According to the Mayans we have 4 years left. Happy New Year!
Sorry for the header -- the history channel's negativity astounds me. Anyway, Just a little shoutout. I'll be hanging with family because, as my brother Drew put it, "I'm not driving around on amateur night." Brilliant. Here's a follow up to my Narnia Christmas post from Lord Somber. This is why I dig the Somber one -- he gently checks me, unapologetically, and I generally learn something from it. People who expect you to grow are a good thing. This is a good article, all about how the "mainstream" (I don't even know what this means anymore...) media, for all their promotion of diversity of opinion -- and their willingness to lynch those they see as not sophisticated enough to do the same -- is remarkably closed-minded when it comes to deviations from their version of diversity. I know, it's a contradiction. Try explaining that though and you risk concerted efforts to besmirch your good name. Never argue with small-minded people of any stripe. Just tell them they are entitled to their opinion -- I think I'm going to read "Crimes Against Logic" -- smile and walk away.
For the record, I recognized the similarities between the Narnia stories and the Scriptural stories but didn't even know what an apologist was until I was in High School. That's what I mean about not understanding the allegory -- allegories are literary constructs and I just hadn't learned what those were when I was 8 or 9. Keep me in line Somber.
Happy New Year people. Be safe.
UPDATE: Just to round out my CS Lewis postings, here's the first paragraph from the third book -- the one Disney just dropped financially -- and one of the very many reasons I love this writer:
"There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it. His parents called him Eustace Clarence and masters called him Scrubb. I can't tell you how his friends spoke to him, for he had none. He didn't call his Father and Mother "Father" and "Mother," but Harold and Alberta. They were very up-to-date and advanced people. They were vegetarians, non-smokers and teetotalers and wore a special kind of underclothes. In their house there was very little furniture and very few clothes on beds and the windows were always open."
Dear Lord God of everything that is pure and delicious in this world, thank you for the small blessing of a week off from work. I will fill it by looking for work. Ironic, no? Also, thanks for powdered sugar covered date-nut treats (thanks T) and for people willing to pray for my success in both procuring new employment and quitting the devil tobacco. I promise in the coming year to live more within the individual moments of life and will try not to ruin things by worrying about them. Also, keep the loved ones near and afar from danger and financial instability. And help me figure out how to make it all flow with laughter and self-awareness and to open my mind a little more so I can see that frustrating situations are generally the ones with the most potential for growth.
I'm out and amen. Stella and I are going for a walk around the block.
Here's something I'm totally not opposed to and for you music lovers, I made a little compilation of fun music I like. Thought I'd pass it along. It makes for a nice "mixed tape."
What the World Needs Now -- Cracker Swing, Swing -- All American Rejects Jenny Was a Friend of Mine -- The Killers The Wagon -- Dinosaur Jr. Don't Look Back in Anger -- Oasis Float On -- Modest Mouse Far Behind -- Candlebox Sugarfoot -- The Wallflowers
Just because they're awesome. Savor the love. Funny story: When I got home last night in the wee hours of the morning, my hands and arms -- particularly the left set -- were killing me. Like arthritis achy. I started freaking myself out thinking I was maybe having a heart attack -- yes, I know but my brain is a very powerful manipulator -- until I remembered that I had been holding, carrying and generally wrestling with babies/kids all day and my forearm muscles and hands are just unaccustomed to that. I have a new respect for moms.
When I was a kid I read all of CS Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia. A couple of times in fact. I loved them and was blissfully unaware they were Christian allegory until much, much later. When I discovered the metaphor I put them away for awhile because I put all of the rules of my upbringing away for a while until I could make a few mistakes and get a feel for what it meant to sail alone. And feel it I did. It is both a blessing and curse to be a sensualist; that is to say, to need to feel and experience everything before I believe it. This aspect of my being has led to a great number of the little wrinkles I see in my face today. But it has also led to a person who shocked an old high school friend last night by not being the most cynical person at the table. Oddly, for me anyway, tribulation led to hope and a general positive outlook that life can be handled. And there's always help there for the asking.
I say all that to say this: I saw the newest CofN movie last night. It was my favorite of the books because there wasn't one heroic character from any book I read or film I saw that I did not fall hopelessly in love with. It never mattered what they looked like -- it was the heroism I loved. And Prince Caspian, purrr... And the movie was so, so good. I love the symbol of Christ as the Lion. It's my favorite of all the manifestations of God on Earth. Lewis tapped that in me young, even if I wasn't aware of it yet. I wept -- hard -- when the closing song started at the end of the movie. I offer it to you now. The words hit me on so many different levels at this time in my life. I just swim in this song. Bob, this is Regina Spektor.
Merry Christmas all. I love you.
Regrettably, I inadvertently hit the manual focus button on my camera lens so all my photos of rocking it out with the hometown girls in East Atlanta last night (we are the kind of crazy people who go drinking on a Tuesday. So you know.) are severely out of focus. I post them anyway because at least one of them is still kind of cool looking. The problem has been corrected (thank you Landers) so clear photos should be on the horizon. I apologize for the blurry. But then, that kind of was my perspective last night (martinis. ahem.) so they may actually be more appropriate than some polished version of the evening. Cause there really was nothing polished about kickin' it old school at the former Ayn Rand bar. Good times.
Can I refill your eggnog for you? Get you something to eat? Drive you out to the middle of nowhere and leave you for dead?
I got a new phone so pardon the cruddy quality of the picture while I figure out how to make pretty pictures with it. I want to introduce you to Elvis Candy Present. Back in the mid 90s, one of my best high school friends (some of you may know her as Annette) and I decided that we would no longer exchange Christmas gifts because it was a hassle trying to figure out what to get and Annette always felt bad for regifting me. So, in order to assuage her guilt and give me a smidge more time wherein I could refrain from making any kind of decision, we purchased Elvis Candy Present. Elvis Candy is a tin of Russell Stover Chocolates -- still in the original shrink-wrap -- that Annette and I exchange at Christmas time. When she has it, she wraps it and gives it to me. When I have it, I do the same. It doesn't happen every year, just when we remember. I've had it for about three years now so I think it's time to let it live with her for a little while again. This kind of gifting makes for awesome Christmas card notes. "So you won't have a blue Christmas" or "A Happy Holidays (said in Elvis voice)." We made a pact that if we both make it to old age we're opening that tin together. By that point the chocolates will be dust I'm sure -- I think the sell-by date is around 1996 -- but we'll laugh about how that tin of dust kept us friends all these years.
Annette, Elvis is in the mail.
And I totally and completely agree with this post. I've never seen the two minutes following Clark shooting down the snow hill with a trail of fire coming from his saucer sled because I laugh so hard I can't see through my tears or hear over my howling. I think he ends up in a Wal-Mart.
Here's some more synchronicity for ya: My brother recently referred to our family as "Chex mix" because my great-grandparents on my mother's side were straight from the motherland Czechoslovakia (my mother corrected my brother immediately and said, in no uncertain terms, that we are "Slavic, not Czech" [Slovaks specifically] because apparently that means something to the cultural groups in that part of the world. Although a joke, my mother was going to make sure we understood the inconsistency in the argument. Because that's how she rolls.)
Anyway, yesterday, when I got to work, someone left a huge mason jar of Chex Mix on my desk, all gussied up in a Christmas ribbon.
I'm having trouble decoding the meaning of this coincidence. Any ideas?
And here's a pretty damn amazing a capella version of my favorite Christmas song because 'tis the season.
I love when things like this happen. Some people don't care about coincidence -- or they take note but focus on the randomness factor. I however, view coincidence as nothing less than synchronicity -- which I think differs in connotation if nothing else -- and I tend to pay close attention and am always comforted by what I perceive as proof that I'm on the right track.
So thank you Jonah Goldberg, for reminding me of a few basic truths while I fight the urge to panic.
Goldberg worked for the American Enterprise Institute and I've had their position openings page pulled up on my desktop for about two weeks now, having recently made the decision to really give a good run at think tanks. Obviously, none of these things constitute any kind of done deal. Just maybe the beginnings of a direction, a path. And, as if to put an exclamation point on the end of the phrase "Don't Panic," a good friend randomly (...) called yesterday and is helping me refinance my mortgage which could lower my monthly payment and potentially sever my ties with CitiMortgage, something that is tantamount to turning one's back on the devil.
Andy Dufresne: That's the beauty of music. They can't get that from you... Haven't you ever felt that way about music? Red: I played a mean harmonica as a younger man. Lost interest in it though. Didn't make much sense in here. Andy Dufresne: Here's where it makes the most sense. You need it so you don't forget. Red: Forget? Andy Dufresne: Forget that... there are places in this world that aren't made out of stone. That there's something inside... that they can't get to, that they can't touch. That's yours. Red: What're you talking about? Andy Dufresne: Hope.
and then today I had to let a certain young man -- who thinks I'm too old to understand his humor -- know that I remember Steve Carell from his days on the Daily Show and that The Office is new school and, therefore, less hilarious. Because that is the rule of cool.
Some people get their kicks stompin' on a dream -- The Chairman of the Board
My office is schizophrenic. It is never comfortable. Always too hot or too cold. Freezing today. But whatever. Such is my life lately -- buying a house as an investment and the market crashes, graduating from a master's program and seeking new employment and the recession hits. I cannot get a break. Waah right? I know. But it's my space and I'll write whatever whatever I want, okay? And, ultimately, I'm a believer so I know there are things going on that are unseen by me that are preparing me for whatever path I'm supposed to travel. Lately, yes, it's true, I've been panicking a little. Not attractive. But I feel like I've been waiting my whole life for -- God, I don't know, for something. And I feel inadequate sometimes, okay? But one interesting thing is that I may have finally gotten to a place where, when I'm feeling vulnerable like this and the predators come -- you know the ones. They smell the blood in the water and just -- well they don't attack exactly. They just, usually subtly, hit you at your weak spot. They enhance your feelings of vulnerability and inadequacy for their own agendas, whatever those may be. Sometimes just for fun. -- Anyway, I've gotten to the place where I can just tell those people to leap. I've always been challenged that way. But I'm better at it now.
So leap you people with bad intentions. I have no use for you and will entertain you no longer. Also, and I'll write more on this later, it's not that I don't like you. I don't know you well enough to dislike you. But I did observe some actions that indicated a proclivity toward bias and I'm not a fan of that quality, especially when people abuse their relative power by showing favoritism. It's just an opinion of mine -- obviously not everyone has such a problem with this particular character trait. But I do. It doesn't equal "dislike" however. It's just something I know about you and have catalogued. C'mon -- haven't you done the same thing with me? It seems to me you have. Maybe before I did. And therein lies the problem.
Amen for small miracles and bless you Junior for the funny you sent me. Stuff like this -- and I'm very serious -- is sometimes the only way I make it through the day. And I love ya for it.
Happy Birthday Lou. I'm so proud of you for taking care of business and not letting people push you around -- I've never been as good at that as you. It's one of the things I always admired. Also the time you chased that football player down the hall in high school and beat the crap put of him for taking your Santa hat. And the time you wrecked your car at the softball field and calmly rolled your eyes at me while I crawled out the window screaming at you. Also that you had the courage to take on responsibilities most people your age would have shirked with a shrug and never thought about again. Also that you've picked up the academic mantle again and are attacking it with the same curly-haired passion with which you refused to share your Nilla wafers when you were 4. The same passion that makes you an incredible cook, a loyal sister, a protective mother and a rabid survivor. I've known my whole life that no matter what's going on between us -- and we have had our moments, haven't we? -- that if I called you crying at 4 in the morning and needed your help you'd crawl out of bed, grab your keys, get to me and ask whose ass needed kicking. And I'd talk you out of it -- I always do -- but only because I know that the one time I might actually say yes, go take care of that, you would. And that's enough.
You know me better than anyone else on this earth -- 17 years sharing a room does that -- and that's unsettling and calming at the same time. It's also the perfect laboratory for growing unconditional love. And I love you that way sis. Always have, always will.
Busy, busy, busy. To the point of exasperation actually. But I did meet this guy yesterday, which was thrilling because I fell in love with his writing 5 or 6 years ago while working as a reporter when a fellow reporter told me about this book (you know who you are Kiwi Shana).
He said yesterday he was through writing tearjerkers and would only concentrate on writing stories that make him laugh aloud. I heard that with my bad ear. And he talks like he writes. He told a story of how the only thing he really feels like he's never been able to do is live up to the other men in his Alabama family. For illustration, he mentioned a fight he had as a child on the school playground, where neither he nor the other boy could throw a punch because it meant getting suspended. His foe called him a name so he swung his arm from low down, around the hip, and slapped the boy as hard as he could in the face. And the boy looked at him and called him the same name that had started the fray again. So he kept slapping and the boy kept repeating the slur until he said his arm "gave out." Thus endeth the fight.
"But I know what my grandaddy would have done then," he said with a deep, mischievous, Alabama grin. "He woulda switched hands."
Okay look, I can appreciate that you feel sorry for him. I'm sure seeing me all the time makes him feel like a schmuck -- but you know, you tend to feel the way you act and karma is a bitch. I could drop the details of the schmukyness but that doesn't really benefit anyone and it's all in the past. Things worked out as they should.
But let's get something straight: it's not pleasant for me either. The reminder of getting treated like that -- and being too big a wuss to actually stand up and crack some metaphorical skulls -- is something that I could definitely live without. But I've worked really hard to better my situation so I can, at last, be really free. And I'm working on not being a big wuss anymore, too. I've spent a couple years plugging away with that goal in mind. And I'm frustrated by the waiting for the harvest, even though I can almost see it -- it's been off in the distance for a while, peeking over the horizon and I want it to get here more than you. Trust that if nothing else.
So please, please, can you stop using the situation as your own personal amusing diversion and just let me get some decent work done? Since you don't seem to care how that will benefit me, think of how it will benefit him. No more reminder, no more guilt. And you can feel good knowing that you helped make a difficult situation easier, not harder. That pillow at night is a lot softer when you feel good about your day. I'm hopeful you'll end up being reasonable. But, in the event you just can't do the right thing, know this: you, like the rest of this nonsense, will be survived. It's just how I roll.
Zimmer hooked me up with some new music. Russian punk rock lets me bitch slap my demons (see above). Here's a video of one of their songs that went somewhat mainstream on, I think, a Target commercial.
My step-nephew-in-law (I'm pretty sure that's what you are...) played this on the baby Grand at my parent's house on Thanksgiving Day.
I won't see the movie -- It would break me. It would. -- but the music is haunting enough. It's one of those pieces that could serve as the backdrop for anything poignant, haunting, confusing, frightening, etc. Like what's going on in India for example. Speaking of, here's Hitch's take. Hitch and I don't agree on a very long list of things -- he's atheist and tends toward socialism to name a couple -- but he's a great writer, perceptive reporter and has spent a lot of time in that region of the world so I listen when he speaks of it.
An impressive thing about India is the way in which it has almost as many Muslim citizens, who live with greater prospects of peace and prosperity, as does Pakistan. This comity and integration is one of the many targets of the suicide killers, and it is another reason why firm, warm solidarity with India is the most pressing need of the present hour.
As for Requiem for a Dream -- I'd love to do a weird modern/lyrical dance to it. Hint. Hint.
Zimmer hooked me up with some new music.
