Got Time?

It's 10:04 PM right now (the times shown on these entries are always a few hours behind, I don't know why), and I am quite tired. This is one of the only instances I can remember when a day of delivering pizza pies made me genuinely exhausted. I was up at 6:00 this morning for a Bible study at Starbucks. (No, I'm not pious, just a sucker for sleep deprivation and coffee.) Later I worked from 10:30 AM to 9:40 PM. Granted, 11 hours of my job is probably nothing compared to 3 hours working as one of those melon cart pushers in India. But still, I'm tired.

This is my big excuse for not writing a full entry today. I told myself I had to post something after I got home from work or I couldn't eat. This is so I can eat.

I'll return tomorrow with a post on Hip Hop as the blogathon continues. Ciao!

Funny Red Sheet

A few months ago I was siting in traffic when a tear started welling up in my eye as my heart swelled with sympathy for Superman. Yes, Superman. The song playing on the radio was “Superman (It's Not Easy)” by Five For Fighting, and while I was in an emotionally precarious position that afternoon, I give full credit to songwriter John Ondrasik for the tear. 

Somehow this harmless, slightly flavorless, and contrived adult-contemporary pop tune had me feeling compassion...for a superhero. I speak of the song with slight disdain only because it is not in the typical vein of music that I like to think moves me. I would feel much more cultured, tasteful, and poetic if the song behind my tears was by Leonard Cohen or Bjork. I also like to think I am immune to the plethora of unrequited love songs and personal growth ballads that flood today's homogenized commercial radio.

But that is obviously not always true. This one hit wonder's falsetto and sappy piano were making me genuinely emotional, and he was singing about a comic book character. “This has got to be one of the greatest feats of emotional manipulation for a pop song – ever!” I thought to myself. Somehow I had become convinced that the 'man of steel,' the naturally airborne hero who is impervious to bullets, was actually just a regular guy who didn't like to fly. And evidently the only difference between him and me was that he wore “a funny red sheet.”

Everyone Is Reading This

The web is an interesting environment to communicate in. The scope of a single web page's potential audience includes almost every person on the planet with internet access. People in other countries can read my local county newspaper on-line. But how many of them actually do? Unless a major story takes place here or someone has a specific interest in this geographic region, I assume the web site for the Forsyth County News is probably frequented almost exclusively by residents of the area.

Similarly, the possibility of the world reading my blog in no way implies any probability that my readership extends beyond friends and lost Google searchers. In fact, I am just one of a googol web pages swimming in the ocean of cyber space. It's as though I'm talking in a stadium that accommodates the world's population, but since everyone else is also talking—and most likely not listening to me—I can safely say almost anything. In order to feel uninhibited in my writing I have to imagine that I am indeed only writing for a handful of people I know. If I imagine the whole world paying attention I am rendered speechless.

I'm sure this has to do, at least in part, with my tendency to avoid criticism and my desire for approval. However, when talking to a trusted friend, the content and tone of your words are understandably different than when you are addressing a large crowd. I find it is no different for writing. Which is why I think the weblog is a curious and fascinating medium of communication. For many it is essentially an on-line journal. It seems to be a strange paradox for a journal (something typically thought of as private) to be potentially available for the world.       

Dear Woman At The Mall,

I saw you walking by when I was sitting in the food court eating a mediocre (and distinctly American) taco the other day. You looked sad, tired, hungry. But I could tell you had spent a significant amount of time trying to look attractive. By some strange contemporary standard you were a visual success; your naturally dark hair bleached blonde, your once fair complexion unnaturally tanned, your formerly ivory teeth an extreme bright white, your chest disproportionately large for your frame and figure (I hesitate to presume the later was a result of surgery or other enhancement).

The irony is that to me you looked unattractive and generic, like the physical average of all high school cheerleaders combined. Something tells me that you are naturally beautiful, but I would never know. Whether consciously or not, you seem to have done just about everything to resist looking like yourself.

But how can I judge you? I don't know your story. And since you live in the same world I do, I can only assume that you suffer from many false ideas about femininity and true beauty. In many ways you are a victim of an over-sexed, image obsessed culture that is fueled by everything from Hollywood and the porn industry to the fashion world and men who are simply looking for their next brief high. I don't want to assume you have—or have had—an eating disorder. But the statistics tell me it is likely, like the high number of men with pornography addictions (an atrocity that serves in many ways to encourage the eating disorders).

I am not anti-media; I'm not a cynical doom-and-gloom spreading, apocalypse prophesying hater. But I wish you didn't hate your body. You would look and feel better. I wish you had the affirmation and freedom you crave. And honestly, for all we know, Paris Hilton doesn't even have Paris Hilton's body type!     

Sincerely,

Christopher

Christians Are Hypocrites

When I hear the word hypocrite I think of the Minister of Justice character, Claude Frollo, from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Frollo, who condemns the gypsy Esmeralda but is secretly consumed with lust for her, is an excellent example of someone who puts on a false appearance of virtue - which is how Webster defines a hypocrite. 

Many Christians, especially ones who have mixed moralism and/or Oprah style self-betterment ideals in with their faith, are hypocritical simply because they think they are doing pretty well. They are living up, to some degree, to the standard they have set for themselves. People who aren't living up to their standard are obviously inferior. These sinful 'inferiors' naturally notice the hypocrisy that the moralistic Christian is blind to; because, of course, no matter how well behaving the Christian is, they are still prone to envy, lack of compassion, selfish anger, and hubris (especially if they feel they are performing well morally).

But then there are Christians who live with some level of awareness of their sinful self-absorbed condition. They do not claim to be any better than the next guy. In fact, they are not any better; they are just forgiven. Hypocrisy in this case is simply due to perception. I think many people understandably operate on the assumption that Christians are to be better than non-Christians. But if we could be or get better, if we could improve (in any way) than why did Jesus have to die?  

I was reading something on this topic by Tim Keller recently, perhaps in his book The Reason For God. He says that it makes perfect sense that people who are not Christians often behave better, more morally, than Christians. Many of the people who are Christians started following Jesus because they had a deep need for change, radical change. This need for redemption is not obvious to every person who needs it (which I believe is everyone). If you are getting along okay in life why would you seek out help? From this perspective it would make sense that the most messed up people would want to follow Jesus. For them the gospel is actually really good news.

The Christians who don't look too messed up to begin with, or don't realize how real their need for redemption is, are perhaps wasting their time. Why would you take medicine you don't need? Or ask for a life preserver when you are sitting on the dry land?  

Books, Books, Books

I am not a bookworm. My older sister, my dad, and a couple of my younger brothers—okay so all of my family really—seem to go through books like Kleenex tissues during flew season. They suck out the information, the plotlines, the characters as though drinking from juice boxes. Their lips meet their straws and almost instantly you hear the slurping sound of nearly-empty cartons being vacuumed clean.

I didn’t start reading for pleasure until late high school, and even then it was a non-fiction book on U2. The Summer before my Junior year of College, however, a friend recommended The Catcher In The Rye by J.D. Salinger. I read it in about three weeks (this was actually rather quick for me), and I never looked at literature the same way again. That may sound dramatic, but it was. I remember tearing up while reading the final pages in the corner of a Starbucks (I’ll talk about the peculiarities of that common environment in a later entry). I had never read a book that couldn’t conceivably be adapted to another medium, such as film or theatre. There was just no way this work of genius, especially this Holden guy, could be portrayed outside of a book. So I started reading.

I have started several books in the last couple years and only finished a few of them. I am a slow reader, and I get distracted easily. There are some common acronyms out there that may apply to my condition (most include the letters A and D, some O and C), but the bottom line is that I have trouble paying attention. Anyway, I’m learning to be OK with the fact that I don’t finish books quickly, or at all. What’s interesting, however, is that I think of any uncompleted book as a “current read.” This would mean I am “currently reading” the following:

The Shack by William P. Young

When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris

Lord Of The Flies by William Golding

1984 by George Orwell

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austin

From Fear To Freedom by Rose Marie Miller

God, Heaven and Har Magedon: A Covenantal Tale of Cosmos and Telos by Meredith Kline

Making Sense of Wine by Matt Kramer

About A Boy by Nick Hornby

Songbook by Nick Hornby

Everything Is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foe

Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger

The Reason For God by Tim Keller

A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby

How to Be Good by Nick Hornby

Gone: The Last Days of The New Yorker by Renata Adler

Friend Raising by Betty Barnett

Saturday Night by Susan Orlean

My Name Is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok

The Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

The New NEW Journalism by Robert S. Boynton

Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters: The Frightening New Normalcy of Hating Your Body by Courtney E. Martin

And probably a few that don’t come to mind. Whatever this list may say about me (my tastes, my over commitment and consequential lack of true devotion, my desire to read minor Hornby novels, etc.), it’s been floating around in my subconscious—and my consciousconscious—for a while. What am I to do? And then there are all of the classics such as Catch 22, The Grapes of Wrath, Wuthering Heights, and those current best sellers that are actually supposed to be good, and then the books that Barnes and Noble declares to be “quintessential reads,” and also the Harry Potters (which are actually pretty fantastic, though I’m only one deep), and then the local newspaper and also the New York Times, and then Wired and The New Yorker, and Paste and Rolling Stone, and then books of poetry, and this list has gone on long enough. Whew. 

Reminding myself that I could devote the rest of my natural life to reading and barely scratch the surface (maybe gouge it a little) helps me relax. And even if I managed to read it all, if that was all I did, I would be like the philosopher who gets hit in the head with a Frisbee while sitting under a tree vacillating on whether or not to believe in a physical reality. There is too much life to live. Maybe someday I will pick up My Name Is Asher Lev and try for a third time to get past page 31, maybe I won’t.

April Fools!

As a kid, April 1st was one of my favorite days. I could never think of anything very original, but it was April Fools! This was the day to prank people, to pull one on a sibling or my mom. Of course the phrase that somehow makes otherwise inappropriate antics OK is "April Fools!" It's like one big "just kidding." And what other day could you tell a completely fallacious lie and get away with it? If you think about it, some of the best jokes are simply lies followed by a "just kidding!" Even the jokes that don't have the phrase "just kidding" follow this same idea; basically a lie or falsehood, and then the punch line.  e.g. "My parents were vegan...until I ate them!" If the joke works, listeners are only deceived temporarily.  

As a child people often accused me of being gullible. (I use the word 'accused' because it makes the allegations sound possibly false, but the truth is I tended to be gullible.) "Hey! Christopher, there's gullible written on the ceiling." As I look up to the ceiling without hesitation (and without time for my brain to process what my ears just took in), I hear laughing. "Haha! You're gullible!" I stammer, "Uhh...I was just looking up there anyway, for the heck of it. Who would write gullible on the ceiling?" My last ditch efforts to save face rarely worked. 

As an adult the jokes people pull are more convincing. "Yeah, I'm related to Larry Mullen Jr.," a co-worker might say. Well if this Caucasian from the Midwest was talking about Bob Marley, I'd be suspicious, but Larry Mullen Jr., the Irish guy, the drummer and founder of U2? It's possible. I'm likely to believe her. "Oh come on! You honestly think I'd be working here if I was related to a rock star?!" she might say, as though anyone with a wealthy third cousin would never have to deliver pizza.

I would say our world is so overcome with cynicism (sometimes masquerading as discernment) and so devoid of childlike faith that people have to laugh at those who are trusting, but it's not quite that bad. Sometimes you can't take yourself so seriously. Pranks and April Fools jokes are great, but there is always some sort or power struggle. There is a winner, and a loser. If the joker can convince his victim, he wins. If the victim doesn't buy the lie and get duped by the joke, he wins. In this later case, however, no one laughs, and the person telling the joke feels bad. If the joke or prank succeeds it can be hilarious, and the victim doesn't have to be the loser - if he can laugh at himself.

What if in lieu of "just kidding, April Fools!" we said "Haha! This guy is a trusting person!" or "This lady has a lack of discernment! She was duped. Hilarious!" Somehow that just spoils the whole thing.