I work in a dvd by-mail rental distribution center (read: warehouse). A lot of . . . um . . . "questionable" films pass through my hands each day, and I remember how shocked I used to be at some of the viewing decisions that some of you are making. On Friday, though, I came across something that really made me feel BETTER about the state of our movie-watching culture. It was an animated title that I wasn't familiar with, but it had a disclaimer printed right on the disc itself that read as follows (emphasis mine):
"WARNING: Contains nudity and adult situations. May not be suitable for viewers under 18 years of age. Parental discretion advised. All characters depicted in sexual conduct or in the nude are aged 19 years or older. No actual or identifiable minor was used in the creation of any character depicted herein."
"That's nice" I thought to myself, "because if we were watching underage cartoon people doing . . . um . . . 'stuff', well then THAT might be just weird. But since I now know that all the drawings are of characters of 'legal age' there's clearly no need for concern!"
Right . . . .
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
You Might *Not* Be What You Wear
At a certain point, the old cliche "you are what you eat" is pretty self-evident and irrefutable. Similarly, the truism "you are what you are" has to be considered positively water-proof. But how about people who wear clothing or some other type of message-conveying device that proudly boasts some manner of extraordinary attribute? Let's consider a couple of popular slogans and see if together we can determine if, indeed, people are what they eat, what they are, and also what they wear.
Hottie
Surely you've seen girls running all about wearing shirts with a single-word message that is as simple as it is misguided -- "Hottie". If ever there was a garment that cried out for some analysis, this is the one. In fact, upon seeing said shirt, isn't it all but impossible not to go ahead and make some sort of a judgment regarding the factuality or lack thereof in the message? I'm not saying that I go around checking girls out -- I'm really very happily married (yes, to a hottie!) -- but much like the "World's Best Coffee" sign in Elf, it just begs for verification. Of course, the verdict will be one of two, each with their own set of implications:
Yes! We do, in fact, have a hottie! The bad news, I'm afraid, is that hotties should NOT ever be seen sporting a "hottie" logo. What good can possibly come of it? Girls will just hate them for their arrogance and shamelessness. Guys, as a rule, don't need to be tipped off to the attractiveness of the fairer sex, and generally like for the girl to pretend to be surprised when we graciously inform her that she is, indeed, a hottie. The shirt, of course, short-circuit's the entire process and sends any (sensible) man running for the hills. After all, any genuine hottie who's wearing a "hottie" shirt is going to be positively insufferable to be around and completely unbearable to date. We like to make our female-friend feel like the world revolves around her, but do NOT like for them to act like they deserve or expect it.
OR:
Nope, NOT a hottie! Do people with bad teeth wear clothing that says "Hey -- check out my chicklets!"? Do people with 4th grade educations have pins that say "Ask me about the pythagorean theorem!"? Is White Castle's slogan "You'll regret this in about an hour and a half!"? Of course not. Why is it, then, that about 80% of the people wearing "hottie" shirts are categorically unattractive? Doesn't that scream to the watching, laughing world "Look at me! I'm both unattractive AND delusional!"
Porn Star
Hey, the ladies take the brunt of the "hottie" silliness, but the fellas aren't immune from making bad wardrobe decisions either, as particularly evidenced by the lingering popularity of the "porn star" shirts (sorry, I'm not even going to try to google images that one . . .).
The message could be true, of course. If indeed your profession is what the shirt says it is, what's going to be gained by wearing it on your sleeve (or torso)? A certain type of female may be attracted to that, I suppose. But would you really need that? Isn't it a little like being a professional ice cream taster and then stopping off for a Blizzard on the way home from work? Call me level-headed, but I'm just not seeing it.
Of course, there's pretty much zero chance that anybody wearing this shirt is anything more than a fan of the industry, right? So if my math is right, the shirt then REALLY says something closer to, "Hey -- anybody wanna-be with a wanna-be? Not just ANY wanna-be, though, I'm ALSO completely depraved and shameless and would like to treat you as though you're an ultra-low rent prostitute and then send you on your way empty and dying inside. Come on, now, step right up! . . . . . . . . . . . . Hey Trevor, why is there still no line?"
Bad@$$ Boyz/Girlz Drive Bad@$$ Toyz
Now this is usually a sticker on a vehicle more than a t-shirt slogan, but of course the same principles apply.
Now first of all, do you know any TRULY "bad" people? I do. Guess what? They ain't sportin' this sticker. If you're REALLY "bad", you know it and could care less whether anybody else does or not, right? Think of Mel Gibson in Payback. That was about as bad of a character as you find, right? Could you imagine that character having a rhyming sticker that replaced the letter "s" with "z" in brash public demonstration of his "bad-ness"? Hardly.
Even worse is the female version. Seriously, you know that it doesn't even rhyme, right? Or is that the point? You don't care about spelling OR rhyme, because you're just that eager to have a lame female rip-off of an already lame male slogan? Doesn't that communicate "Oh, me too, me too! I want to be in the bad club too! Please???" more than anything? It's either that or "Whatever stupid thing insecure dudes can put on their Ford Rangers, us ladies can make a second-rate copy and put it on our Geo Trackers!" Come on ladies -- I KNOW you can do better. Come up with something original and clever and you can be a real credit to your gender.
The lesson is simple -- wearing a shirt doesn't change your level of attractiveness, profession, or mental disposition. I can go to Hot Topic, but that won't make me a brooding 14 year-old. I can also go to Victoria's Secret, but that won't give me a classic hourglass figure. And when I go to pastoral meetings, I don't suddenly become bitter, burned out, and humor-less. Whatever you are? Seriously, it's ok (unless you're shirt number 2, but I'm guessing "that guy" is too strung out to be reading this)! Try to be something else and you just look dumb. You are what you are -- just be that and you'll be fine.
Hottie
Surely you've seen girls running all about wearing shirts with a single-word message that is as simple as it is misguided -- "Hottie". If ever there was a garment that cried out for some analysis, this is the one. In fact, upon seeing said shirt, isn't it all but impossible not to go ahead and make some sort of a judgment regarding the factuality or lack thereof in the message? I'm not saying that I go around checking girls out -- I'm really very happily married (yes, to a hottie!) -- but much like the "World's Best Coffee" sign in Elf, it just begs for verification. Of course, the verdict will be one of two, each with their own set of implications:
Yes! We do, in fact, have a hottie! The bad news, I'm afraid, is that hotties should NOT ever be seen sporting a "hottie" logo. What good can possibly come of it? Girls will just hate them for their arrogance and shamelessness. Guys, as a rule, don't need to be tipped off to the attractiveness of the fairer sex, and generally like for the girl to pretend to be surprised when we graciously inform her that she is, indeed, a hottie. The shirt, of course, short-circuit's the entire process and sends any (sensible) man running for the hills. After all, any genuine hottie who's wearing a "hottie" shirt is going to be positively insufferable to be around and completely unbearable to date. We like to make our female-friend feel like the world revolves around her, but do NOT like for them to act like they deserve or expect it.
OR:
Nope, NOT a hottie! Do people with bad teeth wear clothing that says "Hey -- check out my chicklets!"? Do people with 4th grade educations have pins that say "Ask me about the pythagorean theorem!"? Is White Castle's slogan "You'll regret this in about an hour and a half!"? Of course not. Why is it, then, that about 80% of the people wearing "hottie" shirts are categorically unattractive? Doesn't that scream to the watching, laughing world "Look at me! I'm both unattractive AND delusional!"
Porn Star
Hey, the ladies take the brunt of the "hottie" silliness, but the fellas aren't immune from making bad wardrobe decisions either, as particularly evidenced by the lingering popularity of the "porn star" shirts (sorry, I'm not even going to try to google images that one . . .).
The message could be true, of course. If indeed your profession is what the shirt says it is, what's going to be gained by wearing it on your sleeve (or torso)? A certain type of female may be attracted to that, I suppose. But would you really need that? Isn't it a little like being a professional ice cream taster and then stopping off for a Blizzard on the way home from work? Call me level-headed, but I'm just not seeing it.
Of course, there's pretty much zero chance that anybody wearing this shirt is anything more than a fan of the industry, right? So if my math is right, the shirt then REALLY says something closer to, "Hey -- anybody wanna-be with a wanna-be? Not just ANY wanna-be, though, I'm ALSO completely depraved and shameless and would like to treat you as though you're an ultra-low rent prostitute and then send you on your way empty and dying inside. Come on, now, step right up! . . . . . . . . . . . . Hey Trevor, why is there still no line?"
Bad@$$ Boyz/Girlz Drive Bad@$$ Toyz
Now this is usually a sticker on a vehicle more than a t-shirt slogan, but of course the same principles apply.
Now first of all, do you know any TRULY "bad" people? I do. Guess what? They ain't sportin' this sticker. If you're REALLY "bad", you know it and could care less whether anybody else does or not, right? Think of Mel Gibson in Payback. That was about as bad of a character as you find, right? Could you imagine that character having a rhyming sticker that replaced the letter "s" with "z" in brash public demonstration of his "bad-ness"? Hardly.
Even worse is the female version. Seriously, you know that it doesn't even rhyme, right? Or is that the point? You don't care about spelling OR rhyme, because you're just that eager to have a lame female rip-off of an already lame male slogan? Doesn't that communicate "Oh, me too, me too! I want to be in the bad club too! Please???" more than anything? It's either that or "Whatever stupid thing insecure dudes can put on their Ford Rangers, us ladies can make a second-rate copy and put it on our Geo Trackers!" Come on ladies -- I KNOW you can do better. Come up with something original and clever and you can be a real credit to your gender.
The lesson is simple -- wearing a shirt doesn't change your level of attractiveness, profession, or mental disposition. I can go to Hot Topic, but that won't make me a brooding 14 year-old. I can also go to Victoria's Secret, but that won't give me a classic hourglass figure. And when I go to pastoral meetings, I don't suddenly become bitter, burned out, and humor-less. Whatever you are? Seriously, it's ok (unless you're shirt number 2, but I'm guessing "that guy" is too strung out to be reading this)! Try to be something else and you just look dumb. You are what you are -- just be that and you'll be fine.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Why Are Chocolate Chips "Semi-Sweet"?
I don't know, but this entry might be semi-serious. What can I say? Perhaps I should semi-apologize. Perhaps not! Whatever.
But here's something that I think may be semi-profound that I've learned/had come together for me in the relatively recent past -- we're whole people. I know that doesn't sound profound, but let me explain what I mean.
A couple of years ago, I read a book called "The Emotionally Healthy Church." The premise of the book was that people (who are, of course, the church) can never grow spiritually until they become healthy(er) emotionally. At the time, I thought it was flat-0ut backwards and completely wrong. I thought that people had to grow spiritually and then they would be able to grow healthy(er) emotionally. My mini-epiphany is this -- I think we were both wrong. It seems clear to me now that the whole enterprise of separating the spiritual and emotional is artificial and bogus -- they work together. I don't know exactly how this works, of course, but I'm thinking that it must be true. How can someone accept the love of Jesus (not like "just" to "become a Christian", but to REALLY "accept") when they don't feel/believe they are lovable? And trying to decide which comes first is like the chicken or the egg deal -- they need to move forward together.
Let's even throw one more kink in the garden hose, shall we? Sexuality is worked in there, too. It's tougher to understand and buy into for us fellas who tend to naturally compartmentalize things, but the ladies should have no problem here. With allowances made for the exceptions and apologies for the over-generalizations -- "we" want to get our rocks off, watch Sportscenter, pound some Cheetos, and go to bed. The ladies want to make love and then do the "c" word (I can't say it and don't even want to type it out -- the word just bothers me, I'm not sure why). It's not necessarily that our wives don't like sports or are trying to cut back on their MSG intake, it's that "their" emotions and spirit (read: "soul") are either more integrated into their sexuality or they're just more naturally aware of it. . . or something. I don't know exactly, or why the difference, but I think it must be a difference of degree rather essence, or quantitative rather than qualitative, if you will, as evidenced by exceptions to the rule and the fact that we're all, at our essence, human beings. Sex affects our soul -- that's probably why the Bible talks so much about it and treats it differently from other physical activities like swimming or eating or sleeping, huh?
At any rate, my point is this -- emotional, spiritual, sexual -- they all work together. They're all parts of the same deal, and how we deal with one affects the others, too. I can't back it up scientifically or even scripturally to a terribly weighty degree, but I think it's true, and I think understanding this truth can be helpful and open the doors to a great deal of healing and freedom. Further, "the church" needs to do a better job at addressing emotional needs and other things that aren't overtly spiritual, and the spiritual will be helped along greatly. And no wonder why so many churches that DO address issues that aren't overtly spiritual are flocked to by people who have heard the "Christian" message 1,000 times over but just never had it mean anything to them. Let's make sure that we don't drown in pop psychology to the detriment of Jesus -- but "Jesus loves you" doesn't mean much to a person with a shattered conception of what love really is.
Now . . . how do I integrate things like that into a blog that's about sports, metal, comedy, and Buzz Goertzen? Oh, who cares, where are the Cheetos?
But here's something that I think may be semi-profound that I've learned/had come together for me in the relatively recent past -- we're whole people. I know that doesn't sound profound, but let me explain what I mean.
A couple of years ago, I read a book called "The Emotionally Healthy Church." The premise of the book was that people (who are, of course, the church) can never grow spiritually until they become healthy(er) emotionally. At the time, I thought it was flat-0ut backwards and completely wrong. I thought that people had to grow spiritually and then they would be able to grow healthy(er) emotionally. My mini-epiphany is this -- I think we were both wrong. It seems clear to me now that the whole enterprise of separating the spiritual and emotional is artificial and bogus -- they work together. I don't know exactly how this works, of course, but I'm thinking that it must be true. How can someone accept the love of Jesus (not like "just" to "become a Christian", but to REALLY "accept") when they don't feel/believe they are lovable? And trying to decide which comes first is like the chicken or the egg deal -- they need to move forward together.
Let's even throw one more kink in the garden hose, shall we? Sexuality is worked in there, too. It's tougher to understand and buy into for us fellas who tend to naturally compartmentalize things, but the ladies should have no problem here. With allowances made for the exceptions and apologies for the over-generalizations -- "we" want to get our rocks off, watch Sportscenter, pound some Cheetos, and go to bed. The ladies want to make love and then do the "c" word (I can't say it and don't even want to type it out -- the word just bothers me, I'm not sure why). It's not necessarily that our wives don't like sports or are trying to cut back on their MSG intake, it's that "their" emotions and spirit (read: "soul") are either more integrated into their sexuality or they're just more naturally aware of it. . . or something. I don't know exactly, or why the difference, but I think it must be a difference of degree rather essence, or quantitative rather than qualitative, if you will, as evidenced by exceptions to the rule and the fact that we're all, at our essence, human beings. Sex affects our soul -- that's probably why the Bible talks so much about it and treats it differently from other physical activities like swimming or eating or sleeping, huh?
At any rate, my point is this -- emotional, spiritual, sexual -- they all work together. They're all parts of the same deal, and how we deal with one affects the others, too. I can't back it up scientifically or even scripturally to a terribly weighty degree, but I think it's true, and I think understanding this truth can be helpful and open the doors to a great deal of healing and freedom. Further, "the church" needs to do a better job at addressing emotional needs and other things that aren't overtly spiritual, and the spiritual will be helped along greatly. And no wonder why so many churches that DO address issues that aren't overtly spiritual are flocked to by people who have heard the "Christian" message 1,000 times over but just never had it mean anything to them. Let's make sure that we don't drown in pop psychology to the detriment of Jesus -- but "Jesus loves you" doesn't mean much to a person with a shattered conception of what love really is.
Now . . . how do I integrate things like that into a blog that's about sports, metal, comedy, and Buzz Goertzen? Oh, who cares, where are the Cheetos?
Thursday, October 11, 2007
u r my bff lol
If you know me at all, you already know full well what I'm about to admit to you all -- I'm a dork. There. I'd say that was liberating, but . . . whatever. It's really not news. And just because I have little better to do, here's a rant on one thing that really gets under my skin: intentional mis-spelling.
Now -- let me begin by saying that I have a lot of grace for people who just don't know better. Not everybody had good educations, English really is quite a confounding language, and some people are just concerned with more important things. But when it's overt and intentional? I just don't get it, but DANG does it get me.
Just so you know that I'm not trying to be personal here, let's start out with one that I really, truly love. Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Mmmmmm. Like many of you, I'm a big fan. There is absolutely no denying the delicious tastiness, and with it I can find no fault. But the spelling? What's with the gratuitous K's, y'all? It's not even like they HAD to do it for alliteration's sake -- "Crispy Cream" still works! And while I'm at it -- there IS no "Kreme" (at least in any doughnut that's worth getting there) and if there was, I don't think I'd like it to be "Krispy", thank you very much. Maybe that's the whole deal, though. Maybe the mis-spelling is to deflect any potential lawsuits for improper labeling or whatever, much like the way salad topping and dog snack companies use "bac'n" for lack of genuine bacon, or merely "moderate" metal bands use Megadeth for lack of genuine death. What we're left with, then, is an apparent intentional mis-spelling (and a double at that!) for which the best explanation that I can imagine is to cover up and mis-lead regarding the actual content of a -- luckily -- extremely tasty confection.
How about band names? Look, I know it's hard. Pretty much every band name is taken. I've been there and I've suffered with you. Creativity, however, is still a better answer than mis-spelling. And IF you're going to go the mis-spelling route, can you at LEAST mis-spell a cool word? I understand, to a certain extent, Trapt. I'm sure that Trapped was taken long ago, and the word at least connotes some degree of fear or intimidation, especially if you're prized for your coat. But seriously now -- Korn? Really? You're going to take a kernel-bearing plant, replace the c with a k and turn the r backwards, and then try to be tough? As if to shout from the rooftops: "Hey -- we're SO from the streets that we don't care about your commonly accepted rules of spelling and grammar! Ha ha -- take THAT, 2nd grade spelling teacher!" Admittedly I can't argue with the results -- I'm no fan but clearly they've done well for themselves -- but I HAVE to believe that it's more in spite of than because of the name. (Side note -- if, rather than the leafy kernel-bearing plant, they're distorting the word for a growth of tissue typically on the toe, than that IS pretty tough and I take back every joke I've ever made. And am now legitimately intimidated, just a little bit.)
Finally, let's look at one more example that actually comes from -- gasp -- one of our institutions of higher learning. "Wait!" you may be exclaiming. "Surely there can be no intentional mis-spelling at the very bastions of learning and grammatical correctness . . . right? Wrong. Take a look here. The University of Missouri, perhaps daunted by the throngs who insist on pronouncing an "a" where the "i" goes at the end of their state name (mis- pronunciation, of course, is another blog for another day), opt to print "Mizzou" as often as "Missouri." Now I don't necessarily mind if something's abbreviated or shortened for practical reasons. Hey -- I'm a practical guy, right? But call me nit-picky if it be the case, but surely I'm not the one who's noticed that "Z" is a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT LETTER from "S"! Hello -- it's backwards and pointy instead of curvy! The sound is similar and it can be confusing if you're trying to read in a mirror, but as a state university is getting the right letter really too much to ask?
Anyway, all these examples aside, do you know what bothers me the most about all of this? That it bothers me. Really, who cares? What's it to me? Isn't it all just about my own obsession with always being right anyway? And it probably is. So people are creative in their grammatical constrctions. So what. When I see it in others and it triggers something in me, it's only my own ugly side coming out that makes me angry. And that, my friends and internet-stalkers, is worse than being a dork.
Now -- let me begin by saying that I have a lot of grace for people who just don't know better. Not everybody had good educations, English really is quite a confounding language, and some people are just concerned with more important things. But when it's overt and intentional? I just don't get it, but DANG does it get me.
Just so you know that I'm not trying to be personal here, let's start out with one that I really, truly love. Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Mmmmmm. Like many of you, I'm a big fan. There is absolutely no denying the delicious tastiness, and with it I can find no fault. But the spelling? What's with the gratuitous K's, y'all? It's not even like they HAD to do it for alliteration's sake -- "Crispy Cream" still works! And while I'm at it -- there IS no "Kreme" (at least in any doughnut that's worth getting there) and if there was, I don't think I'd like it to be "Krispy", thank you very much. Maybe that's the whole deal, though. Maybe the mis-spelling is to deflect any potential lawsuits for improper labeling or whatever, much like the way salad topping and dog snack companies use "bac'n" for lack of genuine bacon, or merely "moderate" metal bands use Megadeth for lack of genuine death. What we're left with, then, is an apparent intentional mis-spelling (and a double at that!) for which the best explanation that I can imagine is to cover up and mis-lead regarding the actual content of a -- luckily -- extremely tasty confection.
How about band names? Look, I know it's hard. Pretty much every band name is taken. I've been there and I've suffered with you. Creativity, however, is still a better answer than mis-spelling. And IF you're going to go the mis-spelling route, can you at LEAST mis-spell a cool word? I understand, to a certain extent, Trapt. I'm sure that Trapped was taken long ago, and the word at least connotes some degree of fear or intimidation, especially if you're prized for your coat. But seriously now -- Korn? Really? You're going to take a kernel-bearing plant, replace the c with a k and turn the r backwards, and then try to be tough? As if to shout from the rooftops: "Hey -- we're SO from the streets that we don't care about your commonly accepted rules of spelling and grammar! Ha ha -- take THAT, 2nd grade spelling teacher!" Admittedly I can't argue with the results -- I'm no fan but clearly they've done well for themselves -- but I HAVE to believe that it's more in spite of than because of the name. (Side note -- if, rather than the leafy kernel-bearing plant, they're distorting the word for a growth of tissue typically on the toe, than that IS pretty tough and I take back every joke I've ever made. And am now legitimately intimidated, just a little bit.)
Finally, let's look at one more example that actually comes from -- gasp -- one of our institutions of higher learning. "Wait!" you may be exclaiming. "Surely there can be no intentional mis-spelling at the very bastions of learning and grammatical correctness . . . right? Wrong. Take a look here. The University of Missouri, perhaps daunted by the throngs who insist on pronouncing an "a" where the "i" goes at the end of their state name (mis- pronunciation, of course, is another blog for another day), opt to print "Mizzou" as often as "Missouri." Now I don't necessarily mind if something's abbreviated or shortened for practical reasons. Hey -- I'm a practical guy, right? But call me nit-picky if it be the case, but surely I'm not the one who's noticed that "Z" is a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT LETTER from "S"! Hello -- it's backwards and pointy instead of curvy! The sound is similar and it can be confusing if you're trying to read in a mirror, but as a state university is getting the right letter really too much to ask?
Anyway, all these examples aside, do you know what bothers me the most about all of this? That it bothers me. Really, who cares? What's it to me? Isn't it all just about my own obsession with always being right anyway? And it probably is. So people are creative in their grammatical constrctions. So what. When I see it in others and it triggers something in me, it's only my own ugly side coming out that makes me angry. And that, my friends and internet-stalkers, is worse than being a dork.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
A Plea for . . . Rhinoplasty?
So I go to a hardcore/metal show (side note -- which is it, hardcore or metal? The answer depends on who you ask. Metal kids would call them hardcore. Hardcore kids would call them metal. I, of course, am not a kid.) in E-town on Friday night. GREAT bill -- a new favorite (A Pea for Purging), an old favorite (War of Ages), plus others. I'm there with my buddy Kyle and his 8-year old Jacob (how hardcore is that!), and we're ready to get crazy. Sure, as the token old dudes at the show "get crazy" pretty much means stand in the back and maybe head-bob, but still, we're ready.
Now -- as the old dudes, we look out of place. And it's not JUST that we have ten years on everybody there, it's that we're kind of like normal guys. Our forearms are tattoo-free, our ears don't have holes that you can see through, and our hair's the same length all the way around. I said we get crazy, right? But just because we may LOOK like rookies doesn't mean it's the case. I've been going to shows since '92, and obviously a lot of things have changed . . . but I've seen most of it happen. I have some idea how things roll. I understand pits and dancing and all that. I've even done my share, albeit not since the first Bush was in office.
All that to say we weren't taken off guard when the dancing began. Now as you might guess, this isn't "dancing" like on those tv contest shows, right? It's more like this (fair warning -- a couple of f-bombs in the song here). Anyway, the dancing started, and we all backed up . . . and up . . . and up . . . and . . . . There were like 60 people in the building -- which was a gym -- and there were about 8 people actually dancing. Which is fine, except those 8 people were given a space big enough for about 40. If we were at Keswicks, I would have had my back to the wall. If we were at the Bulldog, I would have been at the merch table. Seriously, I was about 40 feet from the band, and we were exactly 1 deep all around the perimeter. I actually thought to myself, "Why are we still backing up? How much room do they need?" I've literally been at shows with several hundred people where the dance areas were smaller. It's ironic, I suppose, that that was my last thought. BAM! Watch that video again if you want to, and check out the backward windmill action shots at 0:28 and 0:46. I took a fist flush to the nose. HARD. Hey -- it's a hardcore/metal show, and we've all taken our shots from either overly aggressive or just stupid dancers, but this bad boy was different. I felt something wet drip on my hand. I touched my hand to my face and saw crimson. Holding it to stop the bleeding I staggered to the restroom and let go of my nose . . . WHOOOOSH. Faucet, baby. I've never seen even close to that much blood come out of my body, to the point where I was a little woozy and could only half-way think straight.
For the next half-hour, let me say "thanks" to the dude who had been an army medic who helped know what was going on (seriously, I couldn't hardly think), the drummer from War of Ages for helping clean up the sink (that was cool man, but really -- it's somebody else's blood and it's nasty and you don't have to do that!), the guy who ran out to get me a bag of ice (it helped a LOT on the drive back -- really, that was huge bro), Kyle for wiping my blood up off the floor, Jacob for being cool about a ruined evening, Greg for caring enough to check in the next day, everybody who cared to ask me if I was ok (well let's see . . . I'm not dying, I have health insurance, I'm convinced that the God of all creation loves me personally, I have a ridiculously amazing wife, a church that I absolutely love, and probably the over-all best life of anybody in the building, so on a certain level I'm doing really quite well, thank you . . . but on another level, I just got blasted in the face, I've lost a sink full of blood, an ex-army medic's telling me that my nose is broken for sure, I'm going to miss the show, and all the "attention" is making me feel like a 2nd grader who fell down and skinned his knee on the playground, so on another level no, I'm not as good . . . now how am I supposed to answer the question?), and everybody who did NOT ask since I really had no good answer and honestly just wanted to be left alone.
Now the story would be a lot better if it was actually broken. Turns out it probably isn't (x-rays haven't been read by a real radiologist yet since it was the weekend). So that means that I'm just a wuss who bled like Niagara Fallls and had to leave the show (and, to follow Dr.'s orders the next day, had to sit and continue to ice it and miss a friend's wedding!) without any really legitimate injury. How lame is THAT!
As the silver lining and completely unforeseeable twist, though, check this out. Later that night I'm sitting on the couch with Laura watching tv and icing my wound. We're watching the news because I'm curious to see whether UofL was going to be able to come back and take care of Utah, and they do one of these "human interest" features on a woman who's been hiccuping for something like 20 years. Nothing will make it stop, but there is one thing and one thing only that, in legitimate fact, grants her temporary reprieve. I can't make this stuff up, y'all. Laura saw it too, and you KNOW she doesn't lie. The hiccups stop if the woman engages in . . . yodeling. Buzz, your powers clearly extend far beyond what I would have thought possible. I don't know how, but I know you have done this. There simply exists no other explanation. I used you for my own purposes, and now not only has your music taken up permanent residence in my mind, but you're drawing me further and further in to the ugly under-belly of the yodeling subculture, and now there's no escape, no surrender. Everywhere I go, when I least expect it, yodeling finds me. Like a heat-seeking missile or an IRS auditor, it just knows. It just knows.
Now quickly, since I know this was long, a word on the color change. The Phillies got swept out of the playoffs, and I didn't necessarily change out of disappointment with their play (poor though it was). They gave me a GREAT season and, sadly enough, the best post-season in 14 years. But on that same day, OU beat the team from the state to the south and vaulted back into the national championship picture. Sadly they have only two colors to play with, but Crimson and Cream it will be. Nice work fellas, VERY nice work.
By the way -- with only two colors, you'll have to move the cursor over the text to find the links. I hope you do though!
And here's my face, post-bashing/mid-swelling/under-eye-bruising:
Now -- as the old dudes, we look out of place. And it's not JUST that we have ten years on everybody there, it's that we're kind of like normal guys. Our forearms are tattoo-free, our ears don't have holes that you can see through, and our hair's the same length all the way around. I said we get crazy, right? But just because we may LOOK like rookies doesn't mean it's the case. I've been going to shows since '92, and obviously a lot of things have changed . . . but I've seen most of it happen. I have some idea how things roll. I understand pits and dancing and all that. I've even done my share, albeit not since the first Bush was in office.
All that to say we weren't taken off guard when the dancing began. Now as you might guess, this isn't "dancing" like on those tv contest shows, right? It's more like this (fair warning -- a couple of f-bombs in the song here). Anyway, the dancing started, and we all backed up . . . and up . . . and up . . . and . . . . There were like 60 people in the building -- which was a gym -- and there were about 8 people actually dancing. Which is fine, except those 8 people were given a space big enough for about 40. If we were at Keswicks, I would have had my back to the wall. If we were at the Bulldog, I would have been at the merch table. Seriously, I was about 40 feet from the band, and we were exactly 1 deep all around the perimeter. I actually thought to myself, "Why are we still backing up? How much room do they need?" I've literally been at shows with several hundred people where the dance areas were smaller. It's ironic, I suppose, that that was my last thought. BAM! Watch that video again if you want to, and check out the backward windmill action shots at 0:28 and 0:46. I took a fist flush to the nose. HARD. Hey -- it's a hardcore/metal show, and we've all taken our shots from either overly aggressive or just stupid dancers, but this bad boy was different. I felt something wet drip on my hand. I touched my hand to my face and saw crimson. Holding it to stop the bleeding I staggered to the restroom and let go of my nose . . . WHOOOOSH. Faucet, baby. I've never seen even close to that much blood come out of my body, to the point where I was a little woozy and could only half-way think straight.
For the next half-hour, let me say "thanks" to the dude who had been an army medic who helped know what was going on (seriously, I couldn't hardly think), the drummer from War of Ages for helping clean up the sink (that was cool man, but really -- it's somebody else's blood and it's nasty and you don't have to do that!), the guy who ran out to get me a bag of ice (it helped a LOT on the drive back -- really, that was huge bro), Kyle for wiping my blood up off the floor, Jacob for being cool about a ruined evening, Greg for caring enough to check in the next day, everybody who cared to ask me if I was ok (well let's see . . . I'm not dying, I have health insurance, I'm convinced that the God of all creation loves me personally, I have a ridiculously amazing wife, a church that I absolutely love, and probably the over-all best life of anybody in the building, so on a certain level I'm doing really quite well, thank you . . . but on another level, I just got blasted in the face, I've lost a sink full of blood, an ex-army medic's telling me that my nose is broken for sure, I'm going to miss the show, and all the "attention" is making me feel like a 2nd grader who fell down and skinned his knee on the playground, so on another level no, I'm not as good . . . now how am I supposed to answer the question?), and everybody who did NOT ask since I really had no good answer and honestly just wanted to be left alone.
Now the story would be a lot better if it was actually broken. Turns out it probably isn't (x-rays haven't been read by a real radiologist yet since it was the weekend). So that means that I'm just a wuss who bled like Niagara Fallls and had to leave the show (and, to follow Dr.'s orders the next day, had to sit and continue to ice it and miss a friend's wedding!) without any really legitimate injury. How lame is THAT!
As the silver lining and completely unforeseeable twist, though, check this out. Later that night I'm sitting on the couch with Laura watching tv and icing my wound. We're watching the news because I'm curious to see whether UofL was going to be able to come back and take care of Utah, and they do one of these "human interest" features on a woman who's been hiccuping for something like 20 years. Nothing will make it stop, but there is one thing and one thing only that, in legitimate fact, grants her temporary reprieve. I can't make this stuff up, y'all. Laura saw it too, and you KNOW she doesn't lie. The hiccups stop if the woman engages in . . . yodeling. Buzz, your powers clearly extend far beyond what I would have thought possible. I don't know how, but I know you have done this. There simply exists no other explanation. I used you for my own purposes, and now not only has your music taken up permanent residence in my mind, but you're drawing me further and further in to the ugly under-belly of the yodeling subculture, and now there's no escape, no surrender. Everywhere I go, when I least expect it, yodeling finds me. Like a heat-seeking missile or an IRS auditor, it just knows. It just knows.
Now quickly, since I know this was long, a word on the color change. The Phillies got swept out of the playoffs, and I didn't necessarily change out of disappointment with their play (poor though it was). They gave me a GREAT season and, sadly enough, the best post-season in 14 years. But on that same day, OU beat the team from the state to the south and vaulted back into the national championship picture. Sadly they have only two colors to play with, but Crimson and Cream it will be. Nice work fellas, VERY nice work.
By the way -- with only two colors, you'll have to move the cursor over the text to find the links. I hope you do though!
And here's my face, post-bashing/mid-swelling/under-eye-bruising:
Monday, October 1, 2007
I Just Can't Hold My Post-Season
First off -- apologies. This is NOT a "sports blog" per se. But for the next . . . indefinite period, if you're not a sports fan (I'm not sure which is more amazing -- that I have readers at all, or that I have readers who aren't sports fans, or that there are even people who bothered to learn to read at all with, apparently, no intention whatsoever to read about sports), you're going to have to hang with me (or not, really, it's your choice). NOW . . .
You remember Christopher Lloyd at the bar in Back to the Future 3? He's standing there holding a drink, wide eyed and rambling about the future. An on-looker asks the bartender how many he's had, and the keep replies with something like "None -- he's just been holding that one for hours!" Finally Lloyd tosses it back, and immediately passes out and falls flat. "Now there's a man who just can't hold his liquor," somebody quips. Well here's the deal -- for about the last 30 hours, I have been Christopher Lloyd. I'm stone blasted drunk on post-season baseball . . . and it hasn't even started yet.
Don't get me wrong -- I've had a great life since the last time the Phillis went to the playoffs. Let's see -- I graduated from high school, "left" home, had my first girlfriend, went to college in Minnesota, discovered the internet, bought my first car, got cold, transferred to college in California, played in a bad rock band, went to the Philippines for half of a summer, the band got better and changed names twice, came "back home" for a summer, graduated from college, moved to Minnesota, got cold again, got engaged, got married, got a dog, took a full-time job in the table pad industry, watched Oklahoma win a National Championship, jumped out of an airplane, bought another car, saw the Lions make the playoffs (!), was still cold, moved to Kentucky, went to seminary, ran a marathon, played in a death metal band, took a couple trips back to California, "inherited" my wife's car as a hand-me-down, began calling my Dad "Doctor", turned 30, graduated from seminary, bought my first house, recovered from seminary, started investing for retirement, helped plant a church, celebrated my 8th wedding anniversary, began blogging, and just spent a week in Colorado, to hit a few of the high points.
In the last year in which the Phillies were in the playoffs, Bill Clinton took over from George Bush I, the Bills lost their 3rd straight Super Bowl, Jurassic Park was released (the first one!), John Wayne and Lorena Bobbit were . . . in the news, Clinton taught us the phrase "Don't ask, don't tell", Varg Vikernes was arrested for murder (that's an interesting one -- google it if you dare, aren't easily disturbed, and won't blame me for any potential psychological fallout), Late Night ended and The Late Show was birthed, we learned who Conan O'Brien was and that he wasn't funny (oops, I guess we haven't all learned that second part yet), Michael Jordan retired from basketball . . . for the FIRST time, Unforgiven won Best Picture, Eric Clapton's Tears in Heaven won Song of the Year, and a stamp cost .29.
So we're back where we started; I'm positively drunk on post-season baseball -- just the aroma of it. Just holding it in my hand, anticipating. I was so drunk last night that I couldn't hardly sleep and went in to work on 4 measly hours. You know what? I was still drunk when I woke up, and I went in in said condition. I was at work for about 10 hours, but I was so drunk that it seemed like the twinkling of an eye. And, if you haven't guessed, I'm still drunk hours later.
At heart, the issue is tolerance. Over the years, my baseball kidney simply has built up exactly ZERO tolerance for post-season play. This is just like it's all new, you see, like my very first time. It's a shock to the system, and the way it all went down was definitely 90-proof. If they go to the Series, I may end up in the hospital! What can I tell you? I just can't hold my post-season.
You remember Christopher Lloyd at the bar in Back to the Future 3? He's standing there holding a drink, wide eyed and rambling about the future. An on-looker asks the bartender how many he's had, and the keep replies with something like "None -- he's just been holding that one for hours!" Finally Lloyd tosses it back, and immediately passes out and falls flat. "Now there's a man who just can't hold his liquor," somebody quips. Well here's the deal -- for about the last 30 hours, I have been Christopher Lloyd. I'm stone blasted drunk on post-season baseball . . . and it hasn't even started yet.
Don't get me wrong -- I've had a great life since the last time the Phillis went to the playoffs. Let's see -- I graduated from high school, "left" home, had my first girlfriend, went to college in Minnesota, discovered the internet, bought my first car, got cold, transferred to college in California, played in a bad rock band, went to the Philippines for half of a summer, the band got better and changed names twice, came "back home" for a summer, graduated from college, moved to Minnesota, got cold again, got engaged, got married, got a dog, took a full-time job in the table pad industry, watched Oklahoma win a National Championship, jumped out of an airplane, bought another car, saw the Lions make the playoffs (!), was still cold, moved to Kentucky, went to seminary, ran a marathon, played in a death metal band, took a couple trips back to California, "inherited" my wife's car as a hand-me-down, began calling my Dad "Doctor", turned 30, graduated from seminary, bought my first house, recovered from seminary, started investing for retirement, helped plant a church, celebrated my 8th wedding anniversary, began blogging, and just spent a week in Colorado, to hit a few of the high points.
In the last year in which the Phillies were in the playoffs, Bill Clinton took over from George Bush I, the Bills lost their 3rd straight Super Bowl, Jurassic Park was released (the first one!), John Wayne and Lorena Bobbit were . . . in the news, Clinton taught us the phrase "Don't ask, don't tell", Varg Vikernes was arrested for murder (that's an interesting one -- google it if you dare, aren't easily disturbed, and won't blame me for any potential psychological fallout), Late Night ended and The Late Show was birthed, we learned who Conan O'Brien was and that he wasn't funny (oops, I guess we haven't all learned that second part yet), Michael Jordan retired from basketball . . . for the FIRST time, Unforgiven won Best Picture, Eric Clapton's Tears in Heaven won Song of the Year, and a stamp cost .29.
So we're back where we started; I'm positively drunk on post-season baseball -- just the aroma of it. Just holding it in my hand, anticipating. I was so drunk last night that I couldn't hardly sleep and went in to work on 4 measly hours. You know what? I was still drunk when I woke up, and I went in in said condition. I was at work for about 10 hours, but I was so drunk that it seemed like the twinkling of an eye. And, if you haven't guessed, I'm still drunk hours later.
At heart, the issue is tolerance. Over the years, my baseball kidney simply has built up exactly ZERO tolerance for post-season play. This is just like it's all new, you see, like my very first time. It's a shock to the system, and the way it all went down was definitely 90-proof. If they go to the Series, I may end up in the hospital! What can I tell you? I just can't hold my post-season.
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