the weblog that wouldn't die

Inspiration is a wonderful thing, but it visits me only as frequently as I get haircuts. Case in point: I submitted to comb and scissors yesterday, and though my hair no longer blows in the wind when I stick my head out the car window (Which is less of a problem for me than it is for Mrs. Nelson, my ninth grade English teacher whom I look back fondly on. Hers was a chin length do, and though I'm convinced she was made of wax as she had great difficulty with facial expressions, I maintain that her hair still should've moved.), I'm pressing on. Back on topic. Writing, for instance, is only done (well-ish) when I'm relieved or sickeningly optimistic. I haven't the strength of mind to tear things to pieces when they truly need to be, such as in cases of severe depression where I've locked myself in the basement with fruitsnacks and my 'Summon the Heroes' cassette tape, vowing not to come out until the world adopts paradigms more to my liking. The clouds always part quickly a few minutes later, when my mother sends my sister to dangle a hunk of fresh meat at the top of the stairs taunting my hungry stomach and I trudge grudgingly upward to face the sun again. And for those of you wondering, yes that works even after I'm already filled with steak; my sinful gluttony knows no bounds. And when I'm truly full of rage, I'm much to preoccupied to chronicle the humor in my sitting quietly in the corner of my room humming Holst's Mars and carefully etching on the walls fantastic plans to make the rest of humanity as miserable as I am. It's unfortunate that I can never develop any skill as a writer because coherent words only flow freely when I'm hopped up on sugar or have just edged past a stressful breaking point in everyday life. Then again, if drugs can play the muse to some of the musician greats, who am I to say that sugar--two book deals and type II diabetes, three hundred pounds later--isn't mine?

Now combine this lack of divine intervention in my mental affairs with the fact that I squander the little I do receive, and one begins to understand my self-made plight. I'll take a moment to place blame here, namely on Lugash. I've also always been inspired to add a links bar like Carl's, but I read others' blogs about as regularly as others read this one, so I'm not sure what end that would serve, and thus don't do it. That I can justify. His recent switch to a drupal based blog, however, has caused a headache like no other. I at least used my own crappy CSS and free hosting to disguise my site, in order to avoid falling prey to pre-fab, something I could previously hold over his head, and his horribly ugly (Yes, Carl, I said it and I'll say it a thousand times more) blogger site. Allow me to slip into an alternate personality, the question talker, for a moment. Has his change inspired me? Yes. Will I actually put my inspiration to use? Of course not. What's with the periodic attempts to code, then? Do I only code when absolutely necessary, namely to maintain the thin veil of secrecy surrounding the question of whether I'm actually any more computer literate than the rest of my peers? Yes. And to make things prettier? But of course. Do I not find the joy in a problem-solving style of coding that even my own father can lay claim to? Apparently not. It's plain to see, I'm oriented toward creating problems rather than fixing them.

Obviously, were we to apply this to a career survey, I'd come out interior designer rather than architect. The irritating light fixtures guy at Home Depot rather than the electrician. Painter over plumber. Though that's one that I'm ok with; pulling out fetid clumps of hair from drains is mildly disgusting and something I'm loathe to do again. Though if a plumber were to argue that my fascination with eye surgery is also gross, I suppose the only appropriate response is touché. Getting back to the main stream of consciousness, copilot and mortician are listed on everyone's survey by default, and maybe it's just me, but that somehow translates to a little hope in leveling the playing field someday. If you're confused as to what that could possibly mean, I'm right there with you, so don't sweat it.

The sign to the nearby Rite-Aid reads something to the effect of: BUD 24PK 14.79 / SHOP EARLY FOR / SCHOOL AND SAVE. Is it just me or does that have implications well beyond the usual back to school sales?

There's also nothing more irritating or unnecessary than baby talk. I witnessed a man in the grocery store engaging in such vexation today, it sent me into a seething rage which could only be calmed by heading directly to the doughnut case and picking out another. To begin with, a child does not deserve to be talked down to that way simply because he, and apparently his parents, can't form proper words yet. In all honesty, I'm willing to consider silence a form of wisdom, thus rendering the child vastly superior in intellect to his father. Now I'm only speculating here, but considering the pained look on his face, he was overdue for an appointment with a change of diaper or he was thinking something along the lines of, "Look 'Dad'--and I place it in quotes because I can barely stand to address you that way due to your shameful display of bad parent-child interaction that forces me into wanting to disown you, sadly I did have to spell that out for you--right now, I'm going to take the high road and tolerate this. But just you wait, oh say, twelve years from now, when one night I decide to get liquored up and hotwire your used '97 Kia Sedona, the only thing valuable you have to your name even after a steady six year career down at the quarry after you cleaned up your drug habit, only to bail out a few blocks later just before I send it hurtling off an overpass, totaling it. You just remember that you deserve that, tit for tat, an eye for an eye. And likewise, when I come home with an uncouth middle-aged French hooker pregnant with my child, just two years after the aforementioned incident, and expect you to cover up the scandal, remember that you owe me for putting up with this. That's how badly this makes me feel. For all you know, this kind of parenting is already having a vast effect on me, someday causing me to travel down the path of exploring my own sexuality. And even you, no matter how stupid you are, realize the negative impact my coming home from a three-month European tour with a fiance named Jack would have. And I don't mean one of those sickening-cutesy girls that takes a male name to make up for some inadequacy or to somehow attract other males to the delightful prospect of having to explain everytime someone asks your significant other's name that you're not a queer. No, I'm talking Jack in all his manly lumberjack glory. Go ahead, keep this up. I dare you."

While running for refreshment the other evening in the hotel, I stumbled across a mass of participants in the National 2005 Bible-off, gathered in the area by the elevators. I don't actually remember the name of the contest offhand, but I would assume that the majority of you readers can muster up some image of what it is, namely a trivia contest. While tiptoeing by and listening to their strategizing and ruthless desire to "bring God glory" through a decisive victory, I decided that they couldn't possibly be worshipping my God. My God, to the extent of my knowledge--and I'm fully aware how blasphemous it is to presume to know God's thought patterns--would probably prefer that I go out and do the world a little good instead of proving myself the Bible trivia champ. Which is not to say He wouldn't be impressed with that as well, and I myself think people that can pull long passages of the Bible from memory (the keywords here being "when applicable") are pretty cool, second only to Jedi and photojournalists who will do anything to get a story and turn into heroes in the process of entangling themselves in whatever danger they're photographing. Maybe I'm just jealous because I remember how I barely did my Confirmation memory work, or maybe it's because those confounded kids from the Bible belt always seem to snatch the victory from the inner city kids, but it seems somehow twisted. Almost as twisted as turning the Holy Scriptures into gaudy publications disguised as teen magazines. Because all those awkward teenage boys, who once their outbreaks have cleared up and they're ready to play the field, really need the straight talk on girls from a youth minister who probably hasn't dated since he either knocked up and married his girlfriend at fifteen or well... never because he was too busy kindling the sparks of the holy spirit in between trips with his Motorcycle gang for Christ. I suppose that's a bit harsh and my unwarranted prejudice against youth groups and the like punched through the thin veil of patience I try to exercise, but honestly, makeup, dating, cars, "extreme" sports, or anything one would read in Brio or Breakaway (In the case of our house we had money for subscription to only one Focus on the Family publication, and my sister won the coin toss so I spent several awkward years of puberty perusing Brio at breakfasttime) has no place crowding out Jesus' words on their own pages. It's akin to painting a priest or pastor up like a harlot: it's in bad taste and good, God fearing people should have no desire to see it. I'd rather see the Bible in a special multiwork volume with the Koran and the Book of Mormon: Religous works as Bathroom Reading. And so you don't get too bored with any one work, they can mix up the chapters and throw in some nice woodcut illustrations of Jesus smiting Brigham Young or Allah and God playing Sabacc. Wait... solitare. I'm getting my alternate universes mixed up with the real one. I just don't understand whatever happened to smacking your kid around with a little doctrine or real Scripture instead of sending him on a spiritual quest through community service and all this generic feel good crap. Sure Jesus is your best friend, but he's also something vastly more than you can imagine. Scripture and doctrine are means of directing life in a way that anyone and everyone is capable. You don't need to update the Holy Word to meet our times or interpret it as something useful. It's vastly more powerful than people seem to think, it doesn't need to be tailored, God's done a perfect job of that already.

This does not tie into all the recent talk of the bully epidemic, but I'm making an attempt to move on. And I know, I'm a cynic and a jerk, but is it wrong to think that maybe kids need a little bullying? That it's not as big a problem as it's made out to be? Sure, keep them from breaking bones and doing lasting damage, but don't attempt to churn out each kid in a safe bubble, free of any possible psychological damage, effectively making them pansies who all have the imagined qualities of demigods, capable of anything. I'm not implying that it's necessary to knock children to the ground and steal their spirits and hopes and dreams, but maybe having one's lunch money taken once has potential to be a shaping experience. I just wonder if someday, with all this sort of "therapy" that kids undergo, if the coming generation won't turn out with a big ego and big mouth but no skills to back it up, much like myself. Equality is an absolute truth, that's a given, but people are all different, there's no way around that. And kids need guidance in an education, not constant reassurance and protection, the very point of an education is to enable a child to think for himself, to allow him to handle himself capably. Open up doors, for some kids even shove them through, careful of course not to break the child or the door, and make it so it's not necessary to hold their hands all the way down the hallway that unfolds. There of course will always exist outliers to be dealt with, it's just the way things are, and sometimes extreme cases call for extreme measures. It seems more logical then, that instead of blanketing the whole with precautions, energy could be focused to some degree in trying to recognize those situations, dealing with them directly. I know though, it's sometimes impossible to predict them, and this goes beyond bullying. It's possible that you're always going to have that one student who brings a gun or knife to school, even if he's the only in a group of thousands or millions. Somehow it seems wrong to treat everyone as if they're that one specimen, though the fear of the situation enables any easy justifcation of it. Better safe than sorry, even if it instills a crippling fear. Maybe it's cruel to encourage nature to play out on the playground as it will, but it seems to work out fine with slight corrections here and there on the part of our elders; find me a better and smoother means to an ends that still builds character and a functional citizen, and I'll gladly endorse it. I suppose I've moved on to bigger issues here, and everything's gotten a lot foggier as it starts to blend a combination of parents, teachers, and the whole of childhood education. And I shouldn't presume to know, I'm technically not myself a successful example, nor should I bother trying to place blame, it's not constructive.

The fate of world order is not at stake obviously, people find some new problem to dig up each and every day but human nature, both the good and bad, go right on through the centuries, equalizing things pretty well from what I can see. I guess one can can argue that people are less moral than they used to be, but one can pull trends and patterns out of almost any statistics, and just as easily argue against it. I think when it all comes down to it, the big picture doesn't change a whole lot. Humanity and civilization find a way to keep on going, and I don't think there's anyone who can honestly announce that they have a problem with that. It's a testament to God's greatness that even as far as we've fallen, he's brought us back to a level that, on the whole, is quite reputable. And while it's impossible to ever understand the concept of evil, even the ongoing struggle against it, it's comforting to know that there's no contest. Christ has already decisively won. It feels damn good to end things in the style of a Portals of Prayer devotion.

This post actually was meant as an attempt to start a running log of my past few days' vacation in medias res. It somehow turned into a bitter tirade, but thanks goes to the boy in the "Way cool believer" tshirt, as well as my recent but fleeting immersion into the current Christian music scene, for inspiring me. I hope I've offended someone in some way with something I've said. To the extent of my own self-awareness, my thoughts don't embody anything against God, nor do I encourage polygamy, though it's delightful to see that there are still some wonderfully misguided people. In short, I don't mean any ill by laying out some thoughts here, but the peppering of blasphemies above shows you I'm obviously just that much a jerk to not lose sleep over it if you mistakenly think I do.

Anyway, to wrap up the story, while I was coming back from vending, I had to tiptoe through the lair of the Biblenauts, and during the course of it I managed to drop my Etruscan burial urn of an ice bucket. I froze, uncertain of what to do, but feeling very vulnerable with a hundred pairs of eyes boring into me I quickly scooped as much ice off of the plush carpet and into my pockets as I could, and gave a shout out to Moses and the rest of the greats before scurrying off as fast as possible.