final body count is in double digits. The language is vulgar. The cinematography is sharp and gritty. The pace is unsettling and quick. This is not the type of movie you walk away from thinking "I’d do the same thing if a couple of drug addicts killed my family and got away with it."
My only complaint about the movie is the amount of detective work that Nick Rice accomplished. I understand there is a bit of research that prosecutors have to do to build their case, but Citizen had Rice riding along with the police to every crime scene, and to make every arrest. Well, that complaint and the bad grammar in the title.
Overall, Law Abiding Citizen is not one of the best movies ever made. But it is entertaining. And that’s what movies should be about. I give it 6 exploding cell phones out of 10.
I spent some time this afternoon at work listening to The 90's on 9. Something is not right with that station, and it took me a while to figure out what it was. The problem: it wasn't the 90's.
First was Give a Little Bit by the Goo Goo Dolls. That song was released in 2004 as a part of their Live in Buffalo CD/DVD combo. And it's not even an original song. The original version was released by Supertramp in 1977. After that was Kings of Leon's newest single Use Somebody. And by "newest" I realize the song is a year old, but it didn't start to get popular until this past summer. Neither song was recorded in the 90's. I know this because I know everything. Since the people that program your song selections have shown they know nothing, I felt it apropos to enlighten you to the shoddy job they are performing.
Maybe the 90's on 9 isn't the best moniker for that specific station. If you insist on playing music that did not exist during that decade, you should try a different name. How about "If you went to high school in 90's this is what you'd listen to if you were ten years younger and uncool." I know that's a mouthful but it's more honest than 90's on 9. When the title of your satellite radio station lies about the the type of music it plays, what am I to assume about stations with more cryptic of a name - say Watercolors or The Bridge. And if I want to listen to a little Lisa Loeb or the Crash Test Dummies or The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, should I tune in to 80's on 8? So pick a horse and ride it. Either truth in advertising, or more of those unknowable names like Backspin, Lithium, or The Loft.
You don't have to take my advice; after all, I'm not in charge. But it is clear that your being in charge capabilities suck. While scientists have not yet proven that I have better taste in music than anyone, you should take my word for it. At the very worst, my taste in music is superior to the dunces that are currently working for you. You should hire me.
Smokey... Hazy... What's the word I'm looking for?
10.11.2009
In the war of cooking bacon, the stove was winning. I couldn't tell the grayish tint in the air was a factor of my grease splattered glasses or the result of the bacon turning crispier than intended. Or both. The stove was taunting me; it was clear I was fighting a losing battle.
I had to do something before smoke started billowing from every corner of the house like fires from classic Saturday morning cartoons. That, and I didn't want to trip the fire alarm. Christian hates loud noises.
Fire safety experts recommend holding family fire drills so that you kids know what to do when the house is burning down. They recommend teaching younger kids to stay where they are so they don't get lost and disoriented in the smoke. It makes them easier to find/rescue. We don't have to worry about that with Christian. Every time our fire alarm has gone off he screams in terror. He is petrified and unwilling to move. I sometimes wonder which alarm is louder: the one attached to the ceiling, or the one in Christian's throat. I am positive that this is a traumatic experience for him.
Back to the burnt bacon.
The kitchen was filling with smoke. The oven fan wasn't helping so I cracked the kitchen window. No airflow. I needed a cross breeze. I walked out to the living room (also filled with bacon haze), and opened the window. Yes, I know the high temperature for the day was barely above freezing and two windows open would chill the house. But I did not want to set off the fire alarm. I'd prefer Christian not have to see a counselor about his fear of alarms when he's older.
It worked. Kind of. I prevented the dual alarm of Christian's shrieking triggered by the fire alarm triggered by the bacon I over cooked. However, The living room was still hazy when I called for Zu and Christian to come to the dinner table.
Leave it to a five year old to volunteer a synonym that you could never think of on your own.
"Why is it so foggy in here, Daddy?" Christian asked.
"Because Daddy burnt the bacon."
It's not smokey in here. It's foggy. And, for the record, the bacon was too crunchy for Christian's tastes.
I once saw a viral video from a public access show where a guy was painting while running on a treadmill. People would call into his show and ask "What the (bleep) are you doing?!?" And he would answer "I’m painting on a treadmill." "Why?" "Because I wanted to paint on a treadmill."
I wish I could paint on a treadmill. Actually… I wish I could paint standing still.
I'm a city boy. I grew up in the suburbs surrounded by hills and forests. My formative years were spent close to both the ocean and the mountains.
Prairies befuddle me. Flatlands depress me. I'm lost with out trees and large bodies of water.
I guess that's one of the reasons I never felt entirely comfortable in Boise. While it is close to mountains, the Treasure Valley is primarily situated on a featureless plane. It's too flat. And too dry. And brown.
In no conceivable context could I be described as a country boy. I thrive in chaos. I long for crowds and noise and bright lights. Punk rock & hip-hop and anything that defies the backwoods hillbilly.
I love road trips, but I always loathed driving certain stretches of northwest freeways. Eastern Montana, Northeastern Oregon, Southern Idaho, most of Wyoming.... rolling hills, big skies, and dry yellow grasses. Those vast expanses appear to be infinite and makes the cityscapes I love feel so distant.
Maybe I've been looking at that countryside from the wrong perspective.
This weekend, while driving back and forth between Moscow and Pullman, I noticed the same endless rolling hills that dominate most of the Inland Empire. Yet, I saw something different... and alluring. Those rolling hills with the patterned stripes of agriculture gained a hypnotizing quality I've never before acknowledged. For the first time in my life I'd admit these hills were stunning and amazing to see. It was indeed the amber waves worthy of our patriotic songs.
Maybe I'm getting softer now that I've passed 30. Maybe I'm beginning to see beauty in unusual places. I still prefer the city life - even if it is suburban living. But I may have gained a new appreciation for our area's rural scenery.
Wouldn’t it be awesome if your ears could whistle? You could play practical jokes on your coworkers. They’d ask “Do you hear that whistling?” And you’d say “What whistle?” They’d never suspect you because your lips aren’t pursed. If you were really good at it, you could talk with your mouth while whistling with your ears.
Then again, that frequent high pitched sound so close to your ear drum would give you a headache. Maybe it wouldn’t be so awesome.
Today, my office was a cornucopia of puzzling scents. The basement smelled like popcorn and curly fries (not surprising since the basement houses our lunch room and someone left an uneaten bag from Arby's one one of the tables). The elevators smelled like a combination of body odor and nachos. As bad as you could imagine a cheesy armpit to smell, the elevator was preferable when compared to the rest of the building.
The operations area smelled like poo. This effluent smell varied as you walked from one end of the building to the other; ranging from non-existent to someone-just-passed-gas to chicken-manure. I do not know the cause of the stank; it is an olfactory mystery. Before you assume I was imagining things, I must clarify one bit of trivia. I graduated from a school that had been nicknamed cow-pie high. My nose is attuned to putrid smells of methane, and I was not the only one to notice it. Thankfully the air around my desk was relatively free of derriere.
If there was one surprising haven within the wasteland assaulting aromas, it was the stairwell. The dank and dusty stench that one would expect in a typical stairwell was replaced with what smelled like vanilla hand lotion and chamomile tea. Again, I can not fathom the source of vanilla and chamomile. However, if I could find a way to move my cubicle into the stairwell... I would have done it.
A few weeks ago I gave a speech about goals. Not the importance of goals (I think we can all agree that goals are a good thing), nor on the act of setting them (which I think everybody should be setting goals for themselves). My speech was about accomplishing goals. Odd subject considering my track record of starting a million projects but only achieving a few.
It was about focus.
1. You can't focus on yourself. You need the emotional/material/financial support of others if you want to achieve anything remotely resembling greatness. 2. You can't focus on your competition or your obstacles. The things (or people) that stand in your way are distractions. While it's wise to know your limitations, you can't let it consume your thoughts. 3. You have to focus on the end result. The goal. You can't accomplish your goals if you ignore them.
Of course, the content of my speech was much more colorful and was illustrated by a story about kids playing in the snow and examples to support my three points. I'm sure some of my coworkers are beginning to view me as the office's own motivational speaker.
But I can't just speak those words without putting my own life behind it. I need to achieve some goals.
Recently, I'm finding more people in my life that write. Not just bloggers (which there are a few), but people who write for publication. One of my father-in-law's best friends recently published his first two books. My sister-in-law has a publisher and is waiting for her first novel to be released. Even my friend David is writing full length work (he and a cousin are competing to see who can write a better horror story by Halloween).
Here's my problem. I'm a "wow!" person (nothing to do with World of Warcraft). Jon Acuff talked about wow people on his blog once. Wow people are dreamers who have an endless supply of fantastical ideas, want to share them, but only carry out a small percentage of those ideas. His post is superb and you should read it. I have a couple of dozen story lines in my head. Chunks of plot and dialog. Characters (I promise it's not the voices in my head). There are several ideas (some of them might actually be great) but because of my WOW! personality, maybe one might actually make it onto paper.
I look at how long it took Miriam to finish her book. I did the math for my friend David and estimated he'd have to write an average of 3000 words per day in order to complete his horror story by October 31st. It is so much work. I'm not opposed to hard work. But I put in 9 hours a day at my office. And I need to spend time with my kids and my wife. Update my blogs (and facebook). Keep in touch with my parents in Cheyenne. And...
David and I talked about this about a week ago. To write like I'd really like to (and the way he'd like to write), it would be a full time job. I marvel at those pulp writers who turn out new books on a regular basis. The Dean Koontzs and Stephen Kings; the Tom Clancys and John Grishams of this world. The ammount of work that they have to put in to churn out story after story is staggering.
I don't have the capacity to sit at home and write all day. I do not have the financial flexibility to quit my real job and become a starving artist. But I do have a little time. There are fractions of peace where I can sit and write. (And for the record, my experiment this evening of trying to write at McDonalds while the kids played on the Playland didn't work very well... I got about one page worth written and spent the rest of the time trying to make sure the ogres [older kids] were not flattening my two preschoolers.)
But I do have a little time available to write. So I've set some writing goals for myself. I hesitate to publicize these goals; for those of you who are long time readers of this blog, you will know that previous goals I've posted here haven't turned out so well. (I haven't abandoned them... they're just "in process.")
It's almost as if by speaking of my goals, I am all ready dooming them to failure. But As I mentioned before, I can't focus on my limitations. And it's not about me... it's about my writing. And I need your support - in whatever way you choose to express it.
My goals: 1. At least two posts per week on this blog. 2. At least two posts per month on What's Inside 3. At least one post per month on My Life in Music 4. 1000 words or more per week for my non-blog writing
I know that in the grand scheme of things, 1000 words a week isn't much. If I'm aiming for a novel length story, it would take me four to five years to finish. But I'm hoping that I can increase my quantity as I find regular success in 1000 words.
How about you? For those of you that write, do you set writing goals? What kind of goals have you set?
Answer: 42. Yes, I know that 42 is the ultimate answer to the meaning of life, the universe, and everything. But it is also the number of ways that I can cook potatoes. And apples. There were apple trees in my yard growing up. And at my brother's house across the street. We had more apples than we knew what to do with. I'm like Bubba in Forrest Gump - talking about all of the different ways he could cook shrimp. If you replace the word "shrimp" with "apples" that would be me during high school. But I'm getting off the point. We were talking about potatoes.
Knowing 42 different ways to cook a potato can come in handy. From the time that I moved out of my folks' house in the fall of '99 through early '03 when Bekah and I got married, potatoes were one of the main ingredients in my diet. Mashed, smashed, and hashed (I know of at least 5 different varieties of hash browns). Sliced, diced, chopped, peeled, and cubed. Baked, pan fried, deep fried, barbecued, and eaten raw. Name it. I can cook a fierce potato.
But in my single and independent years, the official mascot of Idaho wasn't the only thing I ate. There were three things that were staples at my house. (four things if you include the crisscut fries from Sharies... smothered with cheese, chives, and bacon... with a side of ranch. But that kinda fits in the 'spud' category, and it technically wasn't at my house.)
My three staple foods: 1. The aforementioned potatoes. 2. Spaghetti 3. Nachos (speaking of Nachos... I have two funny stories about nachos. One that is funny in an embarrassing way and the other is funny in a you had to be there kind of way. I may post a blog about one of those two stories. I'll let you guess which one sees the light of day.)
The upside of such a limited menu is that it made grocery shopping easy. "10 pound sack of potatoes? Check. Pasta? Check. Meat? Check. Cheese? Check. Sauce? Check. Tortilla chips? Check. More cheese? Check. Oooh... Mountain Dew is on sale!"
And the downside? Well... I can't really think of a downside. It might not be healthy, but neither is eating nothing but Subway for a year and look how that turned out for Jared Fogle.
For three and a half years, that is what I ate. Nachos, spaghetti, and potatoes cooked 42 different ways. (although I must admit, it was more like 39 different ways back then... I've learned a few new methods from my wife.)
Why do I bring this up now? With JJ in the hospital, and Bekah staying there with our wee one, I find myself reverting back to my cooking skills of yesteryear. As I make mac & cheese for my older two kids... I make myself a plate of nachos. Tomorrow, I plan on something involving potatoes and a skillet (hopefully the kids will like it).
Someday, I believe scientists are going to discover a judging gene – a little code in the human DNA that makes us say crazy things like “Heathen! You’re drinking coke. Don’t you know all righteous people drink Pepsi?” The difficulty for geneticists in the research and discovery of this judgment gene is it’s abundance. It is a predominant gene. In fact, the existence of this genetic marker is so prevalent that everybody has it. (Except for Michael W Smith – he’s perfect.)
How do you pin point something so wide spread? It’s not like the swine flu (or as they say in Israel: the Mexico flu – pigs not being kosher). There’s no patient zero. Or is there? Remember “it’s the woman’s fault” Adam from the Garden of Eden? And since Adam was (biblically speaking) to pass judgment on another human – he’s a good person to blame for the gene of judgment. Even the name is telling: Adam – Hebrew for ‘man’ and a play on the Hebrew word adamah, which means ‘earth.’ Judging people is a part of mankind’s earthly nature.
Dang.
We all do it. We can’t help ourselves.
When Jimmy, Shane, T-dog, and I mocked/imitated the ridiculous postures of other drivers along I-5 from the backseat of the church van during our youth group’s road trips… we were judging them. The fact that I still refer to those other drivers ridiculous – over a dozen years later – shows that I’m still judging them. By calling gay guys ‘fags’ or referring to black guys as thugs we’re judging. When Joe Wilson interrupted President Obama’s speech to call him a liar, he was judging. And everybody who has been criticizing Kanye West for his stunt at the VMAs on Sunday is judging him.
What?!?! Did I just name drop the most arrogant person in the music industry? Why yes. Yes I did. And by calling him arrogant, I was judging him. See how easy it is to judge people. Piece of cake isn’t it.
This isn’t a circle of life, this is a chain of condemnation. Joe Wilson judged the president by calling him a liar. President Obama judged Kanye by (allegedly) calling Kanye a jackass. Kanye judged Taylor Swift by saying another nominee deserved the award that Taylor won. Judgment after judgment. We are all a bunch a judgmental individuals claiming a right that isn’t ours.
In the Bible, Jesus tells His followers not to judge people. That verse seems to be a favorite Bible verse for non-Christians. It’s the secular defense against judgmental Christians. Where Christians say “only God can judge me,” atheists say “don’t judge me.” This Biblical command is a universally understood truth: you shouldn’t judge people. Yet, we do it all the time.
Thankfully, this is not an arbitrary command where God says “do it or I’ll spank you.” We’re given the order, but we’re also told why. “By your standard of measure it will be measured to you in return.” So this isn’t an issue of ‘if’ but ‘when.’ We’re not left to wonder what will happen if we judge people; we’re told what will happen when we do. It’s not that we’re prohibited from judging, but encouraged not to. We are being warned that whatever method used to judge others will be used against us.
So if I say Kanye West is arrogant, aren’t I saying that I am arrogant? Wow. Or when another local blogger called Kanye a “rude bozo”, how does that reflect the person who made that statement?
What such negative judgments are really saying is that the person making the judgment is better than the person being judged. When someone says “Kanye is a rude bozo” I hear that person state “I’m better than Kanye.” What a horrible thing to imply. The truth is that we’re all fallible. We all suck equally. We’re all capable of mistakes.
Kanye West said something incredibly stupid. But I say stupid stuff all the time. The difference between us is he said something stupid in front of an audience of 27 million (according to the Nielsen ratings). My audience is much smaller. But what’s the difference between the impact of our stupidity? Kanye and I both have the power to hurt people with our words, so the amount of people watching doesn’t matter. Just because I have an audience of a couple dozen and he has millions doesn’t make me any better than him.
So be careful how you judge Kanye’s outburst. He’s just as human as you.
And maybe the lesson we need to learn is not to avoid passing judgment, but to change the way we judge. Give people the benefit of doubt. Always look on the bright side of life. Remember that mistakes are often the result of bad choices – not bad character. Don’t assume the worst.
We need to talk about it.
But… but… but…. Talking takes work. It takes effort. Yes. Yes it does. But it’s worth it. Can you imagine what our government could accomplish if they’d just talk about issues rather than arguing and throwing around insults and false accusations? (Remember when Sarah Palin said that her kid and her parents would have to face Obama’s “death panels”?)
Discussion is hard work, but it accomplishes so much more than snap judgments. That’s why Kanye’s appearance on Jay Leno is so significant. It would have been so easy for Leno to say “You were such a jerk. How can you live with yourself?” But that’s not what was said. Leno asked challenging questions without passing judgment.
So maybe scientists won’t discover a gene that makes us prone to being judgmental. But I’m still holding out for scientists to discover the difference between wise old men and crotchety old men. Because, if I had to choose, I’d rather not be grumpy when I get old.
ps. Kudos if you caught the Monty Python reference. Extra kudos if you caught the Hokus Pick reference.
Recently, I've discovered/realized/lamented that I haven't been reading as much as I used to. I am still reading, just not in the same quantity that I have previously enjoyed. That is sad. That requires a remedy.
So I've been reading more - or at least attempting to devote more time to the written word. Here's what I've completed over the last couple of weeks...
The Adventures of Slim & Howdy by Kix Brooks & Ronnie Dunn Brooks & Dunn are known more for their music than they are for their fiction, and there's a reason for that. They are fantastic song writers, but half-baked novelists. Slim & Howdy is not high caliber fiction - and it butchers English grammar. Where the book does succeed is in the art of storytelling. The book is believable as a collection of stories told by cowboys around some campfire. It's all tall tales from start to finish - entertaining enough, but I wouldn't recommend that Brooks & Dunn quit their day jobs. Unfortunately, it's too late for them to take my advice.
The Righteous Men by Sam Bourne This is a fantastic thriller that plays nicely to religious conspiracies that follows Dan Brown's habit of blending historical and religious studies into a fictional tale. Unlike Brown, Sam Bourne doesn't pass off the fictional as true and doesn't make easily debunkable (and outlandish claims) as an insult to the church. The Righteous Men starts off like any good book - with murder. It doesn't stop there. Through the course of sixty some odd chapters there are another 35 murders, a kidnapping, torture, beatings, and some crazy religious rituals. The story blends ethics in journalism, a quasi-christian cult, an extreme Jewish sect, and an attempt to jump start Jesus' second coming. While it is predictable in parts, it largely keeps you in the dark as to who's really pulling the strings. My only gripe about the book is when the main character (a reporter for the New York Times) drives I-90 through Cd'A. The narrator states that Coeur d'Alene would be a "fascinating stop" because it's home to the Aryan Nations. It's a fail in two counts - 1: the Aryan Nations headquarters wasn't in Cd'A - but in nearby Hayden, and 2: the Aryan Nations had been shut down for 6 years by the time the book was published.
Biggie by Voletta Wallace Supposedly, this book is Voletta's remembrance of her son the Notorious B.I.G. While it does shed some light on Biggie's life (although viewed through the rose colored glasses of a proud mother), it turns out to be more like Voletta's autobiography. It starts with her childhood in Jamaica, follows her to New York and chronicles her struggles as a single mother, teacher, and cancer survivor. The writing is simplistic, and occasionally harsh. Biggie's mom does reveal some unsurprising details of the life of Christopher Wallace before he became famous (like his fondness for food - says mom Wallace: "The name Biggie, he earned that."), but the narrative leaves out well known chunks of the trouble Biggie committed. She states that Big was out on the streets a lot, but never tells what he was doing. Perhaps this is a mother's naiveté, or it's willful ignorance. I suspect that Voletta is trying to build the most positive legacy possible for her murdered son.
And here's what's in my book stack (to be or in the process of being read)....
Tomorrow, my son (like many other kids in Coeur d'Alene) is starting his first day of school. Elsewhere across the nation, President Obama will be addressing school kids on the nap-time channel (AKA: C-SPAN). There's been rumors and fear-mongering about the content of the Presidents speech. Some say that he will be force-feeding his political agenda on our kids, and the opposing side say that those that don't like the President are racist. I'm not ready to jump on either bandwagon, but there's got to be some truth out there.
First I must say, my kid is safe. I'm pretty sure they will not be airing the speech in Christian's pre-school class... and even if they did, the speech will be over by the time he gets there. I don't need to worry about opting out my son. But what about everybody else. Is there a valid reason to fear this message of setting goals and working hard?
Well, I've found it - the President's secret agenda. Buried in the Q&A section of the US Department of Education's website, I have found the true evil of this administrations purpose for speaking directly to our children.
There. That's the agenda. Stay in SCHOOL. And what kind of schooling is the president referring to? Public schools - a state funded public institution. Such a socialist. He wants our kids to stay in a socialist educational system. It's a system that takes money from the rich home owners and redistributes it to the poor - most of those students aren't even old enough to pay taxes. And some of those that are old enough don't even have jobs. They are just milking our hard earned tax dollars.
Oh, yes. There is much to fear. Our kids should give up on their dreams now.
And if you think I'm serious, you are probably one of those that are keeping your kids home tomorrow so that they won't be brainwashed by the President.
The real fear is that school budgets are being cut. And there are those out there who believe that schools should be stripped to the barest of academic basics. Kids are not the only ones who should stay in school. Parents need to be there. And so should the community. Please support your schools. It doesn't matter if you have kids enrolled or not. Investing in our schools is investing in the future of this nation. Go out at watch you local high school football team, or buy tickets to a school play. If you have the time - volunteer with a youth program. If you have the resources - donate. These young minds are the greatest resources this nation possesses.
As a refresher, the four options were all things from which I've jumped: a moving vehicle, a plane, a bridge, and a cliff.
Truth #1: The New York Canal passes through Kuna Idaho. There's a spot just outside town that the canal is lined with cliffs on both sides and it is deep enough to dive into (feet first at least) and a boulder lined beach down stream that provided an easy place to swim to/climb out. Steve and Nate used to go there quite a bit, so when I started hanging out with them they took me out cliff diving. The recording studio that they recorded their first few demos was also in Kuna, so the water was rather inviting after a long hot day in the studio. Spending the day recording some fun music with friends, Mexican food at El Gallo Giro for lunch/dinner (aka linner), and capping the day off with a cool swim and jumping off cliffs in the warm summer sun... good times folks. Good times.
Truth #2: Highway 9 didn't always runs straight through Arlington Washington. It used to zig-zag through town and cross the Stillaguamish via West Avenue (which is now a dead end). Before West Ave dead ended, the bridge across the river paralleled a defunct railway bridge. The rail road is no longer in use, but the bridge still stands. On the south side of the river is Arlington Park. It's not much of a park - just a few parking spots, a bathroom, and a couple of picnic tables. But I used to frequent that park. I would climb up the rocks to a ledge under the old Highway 9 bridge and watch the water - it was the perfect place to sit and think. Shane, Nettles, and some of the other guys I used to hang out with like to go there on Sunday afternoons to swim. The water was cool, and the beach was fairly sandy (silty?); due to it's location (just west of where the South Fork Stillaguamish joined the main river) it was a great spot to swim. But the swimming wasn't the main draw... it was the abandoned rail bridge. Below the bridge, the river was deep with a slow current. Perfect bridge to jump off. No risk of being hit by passing traffic, and a relatively safe place to land (splash).
Truth #3: A friend of mine in Boise had some wealthy parents. For his 21st birthday, they paid for him and a friend to go skydiving... heh... just kidding. Never jumped from a plane. However, I have jumped from a moving vehicle. My brother, my dad, and I used to volunteer to work the Marysville Strawberry festival. For a few years, the three of us ran Market in the Park, a vendors fair in Comeford Park. On the final night of the festival, after all (or most) of the vendors had packed up their booths, Aaron and I, along with our friend Milton were cleaning up Comeford Park - loading power cords, traffic cones, and various equipment into the back of Milton's truck. We'd almost finished when we noticed a missed cone. I decided to try my best stunt-man imitation and as Milton cruised through the park, I leaped from the truck bed to retrieve the cone. The landing was not as graceful as I imagined.
So for the two of you that played along in the comments - you guessed correctly. Any one get it wrong?
In the beginning God created stuff. Then he created man and told man to name that stuff. This whole process of naming things is really a matter of dominance (real or perceived). God said we were to be stewards of the land and that we were to care for all creation. Man thought "I name it I own it." I don't know if God had Adam name everything because God thought man was the coolest thing ever created, or if God realized man's limited memory and knew that man could only remember what stuff was called if man gave that stuff a name.
"So the man gave names to all the livestock, the birds of the air and all the beasts of the field." And what began in the earliest of human history we have taken from a privilege and turned it into a right. We've made naming things an art-form, and we've mastered it.
Isn't it amazing how we've perfected this practice of christening things? Its started with flora and fauna but we didn't stop there. We name our kids (I'm pretty dang grateful for that one), we named the planets and stars and other celestial bodies, we named our diseases and ailments, we named our cities and countries, and we named hurricanes and mountains and canyons and crayons.
Today, new discoveries are dubbed by the person that found it. Whether it's a new insect, or virus, or comet - it is specified by whichever name given by the discoverer (usually a narcissistic ball of ego who lends his/her own name to the new thing). God forbid I ever discover a hideous ravaging disease - it'd be named plaugusnicholosus epidemis - eww.
But there is another denominating ritual that I find bemusing. Homes and cars. From Graceland to Neverland, the rich have given their homes names that represent their personalities. But even the not-quite-so-rich-or-famous have named their homes.
And then there's cars. We once named the beast of the fields; we now name the beasts of the roads. An old friend and former roommate of mine named all his vehicles. Ten years later I strangely remember them all: Carlos (I think it was an old Buick), Iceberg (a white Ford Escort), and The Rock (a beat up Ford truck). I only named one car - my first. It was an Acura Legend given the moniker Papa Smurf (it was blue & grey). The car Bekah drove when we first met had a couple of nicknames: Santa's Magic Sack and The Pregnant Roller Skate. Neither were practical names for daily usage. But since Papa Smurf and The Pregnant Roller Skate, we've not named any of our cars.
Why do we name our cars? Or houses? Is it so we can claim dominance over these creations? Or are we trying to make the impersonal personal?
Most that are close to me know that I'm a fan of Rob Bell's work. I know there are some that don't like him - and that's the cost of being a big name in Christian subculture (there's people that didn't like Billy Graham, but that doesn't lessen any of his accomplishments). I don't even agree with everything Rob talks about, but I still appreciate his work and the words he has to say. He makes me think. And I believe we all need to think a little bit more than we do now.
And sometimes that thought causes me to say random things. Like when I first started reading Velvet Elvis. We were in bed, Bekah was almost asleep, and I was reading. I nudged her and asked, "Am I a trampoline or a brick wall?" If you've read Velvet Elvis, this question might (emphasis on the word might) be a reasonable question. Bekah (understandably) was thinking this was some manly version of the "am I fat" question.
At that late hour the question I asked was too abstract and required too much explanation for Bekah to give a cohesive answer. But it is a question I believe all Christians should ask of themselves. In the first chapter of Velvet Elvis (Jump) Rob compares the ordinary items or springs and bricks; he relates them to how we express our beliefs and our faiths.
Let pretend for a moment that springs and bricks are our thoughts about God. They are not God, just bits and pieces of knowledge that help us understand God. Some people call these the tenets of the Christian faith; others call it doctrine. They help us to know the unknowable. These springs and bricks represent the same things: our belief that God is Love, that in Him we have hope, that He is the creator of all things, that He has planned our salvation from before time began, etc. Christians (I hope) share these beliefs - these little glimmers of the character of God. These hints of who God really is are our bricks and springs. The difference between the two items does not determine which is truer, but what we do with them is of the utmost importance.
Bricks are solid. They have one shape. They don't change. And they can be broken. Bricks are used to build walls. And walls are built to keep stuff in (or out, depending on your perspective). Through reading I got this idea that when you treat your understanding of God as bricks, you build with them. Once you've run out of bricks your wall is completed. You're on your side of the wall; for someone to come to your side of the wall they have to understand and agree with each and every one of those bricks. But what happens to this brick wall if one of the bricks are broken - or removed? The wall crumbles... and if the wall falls, what is left of your faith? So these bricks become something to fight over - to argue about. Eventually, you begin to spend so much time defending your bricks that you fail to invite people to stand on your side of the wall. Truth is that your side of the wall is better, but it's not very inviting. In the process of trying to understand God, you shut people out from God.
Springs are not solid. They stretch and flex. They can break under stress, but the general idea is that it returns to its original form after every abuse. In Velvet Elvis, Rob points out that springs are used in trampolines. Just like bricks are used to build up faith like a wall, springs surround and support the mat of a trampoline. Trampolines are fun for one reason: as Rob writes, "a trampoline only works if you take your feet off the firm, stable ground and jump into the air and let the trampoline propel you upward. Talking about trampolines isn't jumping; it's talking. Two vastly different things." What if one of the springs breaks or is removed? You can still jump on it can't you? So there is no need to defend a spring. You can see them, and try to understand them; and you know that your God is big enough to support you as you jump. But no one jumps on a trampoline alone. Inevitably, you invite people to jump with you - to share in this joy of reckless abandon. They don't have to understand how each spring works to jump. The more they jump with you the more they'll see God's glory revealed in those springs. More from Rob: "we invite others to jump with us, to live the way of Jesus and see what happens."
So, what is your faith like? Do you treat your knowledge of God like bricks? Or springs? Are you keeping those who do not share your faith on their side of the wall? Or are you inviting them to jump with you?
For those of you that read my status updates on Facebook, you may be worried about me - that I've flown off the deep end. Truth is that I was responding in frustration. I know that I should better regulate my emotional reactions, and for that I apologize. The reality behind my rants was born of the insults from a family friend who called me a socialist (which doesn't bother me) and a heathen (which puzzles me). She went a step further and indirectly called my wife lazy. That I can't accept as appropriate from someone who I know loves God with all her heart.
This from someone who has fed me and my family - whose sons I refer to as friends. Someone who I consider has an unshakable and admirable faith. Theologically speaking, I share the same beliefs that she does. Yet she attacked me because of my political beliefs. One of my bricks didn't match one of her bricks.
The truth in all this is that I don't have to be right. The political view that I wrote about isn't so important that it's worth calling people names. I have my opinions and my beliefs. But I could be wrong. That's the glory of Christianity - we don't have to be right about everything. That's why God tells us to reason together. That why the apostle Paul ministered through reasoning and conversation. We have to talk about it. Insulting people and tearing down their beliefs accomplishes nothing. Our nation is in turmoil. I have ideas of how our government could improve our plight. There are policies that I would like to see put into place. But I could be wrong. Maybe my ideas aren't that great. But it doesn't matter if I'm right or wrong because I believe that our God is bigger than the economy. I believe that God is bigger than Obama. I believe our God is bigger than bipartisanship. It's OK if I'm wrong. But I could be right.
Once I had my chance to vent, and shared my frustrations via Facebook with my cousin, and a phone call with my dad (two people I trust) I got to thinking about these bricks and springs. I know this dear friend of ours has a deep and rich faith, but I'd reckon it's a brick wall kind of faith. Thinking some more, I revisited that question I asked Bekah that night as she drifted off to sleep... am I a trampoline or a brick wall? Do I have the kind of faith that shuts people out? Or do I have the kind of faith that invites people to jump along with me? I hope I have faith like a trampoline. I hope I have a faith that causes people to think 'I don't know what he's got, but I want some too.' I want God to propel me upward as I temp logic and gravity. And I want to laugh in the joy that springs provide.
But sometimes I wonder. Am I jumping? Or am I defending my bricks?
What happened to our ambitions? Why have we let our dreams and aspirations disappear? Unfortunately, I too have let my hopes of a career in architecture fade into the quite routine of daily life. But unlike most, my dreams didn't die - they just changed. I still look forward to doing something with my life. Rational or not, I still have big dreams.
Wouldn't it be nice if, when we return to our high school reunions, all the kids that we grew up with have made a name for themselves? I would rather see my former classmates as CEO's doing volunteer work with the Special Olympics than a delivery driver going through rehab.
That's my dream, not just for those I went to school with but for myself as well. I believe that it is possible. I believe that everyone can achive living a life they always hoped for.
We need to learn to dream. Ignore the TV, the radio, newspapers, and anything that tells you how to think. Forget everything that you've ever learned and take a moment to imagine what kind of life you want for yourself. How did you picture your future as a kid? Ponder this daily. Pass notes, draw with crayons, play tic-tac-toe. Find something to laugh at every day. Start thinking creatively, and above all - dream.
As little kids we dreamed big dreams; we wanted to grow up and besomething. A rock star, cop, fireman, astronaut, pro wrestler, star athlete, famous actor, doctor - anything that had meaning in the eyes of a child.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?" It's a question you hear in classrooms all across America. Most answers are fairly predictable though you'll occasionally hear things like microbiologist, political activist, or private business entrepreneur. My answer was 'an architect.' And it remained my answer through much of high school.
Unfortunately, only a rare few achive those dreams. Somewhere between college and kindergarten those dreams turn into a faint whisper from a past that no longer exists. We are taught to be reasonable, not to be creative. We are told to stop climbing on the furniture and to quit playing with our food. In the process of education, imagination is lost. Daydreamers are heretics rather than visionaries.
Plans change. No one ever dreams of becoming the night shift manager at Taco Bell, yet some are forever condemned to that life. Giving up their childhood dreams for a name tag and a ridiculous uniform. They become a part of the masses; one of the many working their way up from minimum wage. They don't enoy their jobs but they still go, pretending to be content.
What happened to our aspirations? If we look at our lives, are we anything like the person we had imagined ourselves to be?
The health plan that Obama is trying to get approved isn't perfect. I'll gladly admit that it is a flawed plan. But I am in favor of reform. What Obama wants is better than what we have.
I didn't always believe that Universal Health Care was the best option. The notion of cradle-to-the-grave was ingrained when I was growing up. And all I was taught was the downsides (real or exaggerated) of a State run program - long lines, sub-standard care, underpaid/overworked doctors, socialized medicine equals communism, etc.
What changed? I'm not among the ranks of uninsured Americans - I've got a great health plan through my employer. Yet, I now believe America needs a single payer health coverage for all Americans. Why?
A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine asked for some biblical basis for my reasoning. Most Christians she knows are against Universal Care*. She doesn't fully understand their reasoning and wanted to see a different perspective. Here was (and is) my answer.
Sick people need doctors (Mark 2:17). Granted, HMOs and insurance companies didn't exist in biblical times, but there's no discrimination in Jesus's teachings about who qualifies for health care. The religious leaders of His time may have found certain people more worthy of healing than others, but Jesus made it clear - there's one group of people that need doctors: the sick. Age, race, economic and social status does not matter - and you can see that throughout Jesus' healing ministry - from lepers and lunatics to friends and family of his friends to the servant of a prominent military person and the daughter of a political leader. I don't think Jesus would approve of our current method of approving/denying care to people solely on their ability to pay, their medical history, or any of the number of reasons that modern American insurance companies use to deny claims.
We should not deny Justice to the poor (Exodus 23:6). One cannot read the Bible and miss the fact that God loves and demands justice. God is righteous and love justice (Psalm 11:7). Don't be evil and do good because God delights in justice (Psalm 37:27-28). God loves justice and hates all that is wrong (Isaiah 61:8). Do what is right, just, and fair (Proverbs 1:3). God requires you to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly (Micah 6:8). Our current medical practices are far from just, fair, and merciful - and in some cases it does more harm than good. When people forgo necessary medication because they can't afford it (or the copay is too high), when emergency rooms send away sick children with the "bring them back if they start vomiting" instruction because the kid has out of state insurance, and when the injured receive the bare minimum care because they are uninsured, the concept of justice is lost in American medicine.
Furthermore, God has a special place in his heart for the fatherless and the widow (Deuteronomy 10:18 & James 1:27). We must take care of these, and unfortunately the kids missing a parent or the man/woman who has lost a spouse are forgotten/ignored in our society. It is a godless society that does not provide the most basic care to it's orphans and widows.
And just for good measure, this concept of caring for other people's needs is not a new idea (Acts 2:42-47). We as Christians should not be opposing any legislation that encourages meeting everybody's needs. We should be modeling this behavior.
And in non-biblical support for why I believe what I do... read up on Maslow's hierarchy of needs. He's divided human needs into 5 categories - the two most important being physiological and safety. If those needs are not met, a person can not fulfill their other needs: social, esteem, and self. I believe that the government should provide (or at least make available) the first two. This includes things like food, housing, and health. Your social needs (love, affection, and belonging) and esteem (self respect and respect of others) should not - and can not - be provided by the government. This is up to your family, church, coworkers, and friends to provide. As for the final need (being able to do what you were born to do)... you're on your own.
*My friend is not alone. Most Christians I know also oppose Universal Care. It seems to me that many Christians fear anything resembling Socialism. I don't understand this concept of fear. Christians should not have anything to fear - If God is for us, who can be against us?
“I watched Selena last night and cried at the end. Actually… I started crying at the beginning of the movie because I knew what was going to happen.”
Time for a theatrical lesson. Stories that start with bliss and end in dismay are called tragedies. Stories that start in struggle and end with resolution are called comedies. I know that in modern culture “comedy” usually means “funny,” but in the purest sense of Shakespearian tradition – comedy means starts bad ends good. All that’s required to technically qualify for a comedic designation is a happy ending. Due to the nature of biographical and historical films (not to mention historically based fictional movies ehem… Titanic), these stories rarely end well. The majority of biopics would fall into the category of tragedy.
Example: Selena. She dies at the end – killed by an obsessed fan. By definition, Selena is a tragedy.
If you’ve been watching commercials (instead of fast-forwarding through them like I usually do) You may have seen U2 stumping for a new Blackberry phone. I find that amusing since they’ve also lent their talents to Apple for an iPod commercial, and Blackberries are big competition for Apple’s iPhones. But there’s a peculiarity in the commercial, and the song they’ve used has got me thinking...
What the heck?
Here are a few songs with lyrical blunders that have left me confused.
Starting with U2. I must begin with U2, because I’m a fan. Bono is a talented lyricist with a golden voice. Furthermore, he is a model humanitarian and an inspirational leader. Yet the title (and chorus) of the song used to pimp Blackberries is a little befuddling. “I’ll go crazy if I don’t go crazy tonight.” Really? So, if he doesn’t go crazy he’ll go crazy because he didn’t go crazy. But if he does go crazy, he won’t have to go crazy because he is crazy. So either way, he’s going crazy. And if you can make any sense out of that, you might be crazy.
The mid 90’s brought us an onslaught of femininity in music, championed by artists like Sarah McLachlan, and Jewel. While many of these women artists trended to the folksy adult contemporary sound, AlanisMorissette gave us the angry girl-scorned rock tailored for post-grunge alternative radio. While she made a name for herself with a hate-mail in song ode to an ex, she could also create some infectious melodies that would glue themselves inside that spot in your brain that cannot resist the urge to sing along. For example, her single Ironic. While it is a pop-gem (musically speaking) it is an epic rhetorical device fail. Irony is an incongruity between expression and the understood result. The only thing ironic about the song Ironic is the title. Most everything Alanis sings about is inconvenient at worst – or at best a mild annoyance. Rain on your wedding day – annoying but not ironic. Irony would be canceling your wedding due to rain on a sunny day. A no smoking sign during your smoke break – inconvenient but not ironic. A no smoking sign in the designated smoking area – ironic… and funny. A flying phobic man ending his first plane ride in a crash – tragic but not ironic. A flying phobic airline passenger saying a little turbulence and an emergency landing cured his fear of flight…. You get the picture.
Speaking of women in song… Carly Simon is a timeless artist – the classic example of a singer/songwriter. Yet, her biggest hit, and most recognizable song is enigmatic and slightly illogical. “You’re so vain, I bet you think this song is about you.” The identity of this vain subject is elusive – and one of Simon’s biggest secrets. That’s not what bothers me though, I’m disturbed by the notion that the person Simon calls vain is not really the subject of the song. Huh? Imagine a conversation between Simon and this vain person. “You’re so vain.” – “Yes I am… and I’m better than you.” – “I bet you think my song is about you.” – “Well, it is. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have called me vain.” – “But the song isn’t about you.” – “If it isn’t about me, then why are you addressing me in your song?” – “Because you think it’s about you.” – “But by saying ‘you’ you’re addressing me, making me the subject of your song. So yes, I am vain, and yes, the song is about me.” I’m sure Carly Simon did not think that through before she recorded the song.
There’s my top three “what were they thinking” songs. Did I miss any?
Usage: I was chilaxing all cool, shooting some b-ball outside of a school. When a couple of guys who were up to no good started making trouble in my neighborhood.
Name: nic Home: Coeur d'Alane, Idaho, United States About Me: Husband, father, and pop culture junkie. I write a lot, and occasionally play the guitar. And I fix other people's problems for a living. See my complete profile
