What can I say about March 2004 other than it was unpredictable? We experienced some nice weather early on and I convinced myself that spring had arrived -- Punxsutawney Phil be darned -- which made it all the harder when the snow came back with a vengeance. The shell game with the weather was so typical of my experiences over the last few weeks. Just when I had decided on something, circumstances tossed everything around. I would arrange an evening with friends or a field trip with the family, only to have someone come down sick or have car problems at the last moment. It was a month when I had to roll with the punches, and I have the bruises to prove it...
The church is going great. It's amazing to see what a caring community this group of people have developed into. Even when things had me so stressed out, like new programs handed down by my denomination or conducting my first funeral, people from the church rose to occasion and saved my butt. That's why I got so depressed when hints kept getting dropped that there were "painful changes coming in September." But T-- and I had the opportunity to sit down with some of the leaders on the statewide level who assured us that closing down the ministry has never been discussed, and that a change like that can't be implemented by a leader on the local level. It was a great relief for me personally, and helped lift the depression I've been under.
In between every single member of my family coming down with the flu, I did manage to sneak out a few times. I saw The Passion of the Christ. Liked the movie, hated the hype surrounding it. Went to Freeway Church and had a great time, as always.
Thank God for good friends. March would have been unbearable without 'em. V--, J-- #1, and J-- #2 always seemed to show up at the office and take me out to lunch just when I needed it most. Mister Magical Surprise, the blogger who never blogs, even showed up for a quick visit from Vermont, so we could talk about the important things in life -- like DVDs and Doctor Who. And B-- kept me entertained with his dispatches from internet cafes scattered around Israel, Turkey, and a place I couldn't find in my atlas called Urgup!
I've never owned a WWJD bracelet, but if I did, the last 31 days would have convinced me to trade it in for one that says WTF. In spite of all the strangeness, I realized what a great bunch of friends I have, and how many of the things I worried about worked out in the end, so maybe March turned out to be a pretty good month after all. Here's to April!
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Two Foreign Film Reviews For The Price Of One!
Watching the 400 Blows and La Strada was a great change of pace from watching more mainstream films. Both defy an easy genre classification -- they were both funny and gut-wrenchingly tragic at the same time.
The films were small. I don’t write “small” meaning trivial or insignificant. I use the word to convey that the films were character driven rather than spectacles. They were intimate; I forgot that I was watching movies and felt like I was observing the occurrences, both big and small, of these people’s lives.
I liked the realism of the characters in the 400 Blows. Take Antoine’s teacher, for instance. At the beginning of the film, he struggles to keep control of a classroom of rowdy boys. If that was his only scene in the film, he could be classified as “the mean teacher” because of the harsh way he deals with the students. But later on he shows genuine concern for Antoine over his mother’s death. The next day, he almost jokes to Antoine about his punishment. One temperament, but many different reactions -- just like people in real life.
La Strada takes the idea one step further and taught me that it’s possible to create very unlikely characters but still make them behave in believable ways.
The films used so much more than words to create emotional depth of character. The way that the mother (400 Blows) studies her face in the mirror conveys the regret that she feels about the direction her life has taken more effectively than words could have done. In La Strada, Zampano’s rough handling of Gelsomina reveals what a cruel brute he is. Appropriately enough, they part ways in winter, which is cold and is associated with things dying.
I think the theme of the 400 Blows is that a person decides his own identity. Getting caught in the classroom with a racy picture starts a chain of events that puts the boy on the road to ruin... Antoine begins to define himself by imagining, “I deface the classroom walls...” (I am a bad child.) He later tries to define himself as Balzac; however, this proves disastrous.
La Strada wrestles with the universal question, “What am I here for?” The Fool suggests that everything has a purpose. Gelsomina decides that her purpose in life is to be with Zampano, even though I suspect that she would have rather gone on with the Fool.
If you're in the mood for a different sort of film, why not try out the foreign or subtitle section at your local library?
The films were small. I don’t write “small” meaning trivial or insignificant. I use the word to convey that the films were character driven rather than spectacles. They were intimate; I forgot that I was watching movies and felt like I was observing the occurrences, both big and small, of these people’s lives.
I liked the realism of the characters in the 400 Blows. Take Antoine’s teacher, for instance. At the beginning of the film, he struggles to keep control of a classroom of rowdy boys. If that was his only scene in the film, he could be classified as “the mean teacher” because of the harsh way he deals with the students. But later on he shows genuine concern for Antoine over his mother’s death. The next day, he almost jokes to Antoine about his punishment. One temperament, but many different reactions -- just like people in real life.
La Strada takes the idea one step further and taught me that it’s possible to create very unlikely characters but still make them behave in believable ways.
The films used so much more than words to create emotional depth of character. The way that the mother (400 Blows) studies her face in the mirror conveys the regret that she feels about the direction her life has taken more effectively than words could have done. In La Strada, Zampano’s rough handling of Gelsomina reveals what a cruel brute he is. Appropriately enough, they part ways in winter, which is cold and is associated with things dying.
I think the theme of the 400 Blows is that a person decides his own identity. Getting caught in the classroom with a racy picture starts a chain of events that puts the boy on the road to ruin... Antoine begins to define himself by imagining, “I deface the classroom walls...” (I am a bad child.) He later tries to define himself as Balzac; however, this proves disastrous.
La Strada wrestles with the universal question, “What am I here for?” The Fool suggests that everything has a purpose. Gelsomina decides that her purpose in life is to be with Zampano, even though I suspect that she would have rather gone on with the Fool.
If you're in the mood for a different sort of film, why not try out the foreign or subtitle section at your local library?
Monday, March 29, 2004
Freeway Church
Yesterday we took a group of friends up to visit Freeway Church in Hamilton, Ontario. It's about a 3 hour drive from our home, which gave the seven of us plenty of time to enjoy each other's company. We took a different exit off the QEW this time which gave us a much different impression of the city. In January we came in through the "industrial sector." Picture factories straight out of a Tim Burton Batman film spewing black and grey smoke everywhere. But this time we drove in from a different direction and saw that Hamilton is actually quite a nice city -- nothing at all like the setting for a Mad Max movie that our previous trip had led us to believe. I think their whole economy is based on Tim Horton's and Pizza Pizza shops, as we seemed to pass them every block or two.
We made it to Freeway in plenty of time for its 6 pm meeting only to discover that the location had been moved that evening for a special art gallery/coffee house. Luckily for us, we ran into Chris from the church who gave us directions. Turns out it was only around the block, but when you don't know your way around the city...
As always it was a blast to hook up with Pernell & Company. They had set up an impromptu gallery showcasing artwork by members of the church and young people from the drop-in center next door. There were some poetry readings and some great music, too. It wasn't what we were expecting, but it turned out to be just what my leadership team needed -- just to relax and have some fun. The Freeway is a group that knows what church is all about. Check 'em out if you're ever up in the Hamilton area.
We made it to Freeway in plenty of time for its 6 pm meeting only to discover that the location had been moved that evening for a special art gallery/coffee house. Luckily for us, we ran into Chris from the church who gave us directions. Turns out it was only around the block, but when you don't know your way around the city...
As always it was a blast to hook up with Pernell & Company. They had set up an impromptu gallery showcasing artwork by members of the church and young people from the drop-in center next door. There were some poetry readings and some great music, too. It wasn't what we were expecting, but it turned out to be just what my leadership team needed -- just to relax and have some fun. The Freeway is a group that knows what church is all about. Check 'em out if you're ever up in the Hamilton area.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Sounds of Spring
Puddles jump.
Puddles jump, puddles jump, puddles.
Jump puddles
Jump puddles, jump puddles, jump.
Rain falls.
Rain falls, rain falls, rain.
Falling rain.
Falling rain, falling rain, falling.
Splash, splosh.
Splash–splosh, splash–splash, splash.
Splosh, splash.
Splosh–splash, splosh–splash, splosh.
Splosh, splash, falling rain, jump puddles.
Puddles jump, rain falls, splish-splosh.
The rain falls, making puddles.
Our feet say, “splash-splosh” as we walk.
Puddles jump, puddles jump, puddles.
Jump puddles
Jump puddles, jump puddles, jump.
Rain falls.
Rain falls, rain falls, rain.
Falling rain.
Falling rain, falling rain, falling.
Splash, splosh.
Splash–splosh, splash–splash, splash.
Splosh, splash.
Splosh–splash, splosh–splash, splosh.
Splosh, splash, falling rain, jump puddles.
Puddles jump, rain falls, splish-splosh.
The rain falls, making puddles.
Our feet say, “splash-splosh” as we walk.
Who's Minding the Kids?
I remember enough Dale Carnegie to avoid discussing politics or religion in polite company. After pursuing input for my latest blog post, I can add a third taboo to the list: warning labels on music. It seems that everyone has a passionate -- if not well-informed -- opinion on the topic.
The use of parental warning advisory labels is a particularly contentious issue as it touches on musicians’ freedom of expression, young people’s rights, and the rights of parents to be, well, parents. It my intention to examine the history and the implementation of the stickers. I also hope to clear up some misconceptions about the labels, and to offer some personal opinion on their effectiveness.
Parents teach their children to be safe. When a child is a toddler, a parent will tell them not to touch the stove because they will get burnt and to hold their hand when they walk down the stairs so they don’t fall. As a child grows, the messages continue, but reflect their growing independence, examples such as don’t talk to strangers and look both ways when crossing come to mind. By the time the child reaches the teen years, the instruction is still there, but reflects an even greater freedom: don’t go on an unplanned date and obey the speed limit are just two examples.
Parents also enlist the help of other institutions that reflect their value system such as clubs, religious organizations, and educational institutions. The goal of this instruction is to foster a child over time into a fully functioning member of adult society. But what if someone who doesn’t share a parent’s values captures a child’s attention? Will a child internalize or emulate social ideas that could prove harmful to itself? The prevailing train of thought seems to be better safe than sorry based upon some of the restraints put in place on entertainment consumption for children and teens.
Popular culture that appeals to young people and adult restraints go hand in hand. In the early 1950s, anxiety over sex and violence in comics led to the creation of the Comics Code Authority, which held sway over what subject matter could and could not be portrayed in comics. In the late 1960s, the Motion Picture Association of America began its ratings system that assigns movies to different age categories based upon content. More recently, the National Association of Broadcasters has added a similar ratings system to television that allows a parent to block programs of a particular rating on newer televisions. Post–Columbine concerns over violence have seen a ratings system added to video game cartridges.
Rock n’ Roll was always cast a suspicious eye by authority figures even from its earliest days. It was an art form enjoyed by both blacks and whites in a time when segregation was the status quo. The “jungle beat” was accused of encouraging everything from juvenile delinquency to loose morals. (If you ever have an opportunity to look over an old tract or pamphlet denouncing rock ‘n roll notice how many thinly-veiled racist slurs are used.)
The sixties were the decade of discontent. Popular music was adopted as the soundtrack to the protest movement of the 1960s. Musicians became spokespeople on issues of civil rights, the Vietnam War, drug use, and religion.
The proliferation of FM outlets and the diversification of radio formats in the 1970s allowed many rock bands to push the limits of acceptable content far away from the more community-oriented airwaves of AM radio. It became possible to be a successful recording artist without benefit of a hit single. Punk rock demonstrated a fad that sold records despite receiving very little airplay on any format of radio station—the records spewed out a variety of antisocial anthems that wouldn’t have been tolerated by the FCC. (In Britain, where punk was more popular, the artists experienced a great deal of radio censorship.)
The advent of MTV in the eighties saw rock music enter a visual age that went far beyond the pelvis of Elvis and mop top haircuts. Radio became secondary to music videos in breaking hit singles, and the short clips had much to do with building a band or solo artist’s image. Some videos, like Dire Straits’ Money for Nothing or the Cars’ You Might Think used cutting-edge visual effects to get attention. Many others showed bands affecting a macho swagger against authority figures, such as Twisted Sister’s We’re Not Gonna Take It. Other music video directors gave heed to the low budget filmmaker’s muse: breasts are the most inexpensive special effect. Artists like Prince and Madonna got a lot of press out of sexually–charged images in songs and videos.
Although there were calls for regulating the music industry from groups as disparate as fundamentalist evangelists to the PTA, most historians regard the first shot of what would be dubbed the “porn wars” as the day that Tipper Gore, a senator’s wife from Tennessee, brought home the album Purple Rain and put it on the record player. She recounts the incident in her book, Raising PG Kids in an X–Rated Society:
"In December 1984, I purchased Prince’s best–selling album Purple Rain for my eleven–year–old daughter. I had seen Prince on the cover of magazines, and I knew that he was the biggest pop idol in years. My daughter wanted his album because she had heard the single “Let’s Go Crazy” on the radio. But when we brought the album home, put it on our stereo, and listened to it together, we heard the words to another song, “Darling Nikki”: “I knew a girl named Nikki/Guess [you] could say she was a sex fiend/I met her in a hotel lobby/Masturbating with a magazine.” The song went on in a similar manner. I couldn’t believe my ears! The vulgar lyrics embarrassed both of us. At first, I was stunned—then I got mad! Millions of Americans were buying Purple Rain with no idea what to expect."
This is the part of the story where the average parent would toss the LP in the trash or return it to the record store. But Tipper Gore wasn’t the average parent. She was the wife of a senator and had the connections and influence to do something about it. With a group of eight other wives of prominent Washingtonians, she formed the Parents Resource Music Center and held a meeting to raise public awareness about the issue in May of 1985. A letter presented to Stan Gortikov of the Recording Industry Association of America explained their ambitions:
"It is our concern that some of the music which the recording industry sells today increasingly portrays explicit sex and violence, and glorifies the use of drugs and alcohol. It is indiscriminately available to persons of any age through record stores and the media.
"These messages reach young children and early teenagers at a crucial age when they are developing lifelong value systems. Their minds are often not yet discerning enough to reject the destructive influences and anti-–social behavior engendered by what they hear and see in these products.
"Because of the excesses that exist in the music industry today, we petition the industry to exercise voluntary self–restraint perhaps by developing guidelines and/or a ratings system, such as that of the movie industry, for use by parents in order to protect our younger children from such mature themes.”
The conservative mood of the country was on their side and the PRMC capitalized on the exposure with editorials, magazine covers, and numerous television interviews about its proposals. But nothing could prepare have prepared it for the media frenzy surrounding the congressional hearing on record labeling in September 1985.
Who can forget the image of Frank Zappa and Dee Snider addressing members of congress? Or the rock–musician–turned–youth–minister reciting the lyrics about the guy pooping on a girl’s face? Although it made for some interesting television viewing, the hearing accomplished little, if anything, towards the implementation of labeling records. In fact, in doing research for this paper I couldn’t find a pressing explanation for the hearing. Congress didn’t intend to consider any legislation regarding record labeling and the Recording Industry Association of America had already agreed to develop a system of warning stickers. So why were the hearings held? I can only suppose that it was a show of muscle to insure that the Recording Industry Association of America followed through on its promise. In any event, it still took another five years (!) to get the RIAA to make good on its promise for a universal warning label on music.
In March of 1990, black and white stickers bearing the words PARENTAL ADVISORY EXPLICIT CONTENT first appeared in record stores across America. Individual record companies choose to participate or not, and it is they, not an independent board (like the MPAA) that decides if an album warrants a warning label.
A warning label, in my opinion, was the best way to balance out parents’ concern with artists’ rights to free expression. In a perfect world, I could end the paper here. But as Tonio K. once sang, “This ain’t no perfect world.”
In an informal survey I sent around my company’s intranet, I asked 40 parents to describe what warning stickers were, who decided what CDs get labeled, and what the stickers mean. Only one answered correctly. The most common answer was the government decided which albums get labeled and the presence of a sticker makes it illegal for a minor to purchase the album. What I found most disturbing was the impression that most of the responders were happy with the system as they imagined it: to let an official body decide what their children could and couldn’t listen to.
I also spoke with a record store employee on condition of anonymity (Not because I was asking for a sizzling expose about the shady dealings of his employer, but rather because of the fear instilled in chain store employees). She couldn’t recall a single time in the last year when a parent was involved in a music purchase with their child, beyond handing a twenty over. If a minor wanted to purchase a stickered product they just brought along an older sibling or friend.
Which brings me to another result of the warning labels. Many stores restrict purchase on stickered product to people under the age of eighteen. Other retailers, like Wal-Mart, Sam’s Club and K-Mart won’t stock stickered product in the first place. It’s given rise to “clean” versions of an album (songs deleted or edited) being offered by record companies as an alternative.
The issue has come a long way since 1985. Who would have guessed that at a recent summit of hip hop industry leaders and artists that they would adopt a resolution to expand the warning labels to advertising and the internet? But no simple tool can take the place of parental awareness in raising a child.
The use of parental warning advisory labels is a particularly contentious issue as it touches on musicians’ freedom of expression, young people’s rights, and the rights of parents to be, well, parents. It my intention to examine the history and the implementation of the stickers. I also hope to clear up some misconceptions about the labels, and to offer some personal opinion on their effectiveness.
Parents teach their children to be safe. When a child is a toddler, a parent will tell them not to touch the stove because they will get burnt and to hold their hand when they walk down the stairs so they don’t fall. As a child grows, the messages continue, but reflect their growing independence, examples such as don’t talk to strangers and look both ways when crossing come to mind. By the time the child reaches the teen years, the instruction is still there, but reflects an even greater freedom: don’t go on an unplanned date and obey the speed limit are just two examples.
Parents also enlist the help of other institutions that reflect their value system such as clubs, religious organizations, and educational institutions. The goal of this instruction is to foster a child over time into a fully functioning member of adult society. But what if someone who doesn’t share a parent’s values captures a child’s attention? Will a child internalize or emulate social ideas that could prove harmful to itself? The prevailing train of thought seems to be better safe than sorry based upon some of the restraints put in place on entertainment consumption for children and teens.
Popular culture that appeals to young people and adult restraints go hand in hand. In the early 1950s, anxiety over sex and violence in comics led to the creation of the Comics Code Authority, which held sway over what subject matter could and could not be portrayed in comics. In the late 1960s, the Motion Picture Association of America began its ratings system that assigns movies to different age categories based upon content. More recently, the National Association of Broadcasters has added a similar ratings system to television that allows a parent to block programs of a particular rating on newer televisions. Post–Columbine concerns over violence have seen a ratings system added to video game cartridges.
Rock n’ Roll was always cast a suspicious eye by authority figures even from its earliest days. It was an art form enjoyed by both blacks and whites in a time when segregation was the status quo. The “jungle beat” was accused of encouraging everything from juvenile delinquency to loose morals. (If you ever have an opportunity to look over an old tract or pamphlet denouncing rock ‘n roll notice how many thinly-veiled racist slurs are used.)
The sixties were the decade of discontent. Popular music was adopted as the soundtrack to the protest movement of the 1960s. Musicians became spokespeople on issues of civil rights, the Vietnam War, drug use, and religion.
The proliferation of FM outlets and the diversification of radio formats in the 1970s allowed many rock bands to push the limits of acceptable content far away from the more community-oriented airwaves of AM radio. It became possible to be a successful recording artist without benefit of a hit single. Punk rock demonstrated a fad that sold records despite receiving very little airplay on any format of radio station—the records spewed out a variety of antisocial anthems that wouldn’t have been tolerated by the FCC. (In Britain, where punk was more popular, the artists experienced a great deal of radio censorship.)
The advent of MTV in the eighties saw rock music enter a visual age that went far beyond the pelvis of Elvis and mop top haircuts. Radio became secondary to music videos in breaking hit singles, and the short clips had much to do with building a band or solo artist’s image. Some videos, like Dire Straits’ Money for Nothing or the Cars’ You Might Think used cutting-edge visual effects to get attention. Many others showed bands affecting a macho swagger against authority figures, such as Twisted Sister’s We’re Not Gonna Take It. Other music video directors gave heed to the low budget filmmaker’s muse: breasts are the most inexpensive special effect. Artists like Prince and Madonna got a lot of press out of sexually–charged images in songs and videos.
Although there were calls for regulating the music industry from groups as disparate as fundamentalist evangelists to the PTA, most historians regard the first shot of what would be dubbed the “porn wars” as the day that Tipper Gore, a senator’s wife from Tennessee, brought home the album Purple Rain and put it on the record player. She recounts the incident in her book, Raising PG Kids in an X–Rated Society:
"In December 1984, I purchased Prince’s best–selling album Purple Rain for my eleven–year–old daughter. I had seen Prince on the cover of magazines, and I knew that he was the biggest pop idol in years. My daughter wanted his album because she had heard the single “Let’s Go Crazy” on the radio. But when we brought the album home, put it on our stereo, and listened to it together, we heard the words to another song, “Darling Nikki”: “I knew a girl named Nikki/Guess [you] could say she was a sex fiend/I met her in a hotel lobby/Masturbating with a magazine.” The song went on in a similar manner. I couldn’t believe my ears! The vulgar lyrics embarrassed both of us. At first, I was stunned—then I got mad! Millions of Americans were buying Purple Rain with no idea what to expect."
This is the part of the story where the average parent would toss the LP in the trash or return it to the record store. But Tipper Gore wasn’t the average parent. She was the wife of a senator and had the connections and influence to do something about it. With a group of eight other wives of prominent Washingtonians, she formed the Parents Resource Music Center and held a meeting to raise public awareness about the issue in May of 1985. A letter presented to Stan Gortikov of the Recording Industry Association of America explained their ambitions:
"It is our concern that some of the music which the recording industry sells today increasingly portrays explicit sex and violence, and glorifies the use of drugs and alcohol. It is indiscriminately available to persons of any age through record stores and the media.
"These messages reach young children and early teenagers at a crucial age when they are developing lifelong value systems. Their minds are often not yet discerning enough to reject the destructive influences and anti-–social behavior engendered by what they hear and see in these products.
"Because of the excesses that exist in the music industry today, we petition the industry to exercise voluntary self–restraint perhaps by developing guidelines and/or a ratings system, such as that of the movie industry, for use by parents in order to protect our younger children from such mature themes.”
The conservative mood of the country was on their side and the PRMC capitalized on the exposure with editorials, magazine covers, and numerous television interviews about its proposals. But nothing could prepare have prepared it for the media frenzy surrounding the congressional hearing on record labeling in September 1985.
Who can forget the image of Frank Zappa and Dee Snider addressing members of congress? Or the rock–musician–turned–youth–minister reciting the lyrics about the guy pooping on a girl’s face? Although it made for some interesting television viewing, the hearing accomplished little, if anything, towards the implementation of labeling records. In fact, in doing research for this paper I couldn’t find a pressing explanation for the hearing. Congress didn’t intend to consider any legislation regarding record labeling and the Recording Industry Association of America had already agreed to develop a system of warning stickers. So why were the hearings held? I can only suppose that it was a show of muscle to insure that the Recording Industry Association of America followed through on its promise. In any event, it still took another five years (!) to get the RIAA to make good on its promise for a universal warning label on music.
In March of 1990, black and white stickers bearing the words PARENTAL ADVISORY EXPLICIT CONTENT first appeared in record stores across America. Individual record companies choose to participate or not, and it is they, not an independent board (like the MPAA) that decides if an album warrants a warning label.
A warning label, in my opinion, was the best way to balance out parents’ concern with artists’ rights to free expression. In a perfect world, I could end the paper here. But as Tonio K. once sang, “This ain’t no perfect world.”
In an informal survey I sent around my company’s intranet, I asked 40 parents to describe what warning stickers were, who decided what CDs get labeled, and what the stickers mean. Only one answered correctly. The most common answer was the government decided which albums get labeled and the presence of a sticker makes it illegal for a minor to purchase the album. What I found most disturbing was the impression that most of the responders were happy with the system as they imagined it: to let an official body decide what their children could and couldn’t listen to.
I also spoke with a record store employee on condition of anonymity (Not because I was asking for a sizzling expose about the shady dealings of his employer, but rather because of the fear instilled in chain store employees). She couldn’t recall a single time in the last year when a parent was involved in a music purchase with their child, beyond handing a twenty over. If a minor wanted to purchase a stickered product they just brought along an older sibling or friend.
Which brings me to another result of the warning labels. Many stores restrict purchase on stickered product to people under the age of eighteen. Other retailers, like Wal-Mart, Sam’s Club and K-Mart won’t stock stickered product in the first place. It’s given rise to “clean” versions of an album (songs deleted or edited) being offered by record companies as an alternative.
The issue has come a long way since 1985. Who would have guessed that at a recent summit of hip hop industry leaders and artists that they would adopt a resolution to expand the warning labels to advertising and the internet? But no simple tool can take the place of parental awareness in raising a child.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
A Few Thousand Ordinary Days
I layed in bed last night, restlessly tossing and turning. I couldn't will myself to sleep anymore than I could have willed myself to fly. My wife, T--, hadn't been feeling too well before bedtime, so she was downstairs sleeping on the futon. Otherwise, I would have probably just toughed it out in the dark, but instead found myself turning on the light.
Tuesday was a tough day. I spent it cleaning my office, and came across so many old files pertaining to the church. So many dreams, so many disappointments. Looking at those old bulletins and idea files, I couldn't help but get caught up in the hope and excitement of the early days of my work. But now the dreaming is over. My workplace is giving every indication that the outreach work we're involved in will be dead in the water by October.
One o' clock, Two o' clock. I stressed. I read. I stressed some more. I read 1 John. I read a chapter in Walter Wangerin's Book of God. Great. It was the part where Jesus turns all dark before and during the Passover. I stressed some more. I leafed through the latest issue of Macworld. Stressed. Tried to lift my mood with The Tabloid Bible, but the laughs weren't forthcoming. More stress.
"I've been proactive. I've sent out some resumes, called my contacts. I even have some really good leads." But my lack of self-confidence betrayed me. The darkness seemed to press in on the one lonely lightbulb burning in the night. "What if I can't find a decent paying job? Where will I work? How will I take care of everyone?"
I should have been happy last night. I was happy last night. It was my daughter's 11th birthday. We went out to eat and had a great time. We were all silly and loud. I looked at my daughter across the table and noticed what an attractive young lady she has turned into, with friends, hobbies, and opinions. I couldn't have imagined any of this when we brought her home in 1993 -- a fragile little bundle. How things change.
How quickly, too. What's 11 years, anyhow? Just a few thousand ordinary days. When H-- came home from the hospital her mom and dad were just newlyweds, with little experience of the harsher realities of life. Today it seems like we've survived every trial imaginable -- a miscarriage, broken dreams, financial difficulties, even a brief separation. Conflicts within and without. But we survived.
Tonight we went to Applebees to celebrate. Okay, so it's not Planet Hollywood. But when H-- was born, eating out was out of the question. I worked three jobs but couldn't get ahead. T-- and I didn't always know how we were going to buy formula, diapers or even pay the rent. (I remember a few years into our marriage that going out to McDonald's every other week on payday was a big deal.) The south side of Jamestown isn't going to be mistaken for Beverly Hills anytime soon, but it is nice to be able to celebrate once in awhile, buy groceries, and not have to worry about taking the kids to the doctor!
In 1993, I had a certificate from a technical school. I never imagined that I would ever have a college degree. But now I have a few of 'em. In 1993, I had a job. But now I have a profession. In 1993, we rented a chilly apartment. But now we own our own home. Or at least the mortgage company lets us think we do! All those changes. All in just a few thousand ordinary days.
Life is funny like that. How did I go from being a DJ and video editor to pastoring a church and doing public relations? I've changed so much emotionally, spiritually, and socially. The little H-- laying in her crib would hardly recognize me. Heck, I wouldn't recognize me.
A few dozen people will gather for church next Sunday. They will come in bearing every kind of wound and burden imaginable. At about the midpoint in the meeting I will approach the pulpit dressed in my silly blue pilot's uniform, and give them something that can help them make it for another week. I can only do this because I have hope. I have been through dry spells so long that it seems like rain is nothing more than a cruel rumor. But the rain did come. I have been desperate beyond words and seen things work out. I have seen my marriage crumble away to dust, but somehow, get drawn back out of the tomb like Lazarus. I have drawn on reserves that I never knew I had. I have seen the providential hand of God at work.
All in just a few thousand ordinary days. I remember thinking, "Today's troubles will be tomorrow's victories." I was comforted by the thought. I read a chapter of Brennan Manning's Abba Child, said a prayer, and slept at peace. (I also had dreams that comforted me, but for the life of me I can't remember what they were about. Just the warm feeling they left me with.) I woke up and the birds were singing.
Tuesday was a tough day. I spent it cleaning my office, and came across so many old files pertaining to the church. So many dreams, so many disappointments. Looking at those old bulletins and idea files, I couldn't help but get caught up in the hope and excitement of the early days of my work. But now the dreaming is over. My workplace is giving every indication that the outreach work we're involved in will be dead in the water by October.
One o' clock, Two o' clock. I stressed. I read. I stressed some more. I read 1 John. I read a chapter in Walter Wangerin's Book of God. Great. It was the part where Jesus turns all dark before and during the Passover. I stressed some more. I leafed through the latest issue of Macworld. Stressed. Tried to lift my mood with The Tabloid Bible, but the laughs weren't forthcoming. More stress.
"I've been proactive. I've sent out some resumes, called my contacts. I even have some really good leads." But my lack of self-confidence betrayed me. The darkness seemed to press in on the one lonely lightbulb burning in the night. "What if I can't find a decent paying job? Where will I work? How will I take care of everyone?"
I should have been happy last night. I was happy last night. It was my daughter's 11th birthday. We went out to eat and had a great time. We were all silly and loud. I looked at my daughter across the table and noticed what an attractive young lady she has turned into, with friends, hobbies, and opinions. I couldn't have imagined any of this when we brought her home in 1993 -- a fragile little bundle. How things change.
How quickly, too. What's 11 years, anyhow? Just a few thousand ordinary days. When H-- came home from the hospital her mom and dad were just newlyweds, with little experience of the harsher realities of life. Today it seems like we've survived every trial imaginable -- a miscarriage, broken dreams, financial difficulties, even a brief separation. Conflicts within and without. But we survived.
Tonight we went to Applebees to celebrate. Okay, so it's not Planet Hollywood. But when H-- was born, eating out was out of the question. I worked three jobs but couldn't get ahead. T-- and I didn't always know how we were going to buy formula, diapers or even pay the rent. (I remember a few years into our marriage that going out to McDonald's every other week on payday was a big deal.) The south side of Jamestown isn't going to be mistaken for Beverly Hills anytime soon, but it is nice to be able to celebrate once in awhile, buy groceries, and not have to worry about taking the kids to the doctor!
In 1993, I had a certificate from a technical school. I never imagined that I would ever have a college degree. But now I have a few of 'em. In 1993, I had a job. But now I have a profession. In 1993, we rented a chilly apartment. But now we own our own home. Or at least the mortgage company lets us think we do! All those changes. All in just a few thousand ordinary days.
Life is funny like that. How did I go from being a DJ and video editor to pastoring a church and doing public relations? I've changed so much emotionally, spiritually, and socially. The little H-- laying in her crib would hardly recognize me. Heck, I wouldn't recognize me.
A few dozen people will gather for church next Sunday. They will come in bearing every kind of wound and burden imaginable. At about the midpoint in the meeting I will approach the pulpit dressed in my silly blue pilot's uniform, and give them something that can help them make it for another week. I can only do this because I have hope. I have been through dry spells so long that it seems like rain is nothing more than a cruel rumor. But the rain did come. I have been desperate beyond words and seen things work out. I have seen my marriage crumble away to dust, but somehow, get drawn back out of the tomb like Lazarus. I have drawn on reserves that I never knew I had. I have seen the providential hand of God at work.
All in just a few thousand ordinary days. I remember thinking, "Today's troubles will be tomorrow's victories." I was comforted by the thought. I read a chapter of Brennan Manning's Abba Child, said a prayer, and slept at peace. (I also had dreams that comforted me, but for the life of me I can't remember what they were about. Just the warm feeling they left me with.) I woke up and the birds were singing.
Monday, March 22, 2004
Quote of the Week
"Did St. Francis really preach to the birds? Whatever for? If he really liked birds he would have done better to preach to the cats." -- Rebecca West
Sunday, March 21, 2004
When The Passion Goes Out of Fashion
Christians get wood over the silliest things. The current one is over The Passion. People are talking about how this film is going to spark a religious revival in America. Now, I thought The Passion was a good film -- maybe even a great one. But to assume that one movie is going to make the U.S.A. into one big Bible belt just isn't going to happen.
Just like it didn't happen after 9-11.
Just like it didn't happen after the "seeker sensitive" movement.
Just like it didn't happen after the WWJD craze.
Just like it didn't happen after the Promise Keepers movement.
Just like it didn't after the Republican Revolution.
Why are Christians so eager to latch onto the Next Big Thing when the last dozen Big Things are lying discarded in a landfill somewhere? Why does the church get caught up in the frenzy of the latest fad like it's some teenybopper shopping for the latest trendy sneakers? Is it so desperate about its viability that it needs to continually clutch at straws?
Imagine a hospital that has turned into a health club. The patients aren't there for surgery -- they go go there to maintain their health. They ride exercise bikes, lift weights, and do Tae Kwon Do. But the problem is, they never got around to taking the hospital sign down. So once in awhile, someone comes to the emergency room because of a life threatening illness, or a gun shot wound. Nobody there knows how to do surgery or even diagnose anything anymore. One person tries to put a terminally ill patient on a treadmill, someone hands the man bleeding from a gunshot wound a band-aid. They leave with their pains intact. They were lucky -- they got more attention than most. More often, someone walks into the emergency room, takes one look at the exercise equipment and exits because they know they need a real hospital. One day, the hospital hears about a movie playing down the street about Dr. Lister. "Finally, a movie about surgery!" they say. "Now people will be lined up around the block to come to our hospital!"
This is the church today. It's a club for nice people who have it all together, but there's not much there for people who really have problems. People walk in all the time burdened and wounded, but get the message in a hundred different ways that they don't fit into the church's reality. It must be confusing as hell to the uninitiated, because the church should be all about finding compassion, forgiveness, healing, wholeness, and dare I say it, God?
Frankly, the church needs to get more interested in people and less interested in converts. After all, you don't need a motion picture, or a bracelet, or a stadium event to help people. Maybe if we stopped cheerleading a movie and actually paid attention to the words and deeds of the Person it was based on, both the church and the world would be a better place.
Just like it didn't happen after 9-11.
Just like it didn't happen after the "seeker sensitive" movement.
Just like it didn't happen after the WWJD craze.
Just like it didn't happen after the Promise Keepers movement.
Just like it didn't after the Republican Revolution.
Why are Christians so eager to latch onto the Next Big Thing when the last dozen Big Things are lying discarded in a landfill somewhere? Why does the church get caught up in the frenzy of the latest fad like it's some teenybopper shopping for the latest trendy sneakers? Is it so desperate about its viability that it needs to continually clutch at straws?
Imagine a hospital that has turned into a health club. The patients aren't there for surgery -- they go go there to maintain their health. They ride exercise bikes, lift weights, and do Tae Kwon Do. But the problem is, they never got around to taking the hospital sign down. So once in awhile, someone comes to the emergency room because of a life threatening illness, or a gun shot wound. Nobody there knows how to do surgery or even diagnose anything anymore. One person tries to put a terminally ill patient on a treadmill, someone hands the man bleeding from a gunshot wound a band-aid. They leave with their pains intact. They were lucky -- they got more attention than most. More often, someone walks into the emergency room, takes one look at the exercise equipment and exits because they know they need a real hospital. One day, the hospital hears about a movie playing down the street about Dr. Lister. "Finally, a movie about surgery!" they say. "Now people will be lined up around the block to come to our hospital!"
This is the church today. It's a club for nice people who have it all together, but there's not much there for people who really have problems. People walk in all the time burdened and wounded, but get the message in a hundred different ways that they don't fit into the church's reality. It must be confusing as hell to the uninitiated, because the church should be all about finding compassion, forgiveness, healing, wholeness, and dare I say it, God?
Frankly, the church needs to get more interested in people and less interested in converts. After all, you don't need a motion picture, or a bracelet, or a stadium event to help people. Maybe if we stopped cheerleading a movie and actually paid attention to the words and deeds of the Person it was based on, both the church and the world would be a better place.
Friday, March 19, 2004
The Trouble With Lies
I've been part of an ongoing discussion with a few friends about how many of our contemporaries from the 70s and 80s have walked away from the Christian faith. From my church youth group alone, I can only identify maybe 3 or 4 of us out of a group of about 20 people who "kept the faith." I started to reminisce about the good old days -- 1980 to 1986 -- at the Assembly of God in Warren, PA. I remember the cold, somewhat smelly room in the basement where we would have C.A. Group. (C.A. stood for Christ's Ambassadors.) At best, youth group was a blast; at worst it got you out of "big people church" on Sunday or Wednesday nights. We also had the coolest youth pastor by the name of Steve Scott. We put him through hell, because we were bratty little kids, but we loved him dearly. I wish I knew how to contact him now, just to say hi.
Remember all the rumors that you heard if you grew up an evangelical Christian during the Carter and Reagan years?
1. The Moonies owned Proctor & Gamble. If you bought P & G products, you were supporting a cult!
2. A computer in Belgium had the name of every person in the world on it, so the Anti-Christ could keep track of who had "the mark of the beast" and who didn't!
3. Rock groups hid backwards messages in records to corrupt youth!
4. Jesus was coming back soon! (As in no later than 1983 or 84!)
And how about our heroes? People like Jimmy Swaggart, Mike Warnke, Jim Bakker, and Pat Robertson... They all reassured us that we were we right and our culture was wrong. They all told inspiring stories that made living out our faith sound so easy. But we then we moved from youth group into adulthood and found out that life wasn't so easy after all. As our heroes one-by-one we're exposed as frauds, it hardly seemed a surprise at all.
Inside the church we tsk-tsk our friends who have drifted away from the faith. We surmise they weren't committed enough... the pull of sin was too strong... or that they were deceived by different philosophies. The truth is that they were deceived. They were deceived by all the B.S. that was spewed out of the Krazy Kristian Kulture for the first eighteen years of their life. They bought into the easy faith, where people always colored within the lines and a few Biblical principles could solve every problem.
It doesn't really amaze me anymore when I hear that an old acquaintance has walked away from the faith. I guess I'm more amazed that any of us are left.
Remember all the rumors that you heard if you grew up an evangelical Christian during the Carter and Reagan years?
1. The Moonies owned Proctor & Gamble. If you bought P & G products, you were supporting a cult!
2. A computer in Belgium had the name of every person in the world on it, so the Anti-Christ could keep track of who had "the mark of the beast" and who didn't!
3. Rock groups hid backwards messages in records to corrupt youth!
4. Jesus was coming back soon! (As in no later than 1983 or 84!)
And how about our heroes? People like Jimmy Swaggart, Mike Warnke, Jim Bakker, and Pat Robertson... They all reassured us that we were we right and our culture was wrong. They all told inspiring stories that made living out our faith sound so easy. But we then we moved from youth group into adulthood and found out that life wasn't so easy after all. As our heroes one-by-one we're exposed as frauds, it hardly seemed a surprise at all.
Inside the church we tsk-tsk our friends who have drifted away from the faith. We surmise they weren't committed enough... the pull of sin was too strong... or that they were deceived by different philosophies. The truth is that they were deceived. They were deceived by all the B.S. that was spewed out of the Krazy Kristian Kulture for the first eighteen years of their life. They bought into the easy faith, where people always colored within the lines and a few Biblical principles could solve every problem.
It doesn't really amaze me anymore when I hear that an old acquaintance has walked away from the faith. I guess I'm more amazed that any of us are left.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Yo-Ho-Ho and No Bottle of Tums...
I sit here and type these words while my is foot propped up on a stack of pillows. I am suffering from an acute attack of gout. Yes, gout. I mean, seriously, have you ever heard of anyone other than a pirate suffering from gout? I feel like I should go to the dentist right now and be checked for scurvy! Luckily, gout can be treated with a minor change in my diet, increased water intake, and some medication. But until the condition is alleviated, I will have to make some lifestyle changes:
1. Incorporate eye patch, hook, and peg-leg into my business-casual attire.
2. Trade-in dog for a talking parrot.
3. Only refer to wife as "wench" and son as "cabin boy."
4. Withdraw money from bank and bury in treasure chest in back yard.
5. Fly the Jolly Roger from the radio antenna on my Dodge Neon.
6. Build gang-plank onto front porch.
7. Answer phone by saying, "Ahoy, Matey!"
8. Substitute traditional peanut butter sandwich with hard-tack at lunch time.
1. Incorporate eye patch, hook, and peg-leg into my business-casual attire.
2. Trade-in dog for a talking parrot.
3. Only refer to wife as "wench" and son as "cabin boy."
4. Withdraw money from bank and bury in treasure chest in back yard.
5. Fly the Jolly Roger from the radio antenna on my Dodge Neon.
6. Build gang-plank onto front porch.
7. Answer phone by saying, "Ahoy, Matey!"
8. Substitute traditional peanut butter sandwich with hard-tack at lunch time.
Monday, March 15, 2004
Sunday, March 14, 2004
Visual Intelligence
Is there a connection between television viewing and senseless violence? Most everyone seems willing to muster an “armchair opinion” on the topic, but Ann Marie Seward Barry makes a learned and convincing case for an affirmative answer to that question in her book Visual Intelligence.
Sometimes writers who tackle this subject appear too biased to state a convincing opinion. But Barry doesn’t appear to bring an agenda to her research. I don’t mean to imply that she’s detached from the subject. It’s just that she doesn’t let her passion about this serious issue bypass the considerable amount of information she collected. Instead of putting me on the defensive as many lesser writers could, her scholarly and methodic approach allowed me to convince myself.
Barry chose a good cross section of trustworthy sources, including the American Medical Association, American Academy of Pediatrics, the Center for Media and Public Affairs, and the National Institute for Mental Health. She also utilized a variety of physicians, educators, and statisticians in her writing. Avoiding for the most part special interest groups lends credence to her conclusions. The only source I question her using was Ted Turner, because he has such a reputation for making inflammatory—and not always well thought out—comments. I understand why it’s tempting for a writer to make use of such colorful comments, but “you’re known by the company you keep…” A minor quibble.
Barry doesn’t write in generalities. She very carefully defines aggression and violence. She doesn’t make an ultimately futile case for a connection between a specific TV program and a direct violent action. Instead, she proposes that repeated viewing of violent media is a desensitizing influence to young children. Preadolescents build an “emotional memory” that connect violent images and pleasure—later senseless acts might just be a way for the subconscious to relive happy moments setting in front of the TV.
The effect of media violence is a complex issue—so complex that it’s hard not to spot a misassumption or a flaw in the communicator’s logic. But Barry logically builds her case and finds reliable statistics and sources to support her argument to its chilling conclusion. I suppose that the best analysis of her work is that it motivated me to pay closer attention to what my children are watching!
Sometimes writers who tackle this subject appear too biased to state a convincing opinion. But Barry doesn’t appear to bring an agenda to her research. I don’t mean to imply that she’s detached from the subject. It’s just that she doesn’t let her passion about this serious issue bypass the considerable amount of information she collected. Instead of putting me on the defensive as many lesser writers could, her scholarly and methodic approach allowed me to convince myself.
Barry chose a good cross section of trustworthy sources, including the American Medical Association, American Academy of Pediatrics, the Center for Media and Public Affairs, and the National Institute for Mental Health. She also utilized a variety of physicians, educators, and statisticians in her writing. Avoiding for the most part special interest groups lends credence to her conclusions. The only source I question her using was Ted Turner, because he has such a reputation for making inflammatory—and not always well thought out—comments. I understand why it’s tempting for a writer to make use of such colorful comments, but “you’re known by the company you keep…” A minor quibble.
Barry doesn’t write in generalities. She very carefully defines aggression and violence. She doesn’t make an ultimately futile case for a connection between a specific TV program and a direct violent action. Instead, she proposes that repeated viewing of violent media is a desensitizing influence to young children. Preadolescents build an “emotional memory” that connect violent images and pleasure—later senseless acts might just be a way for the subconscious to relive happy moments setting in front of the TV.
The effect of media violence is a complex issue—so complex that it’s hard not to spot a misassumption or a flaw in the communicator’s logic. But Barry logically builds her case and finds reliable statistics and sources to support her argument to its chilling conclusion. I suppose that the best analysis of her work is that it motivated me to pay closer attention to what my children are watching!
Friday, March 12, 2004
Out of Place
I've been feeling so out of place lately. Circumstances are causing me to make some major life changes over the next few months. So many people I know are pushing for me to move in a particular direction, even though I don't believe that's my destiny. I try to articulate how I'm feeling and my thought processes, but they just give me back spiritual clichés and pat answers. I feel so alone. But I draw great strength from this prayer in Celtic Daily Prayer: Prayers and Readings From the Northumbria Community:
Lord, help me now to unclutter my life,
to organize myself in the direction of simplicity.
Lord, teach me to listen to my heart;
teach me to welcome change, instead of fearing it.
Lord, I give You these stirrings inside me,
I give You my discontent,
I give You my restlessness,
I give You my doubt,
I give You my despair,
I give You all the longings I hold inside.
Help me to listen to these signs of change, of growth;
to listen seriously and follow where they lead
through the breathtaking empty space of an open door.
Lord, help me now to unclutter my life,
to organize myself in the direction of simplicity.
Lord, teach me to listen to my heart;
teach me to welcome change, instead of fearing it.
Lord, I give You these stirrings inside me,
I give You my discontent,
I give You my restlessness,
I give You my doubt,
I give You my despair,
I give You all the longings I hold inside.
Help me to listen to these signs of change, of growth;
to listen seriously and follow where they lead
through the breathtaking empty space of an open door.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
You'll have to pry this blog from my cold dead hands...
The NRA says, 'Guns don't kill people - people kill people.' That may be true, but I think the gun helps. You're not going to kill many people by standing around shouting 'bang!' -- from Coolsig
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Yes, I.F. is on a soapbox again...
“"Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? It is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men.”" -- Matthew 5:13, The Bible (KJV)
I read this passage in my morning devotional reading. Although I realize that Jesus employed these words as a metaphor for Christian witness, I couldn'’t help but think about these verses in relation to my recent reading of Roger Streitmatter's excellent book, Mightier Than the Sword.
Salt.
It’s a preservative. It’s a purifying element.
Salt is also painful. Who hasn’t heard the saying-–cum–-cliché “rubbing salt into a wound”?
At it’s best, the Fourth Estate offers more than just a simple recitation of the facts of an event. It digs deeper. It lets the public know the implications of the events. It interprets what the event means to the average person in the street. It doesn’t wait for the story to come to them, it goes off in search of the story.
Just like salt, at certain critical points in this nation’s history, the press has functioned as a preservative of the American ideals of freedom and justice. Just like salt, brave newspaper and magazine reporters have used the power of the press to purify bad elements out of society. Just like salt, the social upheavals caused by the media’s exposure of the injustices of big business hasn’t come without its share of pain.
Although this country has always had its share of crusading journalists, many people consider their golden age to be the first dozen years or so of the twentieth century. At the turn of the century, the American Dream seemed only to be benefiting the rich and big business interests always seemed to be holding all the cards.
Sound familiar?
Into this landscape of injustice and corruption stepped a group of brave men and women journalists that came to be known as the Muckrakers. The origin of the unique moniker is explained in Streitmatter’'s book:
"The term that ultimately came to define this journalistic phenomenon was coined by President Theodore Roosevelt, who led the larger reform movement that the journalists helped to spark. During the Progressive Era, government attempted to reassert its control of business through myriad new agencies and regulations. The youthful and buoyant Roosevelt supported journalistic reform, but in one of the volatile moments that defined his personality he lashed out at the crusaders for finding nothing good about society but looking constantly at the negative elements -- as if raking muck. The epithet took hold, and the golden age of reform journalism became known as muckraking."
Muckraking is sometimes confused with yellow journalism. This is incorrect, although there are some similarities. Both chose topics that appealed to common working people. Both employed an emotionally engaging style of writing. Both paid off big in the circulation wars between newspapers and magazines. But the muckrakers were accurate in their reporting, something to which the yellow journalists could never lay claim. Yellow journalism also tended to emphasize lurid stories as an end unto itself. Although sordid details were also a crucial element to the crusaders’ writing, muckraking appealed to something higher.
It demanded change and got it.
Lincoln Steffens investigated the runaway corruption in city and state governments and the adoption of the city–manager form of government is a lasting monument to his writing. Ida Tarbell acted out a contemporary David and Goliath story with the Standard Oil Company. The fruits of her labor are still felt today through the many public works of the Rockefeller Foundation, a charitable trust which was set up as nothing more than a savvy public relations move. Ray Stannard Baker chronicled the abuse of power through labor unions and ousted corrupt leaders in the process. Upton Sinclair’s novel The Jungle shocked the public with unsanitary conditions in food plants and poisonous ingredients in medicines. The nation’s outrage paved the way for the Pure Food and Drugs Act of 1906.
What would our lives be like today if the crusaders hadn’t shined a spotlight into the dark corners of America?
I sometimes wish they would return.
Think about it: We moan about our dependence on foreign oil when in reality most of what we use comes from our own soil. Elected officials consistently vote down school vouchers while sending their kids to private schools. The USA thinks its the policeman of the world. And since people don’t see any of this on the evening news, none of the situations exist.
Muckraking was a unique win-win situation for publishers where public service and earning a profit peacefully coexisted. There’s no doubt that the stories sold newspapers and magazines. But they also made America a better place.
I don’t think that balance could be maintained today as the media itself -- AOL/Time Warner, Disney/ABC/go.com, MS-NBC -- is the monopoly that needs reformed. And just try printing or airing anything controversial when everyone on the fringe left or the religious right is so willing to protest the advertisers who are footing the bill.
The Fourth Estate sells us all of us short when it’s satisfied with glossing over stories in a detached fashion.
Because there’s nothing worse than salt that’s lost it savour.
I read this passage in my morning devotional reading. Although I realize that Jesus employed these words as a metaphor for Christian witness, I couldn'’t help but think about these verses in relation to my recent reading of Roger Streitmatter's excellent book, Mightier Than the Sword.
Salt.
It’s a preservative. It’s a purifying element.
Salt is also painful. Who hasn’t heard the saying-–cum–-cliché “rubbing salt into a wound”?
At it’s best, the Fourth Estate offers more than just a simple recitation of the facts of an event. It digs deeper. It lets the public know the implications of the events. It interprets what the event means to the average person in the street. It doesn’t wait for the story to come to them, it goes off in search of the story.
Just like salt, at certain critical points in this nation’s history, the press has functioned as a preservative of the American ideals of freedom and justice. Just like salt, brave newspaper and magazine reporters have used the power of the press to purify bad elements out of society. Just like salt, the social upheavals caused by the media’s exposure of the injustices of big business hasn’t come without its share of pain.
Although this country has always had its share of crusading journalists, many people consider their golden age to be the first dozen years or so of the twentieth century. At the turn of the century, the American Dream seemed only to be benefiting the rich and big business interests always seemed to be holding all the cards.
Sound familiar?
Into this landscape of injustice and corruption stepped a group of brave men and women journalists that came to be known as the Muckrakers. The origin of the unique moniker is explained in Streitmatter’'s book:
"The term that ultimately came to define this journalistic phenomenon was coined by President Theodore Roosevelt, who led the larger reform movement that the journalists helped to spark. During the Progressive Era, government attempted to reassert its control of business through myriad new agencies and regulations. The youthful and buoyant Roosevelt supported journalistic reform, but in one of the volatile moments that defined his personality he lashed out at the crusaders for finding nothing good about society but looking constantly at the negative elements -- as if raking muck. The epithet took hold, and the golden age of reform journalism became known as muckraking."
Muckraking is sometimes confused with yellow journalism. This is incorrect, although there are some similarities. Both chose topics that appealed to common working people. Both employed an emotionally engaging style of writing. Both paid off big in the circulation wars between newspapers and magazines. But the muckrakers were accurate in their reporting, something to which the yellow journalists could never lay claim. Yellow journalism also tended to emphasize lurid stories as an end unto itself. Although sordid details were also a crucial element to the crusaders’ writing, muckraking appealed to something higher.
It demanded change and got it.
Lincoln Steffens investigated the runaway corruption in city and state governments and the adoption of the city–manager form of government is a lasting monument to his writing. Ida Tarbell acted out a contemporary David and Goliath story with the Standard Oil Company. The fruits of her labor are still felt today through the many public works of the Rockefeller Foundation, a charitable trust which was set up as nothing more than a savvy public relations move. Ray Stannard Baker chronicled the abuse of power through labor unions and ousted corrupt leaders in the process. Upton Sinclair’s novel The Jungle shocked the public with unsanitary conditions in food plants and poisonous ingredients in medicines. The nation’s outrage paved the way for the Pure Food and Drugs Act of 1906.
What would our lives be like today if the crusaders hadn’t shined a spotlight into the dark corners of America?
I sometimes wish they would return.
Think about it: We moan about our dependence on foreign oil when in reality most of what we use comes from our own soil. Elected officials consistently vote down school vouchers while sending their kids to private schools. The USA thinks its the policeman of the world. And since people don’t see any of this on the evening news, none of the situations exist.
Muckraking was a unique win-win situation for publishers where public service and earning a profit peacefully coexisted. There’s no doubt that the stories sold newspapers and magazines. But they also made America a better place.
I don’t think that balance could be maintained today as the media itself -- AOL/Time Warner, Disney/ABC/go.com, MS-NBC -- is the monopoly that needs reformed. And just try printing or airing anything controversial when everyone on the fringe left or the religious right is so willing to protest the advertisers who are footing the bill.
The Fourth Estate sells us all of us short when it’s satisfied with glossing over stories in a detached fashion.
Because there’s nothing worse than salt that’s lost it savour.
Monday, March 08, 2004
Citizen Kane
I love Citizen Kane. I have seen it dozens of time since college. It always bugs me that anytime I talk about the film someone has to gasp: "Rosebud..." It's not like it's the only line in the movie or anything. Here's my favorite quote, and it wasn't even delivered by Orson Welles:
"A fellow will remember a lot of things you wouldn't think he'd remember. You take me. One day, back in 1896, I was crossing over to Jersey on the ferry, and as we pulled out, there was another ferry pulling in, and on it there was a girl waiting to get off. A white dress she had on. She was carrying a white parasol. I only saw her for one second. She didn't see me at all, but I'll bet a month hasn't gone by since that I haven't thought of that girl." -- Mr. Bernstein, played by Everett Sloane
"A fellow will remember a lot of things you wouldn't think he'd remember. You take me. One day, back in 1896, I was crossing over to Jersey on the ferry, and as we pulled out, there was another ferry pulling in, and on it there was a girl waiting to get off. A white dress she had on. She was carrying a white parasol. I only saw her for one second. She didn't see me at all, but I'll bet a month hasn't gone by since that I haven't thought of that girl." -- Mr. Bernstein, played by Everett Sloane
Sunday, March 07, 2004
The Passion of the Christ
I saw The Passion of the Christ in Erie today with a group of friends from church. It doesn't quite sound right to say that I enjoyed the film -- quite the contrary, sometimes I had to avert my eyes from the onscreen action. So maybe it would be more accurate to say that I regard the film as an outstanding achievement. It's obvious from the first shot to the last that director Mel Gibson was captivated mind and soul by this outstanding story.
"It is as it was" is an oft-repeated quote attributed to the Pope regarding the film. I disagree with that statement -- while the film is reverent with its subject matter, it is still a dramatic reinterpretation of the events of the Gospels, with additional scenes written in to flesh out the narrative. I didn't pick up on anything anti-Semitic in the narrative; indeed, the Romans come off much more as the villains of the piece. I was a little surprised to see the character of Satan portrayed by a woman. Was Gibson trying to make a statement by that unique approach to casting? Nobody I've talked to about the film seemed to notice or care. I wonder if people's reactions would be different if the character of God would have appeared in the film played by a woman? Worth thinking about.
I first heard about this film last year on Harry Knowles' outstanding movie website, Ain't it Cool News. I have to admit that when I first heard that there was this Jesus movie being shot in Aramaic, my first thought was "this movie is going to sink without a trace." Foreign language films do bad enough in the USA, but movies that utilize uncommon languages, like Incubus (Esperanto) and Deafula (sign language), end up gathering dust in a film vault somewhere. Boy, was I wrong. The Aramaic actually helped me suspend my disbelief in a way that a group of classically trained actors with British accents never could. (There are subtitles for key points of dialogue.)
A common mistake that many Biblical epics make is that they try to cover too much ground in one film. Remember The Bible, which tried to condense most of the book of Genesis into one movie? Gibson shows a lot of wisdom in selecting a relatively short period of time for his narrative: the betrayal, trial, and crucifixion of the Christ. (Random flashbacks flesh out the characters, and the resurrection is briefly glimpsed at the end.) I grew up hearing this story all my life, so it was easy for me to put the story in its wider context; I wonder how much sense the film makes to people that haven't had as much exposure to the Bible?
I have read a few articles in which reviewers, obviously moved by the suffering, question who the characters are and what motivates them. A few suggest that perhaps the story should have included more of the events leading up to the events of Holy Week. But that wasn't the story that Gibson wanted to tell. Many of Jesus' teachings can be found in other religions and moral codes. Even the concept of blood sacrifice as a way to appease the gods goes back into prehistory and many varied cultures. But the important difference in the Gospel is its focus on Jesus as the perfect sacrifice for all time to an imperfect mankind. And that's a story worth telling.
"It is as it was" is an oft-repeated quote attributed to the Pope regarding the film. I disagree with that statement -- while the film is reverent with its subject matter, it is still a dramatic reinterpretation of the events of the Gospels, with additional scenes written in to flesh out the narrative. I didn't pick up on anything anti-Semitic in the narrative; indeed, the Romans come off much more as the villains of the piece. I was a little surprised to see the character of Satan portrayed by a woman. Was Gibson trying to make a statement by that unique approach to casting? Nobody I've talked to about the film seemed to notice or care. I wonder if people's reactions would be different if the character of God would have appeared in the film played by a woman? Worth thinking about.
I first heard about this film last year on Harry Knowles' outstanding movie website, Ain't it Cool News. I have to admit that when I first heard that there was this Jesus movie being shot in Aramaic, my first thought was "this movie is going to sink without a trace." Foreign language films do bad enough in the USA, but movies that utilize uncommon languages, like Incubus (Esperanto) and Deafula (sign language), end up gathering dust in a film vault somewhere. Boy, was I wrong. The Aramaic actually helped me suspend my disbelief in a way that a group of classically trained actors with British accents never could. (There are subtitles for key points of dialogue.)
A common mistake that many Biblical epics make is that they try to cover too much ground in one film. Remember The Bible, which tried to condense most of the book of Genesis into one movie? Gibson shows a lot of wisdom in selecting a relatively short period of time for his narrative: the betrayal, trial, and crucifixion of the Christ. (Random flashbacks flesh out the characters, and the resurrection is briefly glimpsed at the end.) I grew up hearing this story all my life, so it was easy for me to put the story in its wider context; I wonder how much sense the film makes to people that haven't had as much exposure to the Bible?
I have read a few articles in which reviewers, obviously moved by the suffering, question who the characters are and what motivates them. A few suggest that perhaps the story should have included more of the events leading up to the events of Holy Week. But that wasn't the story that Gibson wanted to tell. Many of Jesus' teachings can be found in other religions and moral codes. Even the concept of blood sacrifice as a way to appease the gods goes back into prehistory and many varied cultures. But the important difference in the Gospel is its focus on Jesus as the perfect sacrifice for all time to an imperfect mankind. And that's a story worth telling.
Saturday, March 06, 2004
Rhyming X2
Light
Dark
Dog
Bark
Dig
Deep
Smelly
Feet
Wild
Boar
Cold
War
Walkie
Talkie
Ori-
Gami
Passion
Play
Water
Way
Willow
Tree
Silly
Me.
Dark
Dog
Bark
Dig
Deep
Smelly
Feet
Wild
Boar
Cold
War
Walkie
Talkie
Ori-
Gami
Passion
Play
Water
Way
Willow
Tree
Silly
Me.
We've got MOVIE SIGN!!!
PEOPLE OF EARTH, MY NAME IS JOEL. I’M MAROONED IN SPACE. I’M THE SUBJECT OF A BIZARRE MOVIE-WATCHING EXPERIMENT, AND NOW I GUESS, SO ARE YOU.
That’s how comedian Joel Hodgson once summarized the premise of his television program, Mystery Science Theater 3000. One of the few television programs not produced in New York or Hollywood, MST3K (as it is known by its fans) began in 1988 on a small UHF station and quickly moved to the national spotlight on cable television every week through 1999, all the while never leaving its home base of Minnesota.
Since the television production capabilities of the North Star State were somewhat lacking in comparison to its counterparts on the east and west coasts, the creators wisely stuck to a simple visual style that could have just as easily been shot in the 1950s as the 1990s. That’s not intended as a criticism. Quite the contrary, its chintzy visual charm would allow the program’s best asset—it’s humor—to take center stage.
For the bulk of its run, the show featured only two real sets: the control room of the Satellite of Love, where a human guinea pig and his robot (puppet) friends are held captive, and Deep 13 (later Castle Forrester), where the evil mad scientists plan their latest schemes. Each set is only ever shot with one camera—there are no reaction shots or cutaways. If the director of the episode wishes to draw our attention to a particular object on screen, the camera operator just zooms in over the course of the segment. The actors play more to the camera than to each other, which is very appropriate, because we aren’t watching characters on a television show, we’re watching an experiment in progress shot by a never seen robot named Cambot.
But the program is more than just a demented puppet show. At the end of one of their rants on pop culture or a song parody, the mad scientists activate the movie sign. The wall in the back of the set opens up and the camera (actually, we, the viewers) travels down an odd looking tunnel that finally ends up in the theater.
The theater segments, accomplished by a relatively simple special effect, is the main visual element that is identified with the program. Even channel surfers who stare blankly when confronted by the show’s title will immediately recall the image of an old movie playing with the silhouettes of our heroes sitting in movie theater seats at the bottom of a screen. That’s the bulk of the program: the crew of the S.O.L. making wisecracks during an entire feature-length movie.
The simple format works surprising well, probably because the writing is so strong and varied. A bit of witticism that hinges on an obscure reference to a Greek play might be followed immediately by a fart joke. The surrealistic host segments allow the performers the flexibility to stage both Green Acres and Ingmar Bergman parodies. (One area of humor that the stable of writers tends to shy away from is overtly sexual jokes; a bonus that makes it one of the more family-friendly shows on TV.) The concept and the humor are so distinctive that it allowed the show to get away with numerous cast changes over its ten-year run without missing a beat. The concept even translated without a hitch to the big screen for the S.O.L.'s one and only motion picture venture in 1996.
With the Sci-Fi Channel canceling the program last January, the only place to observe the Dr. F's diabolical experiments now is on DVD. Rhino Home Video has released numerous single episodes and boxed sets. They're definitely worth a look for bad film fanatics, horror/sci-fi buffs, and comedy lovers.
Puppets, stage-bound skits, and overdubbed movies. King Solomon was right: there is nothing new under the sun. But even if MST3K wasn’t the first program to use these ideas, it did combine them in a most original way. And isn’t that what a successful experiment is all about?
That’s how comedian Joel Hodgson once summarized the premise of his television program, Mystery Science Theater 3000. One of the few television programs not produced in New York or Hollywood, MST3K (as it is known by its fans) began in 1988 on a small UHF station and quickly moved to the national spotlight on cable television every week through 1999, all the while never leaving its home base of Minnesota.
Since the television production capabilities of the North Star State were somewhat lacking in comparison to its counterparts on the east and west coasts, the creators wisely stuck to a simple visual style that could have just as easily been shot in the 1950s as the 1990s. That’s not intended as a criticism. Quite the contrary, its chintzy visual charm would allow the program’s best asset—it’s humor—to take center stage.
For the bulk of its run, the show featured only two real sets: the control room of the Satellite of Love, where a human guinea pig and his robot (puppet) friends are held captive, and Deep 13 (later Castle Forrester), where the evil mad scientists plan their latest schemes. Each set is only ever shot with one camera—there are no reaction shots or cutaways. If the director of the episode wishes to draw our attention to a particular object on screen, the camera operator just zooms in over the course of the segment. The actors play more to the camera than to each other, which is very appropriate, because we aren’t watching characters on a television show, we’re watching an experiment in progress shot by a never seen robot named Cambot.
But the program is more than just a demented puppet show. At the end of one of their rants on pop culture or a song parody, the mad scientists activate the movie sign. The wall in the back of the set opens up and the camera (actually, we, the viewers) travels down an odd looking tunnel that finally ends up in the theater.
The theater segments, accomplished by a relatively simple special effect, is the main visual element that is identified with the program. Even channel surfers who stare blankly when confronted by the show’s title will immediately recall the image of an old movie playing with the silhouettes of our heroes sitting in movie theater seats at the bottom of a screen. That’s the bulk of the program: the crew of the S.O.L. making wisecracks during an entire feature-length movie.
The simple format works surprising well, probably because the writing is so strong and varied. A bit of witticism that hinges on an obscure reference to a Greek play might be followed immediately by a fart joke. The surrealistic host segments allow the performers the flexibility to stage both Green Acres and Ingmar Bergman parodies. (One area of humor that the stable of writers tends to shy away from is overtly sexual jokes; a bonus that makes it one of the more family-friendly shows on TV.) The concept and the humor are so distinctive that it allowed the show to get away with numerous cast changes over its ten-year run without missing a beat. The concept even translated without a hitch to the big screen for the S.O.L.'s one and only motion picture venture in 1996.
With the Sci-Fi Channel canceling the program last January, the only place to observe the Dr. F's diabolical experiments now is on DVD. Rhino Home Video has released numerous single episodes and boxed sets. They're definitely worth a look for bad film fanatics, horror/sci-fi buffs, and comedy lovers.
Puppets, stage-bound skits, and overdubbed movies. King Solomon was right: there is nothing new under the sun. But even if MST3K wasn’t the first program to use these ideas, it did combine them in a most original way. And isn’t that what a successful experiment is all about?
Friday, March 05, 2004
Welcome to Lion Country!
I just finished Lion Country, the first of Frederick Buechner's quartet of books about the not-so-right Reverend Leo Bebb. The first thing I have to say is that this is a funny, funny book that I could not put down. The book is written from the perspective of Antonio Parr, a sometime writer from New York City, who buys a mail order ordination from Bebb's diploma mill in Florida. Antonio infiltrates the seedy operation to gather information for a juicy expose to bring down Bebb and jump-start his writing career.
That goal isn't quite as easy for Antonio to achieve once he reaches the Sunshine State, as he finds himself sucked into world of the Church of Holy Love, Inc. and gets entangled with its inhabitants:
Lucille Bebb: The reverend's scary wife, who numbs herself with special "Tropicanas" to forget the wounds of the past.
Sharon: Lucille and Leo's promiscuous adopted daughter.
Brownie: The forever put-upon and theologically unsound chancellor of Bebb's "Bible College," who was raised from the dead by Bebb under dubious circumstances.
And finally --
The Reverend Leo Bebb: The ringleader of the whole circus. Is he a snake living off "the Lord's payroll" or a dangerous crank? Or is he being used of God to accomplish some strange work?
Buechner, a Presbyterian minister, is a master of language who makes each paragraph a joy to read. In lesser hands, this setup could be one more example of religious fiction populated by cardboard characters, but Buechner accomplishes the impossible: Antonio—and the reader—begin to actually care about this cast of misfits.
Authenticity in the church means a lot to me, and I got some big laughs out of Bebb, who is the epitome of every pastor who's message only makes sense on Sunday mornings. I've worked in a few religious organizations—which can be great, but also has exposed me to the seedy underside of things and the questionable crap those goes on behind the scenes. Too often authenticity is punished while "playin' church" is celebrated. I'll be honest—there are times when I want to leave this whole church thing behind. But it's just as true in my situation as in Lion Country: the church may drive you nuts and be guilty of a hundred other sins and dysfunctions, but it's still God's method for conveying his message to the world. And somewhere in the midst of all that dirt and muck, some diamonds can be found.
That goal isn't quite as easy for Antonio to achieve once he reaches the Sunshine State, as he finds himself sucked into world of the Church of Holy Love, Inc. and gets entangled with its inhabitants:
Lucille Bebb: The reverend's scary wife, who numbs herself with special "Tropicanas" to forget the wounds of the past.
Sharon: Lucille and Leo's promiscuous adopted daughter.
Brownie: The forever put-upon and theologically unsound chancellor of Bebb's "Bible College," who was raised from the dead by Bebb under dubious circumstances.
And finally --
The Reverend Leo Bebb: The ringleader of the whole circus. Is he a snake living off "the Lord's payroll" or a dangerous crank? Or is he being used of God to accomplish some strange work?
Buechner, a Presbyterian minister, is a master of language who makes each paragraph a joy to read. In lesser hands, this setup could be one more example of religious fiction populated by cardboard characters, but Buechner accomplishes the impossible: Antonio—and the reader—begin to actually care about this cast of misfits.
Authenticity in the church means a lot to me, and I got some big laughs out of Bebb, who is the epitome of every pastor who's message only makes sense on Sunday mornings. I've worked in a few religious organizations—which can be great, but also has exposed me to the seedy underside of things and the questionable crap those goes on behind the scenes. Too often authenticity is punished while "playin' church" is celebrated. I'll be honest—there are times when I want to leave this whole church thing behind. But it's just as true in my situation as in Lion Country: the church may drive you nuts and be guilty of a hundred other sins and dysfunctions, but it's still God's method for conveying his message to the world. And somewhere in the midst of all that dirt and muck, some diamonds can be found.
Thursday, March 04, 2004
An Apple a day...
Apple’s advertising campaign, Switch, is a big step in the right direction for the computer giant. Previous campaigns, such as Think Different, which exclusively focused on artistic-types who already form the company’s core market could be criticized as “preaching to the choir.” But this new campaign does a wonderful job of sharing Apple’s gospel with the unwashed PC-using masses.
The TV campaign avoids the glitz and pizzazz usually associated with computer commercials. In fact, the ads are about as low-tech as they come: just people standing against an opaque background. Only two of the nineteen ads feature b-roll. The music, with the exception of the ad featuring rappers De La Soul, eschews pulsating synthesizers in favor of piano and banjo in a soundtrack that can only be described as a “shuffle.” Instead of polished actors, the ads feature real people—real looking and real sounding people—from a variety of walks of life (business owners, students, parents, musicians, etc.) describing the virtues of Macintosh computers. The whole package is a folksy approach that sends a message to viewers that what they’re seeing is genuine. Each ad would have been just as effective if filmed in the person’s home or work environment, but the white background unifies the whole series and allows the viewer to quickly connect each successive ad together. (White also symbolizes purity.)
The greatest objection that Apple has to overcome in selling its computers is that it’s impossible to function with a different operating system in a Microsoft Windows world. It’s a myth based largely on misconception, and the Switch campaign does a magnificent job at educating the public.
The first message I noticed in the commercials was what’s so great about Windows anyhow? Anyone who’s ever used a computer can identify with the problems identified in the spots, such as: system crashes, lost files, and missing cables. High school student Alex Schocknecht sums it up when he simply states, “It [his PC] couldn’t work for three days without something going wrong.”
Although the testimonies are frequently punctuated by humor (Ellen Feiss’ ad is drop-dead hilarious), it becomes apparent that a computer problem leaves the user absolutely powerless. Father Bill Swan missed much-needed sleep when his PC would not print his daughter’s homework. Feiss’ computer “ate her homework” and she had to hand in a hastily composed substitute to her teacher. Lawyer Theresa McPherson would waste precious time troubleshooting her computer after it froze up at a critical moment.
Previous Apple campaigns highlighted its computers’ technical superiority or aesthetic beauty. The Switch campaign simply describes how a Macintosh solves problems. Janie Porsche and Gentry Poss explain how the Mac’s plug-n-play features save them time and frustration when hooking up peripheral gadgets. College professor Fabiola Torres describes how Apple’s simple software allows her to improve the learning experience with multimedia. Just to make sure that viewers understand that Macs are compatible with the wider computer world, two of the ads feature computer technology professionals who have to interface with Windows systems everyday.
The ads do a good job of creating a desire to switch from Windows to Macintosh. Since you have to use a computer everyday, why not use the brand that will do what you want it to do? As Scatch DJ Qbert puts it, “You have a dream of it, throw it on my Mac, and boom, it’s reality.”
“It makes me feel powerful.”
Student Hamilton Morris
The TV campaign avoids the glitz and pizzazz usually associated with computer commercials. In fact, the ads are about as low-tech as they come: just people standing against an opaque background. Only two of the nineteen ads feature b-roll. The music, with the exception of the ad featuring rappers De La Soul, eschews pulsating synthesizers in favor of piano and banjo in a soundtrack that can only be described as a “shuffle.” Instead of polished actors, the ads feature real people—real looking and real sounding people—from a variety of walks of life (business owners, students, parents, musicians, etc.) describing the virtues of Macintosh computers. The whole package is a folksy approach that sends a message to viewers that what they’re seeing is genuine. Each ad would have been just as effective if filmed in the person’s home or work environment, but the white background unifies the whole series and allows the viewer to quickly connect each successive ad together. (White also symbolizes purity.)
The greatest objection that Apple has to overcome in selling its computers is that it’s impossible to function with a different operating system in a Microsoft Windows world. It’s a myth based largely on misconception, and the Switch campaign does a magnificent job at educating the public.
The first message I noticed in the commercials was what’s so great about Windows anyhow? Anyone who’s ever used a computer can identify with the problems identified in the spots, such as: system crashes, lost files, and missing cables. High school student Alex Schocknecht sums it up when he simply states, “It [his PC] couldn’t work for three days without something going wrong.”
Although the testimonies are frequently punctuated by humor (Ellen Feiss’ ad is drop-dead hilarious), it becomes apparent that a computer problem leaves the user absolutely powerless. Father Bill Swan missed much-needed sleep when his PC would not print his daughter’s homework. Feiss’ computer “ate her homework” and she had to hand in a hastily composed substitute to her teacher. Lawyer Theresa McPherson would waste precious time troubleshooting her computer after it froze up at a critical moment.
Previous Apple campaigns highlighted its computers’ technical superiority or aesthetic beauty. The Switch campaign simply describes how a Macintosh solves problems. Janie Porsche and Gentry Poss explain how the Mac’s plug-n-play features save them time and frustration when hooking up peripheral gadgets. College professor Fabiola Torres describes how Apple’s simple software allows her to improve the learning experience with multimedia. Just to make sure that viewers understand that Macs are compatible with the wider computer world, two of the ads feature computer technology professionals who have to interface with Windows systems everyday.
The ads do a good job of creating a desire to switch from Windows to Macintosh. Since you have to use a computer everyday, why not use the brand that will do what you want it to do? As Scatch DJ Qbert puts it, “You have a dream of it, throw it on my Mac, and boom, it’s reality.”
“It makes me feel powerful.”
Student Hamilton Morris
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
I.F.'s Strange Dream
I am the swarthy captain of a merchant marine vessel, transporting Tic Tacs across the South Seas. My ship is run aground on a small island during a typhoon. I am the only survivor. The radio is broken and I have no means of calling for help. Hunger gnaws at me day and night, until a pallet of Tic Tacs washes up on shore. I do a quick calculation in the sand: Since each Tic Tac has a nutritional value of 1 1/2 calories, all I have to do is eat 1334 a day to give myself the daily 2000 calories I need to survive. I crack open the pallet and am delighted by the bright colors and sweet rattle. I slowly and methodically consume 1334 Tic Tacs that day -- first a fresh mint, then a wintergreen, followed by a spearmint, then a cinnamon and back again to the fresh mint to restart the cycle. I repeat this for a number of months, watching my supply continually dwindle, until I finally consume the last Tic Tac. It has a pleasant taste followed by the perfect hit of mint. I am sad that I will die alone on this uncharted island, but am thankful for the Tic Tacs and how they helped me get a bang out of life while they lasted. I die peacefully in my sleep.
Years later, a group of sailors arrive on the island and discover my skeleton. They are amazed at my minty fresh odor.
Years later, a group of sailors arrive on the island and discover my skeleton. They are amazed at my minty fresh odor.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Hey, fool!
Here's my quote of the day:
"When in doubt, make a fool of yourself. There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth. So what the hell, leap." -- Cynthia Heimel
"When in doubt, make a fool of yourself. There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth. So what the hell, leap." -- Cynthia Heimel
Monday, March 01, 2004
Remembering D--
I said a prayer for Dick before I ever met him. This was about five years ago. Dick was going through his heart problems and the Pattersons added him to the prayer list at church. But he didn’t remain an anonymous name on the bulletin for long. It wasn’t but a few Sundays after that that I got to meet Dick in person, with his brother Jimmy in tow.
Dick was one of the funniest people I ever met. He was pretty fast on his feet when it came to one-liners, and could give the impression to the unacquainted that he was a real curmudgeon. But it became apparent that he wasn’t that way at all when I took the time to get to know him. Dick had a real passion for the human services field and loved to talk about the people (he didn’t use the word “clients”) that he had the privilege of helping. And certainly his relationship with his brother is one of the greatest pictures of love between two people that I’ve ever seen. Wouldn’t the world be a lot better place if we all treated each other with such compassion?
Read the newspaper. Turn on MSNBC. It doesn’t take too long to figure out that something has gone terribly, terribly wrong with people. The Apostle Paul wrote about the condition of mankind in his letter to the church at Rome: “They have become filled with every kind of wickedness, evil, greed and depravity. They are full of envy, murder, strife, deceit and malice. They are gossips, slanderers, God–haters, insolent, arrogant and boastful; they invent ways of doing evil; they disobey their parents; they are senseless, faithless, heartless, ruthless. Although they know God's righteous decree that those who do such things deserve death, they not only continue to do these very things but also approve of those who practice them.” (Romans 1: 29–32) Would we deny that our condition has improved over the last nineteen-hundred-and-some years since Paul penned those words?
A terminal illness makes a guy think. And Dick had two or three of ‘em. He didn’t just see that things had gone terribly wrong in the world—he recognized that things had gone terribly wrong in himself. And Dick came to the conclusion that Jesus Christ could help. In Saint John’s biography of Jesus he states: “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.” (John 3: 16—17)
One of the things I liked best about Dick was that he didn’t put on airs. Dick was the real deal. His newfound Christian faith was authentic. His beliefs didn’t cause him to ignore the realities of life—these last few years of his life were hard—but he did experience a new kind of hope in the midst of his daily pain, and was comforted by the promise of a new life to come. He neither excused his past nor glorified in his previous indiscretions. He had this almost childlike sense of wonder about the love he found in the person of Jesus Christ. Dick would shake his head in amazement and say, “You can’t comprehend what a vile, wicked person I’ve been.” Dick experienced what the Psalmist wrote when he said that the Lord is “a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness.” (Psalm 86:15)
Everyone always says that they want to go in their sleep. I can’t say that I disagree with them. But Dick knew that the end was coming. He kept saying that he was going to fool everybody and walk right out of that hospital, but that was born out of desire to comfort his family and friends rather than out of any conviction that it was actually going to happen. We’ll never know what Dick went through in those last couple days. I bet he felt the full range of emotions. In the midst of this crisis, he began to doubt if Christ had really forgiven him.
People have a hard time putting their trust in other people—that’s why we have laws, contracts, lawyers, and lie detectors. And for a few days Dick questioned if he could entrust his soul to Christ or if he was sins were so bad that they disqualified him from his offer of eternal life. Remember that old TV show, Fight Back? David Horowitz would say, “If it sounds to good to be true, it probably is!” And forgiveness of sins sounds pretty good.
I ate lunch the other day in the hospital cafeteria. When I got to the checkout, I realized that I had left my money lying on my desk at work. But then a nice lady offered to buy my lunch for me. It only cost two bucks, but I still offered to pay her back. I hate the idea of someone having to bail me out. I’d much rather find a way to take care of everything myself.
But some things are beyond our ability to take care of. It was true for my lunch that afternoon. It’s also just as true about the sin in our lives. We may try to tow the line or keep the rules, but at some point or another we bungle it up. There’s no amount of restitution that we can perform to undo the damage that we’ve caused to the people around us or even ourselves. In other words, we need bailed out. Hear these words of Saint Paul: “For what the law was powerless to do in that it was weakened by the sinful nature, God did by sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful man to be a sin offering.” (Romans 8:3)
We try being religious. We try being a good person. We try to excuse our own bad behavior. But deep down we know that it’s not enough—our own consciences accuse us. There’s only one bridge between a screwed-up mankind and God. That bridge is Christ. If He can’t take on your whole burden, he can’t take any of it. Dick, his fiancée Eileen, and I had a chance to talk about these things a few hours before he moved on. Then I said a short prayer and headed home for some shut-eye. (I just noticed that the first and last thing I ever did for Dick was pray for him.)
When Dick moved on, he was most definitely at peace with His God.
I’d like to finish with a few words from the book of First Timothy in the Bible. This was Saint Paul’s testimony, but somehow I can hear Dick saying this: “The grace of our Lord was poured out on me abundantly, along with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst. But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display his unlimited patience as an example for those who would believe on him and receive eternal life.” (1 Timothy 1: 15—16)
Dick was one of the funniest people I ever met. He was pretty fast on his feet when it came to one-liners, and could give the impression to the unacquainted that he was a real curmudgeon. But it became apparent that he wasn’t that way at all when I took the time to get to know him. Dick had a real passion for the human services field and loved to talk about the people (he didn’t use the word “clients”) that he had the privilege of helping. And certainly his relationship with his brother is one of the greatest pictures of love between two people that I’ve ever seen. Wouldn’t the world be a lot better place if we all treated each other with such compassion?
Read the newspaper. Turn on MSNBC. It doesn’t take too long to figure out that something has gone terribly, terribly wrong with people. The Apostle Paul wrote about the condition of mankind in his letter to the church at Rome: “They have become filled with every kind of wickedness, evil, greed and depravity. They are full of envy, murder, strife, deceit and malice. They are gossips, slanderers, God–haters, insolent, arrogant and boastful; they invent ways of doing evil; they disobey their parents; they are senseless, faithless, heartless, ruthless. Although they know God's righteous decree that those who do such things deserve death, they not only continue to do these very things but also approve of those who practice them.” (Romans 1: 29–32) Would we deny that our condition has improved over the last nineteen-hundred-and-some years since Paul penned those words?
A terminal illness makes a guy think. And Dick had two or three of ‘em. He didn’t just see that things had gone terribly wrong in the world—he recognized that things had gone terribly wrong in himself. And Dick came to the conclusion that Jesus Christ could help. In Saint John’s biography of Jesus he states: “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.” (John 3: 16—17)
One of the things I liked best about Dick was that he didn’t put on airs. Dick was the real deal. His newfound Christian faith was authentic. His beliefs didn’t cause him to ignore the realities of life—these last few years of his life were hard—but he did experience a new kind of hope in the midst of his daily pain, and was comforted by the promise of a new life to come. He neither excused his past nor glorified in his previous indiscretions. He had this almost childlike sense of wonder about the love he found in the person of Jesus Christ. Dick would shake his head in amazement and say, “You can’t comprehend what a vile, wicked person I’ve been.” Dick experienced what the Psalmist wrote when he said that the Lord is “a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness.” (Psalm 86:15)
Everyone always says that they want to go in their sleep. I can’t say that I disagree with them. But Dick knew that the end was coming. He kept saying that he was going to fool everybody and walk right out of that hospital, but that was born out of desire to comfort his family and friends rather than out of any conviction that it was actually going to happen. We’ll never know what Dick went through in those last couple days. I bet he felt the full range of emotions. In the midst of this crisis, he began to doubt if Christ had really forgiven him.
People have a hard time putting their trust in other people—that’s why we have laws, contracts, lawyers, and lie detectors. And for a few days Dick questioned if he could entrust his soul to Christ or if he was sins were so bad that they disqualified him from his offer of eternal life. Remember that old TV show, Fight Back? David Horowitz would say, “If it sounds to good to be true, it probably is!” And forgiveness of sins sounds pretty good.
I ate lunch the other day in the hospital cafeteria. When I got to the checkout, I realized that I had left my money lying on my desk at work. But then a nice lady offered to buy my lunch for me. It only cost two bucks, but I still offered to pay her back. I hate the idea of someone having to bail me out. I’d much rather find a way to take care of everything myself.
But some things are beyond our ability to take care of. It was true for my lunch that afternoon. It’s also just as true about the sin in our lives. We may try to tow the line or keep the rules, but at some point or another we bungle it up. There’s no amount of restitution that we can perform to undo the damage that we’ve caused to the people around us or even ourselves. In other words, we need bailed out. Hear these words of Saint Paul: “For what the law was powerless to do in that it was weakened by the sinful nature, God did by sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful man to be a sin offering.” (Romans 8:3)
We try being religious. We try being a good person. We try to excuse our own bad behavior. But deep down we know that it’s not enough—our own consciences accuse us. There’s only one bridge between a screwed-up mankind and God. That bridge is Christ. If He can’t take on your whole burden, he can’t take any of it. Dick, his fiancée Eileen, and I had a chance to talk about these things a few hours before he moved on. Then I said a short prayer and headed home for some shut-eye. (I just noticed that the first and last thing I ever did for Dick was pray for him.)
When Dick moved on, he was most definitely at peace with His God.
I’d like to finish with a few words from the book of First Timothy in the Bible. This was Saint Paul’s testimony, but somehow I can hear Dick saying this: “The grace of our Lord was poured out on me abundantly, along with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst. But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display his unlimited patience as an example for those who would believe on him and receive eternal life.” (1 Timothy 1: 15—16)
Where is the love?
No matter how blended, unique or challenged our family life may be, I don't think too many of us can stand on the same ground as Hamlet. Sure, not many of us have royal blood coursing through our veins; but after reading one of Shakespeare's most widely performed tragedies—maybe that's a really good thing.
Hamlet, away at school, returns home to find his father dead and his mother remarried to his uncle. Only two months has passed since his father's untimely death and Hamlet is besought with grief and horror at his mother's impulsiveness. This is the typical, "I can't believe you could every love anyone but Dad!” reaction when a widow remarries. But Hamlet goes beyond the typical reaction by calling his mother's remarriage an "incestuous relationship." Take a disgruntled, spoiled son, a duped but truly happily remarried mom, plotting politicians and the revengeful ghost of a murdered father; and you have a perfect panel of guests to appear on the Springer show—no questions asked.
Everywhere the reader looks in this play they find tragedy, death and dishonesty; but the one thing everyone seems to be looking for is truth, beauty and love. Unspoiled and sincere love is what is sadly missing in each of the character's lives. Hamlet loves Ophelia, but denies her his attentions after the ghost of his father incites him to murder. The ghost incites Hamlet to revenge his death because "his wife" is now married to his murdering brother. Claudius murdered his brother not only to gain his crown, but the affection of Gertrude. Gertrude, lost in the loss of her first husband and attracted to married life unwittingly marries Claudius.
The lives and characters in Hamlet are unique and unpredictable. Just when you think Hamlet is going to tell the ghost of his father to shove off, he agrees to a life of revenge and an eternity of damnation. Even when there is opportunity to escape the revenge of his father, Hamlet is consumed by guilt and madness to destroy Claudius' happiness.
Hamlet sacrifices his and Ophelia's own happiness to his obsession with revenge. Hamlet privately refuses Ophelia’s love, but confuses her by showing her physical affection in public. Ophelia, caught between the wishes of her family and her own desire for Hamlet does nothing and becomes consumed with grief and loss. She allows herself to remain frozen between the hope of actualization and the tragic denial of her diminished dreams. Her loss of Hamlet and her Father's death leave her to madness and eventually death.
Claudius, demonized by Hamlet's rants, prays to God for forgiveness for his desire for power and the murder of his brother. However sincere his prayer of forgiveness is, he is unable to recognize that the continued brutality and plotting against Hamlet is wrong.
Gertrude seems to be the only character through the play that love's her life, or at least tries to make the best of it. She loved her first husband dearly but instead of resigning herself to widower, she remarries and loves her second husband passionately.
Shakespeare's characters are human beings.
The characters in this play are not flat cookie-cutter produced roles. Human beings are unpredictable, they lie, they tell the truth, they sin, they repent, they live and they die.
The occurrence of madness in this play is more than a facade' put on by Hamlet or the venue of expression for a woman with dashed dreams. The madness of Hamlet is that the love each character so desperately desires is well within their reach. Yes there is murder and wrong doing, but if Hamlet's father would have truly loved his son - would he have asked him to kill for him? If Ophelia was lost without Hamlet, she could have learned from the Queen that love can be found again. Hamlet needed to see that his father's revenge really didn't belong to him. Hamlet could have been a creative, intelligent leader, but his life that brimmed with potential was wasted in the pursuit of revenge. Sadly, Hamlet didn't see his misguided focus until death had consumed his entire family and eventually himself.
Hindsight is said to be 20/20. Revenge is death. Children pay for the sins of their fathers. The themes that encompass Hamlet are as many as the sayings from it that are still popular today. Thematically speaking, the need for love in this tragedy speaks to my heart.
So many times, I know what is right and good and loving—and I don't go after it hard or long enough. I allow love to slip though my hands too easily. I resign myself to revenge, bitterness or despair all because I think that the real deal is beyond my reach.
If I really want to build that sandcastle, I need a shovel, a pail, and maybe even a John Deere backhoe to do things right. The tide of life pulls hard to pull away our hopes and dreams, but love is the glue that can hold things together. A castle made of sand is vulnerable to the elements that wear at its foundation and surface. Sometimes we have to move our castle to a safer location or sometimes we have to stand guard to make sure no one tramples it, but we have some say in how things in life ends up. We can’t stop trying. Madness occurs when love, unselfish love is abandoned like a sandcastle built too close to the shore. Even if all we can do is stand guard, at least we’ll gain a great story and a little wisdom from a life well lived and loved. Maybe I protest too much, but if I don't protest for love who will?
Hamlet, away at school, returns home to find his father dead and his mother remarried to his uncle. Only two months has passed since his father's untimely death and Hamlet is besought with grief and horror at his mother's impulsiveness. This is the typical, "I can't believe you could every love anyone but Dad!” reaction when a widow remarries. But Hamlet goes beyond the typical reaction by calling his mother's remarriage an "incestuous relationship." Take a disgruntled, spoiled son, a duped but truly happily remarried mom, plotting politicians and the revengeful ghost of a murdered father; and you have a perfect panel of guests to appear on the Springer show—no questions asked.
Everywhere the reader looks in this play they find tragedy, death and dishonesty; but the one thing everyone seems to be looking for is truth, beauty and love. Unspoiled and sincere love is what is sadly missing in each of the character's lives. Hamlet loves Ophelia, but denies her his attentions after the ghost of his father incites him to murder. The ghost incites Hamlet to revenge his death because "his wife" is now married to his murdering brother. Claudius murdered his brother not only to gain his crown, but the affection of Gertrude. Gertrude, lost in the loss of her first husband and attracted to married life unwittingly marries Claudius.
The lives and characters in Hamlet are unique and unpredictable. Just when you think Hamlet is going to tell the ghost of his father to shove off, he agrees to a life of revenge and an eternity of damnation. Even when there is opportunity to escape the revenge of his father, Hamlet is consumed by guilt and madness to destroy Claudius' happiness.
Hamlet sacrifices his and Ophelia's own happiness to his obsession with revenge. Hamlet privately refuses Ophelia’s love, but confuses her by showing her physical affection in public. Ophelia, caught between the wishes of her family and her own desire for Hamlet does nothing and becomes consumed with grief and loss. She allows herself to remain frozen between the hope of actualization and the tragic denial of her diminished dreams. Her loss of Hamlet and her Father's death leave her to madness and eventually death.
Claudius, demonized by Hamlet's rants, prays to God for forgiveness for his desire for power and the murder of his brother. However sincere his prayer of forgiveness is, he is unable to recognize that the continued brutality and plotting against Hamlet is wrong.
Gertrude seems to be the only character through the play that love's her life, or at least tries to make the best of it. She loved her first husband dearly but instead of resigning herself to widower, she remarries and loves her second husband passionately.
Shakespeare's characters are human beings.
The characters in this play are not flat cookie-cutter produced roles. Human beings are unpredictable, they lie, they tell the truth, they sin, they repent, they live and they die.
The occurrence of madness in this play is more than a facade' put on by Hamlet or the venue of expression for a woman with dashed dreams. The madness of Hamlet is that the love each character so desperately desires is well within their reach. Yes there is murder and wrong doing, but if Hamlet's father would have truly loved his son - would he have asked him to kill for him? If Ophelia was lost without Hamlet, she could have learned from the Queen that love can be found again. Hamlet needed to see that his father's revenge really didn't belong to him. Hamlet could have been a creative, intelligent leader, but his life that brimmed with potential was wasted in the pursuit of revenge. Sadly, Hamlet didn't see his misguided focus until death had consumed his entire family and eventually himself.
Hindsight is said to be 20/20. Revenge is death. Children pay for the sins of their fathers. The themes that encompass Hamlet are as many as the sayings from it that are still popular today. Thematically speaking, the need for love in this tragedy speaks to my heart.
So many times, I know what is right and good and loving—and I don't go after it hard or long enough. I allow love to slip though my hands too easily. I resign myself to revenge, bitterness or despair all because I think that the real deal is beyond my reach.
If I really want to build that sandcastle, I need a shovel, a pail, and maybe even a John Deere backhoe to do things right. The tide of life pulls hard to pull away our hopes and dreams, but love is the glue that can hold things together. A castle made of sand is vulnerable to the elements that wear at its foundation and surface. Sometimes we have to move our castle to a safer location or sometimes we have to stand guard to make sure no one tramples it, but we have some say in how things in life ends up. We can’t stop trying. Madness occurs when love, unselfish love is abandoned like a sandcastle built too close to the shore. Even if all we can do is stand guard, at least we’ll gain a great story and a little wisdom from a life well lived and loved. Maybe I protest too much, but if I don't protest for love who will?
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