I am on Sabbatical

If you need me, the temple guard knows where I am.

He may not say…

Roller Coasters and My Third Decade

Didn’t intend for this to become as self indulgent as it did…

Yesterday, I read a bit of trivia about a roller coaster called the Top Thrill Dragster at Cedar Point in Sandusky, Ohio. It travels at 120 miles per hour. When I read it, I thought, “I don’t really have a desire to ride that.” I used to love roller coasters. I’m not sure when I lost the love of them. I didn’t witness an awful roller coaster accident, no maiming, no beheadings, not even someone puking. I also didn’t just wake up one day and think, “I no longer love roller coasters.” I suppose it slipped away without my knowledge sometime during the past four years, since my last trip to Six Flags in Dallas. A trip that, by the way, I enjoyed immensely.

I’m not sad about it, but it certainly is perplexing. I don’t have a fear of roller coasters now. In fact, I would still enjoy going to an amusement park with Jennifer, or a group of friends, if that was what everyone wanted to do. It’s just that my preference is to do something else. I don’t know what happened. Age is the only thing I know to attribute it to.

Still, when and why does one just stop loving something at any particular age? I’m certain that there are other things I formerly loved and which I outgrew. Never before has it occurred to me to analyze such a situation. Maybe the analysis in itself is a sign of my age. Understand, I don’t feel old. Just more reflective, less brash. Maybe it’s why, from statistics I’ve read in the past, poets do their best work in their 20s and novelists start theirs while in their 30s. I’ve not read any author biographies, just articles about biographies.

But, given my own experience, I think there is something to it. I am fortunate to believe that I have very few regrets in life and, so, I enjoyed my 20s. Although, and while I’m not quite halfway through them, my 30s have been wonderful. I feel as if I’ve finally shed the last bits of impetuousness, and need to bend the world to our personal point of view, so prevalent during youth.

Other people probably realize this much earlier in life, but the other thing that I’ve learned, during the past few years, is that I cannot control the emotions of others. All I can I do is treat them with the respect deserved by all humans, and, for family and friends, with love – Sorry Jesus, I haven’t quite learned to love others – maybe in my 40s? – or maybe respect is what Jesus meant by loving all people. That’s for a different post, though.

Shameless Advertisement – House For Sale

If we can sell our current one, we’re buying a different house.

If you are familiar with it and know someone who is interested in the area, let me know.  Or, feel free to give my phone number to anyone interested.

A few details:

1094 square feet.  On a street adjacent to Cammack Village.  2/3 bedrooms (we currently use one as a dining room), 1 bathroom, large living room, remodeled kitchen.  Hardwood or tile throughout.  Large backyard deck.  Several large trees in the yard – oaks, pines, and something else – sorry, I’m not a botanist.

It truly is in great shape.  I’ve enjoyed living there for the past 4+ years.  We weren’t really looking to move, but a house that we’ve always liked in Hillcrest became available.

Spread the word…

Are Instructions Really Necessary?

I noticed this yesterday on the outside of a toilet paper dispenser:

Pick Your Brain

I hate that figure of speech.  What does it even mean?  The mental picture I get is not good.

In fact, when someone says it, I’m usually reminded of my junior year of high school when I took anatomy and we dissected Myrtle.  That is the name my lab partner and I gave our cat.  She was a gray tabby.  I definitely prefer dogs over cats.  Still, who wants to cut open a cat’s body and poke around in it.  Myrtle came to us sealed in some sort of plastic, her legs stiff and stretched out.  I can still almost smell the pungent formaldehyde-like preservative when we cut the bag open.  It permeated everything, including the clothes I wore for the 3 or 4 days I spent with Myrtle. 

Anyway, I’m not against dissection in general.  I know there is real benefit gained from it by those training to work in medical professions.  I just don’t want to do it.

In all cases, however, I am against the phrase pick your brain.  For Myrtle’s sake, and mine, please don’t use it.

One

It’s probably my favorite song ever. As if the original U2 recording isn’t enough, have you heard the Johnny Cash version? It breaks my heart.

Is it getting better
Or do you feel the same
Will it make it easier on you
Now you got someone to blame
You say one love, one life
When it’s one need in the night
It’s one love
We get to share it
It leaves you baby
If you don’t care for it

Did I disappoint you
Or leave a bad taste in your mouth
You act like you never had love
And you want me to go without
Well it’s too late tonight
To drag the past out into the light
We’re one but we’re not the same
We get to carry each other, carry each other
One

Have you come here for forgiveness
Have you come to raise the dead
Have you come here to play Jesus
To the lepers in your head
Did I ask too much
More than a lot
You gave me nothing
Now it’s all I got
We’re one but we’re not the same
We hurt each other, then we do it again

You say love is a temple
Love a higher law
Love is a temple
Love the higher law
You ask me to enter but then you make me crawl
And I can’t be holding on to what you got
When all you got is hurt
One love, one blood, one life
You got to do what you should
One life with each other
Sisters, brothers
One life but we’re not the same
We get to carry each other, carry each other
One

I Have a Blister

It’s on my right hand, on top of my ring finger. ON TOP! People are not supposed to get blisters on top of their fingers. I acquired this beauty on Sunday afternoon when I mowed the yard and raked leaves. I realize that I should have raked the leaves last fall. But I hate yard work. For details about my yard raking habits, see this post.

Apparently, I was holding the rake in some convoluted manner that rubbed the top of my finger. I didn’t realize that it was rubbing until I had raked and bagged about 3 large piles of leaves. By that time, the top layer of skin – the epidermis, I think – was completely gone and the exposed area was virtually brown with bits of leaf and dirt.

I didn’t attend to it until I finished the job. When I did, I trimmed the skin back as much as possible so I could get all the dirt out. Then I gently scrubbed it with soap and warm water. I hoped that would clean it. It didn’t. When I dried my hand, I saw that the blister was mostly still brown. Reluctantly, I soaped it up again and scrubbed about as hard as I could stand. I know it’s only a small blister, but pain and I are not friends. The fear of infection is the only thing that spurred me on. Thankfully, after scrubbing, the dirt and leaf bits exited down the drain of our bathroom sink.

My finger throbbed. I put hydrogen peroxide on it – increased throbbing. After the peroxide dried, I slathered it with antibiotic ointment. Periodically yesterday, I again coated it with antibiotic ointment. Today, it doesn’t hurt except when I bend my finger as far as it will go toward my palm. I know because I tested my finger’s mobility once this morning. I haven’t tried that again.

I think it’s a little infected, there is a small red ring in the normal skin around the blister. I’m just hoping that the antibiotic cream does its thing over the next few days. I don’t want to go to the doctor for a blister of all things.

I’m soft. It’s just one more reason I hate yard work. I should probably wear gloves.

When I am King…

The following will not be allowed:

1. Loafers with tassels.

2. Loafers with woven leather. My friend Catch refers to them as wicker shoes. That is an accurate description of how they look.

Anyone wearing loafers with either tassels or woven leather will be fined $50 for the first offense. Anyone wearing loafers with both will be fined $150 and jailed for 48 hours for the first offense.

Freedom Must be Exercised Cautiously

When I started this, I intended to write something else entirely. But, as is often the case, it evolved as I wrote it. Because it cannot, as a simple summary of one aspect of my beliefs, be exhaustive, I almost didn’t post it.

With that in mind, here’s the thing: Lately, it seems I am continually pondering death. Not in the sense that makes people think, “Oh my, he’s thinking about death a little too much. I’m sort of worried about his well being because he may be depressed.” Well, I’m not. For whatever reason, I am the sort of person who rarely gets depressed. I’m sort of chronically happy. Rather, I’ve been thinking more about why we experience death and how it impacts the family members and friends of the deceased.

I first became preoccupied with it a couple of weeks ago with the deaths, in less than a week, of the grandfathers of three different friends. My obsession continued with the deaths of family members of two co-workers, and culminated this week with the tragic news of the Virginia Tech shootings. I’ve been hiding from it, trying not to consider it. To hopefully exercise my demon, I’ve written my thoughts about the old bastard.

After some serious cogitation, I’ve decided that questioning why we die and why we have to endure the deaths of those we love is really the same as questioning why we suffer, sometimes needlessly and senselessly, during life. The latter is a question that actually precipitated a crisis of faith for me so it’s something that I’ve considered rather extensively.

The only conclusion that permits me to reconcile God’s existence, as described in the Bible and in which I firmly believe, with what we experience as humans, on a daily basis, is that God is not responsible for everything that happens on Earth or in our lives. In other words, God is all knowing, but not all causing. This conclusion is not my own, it is one I first read about in the work of C.S. Lewis, specifically in The Problem of Pain, and later in the work of Annie Dillard, especially in For the Time Being. Both books are now among my favorites.

But to say that God is all knowing, but not all causing creates an additional problem. If he is in fact omniscient and allows senseless suffering to continue then he, in contravention of his billing in the Bible, is either cruel or lacks the ability to stop the suffering. I do not question God’s omnipotence because, otherwise, why am I here and, more importantly, why am I asking all these questions about God’s nature (for additional, although not exhaustive, thoughts on why I believe, see this post). Which leaves cruelty. Is God cruel?

I say the answer is no and find an explanation in what Christians refer to as original sin. Years ago, Adam screwed us all when he chose not to follow God’s commands. If you are not a Christian, the thought of suffering because someone, thousands of years ago, took a bite out of some damned apple probably sounds more than a little crazy. Well, in actuality, I think the story of Adam and the Garden of Eden is metaphor for the freedom of choice given to each of us: the freedom to make something of our life or waste it completely, the freedom to love God or not, the freedom to love others or treat them cruelly, the freedom to do what is right or wrong.

Whatever you believe about sin, and about redemption, that’s the bottom line: we do not take actions in a vacuum. Good or bad, everything we do always impacts others in some way, big or small. My freedom can quickly become another person’s fate.

It’s a Shame About Wally

Let me start by saying that I am sick to death of all the drama (pronounced with a long A in the first syllable) surrounding the Razorbacks. Once upon a time, almost everyone in Arkansas loved the Razorbacks. I’m sad that everything that has happened in Fayetteville – about which we’ll never know 100% of the truth – has divided the Razorback nation.

With that in mind, I still read what I can find about the Razorbacks. They have always been a part of my life. It’s not something that is likely to change, even if the current situation is disheartening. Unfortunately, Wally Hall figures prominently in what I read about the Hogs. No matter your opinion about him, he always has something interesting to say.

I just wish he would say it correctly. For instance, while reading his column today, which begins with comments about the divided Razorback nation, I was thoroughly amazed to find that, in the fifth paragraph, he uses the non-word reoccurring. That’s right sports fans, the Assistant Managing Editor, Sports of Arkansas’ only daily newspaper managed to create the word, a post about which I wrote only yesterday, right there in print for the world to see. I was so disgusted that I didn’t even finish his column.

Wally, here is a tip: Don’t depend on the spell check in Microsoft Word. It doesn’t catch some mistakes and the misuse of reoccurring happens to be one of them.

Incidentally, if you want to witness the abomination, you can check it out here.

A Small Victory

Yesterday morning when I was still half asleep, I opened the dishwasher to get a clean coffee cup off the top rack. As I reached in, I bumped the middle finger of my right hand against the business end of our apple slicer. I realize that apple slicers are not sharp, at least not sharp like knives. Still, I immediately yelled out in pain. Then, I looked at my injured finger in time to see blood pooling in a thin, short line along the tip.

I’ve hated that apple slicer for some time because, in the tiny crevices where the sections join together, bits of apple take up residence after every use. Those bits are almost impossible to get out. I always ended up scrubbing it, taking up more time than if I had just sliced the apple with a knife. So, when I cut my finger, I had enough. I grabbed the slicer and walked it to the trash can where that god forsaken gadget met its timely and, proudly for me, unceremonious death.

For a few seconds, I reveled in my victory. I laughed at the fact that there was nothing the apple slicer could do to fight back. Mostly, though, I celebrated the thought of slicing an apple with a knife, the way my grandparents did it. The way, in fact, my parents still do it.

But then, I realized that I was rejoicing about conquering an inanimate object and went on about my day.

Rampant Usage Errors

In my particular field, the word realty is used often. It’s a good, short descriptive word to use so that everyone immediately knows that the property is not personal or intellectual. I like it. What I do not like is when people butcher it by pronouncing it reel-u-tee. It is a two syllable word; no uh in the middle is necessary.

Along the same lines, another word I often hear in my chosen profession, usually to refer to rent or tax payments, is recurring. What I do not like is when people butcher it, if that is even the correct term for mistakenly using a word that doesn’t even exist, and say reoccurring. People, the word is simply recurring. Again, no uh is necessary anywhere in the word.

Leroy Sievers

Leroy Sievers is a professional journalist who has cancer.  He is a fairly regular contributor to NPR’s Morning Edition which is where I first heard of his fight.  He also writes a blog called My Cancer.  I love his frank tone about the disease.  I heard an extended interview with Sievers today on NPR during which readers called in to speak to him and to praise his blog.  There were also some studio guests who have contributed to the blog.  I loved hearing the testimonials about how he has helped others cope with their own cancer and that of their loved ones, and how he has inspired them to continue the fight.  His blog is here.

The Real Price of Attending a Small, Private University

Disclaimer:  Before you read any further, know that I chose John Smith’s name, and his church, randomly. I don’t know if there ever was, is now, or ever will be a John Smith in the position of Senior Pastor of the First Baptist Church of Omaha.

For some reason unknown to me, I thought today about the alumni magazine that my university publishes two times each year. From time to time, if the subject is someone I know, I will read one of the articles. Generally, though, I leaf through it casually. But before I toss it in the trashcan, I always, always read the section titled Class Notes.

The section reminds me of high school reunions. While I didn’t go to my own, I did attend Jennifer’s with her. A few weeks before the reunion, one of the class officers sent out an information packet. Along with the normal information about where the reunion would occur and other similar matters, a short biography, highlighting each person’s life since graduating from high school, was included. I presume this is a fairly standard way to approach high school reunions, and I’m sure it helps people get reacquainted with one another.

Class Notes is like that – Only TWO TIMES each year. It’s ridiculous. I always wonder why people submit information for publication. Don’t most people who care to know what is happening in their lives already know?

The part about Jennifer’s bio for her high school reunion that I didn’t already mention is the content itself. Several months before we received the packet, I remember helping her write it. Her class graduated only around 30 seniors and, because she was one of only a handful of people to have attended and graduated college, she was especially careful not to seem boastful in her bio.

Not so with the majority of those who submit information to Class Notes. I can’t accurately assign a percentage, but I guess that around 85% of the people are all about bragging. To make it worse, they are often bragging about a position they have received at some church. For instance, a note could read, “John Smith accepted the position of Senior Pastor at the First Baptist Church of Omaha, Nebraska. John and Laura Leigh are extremely excited about this opportunity.” How is that news? I do not give a rat’s rear end about your prestigious position as Senior Pastor. And, John, why doesn’t Laura Leigh rate her own Class Note? I’m sure she is hard at work having your babies. Next time, consider writing, “While I go to work each day, Laura Leigh is home, hard at work, raising our three children. I’m very grateful that she has sacrificed her career so that I may pursue my own.” Now that, I would like to read.

If you have gotten this far without thinking I’m ridiculous, it probably has occurred to you to ask why, if I hate Class Notes so much, I continue reading them. It’s a good question. Primarily, I read them for entertainment value which, I suppose, is a little cruel.

If it helps my cause, I do recognize that some people don’t intend to sound arrogant. In fact, not long after I accepted my current work position, I updated my information on my university’s website. The people who publish the magazine automatically took the information I submitted and printed it in Class Notes without asking my permission. It read, “David has moved to Little Rock and accepted the position of ________ with ____________.” That’s it. Nothing else. Nothing about my wife, of over ten years, leaving her job of more than three years and moving with me. Nothing about how I like to believe that my work position doesn’t define me and that I would much rather discuss travel, or music, or movies, or books, or anything else besides work.

Anyway, I know several of you who read my blog attended the same university.  If you did, you know what I’m talking about. Be on the lookout because I think I’m going to start submitting things about Zoie and Sadie. I wonder if they’ll publish what I submit? For instance, I may say, “Zoie’s treatment for hypothyroidism is going very well. She lost most of her hair initially, but it has now grown back as thick and curly as if she were still a puppy.” Or, “Last week, Sadie chased three squirrels out of our backyard without barking once, and she hasn’t bitten the mailman in over a year.”

Day of Mourning

“Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?”

–From Bluebeard by Kurt Vonnegut

Bluebeard is one of my favorite books.  Vonnegut definitely had something to say.  He will be missed.

Amy Winehouse – A Recommendation

Yesterday, I stopped by Target to buy a gift for a wedding shower that Jennifer and I are attending later this week. On somewhat of a lark while I was there, I bought Amy Winehouse’s latest CD Back to Black. It was released in the United States on March 13, 2007. Although I have read several glowing reviews, I have been reluctant to buy it because, according to the reviews, musically the collection most closely resembles the music recorded by the girl groups of the 1950s and 60s. I deeply respect that music but there is very little of it that I want to listen to on a regular basis.

To compare Back to Black to that music, however, is not fair to Winehouse or the girl groups. To be sure, Winehouse does honor that music by incorporating many of its elements. But her music is vastly updated, most noticeably rhythmically and lyrically. The rhythm is modern enough that a couple of tracks, as presented on the CD, could be pumped out through the speakers on a dance floor. The lyrics are extremely well written. With them, the greatest distinction from her predecessors, is the topics she frankly, but not vulgarly, discusses such as rehab and sexual encounters.

Anyway, I’ve only had it since yesterday and have listened to the entire disc four times. I can’t get enough. But, if you aren’t familiar with her music, don’t take my word, stop by Winehouse’s website and hear some of it for yourself.

Update – I was just listening to the CD again.  I shouldn’t have said that she isn’t vulgar.  She is in parts, but I still think she’s a good lyricist.

Grindhouse – A True Experience?

Fair warning: Really long post. Also, I use some profanity. I assure you that it would not be the same without it.

Late Sunday afternoon, Jason and I went to see Grindhouse. I was skeptical. I have no experience with actual grindhouse theaters, but I had little enthusiasm for a movie inspired by places where, from what I’ve read, people could buy illicit drugs about as easily as they could buy popcorn, and where the movie was likely to be a low budget mess featuring bad acting and terrible directing. But, with the combined histories of Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino, I couldn’t resist.

It was good, especially Tarantino’s half of the double feature which is titled Death Proof . It’s about a former stuntman who kills people with his car. But even in his attempt to make a B movie, his sharp dialogue and distinct filming style resulted in an action movie as good as or better than any big budget, popcorn munching action movie released at the multiplex today.

In my opinion, Rodriguez’s style as a filmmaker is not as defined as Tarantino’s. Precisely because of that, I think he was more successful in creating the B movie feel in his feature, titled Planet Terror.  It’s a basic zombie flick. But I’ve never enjoyed B movies that much and, although I initially found humor in it, the constant, tongue in cheek, extravagant action wore on me as the film progressed.

From my perspective, however, the real show was not what was on screen. We attended the 4:50 showing. We walked into the theater just after the appointed time, but a rabid car chase was already under way on screen. Knowing that it is not beyond either director’s sensibilities to start a movie in the middle of action, we were both simply amazed that the theater had started the showing on time. But when the credits started rolling, we realized that we had walked in on the end of the previous showing.

There was a group of young girls, sitting in the row in front of us, who all seemed oblivious. Suddenly, a young woman with flaming red, bobbed hair, sitting a couple of seats apart from the girls but on the same row, got up and moved to the seat beside the girl on one end. The girl looked red head up and down. As she was sitting so close, I believe it was a gesture intended to show the girl’s disgust at red head moving to the seat next to her. Red head was undaunted and, loudly enough for the whole theater to hear, she said, “I just talked to the theater manager a few minutes ago. Apparently, their times are off. This is the end of the previous showing. The 4:50 showing is going to be late. Probably around 5:15.”

One of the young girls said, “Oh Shit! Who picked this movie?!? Isn’t it supposed to be like 4 hours anyway? We got to be at the skating rink at 8 like when we said.”

The red head responded excitedly, “No! You can’t leave! This movie is a double feature. It’s hi-laaaaaaaiiiiiiiir-eeous! It’s the kind of movie where you laugh at stuff that you know you probably shouldn’t be laughing at which just makes it funnier. You know what I mean?”

The girl sitting next to her asked rapidly, “How you know that? You seen it?”

Red head responded, just as excitedly as before, “No, I haven’t seen it. But my friends have and they loooooooved it! Besides, I’ve read all about it. It’s two movies in one – you know, a double feature! Plus, Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino each directed one-half of it.”

A girl, sitting in the middle of the group, asked, “Hey, didn’t Robert Rodriguez direct those Spy Kids movies?”

Red head responded, “Yes, he did. But he also directed really good movies like Desperado and Sin City.”

One of the girls randomly exclaimed, “Oh hell yeah, I loved me some Sin City!”

Red head continued, “But I personally prefer Quentin Tarantino. He’s a geeeeeenius! Haven’t you seen Reservoir Dogs or Pulp Fiction?!? They are two of the best movies ever. He’s nothing short of revolutionary!”

She was obviously a little too excited for her own good and, in spite of losing the girls’ attention when she mentioned camera angles, continued on for some time, talking about Tarantino’s other movies, his penchant for detailed dialogue, and his filming style. In my mind she forever changed from red head to Tarantino Lover. When she finally stopped for a breath, she realized that the girls were no longer listening, and abruptly moved back to her original seat. I actually felt a little sorry for her because she was attending a movie, about which she was clearly excited, by herself. I found myself hoping that, as I do from time to time, she had chosen to attend the showing alone.

Regardless, Jason and I soon started our own nerdy conversation about Rodriguez and Tarantino and I forgot about Tarantino Lover for a while. In the end, the movie started about 30 minutes late. I’m amazed that the theater mismanaged time that much. I’m glad I didn’t have any prior obligations that evening. I was also amazed that no one left before it started. In fact, a couple of people came in just before it started which would have made them really late for the advertised time, including one guy by himself, who chose to sit on the end of the same row as Jason and me, on the opposite side of the theater from Tarantino Lover.

Planet Terror showed first. For the first few minutes, everyone pretty much watched in silence, except to laugh when appropriate. But approximately 30 minutes into the movie, Stacy Ferguson appeared on screen. One of the girls sitting in front of us yelled, “Girl, that’s Fergie!” Another answered, “My Humps, My Humps, My lovely lady lumps!”

From that point on, the girls discussed the movie, and other things, openly and without even attempting to whisper. At one point, one of them asked, “What time is it, I don’t want to be late getting to the skating rink?” And then, about 15 minutes or so after Fergie had appeared on screen, Tarantino Lover joined in. She would sometimes randomly, always loudly laugh. She also took to cheering on the people who killed zombies by yelling at the screen things like, “You Go GIRL!” or “Hell yeah girl, shoot him in the head! He deserves it!”

It truly was the most amazing display from one group of theater patrons I’ve ever seen. So, when during Death Proof , the guy, sitting on the end of the same row as Jason and me, started yelling at about the same time as Tarantino Lover, I didn’t think much about it. For instance, when one of the girls in the movie, being stalked by the stuntman, would spout some clever dialogue, Tarantino Lover would shout, “Oh Yeah!” or something similar. The guy would, almost at the same time, shout something like, “Oh no you didn’t!”

This continued for most of movie. Because of where the two were sitting, on the ends of two rows with Jason and me right in the middle, we basically experienced stereo shouts. Then, when it was getting near the end of the Death Proof , Tarantino Lover yelled something in response to a particular quip made by Rosario Dawson. Almost immediately, the guy yelled, “Shut up!” I thought, “That’s strange, what does he have against Rosario Dawson.” A few minutes later, one of the other characters said something witty, and when Tarantino Lover shouted, the guy yelled, this time clearly in the direction of Tarantino Lover, “SHUT UP! BITCH!”

I sat straight up in my chair and snapped my head toward the guy. Jason, who was sitting between me and the guy, whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Yeah, shhhh. He’s been yelling at her for a while.” From that point on until the end of the movie, the guy would yell, “Shut Up!” or “Shut Up Bitch!” every time Tarantino Lover said or shouted anything.

I thought that I couldn’t get more uncomfortable until, after the big finale, when Tarantino Lover stood up, started clapping, and cheering at the screen. A few people stared. Then, the guy stood up.  I thought he was going to walk out. Instead, he took a couple of steps toward Jason, pointed at Tarantino Lover, and started yelling. He screamed, “Listen Bitch! If he had done anything to them, then he would deserve what he got, but he didn’t even dooooo anything! They should have left him alone, and let him do what he does without bothering him any more. HE DIDN’T EVEN DO ANYTHING!!!”

Because the rant was a gross display of anti-social behavior, I tend to think he was mentally ill. But because it made no sense in the context of the movie, he could have been just plain stupid. Either way, when he paused for breath, Jason and I got up and walked out the other side of the theater, glad to get out without any physical violence.

Senor Tequila Outrage

This past Sunday afternoon, Jennifer and I ate at Senor Tequila on South University. While I love cheap Mexican food, I don’t like to reek of it for the rest of the day and, because that location is larger and the chance of sitting far from the kitchen is greater, I prefer it to the others in Little Rock. As an added bonus, that location seems to attract a more diverse clientele which usually makes people observation part of the fun. Sunday, it was a drawback.

We sat in a booth along one wall. Near our booth, the proprietors had arranged two small tables, end to end, to form one large, long table that seated ten. A family, clearly still dressed up from an Easter church service, was seated at it enjoying their early Sunday afternoon meal. They seemed innocuous at first. After we sat for a few minutes and started eating chips and salsa, we realized they were inescapable because they were utterly effusive.

Even though I do like to observe others in restaurants, I normally try not to eavesdrop. But this family was so loud that I made no attempt. I thought, “If they are that loud, then they don’t care if other people hear them.” In fact, for minutes at a time, Jennifer and I just sat in silence and listened to them. Even if we hadn’t, it would have been futile to try to talk over them. The vast majority of their conversation was fairly mundane. But as we were about to finish our meal, the topic of conversation turned to a young man sitting with them.  He appeared to be about 16 or 17.

According to his mother, he does not like vegetables except for French fries and raw carrots. Until then, I didn’t realize that French fries are a vegetable. Even though his mother had not addressed any kind of meat, a person, who I believed to be his uncle, randomly observed, “I don’t know how you got so big just eating chicken.” He replied, “Oh, I eat meat. Lots of it.”

As if challenged, his mother then told a story about her son. She said, “When he was ‘bout 12, he whined ‘bout some sort of special jeans. He couldn’t live without ‘em. They didn’t have ‘em at Wal-Marts, so we had to go to Dill-erds. When he tried on the biggest size, they didn’t fit and he started crying in the dressin’ room.” At that point, she stopped long enough to audibly laugh at the thought of her son crying in a dressing room. I felt awful for the poor kid and hoped she would stop. But, still chuckling, she continued and said, “He cried about jeans. But I told him, ‘Son, don’t worry, they probably got them jeans in husky, or maybe in the men’s section.’ But turned out they didn’t. We just bought Levi’s. Those didn’t last long; he grew out of ‘em.” Thankfully, another person, who I believed to be his older sister, mercifully changed the subject to work.

I know that some terrible things happen to children at the hands of their parents. But to witness a mother laughing at her son is one of the most brutal, cruel things I think I’ve ever observed. If she told that story in such a public place, I know it isn’t the only time she chose to destroy his self esteem. I cannot understand why she did it. Was it to build herself up by eliciting a laugh? Was it because she doesn’t have any self esteem to pass on? Or was it because she was treated like that when she was young? The answer is probably yes to all, but it’s not an excuse. Situations like that make me think that a license ought to be required to have children.

In the Immortal Words of Young MC…

This here’s a jam for all the fellas
Tryin to do what those ladies tell us
Get shot down cause ya over-zealous
Play hard to get females get jealous
Okay smarty go to a party
Girls are scantily clad and showin body
A chick walks by you wish you could sex her
But you’re standing on the wall like you was Poindexter
Next days function high class luncheon
Food they’re serving, you’re stone-cold munchin
Music comes on people start to dance
But then you ate so much you nearly split your pants
A girl starts walking guys start gawking
Sits down next to you and starts talking
Says she wants to dance cause she likes to groove
So come on fatso and just bust a move

–From “Bust a Move”

Life is too short for bad music

In a post a few days ago, my friend Catch asked the questions, “Does music impact you? If so, why and who?” His post is here. This post is my answer. Unfortunately, it became a little self indulgent and turned into the story of my personal music listening history. It is the best way I know how to answer his question, though. Skip it if you want…

I consider music so affecting that its impact can never be measured. It is an active part of almost every day of my life.

For as long as I can remember I have loved music. My earliest memories include sitting in my sister’s bedroom, listening to LPs owned by her, and some owned by my mother. My sister liked a lot of musicians for which I didn’t retain a taste later in life, such as ELO, Bread, the Rolling Stones, and Crosby, Stills and Nash. But she also liked the Beatles. It’s possible, likely even, that I would have discovered them on my own, but I’ve always felt a personal debt to her for introducing me to one of my favorite groups. I know everyone understands the influence of the Beatles, but I truly love their music. It literally can sometimes make me happy when I’m sad.

As for the records owned by my mother, most of them were old school country records by the likes of Hank Williams, Johnny Horton, Merle Haggard, and Johnny Cash. The only artist I can remember enjoying from the very beginning is Johnny Cash. I recall sitting on blue shag carpet and listening, over and over again, to “The Ballad of Ira Hayes.” Long before his early 90s renaissance, I always respected Cash for speaking for those who couldn’t or wouldn’t speak for themselves. I’ve since grown a healthy respect for the others, especially Hank Williams. Like Patti Griffin, something about his music cleanses the soul.

Later, as kids in junior high and high school are wont, I fell into the trap of listening to what was popular solely because it was popular. Fortunately, through the fog of Bon Jovi and Winger, some artists, who still remain among my favorites, were able to shine through. The most prominent of these is U2. During the fall of my freshman year of high school, I remember stretching out on the floor of my parents’ living room, a pillow behind my head, watching Friday Night Videos and, when “Desire” came on, just absolutely not understanding how someone could create something so simple but, at the same time, mind blowing. It was the first time I had that experience with music.

I arrived at college just when the Seattle sound was rearing its confrontational head. I’m thankful that a movement finally dethroned the over indulgent hair bands of the late 80s and early 90s. Still, the change was inevitable. I failed to perceive the inevitability, and readily and too seriously embraced what I believed was the underlying philosophy of the grunge movement. For several years, my choices of music were, unfortunately, based on what I perceived to be an objective standard for good music: serious and truthful. Except to say that I wanted to consider myself knowledgeable and serious about music, I’m not really sure why.

For instance, I went so far as to make fun of entire genres. I distinctly remember once telling a co-worker, “I don’t like R & B.” His response was, “What?” He was too polite to call me out, but I’m embarrassed at the ridiculousness of discounting an entire genre of music. How stupid was that? I wish he had said, “You don’t like any R & B? If you don’t recognize the artistic debt that modern musicians owe Aretha, and Billie Holiday, and Nina Simone, and Marvin Gaye, and countless others, then you are just ignorant.” It actually may be better that he didn’t. In my arrogance, my response would not have been positive.

Fortunately, that phase didn’t last forever. Sometime, relatively soon after I graduated from college, I read an interview with a musician whom I respected. I recall it being either Bono or David Bowie; it may have been neither. At any rate, the musician said something that seemed over simple like, “I enjoy music.” In response, the journalist asked what kind of music. The musician responded, “Any kind: good, bad, rap, rock, R & B, jazz, classical, opera; whatever, as long as I can feel it.” He went on to say that his reasoning is simple: Life is too short to listen to music that you don’t like just because someone else has decided it’s good.

When I read that, I thought, “If this person, who has made a career out of making music that I respect and love, can listen to whatever he enjoys, whether or not it is subjectively good, then why can’t I?” It was a freeing experience. Since then, I have discovered artists that others have enjoyed for years, even decades. Artists to whom I would have otherwise never have given the time.

Now, I think that whatever you are moved by is good music. Whatever you don’t like is bad. I can’t dance. I’m serious; I literally do not have the ability to move my body in time with the rhythm of music. But when I hear Gwen shout, “Wind it up!” I want to get up out of my chair and shake my butt. Sometimes I do. Catch me in the right mood, and you’ll get to witness it.

The second part of Catch’s question asked, “which artists do you enjoy?” I like a wide variety of artists. On any given day, if you picked up my iPod (the wonders of which I’ve been intending to post about for a while – maybe I’ll get around to it sometime), you would likely find artists as diverse as Enrico Caruso and Alison Goldfrapp. But if I could only have access to a few of them, these, in no particular order, would probably be the ones I would choose:

The Beatles
Bjork
The Cranberries
Pink Martini
The White Stripes
Johnny Cash
Nina Simone
Beck
Beth Orton
Counting Crows
Patty Griffin
Radiohead
U2